Today: On Loan

Today my desktop shows a younger, fitter me---arms poised over my upturned head. Even with my back to the camera, you can see my head tilted up, way up. Several inches span the distance between the top of my outstretched arms and the tip of her extended toes. There above me hangs Ivy, suspended in time and mid-flight by the magic of digital photography. She gazes down at me, her smile frozen and blurred in her rapid descent. If you suspend disbelief long enough, it almost looks as if she falling from heaven. In which case, it’s a good thing someone is there to catch her. Every time I see these pictures (there is more than one, and this is not the most spectacular), even living it as I have, I can’t help wondering if this time somehow she’ll slip through my hands. That in turn reminds me how a trusting Father has dropped her to me. Have I caught her as He hoped? Will I catch her?

Today: Training Wheels

I have on my desktop a picture of Grace learning to ride her bike. You can see her biting her lip. The bike tips a bit to her left, but the blur of the tread confirms that she is airborne and a thrilled gaze of determination shines in her eyes. It is my image that draws my attention today. Hovering behind her with my arms outspread like hen wings, I trail her by a step—ready at any moment to catch her before she falls. Today, as I contemplate the joyful burden of discipleship, it feels as if He has removed the training wheels. My heart aches full at the echo of His feet behind me. And hope, just short of courage, springs up when, hovering in my peripheral vision, I catch glimpses of His outstretched hands.
 

Parenting has taught me more about my relationship with Him than any other experience. Usually it feels corrective. I find myself asking if I would want my Father to respond to my tears, my whining, or my disobedience in the way I respond to my children. Today, the memory of that experience approaches my parenting from a kinder, more oblique angle. Instead of wishing I had His wisdom and His patience with my children. I wish instead I had Grace’s conviction and joyful anticipation in my own risky ventures without training wheels. And look how far she's come.

 



Grace, three years later

An Early Birthday Present

She's sleeping as I write this. But she wasn't last night. I’m not sure what first triggered it, but recently Ivy has been waking up in the middle of the night with bad dreams. Last night, for the first time in as long as I can remember, Rachael heard her cries before me. She took the first shift. Ivy wasn’t quiet long before the tears started again and I had a chance to redeem myself. I popped up and stumbled into her bedroom. 

“I’m afraid, Daddy.” She says over and over again until I reach her. 

We pray together, and I’m surprised to hear her use complete sentences and better grammar than I’ve heard in earlier prayers and this at 1:30 a.m. Not bad. Her tears and cries return, and they are the real thing. 

She wails: “I’m afraid.” Then, standing, clutching at three stuffed animals, she asks: “Can I sleep with you, daddy?” In a former time, I may have relented at such a heart-rending request. But even in my midnight stupor, I know that kids in bed with parents does not a good long-term solution make.

“No honey,” I say. And the tears begin afresh.

“I’m afraid, Daddy.”

“What are you afraid of, sweetheart?”

“Scary monsters,” she says choking back sobs.

The other two who share a bedroom with her are awake now. Not that I expected to find them sleeping after Ivy’s siren-like outbursts, but I can detect the tell-tale signs. The steady breathing is missing. They shift subtly now and then. There was a time when the mere threat of waking slumbering siblings would have nearly unhinged me, but I am mellowing. That realization comforts me.

“I don’t want to sleep alone.” She continues.

Half-kneeling, half prostrate against the edge of her trundle, I begin singing “I Am A Child of God.” Ivy, the caboose of our five children, has a predilection for music. She can pick out a tune and retain it after hearing a song one time through. Music also sooths her more than it has our other children. Part way into the verse, she settles down. I sing all three verses partly for her, partly for me, and partly for the other two. Then, I crawl over her now relaxed form and lay beside her on top of her covers. I’m chilled, but the cool air feels good after the warmth of my bed.

Due to the lack of space and the preponderance of children in the middle bedroom, Rachael arranged Ivy’s trundle perpendicular to Grace’s bed above it. This way, the kids can hoard their toys and we can amass quantities of food storage under the now-vacant lower half of Grace’s bed. Additionally, because Ivy—almost Grace’s height—is still quite small, we can leave the trundle partially and permanently extending at right angles into the room from underneath the upper half of Grace’s bed. It also means that, lying next to Ivy, my knees nearly touch my ears.

Between the cool air from the window above and the contortions I’m forced to assume to fit beside Ivy, I know I will not sleep here. Fortunately, Ivy will. A few minutes pass and a soft rhythmic breathing issues from the bundle beside me. About the time I plan to stand up and return to my room, Carver suddenly, and without warning, springs from his bed. Without saying a word, he stumbles, jerky like, over to the edge of Ivy’s trundle. He towers groggily above us and I half expect him to collapse on top of us. He stops, wobbling still, and looks down to verify (I assume) that I am in Ivy’s bed. Confirming my presence, without a word, he totters back to his own bed.

“That’s my cue,” I think. After waiting for another minute or two to ensure that Ivy truly sleeps, I crawl out of the trundle, kiss Ivy on the cheek, touch Carver’s head gently on the way out, and navigate the darkened rooms back to my bed. Before slipping in next to Rachael, I kneel and pray that Ivy will feel comfort. It occurs to me that she’s right to be afraid of monsters. I consider myself an optimist, but there’s no denying a fair number of monsters inhabit this world. I trust that my Father watches over this family.

As I rise from my knees, I think: “How would I capture this experience if I were Michael Perry.” The words, the phrases, and thoughtful forms of expression all come easily to mind right now at a quarter to 2:00 a.m. “It won’t be so easy tomorrow morning,” I realize as Rachael sighs gently, I shift a few times and remember nothing else until 5:00 a.m.

Today: Eyes to See

Sixteen years ago last month, we met. She thought she needed help with Spanish. She could not see her strength. Could I?  

I see her now. She is running on my desktop. She’s running up a hill into the rising sun. The early morning sun electrifies the horizon mist washing out and blurring all distinction in a fiery glory. She runs resolutely, steadily toward that glory. Acceptance or hunger, which of you draw her onward? Already she’s 100 feet ahead of me. Will I ever catch her?

Is it the rain, the rain that fruitlessly yet incessantly and unyielding in its efforts to pierce my glass barrier and staunch the warm drive within, is it this rain that tempers my heart? That gives rise to the tremulous thoughts of stumbling and slipping into solitude? And what do I do with these thoughts? Do I embrace them and wallow in their stickiness? Do I reject them and heedlessly proceed knowing in Whom I trust?

He comforts me. He reminds me that her constancy runs deeper than my fears. Her depth, like the stamina on which she draws to run that hill and pull away from me, humbles me. How do I complement someone so strong in so many ways. She forgives when in my calloused pride I fail to recognize my offense. She absorbs the manifestations of my pain. Somehow, miraculously He helps her recognize the pain of others. And she listens while she runs. She can hear Him. She absorbs the pain of so many.

Wilt Thou extend to me Thy strength? I want to reach that hilltop with her. I imagine the fire. I imagine the message. I too want to hear. Can I absorb and deflect with equanimity as she does? I hunger for this. My knees and chest ache. My strength alone will not get me up this hill. Wilt Thou share Thy strength? 

Tiger Mountain on The Trance

Shortly before losing my front fender on Tiger in early April.

I’m getting this post up a little late, but it’s going up! Or so help me. Now that Tiger is open year round (with a few exceptions) and with all the crazy weather we’ve had this year, we were able to ride Tiger in mid-February. 

Dry and green at 3,000' in mid-February

Just finishing the "Fully Rigid" section of the trail in February.

And when we rode in February, the sun shone and the trails were dry. Last Saturday, April 25th, I decided to ride Tiger again. I had some "churchy opportunities" to attend to in the mid-a.m. hours. So I wound up hitting the trail around noon only to be greeted by torrential hail and snow. I plowed my steed through the slippery, snotty mess from the Peak to the parking lot at the pass. And in the process, the bike and my gear absorbed several pounds of mud in the descent. Clean up took a while. Some of my bike gear will carry Tiger Mt. detritus indefinitely.

This was not actually taken the day of the subject ride.
But conditions were identical on April 25th. 

Coming off a '06 Stumpjumper and an '07 Giant Anthem 0 (both of which rode on 26's), I will say that I was a little concerned that the Trance was just too much bike: too heavy and too much travel. I don't wonder that any longer. The Trance handles so well on the mountain. It took me a few corners to get familiar with the stretched length of the bike (as compared to my older full-suspension bikes and my two 29ers - which are hardtails and so a little shorter). But now, I appreciate the increased stability at speed, the longer suspension, the relaxed geometry and wider handlebars. 

On a side note, I have not been pleased with the brakes—of the Shimano Deore variety—on the new Giant. Very spotty performance: lots of brake drag, noticeable brake fade, and periods of no pressure. While pumping the fading lever usually does the trick, you never want to grab an fistful of emptiness when you reach for the skids while descending Tiger at speed. So the question now is: Will a brake bleed correct all the bad behavior? I think probably not. Having ridden Avid's from the beginning of the disc brake revolution, I had assumed that the Shimano brakes performed better. 

In any event, the weather has been very different this year. So far the warm weather has baked and dried our usually sloppy, west-side trails to August levels in May. I can't imagine that we're not going to pay for it in some way this summer, but happy trails until then.   

Today: Ruminations on rigid steel single-speeds, full-suspension bikes, and 29" wheels

Well, I did it. I finally got back on the steel stallion. And two very good things happened. Not only was it absolutely therapeutic to ride again, for the first time since the lung collapse three weeks earlier, but I was reminded how much I love the single speed. On occasion, when the opportunity presents itself, I pull my Redline Monocog 29er off the garage wall and kick around some of the local trails. My dad offered me the bike last November, which is a different story. At the time, I was skeptical and thought if I didn’t like the bike—and I assumed I wouldn’t—that I would just trade it in for credit at Recycled Cycles.

During last year’s gray November and early December days, I trail tested the Monocog. After that maiden voyage, I struggled to understand why anyone would ride single speed or rigid. The gearing felt tall especially on the climbs. The trail feedback left me achy and sore. But I kept with it. Actually, because I was lending my other bikes (the Giant Anthem and the Specialized Stumpjumper) to the objects of my cycle evangelism at the time, I spent a lot of time riding the single speed. This worked well because it allowed me to better equip the newbies for success by lending them the forgiving full-suspension bikes. And I loved it because the challenge of riding a fully-rigid single speed allowed me to stretch myself physically even though we were riding at a slower pace than would have otherwise represented exercise.

I learned or relearned a very interesting lesson over those first few months. Arms and legs will suspend a rider just as effectively as full suspension provided the rider rides in a standing mode. Riding in standing mode, also addresses the gearing element. The extra torque coming from a standing compensates for the lack of gears. What is interesting to me is that I can ride just as fast—if not faster—on the tight windy, Western Washington trails, as I can on any of my bikes. It’s just a different style of riding. Riding full-suspension works best in the saddle. Riding rigid and single speed is best in the stirrups. I will say this about the single speed, I do notice that my arms are far more fatigued at the end of a jaunt on the single speed then even on my hard tail. One time last year, near the end of a ride, my hands just let go, launching me over the bars and into a berm on the downhill side of a small rise.

 
I recently gifted my Stumpjumper to a good friend. And the longer I go without a full-suspension bike, the more I wonder about the legitimate application of any full suspension ride outside gnarly downhill or long-distance cross-country setting. And even that may not be entirely accurate when you consider that I have ridden Tiger Mountain and my longest cross-country rides more often on a hard tail than astride a full-suspension bike. When you roll the 29” wheels into the mix, it may just be that for my style of riding a full-suspension bike may no longer be necessary. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still lust after some fully-suspended goodness!

Today: Minor Chords

Over the years, I have experimented with the guitar. I love music, more to play it or to sing it than to listen to it. Not that I can do either. Because I can't. Still, it bothers me a little that as a society we have outsourced music to artists and musicians and thereby effectively cut ourselves off from what I feel is a key source of peace and an effective tool for coping with the challenges of life.

I began my flirtation with the guitar during high school. And while I harbored a sincere interest in giving expression to the feelings within my soul, my primary motivation for learning the guitar may have been a desire to impress members of the opposite sex. Perhaps due to lack of viable prospects on that front, this flirtation never really matured into a full-blown romance. In fact, some years later, following my mission, I sold my guitar for $50 in order to facilitate the purchase of bike parts. Even now that feels a little sacrilegious.

Fast forward a decade and a half, amidst the gloom of another Seattle winter, I realized I needed some sort of distraction. Mike Ward, a good friend and a consummate musician, lent me a guitar and some good advice on self-directed learning.

It didn't take long before I was back at the same mediocre level I "achieved" during High School and not truly advancing anywhere. The challenge for me is choosing to make time to improve, that and trying to learn strumming patterns and chords from YouTube. As they used to say in el campo misional, this approach to learning an instrument is menos eficaz.

Most nights my guitar sits beckoning in the alcove upstairs. And so with absolutely no understanding of music theory and little to no direction, I remain a three or four-chord wonder. Really, I have pretty much mastered G, C, and D, which suits me just fine because I’m a major chord kind of guy. 

Not so long ago, Rachael and I were discussing a song she liked. I remarked how I really didn’t like the sound of the minor chords in the song. Granted, I am not really sure I know what a minor chord is. Recognizing this, Rachael spent a few minutes futilely attempting to explain the beauty of minor chords in terms that someone with my unsophisticated musical sensibilities could understand.

Finally, still searching for expression, she just said, “I love them because they are meaty. I can sink my teeth into them.” The conversation moved on, but that phrase hung in the air for a few days. I ruminated on its significance and let it simmer on the crowded backburners of my mind.

A short time later we watched the movie The Hedgehog, based on the New York Times best-seller, The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. In her fictional account, Barbery masterfully weaves humor and profound kindness into an underlying tragic plot ultimately ending on a transcendent note. It kept us talking for days. Ultimately, we realized that, like minor chords, here was a movie into which we could “sink our teeth.”

Following those two experiences, Rachael and I began to detect “meaty” or “minor chord” experiences all around us. Last night, after my second full day in the hospital and with at least two more to go, my folks offered to take the kids home so that Rachael and I could talk by ourselves for a few minutes.

My children are very good children, but the sheer number of bodies combined with Carver’s so-called “special needs” and Ivy’s . . . personality . . . age . . . something (?), rendered this undertaking no small task. The kids loved it. Grandpa treated them to McDonalds. Rachael and I just sat and talked with no distractions. No food, no dishes, no vacuum, no mess (but the hose in my side), no clothes to fold, just the bubbling of my chest drain and two friends becoming reacquainted. Around 8:00 p.m., when she left, Rachael turned in the door to say ‘good-bye.’ This was a “minor chord” moment. It hurt to see her go.

Earlier in the day, when I could stand the solitary confinement no longer, I wandered down the halls chest tube dragging, hospital gown waving. In nearly all the rooms around me, lay individuals usually older and far worse off than I. Since emerging from emergency room, I have received a near continuous string of well wishes by text and e-mail. I have even received visitors a few times. 

To say that this hospital stay is a bummer, would be a gross understatement. Beyond the inconvenience of being separated from Rachael and the kids for a few nights or missing a weekend with my parents, this experience potentially represents the opening of a new, less-active chapter in my life.

With the probability of recurrence very high, my ability to endulge in coping activities like mountain biking, backpacking, and running appear very much at risk. On top of that there is the looming financial burden associated with my protracted stay in Hotel Valley Medical.

And yet, the kindness of friends, the opportunity to receive service, as much as I hate being the object of the service, tempers all this bitterness. Earlier this morning, I wrote the following in my journal: "I am so grateful for this experience and the depth and the richness it brings to life. I can’t truly explain it all. Beauty isn’t all about pleasure and happiness. Beauty is found in texture and struggle." Minor Chord experiences make life more complete. They enhance the good times and lighten the dark times.