A Portly Man and a Bag of Poop

I'm 41 years old and it has come increasingly to my attention that my body is committing a terrible treason: it is getting bigger. I notice it most when I look down and can no longer tell if my shoes are tied. It doesn't help that I spend most of my days strapped to a desk in college, struggling to stay awake while the professors drone on and on about something that most mere mortals neither care about nor comprehend. So I decided to fight back against my body. I will never regain the svelte, tight body I possessed when I was twenty (ah, to be able to sit down without popping and cracking. THOSE were the days!), but I am determined to lose some weight and try to set an example of health for my family. No easy task.
I awoke this morning filled with determination. My boys were excited and promised to accompany me on their bikes and scooters (lucky them). I grabbed the dog, a two year old Golden named Sam, hooked him to his leash, and headed out the door. Now, in my mind, I'm still that 23 year old soldier who could run 4 miles at the drop of a hat and still lead soldiers in training later that day. My body, however, isn't cooperating with my mind. My first shock came with my first step: I moved forward and my body didn't. Instead it trembled and, like a train wreck in slow motion, wiggled and jiggled toward me until it finally caught up. This is going to be a LONG road.
Sam the dog patiently loped along-side me, sniffing and trotting, until he abruptly stopped, nearly pulling my arm out of my socket.
"Sam, come on." I urged
He looked up at me imploringly, his large brown eyes seeking to communicate across the great divide between man and beast.
"Sam, what?" I tugged on him.
He didn't budge.
I was growing impatient. For the first time in longer than I'd care to remember I was motivated to do some physical activity and I'm going to be stopped by my dog? Oh, I don't think so! I tugged harder. The kids circled us on their bikes like vultures over a kill, highly amused at the scene unfolding before them.
"Sam . . ."
Suddenly he assumed the position, that sacred stance that was the universal sign that nature was calling and this wasn't going to be a simple pit stop. But aha! I was ready for this. A soldier is always prepared, right? One of the great joys of being a father of three sons is that I don't have to do all of the dirty work any more. I promptly called my 12 year old who dutifully whipped out a plastic bag from Walmart. We would take care of this in short order!
My son parked his bike on the gentle incline next to us and stooped down when, terror! his bike began to fall. I watched the scene as if in slow motion. The bike leaned closer and closer to the earth and, of course, towards the HUGE mound of dog refuse warmly and recently deposited by Sam. I reached out but Oh! too late. My son darted backward in the nick of time as his lovely, sparkly-clean handle-bars planted themselves deeply in the steaming pile.
The other kids stopped their circling. The wind died down. Birds ceased their singing. Clouds stopped their gentle trek across the sky. We all stared at the splattered mess that lay before us. Well, everyone except Sam of course who stood panting and smiling blissfully unaware of how he had just hijacked my morning run. He looked up at me happily, no doubt feeling better now that he was a couple of kilograms lighter.
"EWWWWWWWWW!" My 11 year old broke the silence. The world began moving again.
We turned around and headed home to clean a bike. My lovely wife was on the front porch, more to see if I had survived my run than to wait for the kids and was surprised at our quick return.
My first jog lasted 3:43 seconds. I'll try again Monday morning. I'm so NOT taking the poopy dog. He can stay home and stare at me through the front window. I will never go jogging with him again!

Well, maybe . . . .

Thanksgiving and November . . .

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, hardly seems possible. Vickie, my lovely wife, who is currently in school learning how to become a pastry chef, treated us to homemade biscuits with homemade butter in addition to the large traditional meal. Needless to say, it was wonderful, nay, miraculous, a little bit of heaven on earth. She will be a very, very, very good chef!

The kids are doing well, thank God. Amazingly Joseph is now as tall (and will no doubt soon exceed) Hannah in height. Joe is only twelve, going on 35, and will be a very tall young man. It is with not a little pride that I acknowledge that all of my children will likely be taller than both mom and me, not a remarkable achievement considering our own diminutive stature!

School continues to be a challenge for me, my only current consolation being that the semester ends in three weeks! Joy! Although, this means, too, that finals are rapidly approaching. More time for stress and study! I know that the end goal is certainly going to be worth all of this effort, time, and money. Until then, I plod on, class-by-class . . .

We have begun a new outreach, a medical mission focused on helping the local downtrodden and disadvantaged. The ministry is called Rapha (the Hebrew word for "healing" or "mending"). We conducted our first outreach in October. As seen in the attached photo, it was a lot of fun and we saw 31 people. The young man sitting at the table with me is Aaron, who is currently training to become Medical Assistant. I think he'll make a good one. This all is a humble start, but exciting nonetheless. Our next outreach is tomorrow. Looking forward to it!

God bless you! Keep the faith!

I'm afraid

As I get older I've begun to notice that life rarely comes at us at an even pace, a smooth series of events that we can handle as they march toward us in orderly succession.  I've learned instead that life seems to happen in chaotic bursts, sudden explosions of reality that, good or bad, rain upon us like machine gun fire interspersed by brief periods of uneasy peace. 

My thirteen year old daughter has suffered from epilepsy for seven years.  After truck-loads of medicine and a small army of doctors from multiple disciplines, we have arrived at the truth that her only natural hope is surgery.  So this coming Tuesday morning, June 14th, my only daughter is going to the local children's hospital to have both sides of her skull cut open and parts of her brain examined, monitered, then excised.

Now I know that thousands of children and parents have walked down this path before and come out far better for it.  I know that I should be grateful that things are not worse than they are.  I know that I should be counting my blessings.  As a rabbi I am reminded, also, that God is near, that we are not going through this alone, and that everything will eventually work out for His higher good purposes and will.  I know all of these things are true.

But I'm still scared.  Is that wrong?

I'm scared that things may not go as smoothly as they should.  I'm scared she may die, or have a stroke, or become profoundly disabled.  I'm scared that the surgery may make her already violent seizures worse.  I'm scared that her follow-up care may be compromised because of our impending move to Kansas.  I'm scared that the cost her care may spiral rapidly out of control and swallow our family financially.

The current religious climate in Western culture often dictates that we should not be people of fear and, to an extant, that is true.  I firmly believe that we should never let fear become either our sole or primary motivation for anything.  I'm also learning, though, that fear is a reality with which we all must cope, a companion that, at inadvertent (and usually inconvenient) times crops up and demands our attention.  I'm learning that God will always help us deal with fear but He may not always take it away.

I must go now.  I'll keep you posted.