Full Court

It's a good hurt, I kept telling myself. By now, my breathing had reduced to a heavy wheeze and I started having serious questions about my heart holding out. It'd been no less than ten years since I last jumped into a full court basketball game. Now I was paying the penalty. Sure, I run. I exercise a little. But anything outside the usual strain of my exercise routine is quick to send me to my knees and keep me popping Aleve for the next 48 to 72 hours.

Some guys at work had rented out a court for two hours last night from 6 to 8. It was about 45 minutes into it that, after throwing up several bricks and watching my guy score yet another easy layup while I stood propped on my knees, I wondered if 8 o'clock would ever come. This was in contrast to my first 5 minutes on the court, when I secretly nominated myself as the team motivator.

At first, I handed out high fives and "good game's" like Monopoly money, doing everything except the patented "good job" swat to the butt, which I had already determined would come later after I sank my first twenty shots and team comaraderie had a chance to build. 10 minutes later I was about ready to collapse, and this new sports attitude fell to a silent gasping for air.

When 8 o'clock finally arrived, I drug myself off the court ( I don't remember saying bye to anyone) and woke up 15 minutes later at home. This morning I pulled out a pair of extra thick socks, to ease the friction on the developing blisters and bruised toe nails.

Phoebblicious

One of the first things that popped out of Jess' mouth this morning was that there should be a gum called Phoebblicious, named after Phoebe, our nervous nine pound Beagle-Chihuahua mix. Unsure and uncaring of the ingredients it'd contain, I quickly agreed both outwardly and inwardly. Two things I knew for certain: that the gum would be tan and white (the color of Pheobe's ridicuously short hair), and that I'd chew it.

I then went about my usual morning routine thinking about Phoebblicious. This is rather uncharacteristic of me, since I usually like to save my day dreaming for work. Whether it is the cramped cubicle quarters or the drab interior design, all week dreams about being a farmer of sorts has plagued my mind. Yesterday, I had the whole dramatic thing laid out beautifully in my mind. The plowing, the discing, the planting - I'd be out in the open field, the soil freshly turned, listening to God in the sounds or silence of nature, over the soothing rumble of my tractor. A straw hat would look quite nice on my head, sheltering me from the blazing heat. At lunchtime, Jess would come up to the edge of the field where I was hard at work, with Phoebe and our kids in tow, waving her arms, indicating lunch was ready.

I'd automatically have a subscription to Field and Stream, and it would follow that I'd own a gun rack and know the ins and outs of the sports of hunting and fishing. Minus all the back-breaking work that comes along with farming, it'd be quite the good life. We'd live simply, relying on God for a good crop and to make ends meet. Things would only get better in the wintertime when the fields were covered with snow, and Jess and I'd be around the fireplace, drinking a warm drink, not having anywhere to go and...I'm not sure what else. Sometimes I get mixed up with Little House on the Praire. I guess one of us would have to learn the fiddle or something. At any rate, the kids would all be in bed (in their wooden lofts), and we'd be sure to fall into sleepy discussion about sewing or The Farmer's Almanac and when a good time would be to put in next year's crops.

When I proposed this wonderful new Utopia to Jess last night over dinner, she responded, more matter-of-factly than harshly,"You married the wrong girl for that." Afterwards, I had to admit that, although farming actually was in my blood (I come from a long line of farmers), somehow this particular gene missed me. I'm probably not really cut out for it. And that was basically the end of it. So, now I entertain lesser dreams, like Phoebblicious chewing gum.

Leave it to Beaver

While flipping between games Sunday afternoon, I found myself laughing at an episode of "Leave it to Beaver". Beaver and his friend, Whitey, were at a book store where they stumbled upon get-rich-quick books. One book was titled, How I Made a Million Dollars in My Spare Time. To this Whitey replied with wide eyes, "Wow, can you imagine how much he'd made if he worked at it full time?" I roared with laughter, then I repeated the line to Jess who, in the kitchen at the time, didn't quite catch the humor the way I thought she should.

It was so uncharacteristic of me to lay around watching old black and white reruns. But it felt really good and clean, and the humor was not lost in the process (as far as I was concerned, anyway). It all felt surprisingly healthy, like each laugh filled my body with vitamins and minerals. It didn't take long before a sort of nostalgia swept over me. I longed for a better time in which I never lived. A time when things were happier, cleaner, and Ward Cleaver could solve every problem through patient reasoning and understanding.

But were things really better in the 50's? It was, in fact, just a television show, I told myself. Just to get myself more grounded, I started running through a list of all the problems back then. Let's see...there was the Korean War - that had to hurt something. Cigarette smoking was rampant - so, lung cancer. I think even doctors smoked while performing physicals on their patients. There were greasers (though that turned out to be a good thing for John Travolta). And rebels without causes. And, one mustn't forget all the drag racing that went down.

Then my mind ran to the human condition. Surely, society still had their alcoholics, or families their screaming fights that kept the neighbors wondering whether they should call the police. Not that I was particularly rooting for this, or anything. No, people still had to be somewhat messed up...right? It was near impossible to believe that things weren't all just soda shops and sock hops, as I watched the impeccable father-son relationship of Ward and the Beaver happening right there in front of me in black and white. Everything was just so...so...functional.

So my gears turned and turned, was society and family life really better back then? I landed on no real conclusion. But maybe TV was just better. Everything about "Leave it to Beaver" seemed to be of good taste. It taught good things about life, about relationships, about family. It taught our society good things. And although, no one could ever be the perfect father, like Ward, or the perfect wife, like June, or the...you get my point, it gave the viewers a good attitude to strive for. The old shows held society to a standard. Whatever may have happened in the 1950's, whether good or bad, I at least felt it safe to conclude that "Leave it to Beaver" was a good thing.

And as I continued to think, with Jess begging me to change the station, a verse popped in my head:

"Whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things." - Phil. 4:8

Praise the Lord for Church Choir

It's always exciting when you're skimming Scripture and you find yourself suddenly singing the words you're reading. Normally this happens when I'm all alone, attempting to untangle some unfamiliar passage in Isaiah. Then - Boom - a block of recognizable verses jump out of nowhere, and my head breaks out into song.

This was the case the other night in our living room. Jess has been reading a Psalm a day. As she read her NASB version, she stopped and exclaimed, "O my gosh! We sang this last year in Christmas Choir!" It was Psalm 3. "O yeah!" I exclaimed. Then, since it was the Old King James translation we had sung, I pulled out the ancient version, dusted it off, and we began singing Psalm 3 together, minus that part about God breaking the teeth of the ungodly, of course.

"But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; the glory and the lifter of mine head..."

Now, old English isn't typically my speech of choice, but that night it sounded wonderful.

Wrinkle-Free

There is a little secret hanging in my closet. It has sleeves, a collar, and buttons, and it never, ever gets wrinkled. Give up? It's my magical wrinkle-free shirt. I found it folded on a table in Kohls for $19.99 one rainy, February day. An iron has never touched it, which has automatically improved my life. I hate to iron, and my wrinkle-free shirt hates to get wrinkled - the relationship works. I mean, it could spend the night wadded up in the dumpster, and after a gentle shake and a light dusting off - BAM - it'd look fresh from the dry cleaners. Remarkable! If I could get away with it, I'd wear it every single day. But since that would be dirty, I keep it handy throughout the week for emergencies, like when I'm running late for work. My advice for those who are down in the dumps: get yourself a wrinke-free shirt, and if you can, get it in black, so it hides stains - double bonus!

3:30 AM

I hit the sack last night in the third quarter of Monday Night Football. There was little pleasure in watching my FantasyFootball team sink into oblivion, and sleep, I've tested and learned, is the best for forgetting things - well, for a while anyway. My head hit the pillow, as I geared myself up for a good eight hours of forgetting. 1 and 3 for the season so far- could anything be worse?

It was pitch dark, the clock read 3:30am, when the tremors began. It startled me at first, but then the sleep left my brain and I regained my bearings. It all felt too familiar. The restrained jerks, the stiff jolts, the silent struggling - our dog Phoebe was experiencing another seizure, a mild one, but a seizure nonetheless.

Seizures have become somewhat of a trademark for Phoebe these days. She typically experiences one about every other month, and when asked, the vet reassured us that it was common in little dogs ("Toy breeds," he called her). Their blood-sugar level drops quickly, or something, and that's what triggers it. It was quite frightening the first time Jess and I saw Phoebe do this, but now it's become much a part of the routine of caring for her, like feeding her or giving her a bath.

Jess was first to call it, "She's having a seizure." She stated this more matter-of-factly than in alarm. Then she moved in clockwork fashion, like a surgeon who sees past the gore of an ER patient to the list of immediate procedures needed to be performed.

"Get the white towel," barked Jess. She had Phoebe sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

"Where?" I asked.

"In the closet." In the middle of the night, I had woken up to find myself as Jess' surgeon aid.

I came back with the white towel.

"Lay the towel down."

"Why?"

"No questions. Just do it."

After the towel was under Phoebe, the inevitable happened, her bladder let go. This was the predicted stage 2 of the seizure. Next, after things had calmed down, we moved into stage 3, and I carried her to the dark, dewy backyard. There, she had plenty of room to work out the rest of the shakes. I watched Phoebe finish her business from the back door window while Jess made up a new place for Phoebe to spend the remainder of the night.

From beginning to end, the seizure lasted nearly a half hour. Before I crawled back into bed at 4am, I checked espn.com to confirm my FantasyFootball defeat. It was official. I had lost, and my prize was a dog low on sugar.

An Irrational Fear

It happens now and then; I catch an irrational fear of writing. Yesterday late afternoon, I decided to sit down and document the weekend. Nothing. The keyboard glared at me, taunted me, almost dared me to try to write something. My fingers refused to obey, as they sat paralyzed in the home keys position.

So much happened over the weekend: Jess and I were a part of our church's annual Open House choir, and afterwards we invited both sides of the family over for an afternoon brunch. And even though the game never really took off, Cornhole was set up outside for anyone who was willing. So, it's not like I'm lacking content. I'm just short on confidence.

But, as always, I'll continue to battle it out, and my confidence is sure to show up again. It always does, usually in the midst of reading someone else's work. Inspiration will fall from the sky and hit me in the head. Either that, or I will eventually get sick of being afraid, and just write.

And, as you can see, I'm forcing myself to write anyway, banging away at the keyboard, not really knowing or caring where it takes me. Sometimes this is the only remedy. So bear with me.