Oh, The Places You Will Go

I promised myself I would get through the end of the year--finals, pranks, graduation, goodbyes, parties, and all--without getting emotional. Yeah, right. That would make me somethings I never want to be: unfeeling and indifferent.

I guess today a lot of things were running through my head. The thought of going to college has never scared me. I've wanted it since I was a freshman in high school. The campus life, the classes, the people are all part of the adventure that I live for. But today I realized that to get there means I have to leave here.

I was driving home tonight, taking the exit for Broken Land Parkway, the same exit I've taken literally thousands of times. And I wondered how many more times I would see the word "Columbia" on a road sign and think of it as home. I was thinking of the Dr. Seuss story we heard today and how exciting and terrifying the trip I'm about to take is going to be.

I live for experiences. I love adventure, exploration, challenges. I love to test myself and either come out on top or give it another go. That's why my sadness about leaving was curious to me for a short time. I wondered, This is everything I've ever wanted. I can be on my own, independent, making decisions for myself. I can reinvent myself. I have the opportunity be closer to the things I love--mountains--and to learn from those who know the mountains better than I know my bedroom. I can dive into the wild and not look back.

Then I remembered the most important thing I've ever learned. I learned it from my mom before I ever entered a formal classroom. Then I discovered it for myself at Spencerville. I finally knew it was absolute truth when I took a five-day solo backpacking trip for no other reason than to face my own fears. Here is the truth, and if you haven't discovered it for yourself already, I hope you'll take it to heart: Relationships are the most important thing in life.

There's not even a close second. Relationships are the only important things in life--your relationship with God first, your family second, and your friends third. I remember on day five of my wilderness adventure, when I was standing on the summit of Hightop Mountain, perhaps without a person within ten miles of me. I got up before the sun rose so I could catch the sunrise from the summit, and it was worth it. The sun had just risen over the Shenandoah Mountains, and it cast the largest shadows I had ever seen. On one side it was day, on the other, night. It was as if I was looking at a topographic model hidden beneath a glass case. It was so beautiful. So beautiful that I laughed out loud. Maybe it was because I was going crazy from solitude. I found its beauty to be bitter. It was bitter because I was all alone, and there was no one to share it with. There was no point.

That's why I feel sadness in the midst of new opportunity, new adventure. Why would I ever want to experience the most exciting things in the world if my friends are elsewhere? It just doesn't make sense.

I realized today that I'm going to miss everyone, even the people I never got "close" to. Just going to the same school as them for two years formed a relationship that will be missed. The good news is that new relationships are waiting for me just around the corner. Yes, they come and go, but no, that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm beginning understand that I've been focusing on the wrong things for a while. I've been focusing on the qualities of SAA, and I always get caught up in something to complain about. I've been focusing on being this quiet, detached guy who doesn't care enough to get excited about the little things. I've been focusing on mountains--climbing them, knowing their weather patterns, their topography, their plant and animal life, their tricks and secrets. I've dreamed, but I've also let my dreams become my master. And the reason I'm having trouble finding satisfaction in ANY of it is that my focus is not right. It's not what you do, it's who you do it with.

Relationships are the ONLY things that matter.

Lyrics 'N Stuff

Caedmon's Call

We are called out; we are ransomed
We are not of the world were in
we are chosen; we are blessed
to bring light to the lives of men
so father sow your seed
give us life in community
wake us from our sleep
this is your time; this is your place

We are vessels for breaking
under your grace we are led by your spirit
you have redeemed us by the
blood of your son
send down your word we are eager to hear it
ready our hearts to carry your love

you are sunlight you are morning
you're the hope of a brand new day
you are comfort; you are blessing
and you wipe all our tears away
so change us from within
render miracles from our sin
remind us once again
this is your time; this is your place

The Glory of It All

A relationship with God doesn't make sense.

1. Even before you believe there is a God, logic says that if a God existed, then he probably would be in favor of everything that happens in the world. Otherwise, he'd stop it, obviously.

2. If you ever get around to believing in a God, it doesn't make sense that he would want to be in a relationship with you. He's probably got better things to do.

3. If you ever actually believe that God loves you, then you're probably going to get caught up with the difficulty of needing a relationship with a God that you can't see or touch, especially if you're an introvert like me who has trouble needing a relationship with anyone.

I like what C.S. Lewis says on the topic of God, and the whole concept of Christianity, making sense. He says that that everything in the world around us seems like it should be simple, but nothing is. When we examine anything, we see complexities and intricacies that all work and rely on each other--but no one could have guessed them. You can't argue that a relationship with God is too complex to be true--that Christians try too hard to explain it into existence. The truth is, if a God like the God of the Bible was simple, I couldn't help disbelieving in Him. Nothing true is simple.

I think I understand how to have a relationship with God. I don't understand God. All I think I know is the next step. Here is what I know about God.

1. God is everywhere. Rob Bell states very convincingly that "everything is spiritual" and that to label parts of your life spiritual are to label other parts not spiritual. That's powerful. In Psalm 139 David exclaims about the omnipresence of God. God is everywhere.

2. Prayer is not talking. Prayer is action directed toward God. Eugene Peterson writes, "Prayer is elemental, not advanced language. It is the means by which our language become honest, true, and personal in response to God. Is is the means by which we get everything in our lives out in the open before God." Prayer is more a lifestyle and less a moment. It's all part of that everything is spiritual thing. For example, imagine I've been backpacking for 30 miles and I sit on the top of a mountain enjoying a well-deserved vista. I think to myself, "Breathtaking! This view brings something in me to life. It makes me what to be a better person." The looking is the prayer, and the thought is God's response. That's not to say that talking to God on your knees in not praying. But thankfully prayer is much more than that. It's a lifestyle directed towards God. It's keeping a direct line of communication open with God. Simply, it's recognizing that everything is spiritual and treating them that way.

Yes, God and Christianity are both complex to understand. But I don't think they're complex to practice, after you have a basic understanding of how they work. I'd like to end with the lyrics with one of my favorite songs, David Crowder Band's song, "The Glory of It All." Every time I hear the line "for the rescue of us all" I imagine Jesus rappelling from a top anchor and gathering a little child from a ledge into his arms. We all have our pictures of Christ. We all need our pictures of Christ.

"The Glory of It All"

At the start
he was there, he was there
In the end,
he’ll be there, he’ll be there

And After all our hands have wrought
He forgives

Oh the Glory of it all is:
he came here
For the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
for the glory of it all

All is lost
find him there, find him there
After night
Dawn is there, Dawn is there

After all falls apart
he repairs he repairs

Oh the Glory of it all is:
he came here
for the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all

oh he is here
for redemption from the fall
that we may live
for the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all
the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all

After night
comes the light
dawn is here
dawn is here
it’s a new day
it’s a new day
everything will change
things will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same
we will never be the same

Oh, The glory of it all is
you came here
for the rescue of us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all

Oh you are here
with redemption for us all
that we may live
for the glory of it all
for the glory of it all
oh the glory of it all

Dropping the Solo

Baby, we’re in this together.

I run a microfiber cloth over my instrument for the third time. It’s funny, the cloth never seems to really lift smudges. It only smudges them, sort of smears them around my guitar’s finish like paint on an artist’s palette. I finally give up and begin fiddling with amp knobs, trying to figure out the whereabouts of that perfect mix, the one that’s been eluding me all these years. I settle with something only acceptable, then raise my eyebrows and sigh when I notice my wife sitting on the end of the fifth row. It’s all ruined.

Turning my attention back to the stage, I motion for Smiley to give us a sound check on the drums. He pounds out the same test beat he’s been using for thirty-seven years, this time mixing it up by using one hand to devour a ham sandwich at least as old as the beat.

One more time, baby, one more time.

I forgot the string oil, but my sweaty palms probably won’t need anything else. Besides, it’s not a paying gig. Charitable concerts don’t need to be perfect, right? A string squeak here or there won’t make a difference as long as the man gets a fat wallet out of the deal.

Bruno steps off the stage for a second and gets a good luck kiss from his wife. I suddenly find something very interesting about my mike stand, so I stare at the floor and make my phantom adjustment. Things should get more comfortable as more of the alumni filter in. Although nearly ten years younger than me, my wife would look right at home in East Sacramento High’s Class of 1971.

The principal comes up on stage and asks us if we’re about ready to begin. The whole benefit concert for the new school expansion was that slimy prick’s idea. As if I would sacrifice for a school that screwed me over forty years ago. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re ready.” Just like I said at my engagement.

Things are rough from the beginning. The crowd is small and dead. And old. Our opening act is three songs: an old original we played at 1970 homecoming and two classic covers which Jerry’s voice simply slaughters. Scattered applause leaves me a little cynical as we enter the next set.

My Strat growls on “Layla,” then weeps a little for “Cold Shot.” We’re just getting started, and I can see the crowd beginning to warm up to us. At the end of the second set, I’m pouring sweat, Jerry’s voice is starting to crack more than usual, and I wonder if Smiley’s ham sandwich might cause him to pull a John Bonham in the middle of our show. And I’m sure dead drummers can’t keep tempo.

About thirty minutes into the show, I glance at my wife. She isn’t looking at me, and she seems to be enjoying herself. I wonder why she came?

A glaringly off-key note brings my senses back to the song, but I can’t get her face out of my head.

A second note slips from my fingers that makes Jerry frown at me. I just shrug and keep playing. Then a third. When a whole string of rusty notes blare from my amp, I stop, stunned. What’s wrong?

I start up again at the chorus, but my guitar doesn’t respond until a full two measures after I strum it. I frown at my delay pedal and kick it sharply. It’s not even on, but I knock the looping chord out of its jack anyway and route my sound straight from guitar to amp. It’s doesn’t make a difference.

The music is simply a mess. The drums, bass, and vocals are all playing perfectly four seconds ahead of my guitar. People in the crowd start fidgeting as the air turns muddy. I stop for the verse again. When I know I need to hit a harmonic in about two measures, I anticipate the move. Close, but no cigar. But now I have a goal, something to work toward. If I can see the music before it hits me, just know it before I hear it, then maybe we can still save this thing.

I know this song. I’ve known it for decades. In my head I begin making wild calculations, speeding and varying the tempo to try to anticipate the rhythm. I get a couple of chords nearly on beat. Now Smiley’s a little confused, but he makes an unconscious adjustment and falls into beat with my guitar.

Come on, baby, let’s take this show home.

Jerry and Bruno catch on, and after a few bars we’re back in business. My eyes are closed, my fingers flying silently, whispering into the future. I don’t even hear what the guys are playing. I hear only what’s in my head, and it pours into the fretboard of my Strat.

I begin ripping out the wildest solo of the night while everyone else is still outroing the second verse. It falls right into the music, but I ignore how beautiful it is and focus on how beautiful it will be. The improv slides by seamlessly, except for a few odd looks from the audience, probably other guitarists who are sure that what I’m playing isn’t what they’re hearing. I’ll have to convince them later that it wasn’t a canned solo.

You just need to know what you’re playing.

You need to know the song so well that when it leaves you, your fingers still hash out the movements in your sleep. And it takes work.

My eyes fly open and meet my wife’s. I think I finally know what I’m playing.

Creedo

In eighth grade I knew everything about everything, but the first thing I learned was that I knew nothing.

In ninth grade I learned enough to make me wonder at the rest.

In tenth grade I was confident that I knew who I was.

In eleventh grade I knew everything about myself, but the first thing I learned was that I knew nothing about myself.

In twelfth grade, God told me who I am, and for the first time, I listened. Now I'm back to knowing nothing. But, finally, I'm enjoying the process.

I wonder why my search for identity was so much more passionate than other people's. Is is because going to "real school" and adolescence came at roughly the same time? Is it because eight years of homeschooling led me to believe I was someone I wasn't? Or was it simply a process I would have gone through no matter what my place in life?

Life is such a process. I'm the kind of person who likes to accomplish things. I like to take a task, see it through to completion, and look back on it. That's why I have a tendency to say, "this part of my life is done" and "I've figured out that part of my life," when, really, there's no definite end to any part of your life. It just floats on, changing imperceptible, as it is only in retrospect that you can see where you came from.

For example, who I am now snuck up on me. I had it all figured out. I was one of those emotional guys--poetry, philosophy, psychology, books, music, academics. The mental but not the physical. I still remember in tenth grade when Mr. Mulkern asked us write down where we would be in fifteen years. It was an easy assignment for me, because I knew exactly where I would be. I would be holding at least two degrees in my hand, possible three. I would have a loving family and live in upper class suburbia. I would love my job because of the pioneering research I was involved in. I would be a success.

Haha. Those are the people I laugh at now.

When did it all change? When did I realize how ridiculous I was being stuck in my little shell of protection? Last summer the phrase "Ben-first" kept popping up on family vacation. For the first time, I was the one going in first. And the feeling was amazing.

It's like someone flipped a switch inside, and I could finally do what I wanted. Inhibitions are cruel beasts. And, best of all, it the switch got flipped at a time when I was imploring God to show me what I should be doing. That's why my new interests are more than a passing obsessions; they're deeply rooted in my concept of what God wants me to do.

I'll end all this with a quote by Tecumseh which I love. I guess all the poetry isn't gone from me yet.

"So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and bow to none. When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and nothing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home."

Things I Don't Understand

Here is a list of things I don't understand:

1. Attraction

2. Love

3. God's voice

4. Emotions and logic

5. Attachment

I know there's more, but those are the ones that seem the most important right now.

What's wrong with me? It's like all the romance has been sucked out of me. I don't write love poetry, I'm not emotionally moved by sappy movies, I can't even remember my four images of love anymore. I'm numb.

I felt something today, just for a moment. I felt it between dropping into the mile hill at Patapsco and learning how to light a white gas stove. It was a feeling that told me that all I really want to do in life is return to that familiar feeling of romance, that cozy, squirming crush. Then I would marry and have kids and live in the suburbs. Maybe be a stay-at-home dad.

Then, once again, that compelling urge to make a radical difference said that a lifestyle like that wouldn't be conducive to changing the world. I don't know which to believe, but I am definitely feeling the opposition.

I made a mistake recently. Not the first I've made, but one of the biggest. I made it two months and two days ago. At the time, my choice seemed harmless, but that's only because I was ignoring the bigger picture--the future and the past. I was living in the moment.

I never thought living in the moment could have its consequences, but obviously it can.

21st Annual Tidewater Challenge

On October 26, Matt and I decided to take our first shot at mountain bike racing--the 21st annual Tidewater Challenge in Williamsburg, Virginia. I've been biking obsessively for about six months, and he has been biking for three. Needless to say, our combined experience amounts to nothing compared to the experience of most competitive racers.

We chose to enter the duo-endurance class, a six-hour relay along a four mile loop of technical singletrack. Our goals were simple: to not sustain any serious injuries (death, for example) and to place in something other than last position. We also decided that twelve laps would be a great number, so that distance was always in the back of our minds.

We drove down Saturday afternoon, arriving at a local KOA after dark and in a heavy rain. We pitched camp and then left for some food. When we returned, a group of drunk teens were blasting the music and shouting recklessly (this was a little after 11:00). They continued to shout and blast music, with occasional trips to vandalize people's lawns with their enormous, compensating-for-the-manhood-I-don't-possess truck, until around 4:00 a.m., when the police came for the second time to tell them to quiet down. We got somewhere between two and three hours of sleep.

Race day was beautiful--cool in the morning, high sixties at midday, clear and dry. We arrived at around 7:15, registered, lubed our bikes, made final adjustments, and staked out our spot in the enduro pit. The race was delayed an hour, so we had plenty of time to carb-load, warm-up and think of anything we were forgetting in the pit or our packs.

Matt went first. He was in first position due to our early registration, but he stepped back a few places to give the pros the positions they would soon be taking anyway. I waited anxiously in the pit. After about eighteen or nineteen minutes, the first rider entered the pit and quickly exchanged batons with his teammate. My first thought was "Holy crap, that was fast." Matt entered the pit in just under 30 minutes, which by our estimations was a good time. He had a look of surprise on his face, and his only comment was, "Let's just finish this thing."

The course was incredible. The four miles of singletrack were very technical and rooty, with more elevation change than I've ever seen on an MTB course. Several whoop-de-doos led to short bridges with equally steep banks on the other side. Surprising compressions dotted the last mile of the course. The track between the scoring table and the pit was fast and wide, with spectators lining the sides to see the pros get big air off the moto-style jumps.

I was immediately intimidated by the course, but I soon got the hang of the sudden elevation changes and quick turns. I passed about four racers near the beginning, thinking, "This isn't bad. I'm not the slowest one out here." What I didn't realize is that those were the only four people I would pass all day and they were likely single-enduro racers who were already tired from their first four miles.

I pulled into the pit around 31 minutes. No problems so far. We were racing like clockwork, with changes happening every half an hour almost to the second. In the pit, racers downed Gatorade, ate bananas and power bars, and tuned their bikes. I noticed several serious mechanical problems (broken frame, bent cassette) and was thankful our bikes, however inexpensive, were holding up to the course.

On my second lap I had a wipeout at the top of a hill when my front wheel didn't have enough weight and came down sideways. My right foot didn't unclip from my pedal immediately, and I came down hard on my right knee. A photographer nearby asked if I was okay, secretly smiling that he got the first "wipeout photo" of the day. I got brushed myself off and kept going, with a little more respect for the steep inclines.

My chain broke on the third lap. Fortunately, it was only feet from the pit, so I was able to complete the lap running. Matt had a spare master link with him, so I was able to fix it in only a few minutes. I was a little bummed because I bought the chain three days ago because my last chain broke the Wednesday before the race.

On my fourth lap, I started cramping. Then I started cramping bad. Then the cramps became a serious danger to my stability. My right quad would tense in a straight position, so that I could not bend it without triggering another painful explosion. I walked off the first few cramps, but by the time I got to the pit, I couldn't get my right hand to release the grips, and I couldn't get off my bike! I felt like a retard hobbling into the pit and just kinda chillin' for a few minutes on my bike, trying to look like I wanted to be in that position. I found out that another rider had similar cramps in his quads, which caused him to wipe out and drop out of the race. While I felt sorry for him, it did make me feel a little better that I wasn't alone.

When Matt got back, I wasn't sure if I could make another lap. He offered to run another one for me, but he looked tired in spite of running a very good race so far. I started off on my fifth, but only got as far as the first hill before I cramped so badly I couldn't ride. I walked painfully back to the pit and Matt was off, taking the lap in my place. In my next half hour in the pit, I came to the conclusion that I was not in shape for a race like this, and we would probably lose, and I was probably finished with the race, and life basically sucked. I drank nearly a half gallon of Gatorade in that time, and kept my muscles warm by riding my bike around the parking lot.

When Matt came around again (finishing our tenth lap), I said I'd give it a shot. I got to the same hill I had before and cramped the same way. But this time I rode/walked through it. I raised my seat about an inch (a move I was hesitant to do because of how frequently I was dabbing) to straighten my legs more. Also, the Gatorade I drank kicked in, and my muscles became much more responsive. I took the lap slowly, but not too slowly because I knew I needed to pass the scoring table within forty minutes, the end of the race, in order for our eleventh lap to count.

I passed the scoring table with five minutes to spare, which gave us the chance to do one more lap to the finish. Matt took the last lap, in no hurry I'm quite sure, and got us the score of twelve that we were shooting for. Our final placement was fifteen our of twenty in the duo-enduro class. I completed five laps and Matt completed freaking seven, putting our total mileage at about 48 for the day. We weren't great by any means, but I'll take that for a first race.

I'm definitely going back next year, probably for the duo-enduro again. I'm feeling a top ten.