#466: What Has Running Done for Me Lately?

It's been a rough spring for me, in case you haven't noticed. Personal loss, mental illness, professional set-backs. I am really looking forward to the summer of 2013 with hope. Through all this trouble, my one faithful companion has been running. When it seemed like every other rug in my world was being pulled out, I always knew I could lace 'em up and hit the road. Running has become more than exercise, more even than therapy for me. It has become my touchstone. When things are at their worst for me, running has reminded me just how much I love being alive.

When I learned that my friend was going away, I spent a couple of days holed up in tears, then I went for a run. I ran so hard and so long that I wound up in the ER with dehydration... but running reminded me that I was still strong, even without Coach.

When it seemed like my fundraiser was going to crash and burn under the weight of my emotional breakdown, I went for a run. I ran 28 miles one day and people were inspired to give so generously that we not only reached our goal, we surpassed it.

When I felt  my friend's pain as she lay critically ill in a nursing home with a relapse of the cancer she thought she had beaten years ago, I wrote her name on my bib and went for a run, busting a new Marathon PR and lifting her spirits along the way.

Yesterday, the weight of all the grief and loss and changes and frustrations seemed ready to crush me. There are times when I am so close to despair that I could almost give up. Instead, I went for a run. Nice and slow. Hot and humid. More of a jog, really. I heard the birds, felt the wind and the sun on my face and legs. The tap of my feet on the pavement kept time as the music of my breath drew me along. Gritting up hills. Smiling at strangers. Loving every second of what seemed to be a terrible life just an hour before.

That's what you've done for me lately, Running. You've kept my heart beating. Helped me blow off steam. Let me taste the air mixed with clean, salty sweat on my lips. You got me through the rain and mile 26. You got me out of my bed, off my ass, and out the door. You reminded me that there is a God who loves me and who in the middle of all this loss is still giving me one precious gift... life... and the ability to run toward it.

Thanks for the reminder, old friend. It's a Great Day for a Run.

Peace,
Pennsy

#460: What Job Taught Me About Depression

Albrecht Durher: Job on the Dunghill

I've been thinking about Job quite a bit. Not so much out of pity for myself, as much as a desire to make sense of all that I have lost in the last few weeks. Not that there is much sense to be made of it. Part of me believes that it's just a string of really bad events. Coincidence.

Job's story doesn't offer a satisfying explanation of why suffering exists; but it does teach us a way to respond to the pain of existence.

Job stayed faithful. So did God. When life takes everything away, God remains. Paul prayed to have the "thorn in my flesh" removed, and God's answer was, "my grace is sufficient for you." God isn't cruel and unfair: life is. But what God is, and this is a most radical and difficult idea, what God really  is, is faithful. Did God take away my friends? My health? I don't know. But what I do know is that God will not take away the Steadfast Love that is at the heart of the universe. When everything else is lost, God's love remains. If there is a theme that ties all of the Bible together, I think that is it. Life may be confusing and painful, almost unendurable at times. But it is a pain that we can endure because in our darkest hour, when it seems like everything we need or desire has been taken away, God's love remains.

In spite of the healing I feel every day, there are still times when it feels like the only reason it isn't getting worse is that I have nothing left to lose. But that is not true: my purpose remains. There are still people with cancer. People will find comfort and inspiration in the story I have to tell. People need to know that there is abundant life after cancer. People's lives can be better because of what happened to me.

My life's work remains. And where will I find the strength to do that work? It will be where it has always been. Even when I thought it was coming from smiling faces and kind words. My strength comes from God, who will never abandon me, not even in the deepest regions of the shadow lands.

People in the 21st century might find that a pretty foolish thing to believe. Many of the people I love find Job's story to be silly and superstitious. I can live with that. "Religion is for the weak," others will say. I can live with that, too. If this season of darkness has taught me nothing else, it has taught me just how weak I am. Healthy people don't need doctors. Strong people don't need God. Well, I'm not healthy, and I'm not strong. I need God's love to stay alive.

And by God, I'm staying alive.

A famous theologian, Karl Barth was once asked, "what is the most profound religious truth you have ever heard?" His answer was one that could transform the world, if only we would let it:

Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so,
Little ones to him belong,
They are weak, but he is strong;
Yes, Jesus loves me...
The Bible tells me so.

Peace,
Pennsy

#453: My All Too Public Private Life

I've entered a new stage.

My manic (or hypomanic) pole is characterized by grandiose thoughts and an over inflated sense of my own importance. Here, I am all courage and daring. Bold action, grand gestures. Good judgement? Not very often.

My depressive pole is dark and lonely, sad and hungry. Here is an angry place. A frightened place. I feel isolate from everyone here, even from God. Here, my judgement is even worse, because in this state of mind, it is impossible for me to choose at all. I might spend 15 minutes staring at the floor beside my bed trying to decide which pair of shoes to slip into.

But in this new place, I feel hyper aware. I see things in people that they might not see themselves. I see them afraid of me and the things I might do if I ever go really crazy. I hear them talking about me around corners and behind closed doors. I see them avoid me and cross the room of the hall. I hear them greet me with a smile, but behind their bright teeth, I can see entire monologues of judgement and condemnation being silently directed toward me.

Yes. I've finally made it. I'm in the crazy zone. I am paranoid and delusional. I rehearse imaginary dialogues over and over in my head. Today in the weight room, my mind was finally quiet. I think I know why penitentiary inmates lift weights. Not just so they can be strong and defend themselves, but also because weight lifting is the ultimate escape. You can't worry about anything when you lift heavy weights. You can't afford to be distracted for a moment or you can get very badly hurt. I found real peace under the bar. But then, I went to the pool.

I strapped on my flotation belt and tethered myself to a diving block. I started water running, jogging in place floating there by the side of the pool, and my mind began to race. Faces. Voices. Accusations. Betrayals. Mockery. Lies. Manipulation. I imagined confronting my accusers, flinging barbed wit at them, smashing them to bits with my incisive logic and immovable sense of justice. Before I knew it, my stomach was churning as violently as the water around me. And that's when I realized something terribly important about myself.

It isn't going to be enough for me to just look sane. I'm going to have to get well or I'm never going to be able to come back to work. I'll never really trust myself. I'll never trust anyone else. I'll never be sure that the things I do or say aren't coming from my disease instead of my reason. If I can't get well, I'm going to have to keep on lying about who I am and what I feel... and as it turns out, I really suck at lying.

But even worse than that. If I can't get well, I'll always have this suspicion that everybody knows, everybody cares, everybody is a little amused and even a little afraid of my feeble mental state.

I can't just sit tight until someone tells me that they think I'm all better. I need to be about the work of pulling the pieces of me back together again. Because I don't know how many second chances I have left in this life. The applause of strangers just isn't going to be enough, not this time. I need to work until I know that I am healed. Try and fail. Test the water. Accept the set backs. Do whatever it takes.

I asked myself in the pool today, "What if God is testing me? What if God takes away the Y? Could I accept even that if it were God's will?" I don't know how to answer these questions. Part of me wants to say, "Yes, Yes, Lord. Here I am. Do with me what you will." But then there is the part of me that asks, "What kind of monster gives you the happiest days of your life, then snatches them away for no reason? Are you a God who tortures your children? Who kills their parents? Who steals their sight, their health, their minds? Why would anyone ever want to serve you?" A lot of people wouldn't ask these kids of questions while floating in 10 feet of water, but I told you I was in a crazy place.

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know why God is allowing this to happen to me. I don't even know who I'm going to be when I wake up in the morning. But I do know a few things.

I love working as a trainer at the YMCA. Love it. It is the best job I've ever had. It gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment that I have never found anywhere else.

I can't work as a trainer as long as I am consumed by fears and depression and distorted thoughts and delusions of grandeur or paranoia. I can't help anyone else if I am in constant danger of bursting into uncontrollable tears for hours at a time.

The only way for me to get back to the work I love, is to find myself again. Again? I wonder if there ever was a time when I knew myself. A time when I wasn't focused on pleasing the grown-ups, being the smartest guy in the room, winning the heart of the beautiful princess. If I ever find the real me, will I even recognize him?

I don't have a choice. I have to try. My work gives me more than just a sense of mission and service. It gives me a sense of purpose. For the first time in my life, I have a reason to be alive. I feel in tune with the creature God intended me to be when I'm working at the Y. For the first time in my marriage, I feel like I have something worthwhile to bring into the partnership. If I lose that... If I lose that purpose, that reason to get out of bed, that reason to be,  I just don't know how I'll go on living.

I am not fighting for my job. I'm fighting for my marriage. I'm fighting for my life. I don't care what it takes, how long it takes, or how much it costs, I simply have to get well. The docs killed my cancer. But only God can take this thing away. I'm going to need all the pills and shrinks and friends that He can send me in order to get well. And I can't stop until the sickness is really gone, or else driven so far into it's hole that I know I can manage it for the rest of my life.

I can't afford to get this sick again. Not ever. There is too much at stake. My friends. My fellow survivors. My marriage.

My soul.

Dear God. I am so lost here. Please help me to get well. Please help me. I'll do my share of the work. I promise, but I can't do anything without you. Please, God. Please.

Peace,
Pennsy

#449: Thanks, Coach

I got an important reminder this morning. A friend carried a message to me from my Coach. Here are a few excerpts.

Bob keep holding on to God. God has the answers and we have to seek them and as we get closer to him the more he will help us God saved you for a reason that means you have a special reason to be alive. but satan knows your weakness and how to use them against you...
Think about how hard satan is working to destroy you that means he knows how much good you can do for the Lord... God has a mighty work for you . 
Dont forget to praise God i know the y and people there have helped you a lot but God sent them to you... He knew what you needed...  People will come and go, but God said he will never leave or forsake us ...
God brought you through cancer; this too he can help you through. I just know God has a great work for you for satan to work so hard to destroy you. Dont let him win. Fight him with all your might...
Remember Paul and Silas while in jail they praised God..I  know its hard to praise him we wonder where he is. I've even blamed God and i started going down hill fast, but we have to realise sometime Gods answer is no... thats why we must trust him and have faith ...
You wrote "unworthy as i am." If God saved you you are worthy...
As you run the marathon tomorrow i know you are running to fight against cancer and help cancer victims, but do me a favor tomorrow while running do me a favor praise God sing his praises give him all the glory some people may look at you funny talk about you but there might be one there that needs to here you sing and praise God. Where else can you be a witness to that many people..? 
God said go out in the hedges and highways and compel the lost to come in. I believe God can heal you. You dont have to live with this. Don't let Satan win. Go run for God and cancer...
I'm very proud of you. After the race, you still have to keep running the race for God.

Many people find that kind of talk to be old fashioned or superstitious. Other people, people I respect and love, would even call it fanatical and weak-minded. Well, if bipolar disorder teaches you anything, it is that your mind is much weaker than you think. If believing in God is weak, then I am grateful for my weakness.

My friend is right. The physicians fought my cancer, but God was the one who healed me. My coaches worked tirelessly to turn me into a runner, but God was the one who taught me to run. God was the one who sent these people to me. What I call my mission or my ministry or my purpose, my friend calls "a mighty work," and God is the one who will give me whatever I need to get that work done.

I do believe in God. I don't believe many of the things that my friend might, and I don't believe in the same way as I did when I was younger, but I know that the only reason I am alive is that God loves me, and has a purpose for my life.

I don't know what Satan is. I don't know if he's a fallen angel or just my own fear and shame. Maybe Satan is cancer. Whatever he is, I know that he will keep me from doing the work God has given me to do. And I don't intend to let that happen.

My friend is old-fashioned. He loves that Old Time Religion and makes no apologies for it. Some people think that's silly or worse. For me, it is an inspiration. I don't know if I will ever return to that way of thinking, but I know that no matter how hard my head gets pulled around, I have to turn it back toward God.

Today I will run. I will race against myself, the clock, the course, and the pain that will scream at me to stop doing something so very, very foolish.

But I will not stop. Not as long as I can still run or walk or crawl. Because I'm not just running for myself.

I am running for the people God has sent. The people who believe in me. The people who need to see that nothing, not cancer, not mental illness, not fear, not even the Devil can keep you from becoming the person you were created to be if you rely on God's help.

I am running for love. For life. For light. And I am running to praise the source of those things.

This is not a sermon. And I don't think it is an insane rave.

It is my testimony. My beautiful friend has reminded me of something I have forgotten.

I am not in this world to be anybody's hero or inspiration. I am here to be their servant. Jesus didn't want praise. He wanted to wash feet. He wanted to feed hungry people. He wanted to comfort suffering people.

That's my job.

Thank you, brother. You had the love and the courage to remind me of that.

Today, I'm praising God for the chance to run. I'm humbled by the generosity of my friends and neighbors. I may weep again today. But I will weep for joy. I will weep for gratitude. I will weep because Amazing Grace saved a wretch like me, and will continue to save me every time I drift off course.

God is my Coach.

And my God, it's a great day for a run.

Peace,
Pennsy

#442: Spider On A Thread

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. - Jonathan Edwards "'Have a Nice Day' and Other Sermons for Children (Just kidding. Little Calvinist humor, there. It's actually from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. If you are the sort of demented soul who feels the need, you can read the whole Hallmark card here.)


One of the more insulting pieces of good news I've ever received was on a radiology report: "Analysis of the brain shows nothing remarkable." What they meant was that there was nothing bad in there. My oncologist explained that this is a much better comment than: "Imaging of the brain was negative," which means that they looked, but didn't find anything. So sometimes words can conceal positive results.

In the past 30 hours or so, when I've checked my emotional vital signs, the results have been increasingly positive. Reduced tear production. No evidence of chest convulsions, throat contractions, or sobbing. Heart lightening. Creepy-crawlies subsiding. The subject appears to have turned the corner. We are cautiously optimistic.

But still, I'm wary.

Last night, Mrs P reminded me that depression is only half of my diagnosis. My wife the clinical therapist conjured the full name: Type II Bipolar Disorder with Severe Clinical Depression. No wonder it takes so many pills. No wonder I never speak it's name out loud. That is a disorder for a person who is seriously screwed up.

It's not that I hide it, not really. Readers of FMR know that I hide precious little. Much less than any decent person should.  I wouldn't say I'm a Closeted Crazy. But bipolar disorder is the one gremlin in my life that I would just as soon not name. Ever. I remember the first time I read the words, typed into my file at the mental hospital. "Well, son," I whispered to myself, "Looks like you're the Bull-Goose loony in this nut house now." And until they taught me how I could exercise my way back to the light, I pretty much was.

I stay more-or-less stable when the meds and the therapists and the coaches are all working together. People think of me as a little eccentric; a little emotional; loyal; protective; outgoing; you know, a Leo. When things get out of whack - and the whack often comes from sudden, unexpected grief - I can find myself dangling like a spider on a thread in the wind, blown from giddy with optimism to paralyzed with despair in a single gentle gust. A conversation with a friend can put me on top of the world. Burnt toast can lead me to consider suicide. A phrase in a newspaper article. A lick from the dogs. The song of a mockingbird. A paper cut. I don't know of any more helpless feeling than the one you get when you realize that you have no control over yourself or the size of your emotions. Everything is exaggerated. Bipolar disorder means living in hyperbole.The best you can do is remember that depression and manic states are really a set of lies that you tell yourself - they doesn't last for ever - and your only job is to ride them out without hurting yourself or anybody else.

Mixed results, so far. The folks at work have been supportive, without exception - but they are only human. I expect there will be consequences for my two-week disappearance - I know I'll be imagining what they're thinking about me for a while.

I haven't done myself any harm that I can see - other than shaken confidence and the stubborn stains of shame and embarrassment. I kept up with my training. Ate. Slept when I could. Bathed regularly. No boozing, binging, bruising, or burning of bridges. I said my prayers. Gave thanks for my blessings. Asked help for my trials. Kept writing.

Mrs P got the worst of me. She always does. No rage this time. Just angry confusion for both of us about how a husband can get so damn worked up just because his boss goes away. I think Coach was pretty spooked by the whole thing, too. 250 pounds of nervous breakdown is a lot to handle in a tiny office. I'm not sure either of them felt entirely safe alone with me when I was blubbering to them about What Am I Gonna Do? and Please Don't Go and Oh Dear God It Hurts So Much.

Depression is like cancer in that way. It is cruel to carry inside you, but think it's even more cruel to the people who care for you. I wish I had done a better job protecting them, no matter how sick I was.

But, today I'm riding... Not high. Not low. Just sort of cruising along. Had a nice short run today. Seven miles on the treadmill and the Legacy Trail. Smiles and laughter, all appropriate to the conversation. As I'm typing, I feel more human, more like myself than I have in many, many days. If I can keep it up for a week, I'll be able to write about what it's like to finally get over a depressive episode. Today, I'm erring on the side of caution. There are still a lot of vulnerable people around me. And I'm still a bull in their emotional china shops.

Things are good at the moment. But vigilance is needed here. Things can change so quickly for a spider on a thread.

Peace,
Pennsy

Source note: Creepy spider picture stolen from here.

#403: Getting Cancer is the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me

I've only said that out loud a couple of times. Now that I've written it down for the first time, it looks even crazier than it sounds.

My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. (James 1:2-3)

Look, people go through worse than I did every day. I'd rather go through 10 years of chemo than a day of combat in Afghanistan. Every time a single mom comes into the Y, trying to get financial assistance so her kids can go to camp, or a divorced dad comes in to find a way to help the family he can no longer share a home with, I realize how much worse things could be for me. What if it had been Mrs P, and not me? What if Mum hadn't been able to come and stay with us for half a year? What if there had been no hospital that would treat us when my insurance stopped paying? What if there had been no family to help us when the bank finally foreclosed on our house? Believe me, I know how blessed I am.


But that's not what I mean when I say getting cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm talking about what happened to me because I got cancer.


Just as James' epistle promised, cancer's greatest lesson is patience. Cancer treatment is all about set-backs and changes in plan. I don't think I know anyone whose treatment has gone by the book. To overcome an elusive opponent, you have to be willing to accept the surprises and change your tactics. Cancer teaches you patience, and patience nurtures hope. That's true in the radiation clinic, and it's true in the gym. Healing takes time. You have to trust that truth, and you have to be patient enough for hope to come. Getting cancer taught me that.

There's something else, too. One of my favorite sayings is, "There are an awful lot of things that used to be important to me." 

• How I look
• How little money I make
• The disrespect of strangers
• Dreams that didn't come true

This stuff used to camp out in my head, filling my quiet hours with shame and regret. Now, when I look at my life all I can do is thank God for the chance to open my eyes; to feel the sun; to hear my wife breathing softly beside me in bed; to spend 10 minutes scouting around the yard picking up dog poop in a plastic bag. Every breath I draw is a blessing: a chance to love my life, my wife, my God, my neighbors. Nothing else is really important.

Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. (Book of Common Prayer, Holy Eucharist II)

Jesus prayed for the cup of Calvary to pass from him, and I would have prayed the same words about the cup of cancer. But I could never have imagined the strength and renewal that bitter drink would give me. I know now that there is nothing that I can't live through, no battle that I can't fight to the finish. I have seen that strength in other cancer fighters, and for the first time in my life, I can feel it in myself. It is strength that comes from inside me, but it is also the strength of all the people who love and support me. Their prayers and kindness make me stronger, and together we can endure anything. 

Renewal? Oh, yes. I don't ask, "Why am I here?" any more. I know why I'm here. I've been called to preach. My sermon? Cancer can kill us, but it can never defeat us if we live strong. Every waking moment, that story is my life's work. A day doesn't go by that I don't encounter at least one person who needs to hear it. There are probably a lot more who are sick of me going on and on about it, but there may come a time when they'll need it, and I'm going to make sure I'm here to tell it - to live it.


My prayer for you is that you won't have to get cancer to learn the things it taught me. You are blessed. You are stronger than you can imagine. You are not alone. You were created to do wonderful, amazing things. You can make the world a better place than you found it. I know those things about you, even if you don't know them about yourself yet. And knowing that about you, has changed me in more ways than I can count or recognize. 


Cancer isn't evil. It's just a blob of crazy cells fighting for their lives. Our real opponent isn't disease. Our enemy is death: not just the death that puts you in a box in the ground, but also the death that kills your spirit and leaves you walking around empty and afraid. Getting cancer gave me the antidote to death. The prescription is one part purpose and one part love. Repeat as needed.


Being a cancer fighter means fighting for life. That's why I'm here. That's what getting cancer gave me. I'm not grateful to cancer. And I won't pretend I'm grateful for the days spent puking or the nights spent shivering while I wondered what would become of Mrs P when I was gone. I don't treasure one moment that I spent with the disease in my body. 

But I'm grateful as hell for what it left behind.


Peace,


Pennsy


You can help cancer survivors like me learn to fight for life. Give to Living Strong at the Y. Follow this link to learn how.

#378: The Law of the Pack

Mom always tried to get me to write thank you notes. For reasons I cannot explain, I resisted her efforts. Wicked child. I didn't know what to say. As if "Thank You," just wasn't original enough somehow.

I've always wanted to be impressive. Umpteen years ago, this blog started under the title Pennsyltuckian.  I started blogging to share my deep insights into God, the Universe, and Everything with a world that was starving for my wisdom and eloquence. The more I wrote, the less impressed I grew with myself. The more words I typed, the more I realized how little I really had to say. The truth is, I didn't know squat about God, the Universe, or Anything. Fortunately, God's wisdom had a course of graduate studies in mind for me. I'm still not nearly as original, wise, or insightful as I want to be, but I do have a PhD in Gratitude. Here's an extract from my dissertation.

I am grateful for the Pack. I live in a world that idolizes the lone wolf, the man who can stand on his own two feet. He think for himself, takes care of his own, minds his business, and keeps his own counsel. I tried so long to be that man.

Maggie

We had cats for years. Lions live together, but most cats are lonely people. Given her 'druthers, Maggie and Kizzie would spend their whole lives curled up in a warm spot, purring quietly, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and occasionally taunting the dogs through the baby gate. Their encounters with each other can be civil and affectionate, even tender, but they always carry a tinder-box in their back pocket.  They will hop up onto the bed when the mood strikes them, but neither is much for hugging. You can love a cat with all your heart, but the cat will always her limits.

Leader of the Pack?

Dogs live in the Pack. They hunt together, sleep together, raise their pups together. The dogs in my life have shown me how to love without limits. We play in the rain. We run in the grass. They have welcomed me into their world, though I can't do a thing for them except scoop dry nasty chunks of food into a bowl a couple times a day. It's a poor substitute for the game they were created to hunt and share in the wild, but they are grateful. I love all the creatures who share my home, but I will never be "one of the cats." The dogs have taken me in as one of their own. They even let me think I'm in charge from time to time.

Humans are slow, weak creatures. Compared to our brothers and sisters in the wild, we are not fast or strong. We can't see our food or smell danger. Our claws are short and brittle, our teeth flat and dull. The one advantage a human has is a brain. We're smart. And our ancestors were smart enough to realize that the only way for us to survive was if we lived together. We learned the law of the Pack. Mrs P likes to tell me, "Everything we do is better when we do it together." As always, she is right.

"We are the Duck!"

When I lost my job, I found a group of people struggling together to make it in the world. We traveled in small groups, trying to sell insurance to people who, for the most part, didn't want to see our faces, let alone buy our products. It could have been a lonely, depressing life - and the truth is, I sucked at selling insurance - but I found a pack who cared about one another. We understood one another's struggles, and when one of us was in trouble, the rest of us were willing to come to their aid. A few succeeded in the business, most of us didn't, but all of us found strength and love in that strange, wonderful Pack.

Stolen image, but this is what crazy feels like.

When I lost my mind, Mrs P knew she couldn't pull me back to sanity by herself, and that I couldn't help myself, either. She took me to the nut house. I spent 10 days there, taking pills, walking the halls, living without shoelaces or a belt. Afterwards, I was in an outpatient program for a month. I met with shrinks and counselors and social workers and big burly types who always showed up when one of us got out of hand. Those people were great. But the most important part of my healing happened in the big room in the middle of the ward, when all the professionals were in their offices doing paperwork, and the nuts would sit together and share our stories. We were depressed housewives, battered lovers, broken-hearted soldiers, grieving orphans. We had been fired, raped, dumped on, cheated on, and born with wired crossed in our heads. Most of us knew what it was to face the choice between life and death, and many of us had tried to choose death. Some of us had days when the pain of getting out of bed was just too great. One by one, we would stop by their room, like a little den, and offer to listen. We didn't have to ask how they were doing. We knew. All we could offer was our presence. The safety of the pack. There were no miracle cures in the nut house. We all went in crippled, and we all came out limping, but we were all a little stronger for the time we had spent together.

If you've been following FMR, you know my cancer story. I'm always blabbing about it. I wonder if people get sick of hearing it. But then I think of the people who might need to hear: the people who stare at the ceiling in the dark, worrying about a cough or a lump or a spot of blood that shouldn't be there; the people waiting for the results of tests that will change their lives; the people who haven't yet decided whether to fight or give up; the ones whose hope is fading; the weary cancer fighters who feel like old lions, left behind to die; the ones who love people with cancer, who don't know how to help and don't know how to keep fighting. Most of the people who hear my story won't need to hear it, but some will. That's my job. They are my Pack.

The Strong Eight - cancer warriors

My Wife. My Mother. My sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles. The friends who call and pray. The strangers who weep and nod in recognition. The church that never gave up on me, when I gave up on it. The theatre who played on my behalf and welcomed me back when the time was right. The Head and Neck Support group who shared my whole healing journey with me, from puking and oxygen tanks to my first half-marathon. The men and women at the YMCA, some vets of the cancer wars, some simply people who loved us, who came together to sweat and laugh and cry for joy at the life we have been given. The lady at the gas station who told me she was having a great day because "I'm a ten year breast cancer survivor." The man who had just had his prostate removed and was afraid he would never make love again. A guy who won the Tour de France seven times. A woman who had just been told she had started her third relapse of ovarian cancer. The people who take the time to read FMR. They are my Pack. You are my Pack.

And so this is Christmas: The Feast of the Incarnation. Believe what you want. Celebrate how you like. In my house, we celebrate the day God turned to creation and whispered, "You are my Pack. I am one of you. We are more whole when we are together. You are the source of love in my life, and I am yours. We each have our own stories. We live our own lives. But our lives are better because we are together."

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

And we are with one another.

The Law of the Pack.

Thanks be to God.

Peace,

Pennsy

#353: My 50/50 Chance.

They gave me a 50/50 chance of seeing this birthday. Flip a coin. Heads, you live to be 51. That's the best the docs could promise me. But I had an ace in the hole.

Love.

Love made me want to live when I felt like dying.

Love knocked at the door, and helped me to laugh when I felt like crying.

Love made me Chicken and Cheddar Chowder, which is even more fun to eat than it is to say.

Love washed my belly when the stoma around my feeding tube leaked all sorts of creepy goo.

Love answered the prayers I didn't know how to pray.

Love picked me up out of the tub afterI  fainted there in the middle of the night.

Love gave me books on tape when I didn't have the strength to hold a printed copy up.

Love wept tears of grief when they told us I had cancer, and tears of joy when they told us it was gone.

Love insisted I get better so that I could act again, then waited for me until I was ready.

Love lifted me out of bed, taught me to walk, helped me to run.

Love found us a new home, when the bank said we had to leave the old one.

Love never left. Not even when I thought it was gone forever.

They gave me a 50/50 chance. Love rigged the game.

On this, my 51st birthday, I thank God for the love that saved my life. From Hell. From cancer. From depression. I don't know how many birthdays I have left. I hope there are many more. But no matter how long I have left on this earth, I am determined to never spend another second without the love that God has given me.

Take some for yourself. It's my birthday present to you.

Don't worry. I've got plenty.

Peace and Love,,
Pennsy

#339: An Evening Run, a Twilight Tumble, and a Weekend with a Man of God

After a long and emotional trip to visit Brother, whose battle with cancer is almost over, we returned home weary and tear-stained. I had a long run scheduled this weekend, and by 8:00 last night, I really needed it. The sunset was just beginning as I set off on a planned 8 miles. The morning's rain and the day's heat had left the air heavy and damp, "sultry," as they say a little farther south of here. The temperature was down to 78 degrees when I left the house.

I had plotted a new route for last night's run, one that had a minimum of road without sidewalks. Even in my white shorts, I didn't want to be running the road in the fading light. So of course, the only place where I did have to run the white line was where I encountered a jerk in a pickup truck. Now there was some bad luck for him involved here. Just at the point where he would have slipped out a couple of feet to avoid me, three cars came in the opposite direction. He had to stay in the lane as I ran toward him. There is no shoulder there, so I had nowhere to go but forward. He could have done a lot of things. He could have slowed down and passed carefully. He could have rolled down his window and cussed me out. He could have swerved to the right and sent me flying into the bushes. Instead, he started laying on his horn as soon as he saw me, and continued honking like a deranged Manhattan cab driver until he came to a complete stop so he could glare as me as I passed him. I prayed a little misery on him, then shined it on.

This run takes me through a park dedicated to baseball. There are several diamonds that are always full during the day. Tonight, as I ran between two of them, a young girl was taking some batting practice while her dad pitched. A perfect Father's day scene.

Once I left the park, I entered a tree covered walking path that weaves around through a pretty posh looking development. Big, beautiful homes built on what was a big beautiful horse farm, just a few years ago. This is pretty typical here, though the slowing economy seems to be saving more farmland than all the bumper stickers and "save the Bluegrass" campaigns ever did. No use ruining some of the most beautiful country in the world when there's no money to be made.

The path opens out onto a one mile circle around the heart of the development. Essentially, it's a big office park with some retail businesses peppered in. My shrink is in this neighborhood. So is one of our favorite Mediterranean restaurants and a very fine liquor store. But on Sunday night, the businesses are closed and the sidewalks are mostly filled with lone runners and strolling couples. A very peaceful setting.

At about mile 3 1/2, I took my headphones off. I haven't run with them for a while, and thought I'd give them a try. I just found them distracting. My breath and my footsteps have become the soundtrack of my running. The concert of the world around me is so much more pleasant to listen to than recorded music in my ears. An iPod is a great way to escape from the world, but escape is the last thing on my mind when I'm running. I want to be present. I don't want to miss a thing.

Even without my headphones in, I did miss something pretty important.

The sun had set about the time I finished mile 5. Now I was running under street lights in the shady streets of my neighborhood. The homes are a little more modest, here. The people are a little less beautiful and their clothing labels aren't quite so prominent. There are more Chevys than Audis in these driveways. The sidewalks are a little older.

And there's the rub. As I crossed a driveway and stepped onto the sidewalk, my toe caught on an uneven slab of concrete. I experienced that weird slow-motion experience that you feel when you lose control of your car on a slippery road. Your senses are so heightened, taking in so much information so fast, that time seems to slow down. You cram a lot more thoughts and reactions into a few fractions of seconds than you would think possible. I stumbled, sure for a moment that I could catch myself. Soon, my experience of gravity and geometry convinced me that I was going down. I immediately thought of the blood thinners in my blood. If I cut myself, or worse, hit my head, I would be in a very bad situation. I turned my shoulder toward the grass and hoped for the best.

I don't actually remember hitting the ground. Judging from the gravel embedded in my palms, I must have landed on them first. I do remember my hip and right shoulder hitting the grass and sliding for a surprising distance. It was actually pretty cool. I felt like a running back hitting the turf, barely snagged by a shoe-string tackle after busting free for a nice gain. Once I came to a stop, I lay still for a second, taking stock. No searing pains. No broken bones. No head trauma. Just a little road rash on my elbow and what felt like a skinned knee. A pretty successful dive, all things considered. I got back on my feet and did a quick visual check. Everything looked fine. Not even a grass stain. Down the road a little, a woman and her dog had stopped to marvel at the sight of a fat man sliding across the grass, but once I was up and running again, they shook their heads and continued on their way.

I hadn't gone very far when I felt the blood running down my shin. I looked down, but in the dark, I couldn't see anything. It didn't feel like I was cut badly. There was not a river of black flowing down into my sock, and I was still a couple of miles from home. I figured there was no use stopping unless I was going to go knock on a door and ask for help. I wasn't about to present one of my neighbors with a big, sweaty,  bleeding visitor after dark unless there was bone sticking out. So, I moved along.

When I left the house, Mrs P had mentioned how handsome I looked in my running togs. That made me feel pretty good. When I returned, she gasped and went right into nurse mode, counting my wounds, sending me to the shower, and insisting that I slather myself with triple antibiotic ointment, our family's particular cure-all. My knee was skinned pretty well, but it had stopped bleeding. My palms were cut up a little from the fall, and the elbow had little more than a bad rug burn. Of course, a nasty bruise had already started on my right shoulder. I'll spare you the photos unless it turns really dramatic.

So it turns out that one of the shortcomings of running at night is that you don't see low obstacles in the shadows at your feet. Another is that all those endorphins rushing through you at 10:00 make going to sleep a pretty unlikely possibility. It was 1:00 before I put my book down and headed off to bed. I think I'm going to try to avoid evening jogs. At least until I have more reflective clothing. You feel pretty invisible crossing the road at 9:30 at night.

Still, it was good to clear my head. It had been a full weekend at the hospital. You think about a lot of things when someone you love is dying. Good stories. Hard times. Tender moments. Jokes and laughter shared. It isn't all painful, but somehow, it always hurts. The family is grieving. We hurt with him every time he reaches for the button that releases morphine into his IV. But even though he is in pain, Brother is facing his long good-bye with faith, courage, and dignity. Even from his hospital bed, the preacher is still preaching. He taught me a lot this weekend. I was glad to have the chance to run a few miles while I took it all in.

I don't know if cancer is part of God's plan. It doesn't seem like something a Dad would give his children. But I do know that God can make love grow, even among the suffering of a family facing death together. Cancer destroys. God creates. Brother has been a preacher for a long time. It wasn't always easy. Even in a little country church, politics can poison a community and drive folks away. After a long search, Brother found a church he and his family could call home. When he started getting sick, he asked his son to take over when he could no longer be their shepherd. It wasn't an easy decision, but after much prayer and I'm sure many tears, the son agreed to step into his father's pulpit. We all worshipped together on Sunday morning, before going to the hospital for what we feared would be one last visit. Just before Mrs P and I left for home, our nephew leaned over his father's hospital bed and told him about a friend who had been saved at church that morning. Brother burst into tears. After a long moment, he smiled and sobbed, "It's all going to be worth it." I knew he was talking about much more than cancer.

#335: A Holy Run

Glutes: the biggest muscles you have,
except for this guy, whose shoulders
are bigger than his butt.

8.4 miles yesterday. The run felt great. Now it's the morning after, and I'm pretty stiff and sore. I just love working out so hard that my glutes hurt. You use those big butt muscles all the time, but really working them isn't easy. It feels great, but I think there are a couple of walking days in my future until the old legs recover. I actually do have a couple of short runs scheduled this week, then another long one on the weekend. After that, I'm going to taper back a little for the 10K on July 4. Yes, I've registered. I'm gonna do it.

Yesterday was my best time for 10K. It was also my longest run to date. .It was hot, between 78 and 82 degrees. I slathered on the sun screen and carried a bottle of Gatorade with me. It wasn't long before I was wishing it was ice water instead, because I really wanted to dump some on my head. I'm not going to complain about my thick, dark hair, not at my age, but it is definitely a liability when running in the sun. It wasn't long before the water was actually hot. This amused me since I was running in the same sun and probably cooking at the same rate. I had no heat illness symptoms though, so I guess I was hydrating well, even if I could have made sun tea in my hand.
I stuck with my current Run/Walk interval: 2:00 run/0:30 walk. It really worked for me and I think I'm going to keep that ratio for a while. I can cover a surprising amount of ground in 2 minutes, and the half-minute rest is just enough for me to catch my breath, check my posture, and take a sip of fluid before the watch beeps again for my next run. I keep getting faster, so something good is happening.

Pacing is hard for new runners. Without experience, it's difficult to know just how fast you are running, or how fast you should be running. It usually takes me about 2 miles to really start to feel in a groove. I always start out way too fast. I keep having to remind myself to slow. My splits were consistent, though: the fastest mile was 13:16, (stupidly, this was mile 1.) The slowest was 14:56. mile 8. That surprised me because I still felt strong. I guess I wasn't as impressive as I felt. Still, eight sub 15 minute miles felt prett good for a fat man.

A bridge on the Legacy Trail

There was something holy about yesterday's run. I don't think I experience the "runner's high" that you read about, though I was running pretty painlessly. My last mile was a lot easier than my first steps toward the bathroom this morning. The holy part came at the mile 7 mark when I realized that I was actually going to be able to do this. I had already finished 10, and in good time. I had a mile to go, and would be able to finish that, too. I even had plenty of hot Gatorade left in my hand. For the first time in a long time, I prayed. I mean, I really prayed.

In the same way, the Spirit also helps us in our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we should. But the Spirit himself intercedes with groans too deep for words, and the one who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, for the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to God's will. ~ Rom 8:26-27

There is a holy place in our lives where words just can't say what needs to be said. In the arms of our beloved. At the top of a mountain. In the dressing room after a great performance. I imagine that the birth of your child is one of them, too. At times like these, our prayers really are "too deep for words," and all we can do is stand in the presence of our Creator like a child in the rain, letting the Spirit wash over us. That's what happened to me when I got in the car to drive home after my cool-down. I felt God's arms around me, God's breath breathing in my lungs, God's joyful tears cooling my face as we both celebrated the healing and resurrection that my run represented. God didn't speak to me in this moment, and I didn't speak either. We just were. We rode together in the car, sipping on a vanilla milk shake from Dairy Queen, feeling the wind on our faces and smiling. It has been hard for me to feel worshipful in church for a couple of years. I keep going back, hoping that one day I will feel my Father's presence again. Yesterday, on a sweaty, exhausting morning, with my eyes burning from the sun and my legs already stiffening, I felt Him. The Creator of the world took a moment to sit with me and smile.

These moments are rare. That's what makes them holy. Now it is time to go back to work. Our lives can be seen as a combination of worship and ministry. We come into God's presence to find the strength and the inspiration to go into the world and do the work of the kingdom among God's people. Here is one of my favorite passages from the Eucharistic Prayer.

Lord God of our Fathers; God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.

Risen Lord, be known to us in the breaking of the Bread. ~ Book of Common Prayer, p. 372.

From Pennsy's training table

Bread, ice cream: turns out either will work. One is just easier to break. So I continue to look for ways to minister. I serve my wife. I raise money for diabetes. I look after my animals. I bring joy to my work in the rehearsal hall. I call my Mum. And I write this blog. I don't know if any of these things is ministry, or if any of them is the reason God and my doctors brought me back from the dead. I can't tell you if I have found my true calling: my vocation. But moments like that drive home yesterday are what give me the strenth to keep looking for it.

We often enounter our holy places where we least expect them. Like somewhere between mile 7 and the Dairy Queen. I pray that you find yours today.

Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.

Amen,
Pennsy

#324: The Jesus We Don't Recognize

The gospel lesson in church this Sunday was one of my favorites. It's about two men who thought they knew Jesus very well, but didn't know him when he showed up right in front of their eyes.


Road To Emmaus, Jack Mattingly

That very day, the first day of the week, two of the disciples were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, "What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?" They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, "Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?" He asked them, "What things?" They replied, "The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him." Then he said to them, "Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?" Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, "Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over." So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?" That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, "The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!" Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread. ~ Luke 24: 3-35
They thought he was a stranger. They thought he was out of touch. They believed their rabbi had been a failure, and that his body had disappeared. They had seen these things with their own eyes, even looked into the empty tomb. The two travellers knew all the facts, and they were deeply sad.

The stranger was not sympathetic to their grief at all. He said they were foolish to be sad. He showed them how all these things had been prophesied. He also said that the story had not yet reached its glorious conclusion.

Supper at Emmaus, Caravaggio

They didn't know who he was, but they felt something special in him. Not with their minds, but in their hearts. The stranger's words seemed to set them on fire. Still, they did not recognize him. Only after they offered him hospitality, invited him to join them in a meal, watched him take, bless, break, and give away the bread did they see him for who he was. And they were changed, changed so radically that they could no longer continue travelling the way they had been going. They did not continue to Emmaus, they turned back to the dangers of Jerusalem to be evangelists, to tell the good news that Jesus. was not dead, but risen indeed.


How many times, as I have traveled along the road of my life, have I dismissed a stranger? The bum on the subway? The retarded child? The crazy guy at the bus stop? The dopey redneck who lives down the street and sits on the porch drinking beer with his friends all day long? The pregnant teenager. The hustler in drag, working the alleys and back streets of Manhattan's meat packing district? The kid with his jeans sagging down below his butt crack?
Why do I overlook them? Because they aren't smart enough? Not clean enough? Don't have a job? Don't have an impressive vocabulary? Because they aren't as good or pious or humble as I am?

I read Luke's story of the road to Emmaus and can only ask myself, "How many times have I met Jesus and blown him off because he wasn't familiar or respectable or smart?

So many people are waiting for Jesus to show up on a white horse, swinging a shining sword and slaying the devil's armies. And maybe that will happen. But in the meantime, Jesus shows up every day, unrecognized, in the people and places where we least expect him.
At least Luke's travellers got to have a forehead smacking moment when they realized what had happened and whom they had encountered on the road. They got the chance to change direction. That's an opportunity we don't often enjoy. Usually, Jesus comes and goes and we miss him completely. We continue on our busy way to our own Emmaus without ever taking the time to hear the blessing or receive the bread. How tragic. What a waste: that we would ignore the Savior of the world because he doesn't look or sound or smell like we expect him to. 

Homeless Christ, Deb Hoeffner

Our culture loves to remind us how dangerous the world is, how much we should be afraid of strangers, neighbors, even family. So we go though life with our blinders on and our guard up, as if anyone we meet might be the one who has come to destroy us. This gospel says something different. Luke says that anyone we meet might be the one who has come to save us. But we can't recognize him if we don't look.

My movement teacher in college used to say that the word "respect" actually means "to look again." To give someone respect means to give them a second look. Especially when we are tempted to look away and plow along ahead to our Emmaus. In this story, Jesus seems to agree. We may not find Christ when we look again, but then again, we just might.

Seems like it's worth the trouble, doesn't it?

Peace,
Pennsy

We've raised $250 so far for the fight against diabetes. You can help sponsor Pennsy in the Lexington Step Out: Walk to Stop Diabetes by clicking this link and making a contribution.

#319: Why Do You Seek the Living Among the Dead?

Too many angels...

And as they were afraid, and bowed down [their] faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? ~ Luke 24:5

This wasn't today's Easter gospel lesson, but it is one of my favorite parts of the story, along with the scene where Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener. Even after all they had been through together, when the moment of truth (TRUTH) arrived, the disciples didn't recognize Jesus when they saw him. I don't think we're much different from they were.

I was really looking forward to Holy Week this year. What with having come back from the dead and all, I thought I would have special insight, that the season would have special meaning for me. I anticipated praying the Stations of the Cross, the foot washing on Thursday, the somber grief of Friday evening and the bells and first joyful "Alleluia" of Saturday's Easter Vigil. It's the holiest season of the year, and the most beautiful liturgy of the church year. I couldn't wait.

Then, on Tuesday morning the phone rang.

My friend was directing a play, and one of the actors had fallen very ill. Could I cover for him? I didn't have to think twice. Julieanne was an angel to me during my illness. She was a faithful friend and visitor. She made it her personal mission to give me a reason to stay alive by producing a staged reading and rehearsing it slowly over several months to give me time to recuperate and prepare. I didn't consider refusing for an instant.

Of course, after I agreed, she told me there was just one hitch. The play was opening in two days. Maundy Thursday.Damn. But, a friend is a friend, and a promise is a promise. I told her to email me my lines, and I would be at the theatre in time for her to show me where to stand.

Adult themes. Not for the faint of
heart. But then, neither is life.

The play, The Happy Hour, by Sterphen Currens is a world premier.It is about Seth, a young man living through New York City's AIDS holocaust of the 1980's. I play his mentor, Gordon, an old, gay professor whose platonic, fatherly love helps to inspire and guide Seth along his journey through the hell of self destruction, judgement, and ultimately, redemption. It was an easy role for me to wrap my mind around. I have had many such teachers over the years. And there's enough of Gordon in me that it wasn't hard to put him together.Teh playwright has crafted some lovely moments for the role, particularly one scene where Gordon tells Seth about what it was like to grow up in a world where gay men had to be fearful of violence, the law, even one another. I'm lucky to be the first person to play this beautiful part. But as it turns out, this is more than just another chance to get on stage.

I lived in New York during the 'Eighties. I remember the painful lunch in a favorite diner where my friend revealed his positive test results. Mrs P and I attended the memorial services. We cried with our sick friends and prayed for our dead ones. I remember the beautiful, talented young men, so full of life, who faded from a world that didn't know quite what to make of losing them. The American stage was decimated in ways that we may never really appreciate. When it was time for us to leave the city, and I saw an opening at a theatre in Lexington where Mrs P's sister and her family lived, I jumped at the interview. Once I found out the kind of work they did at Actors' Guild, I was sold. They were committed to contemporary theatre. Their plays were rarely more than five years old. Consequently, much of their repertory touched on this contemporary crisis, the AIDS epidemic that had taken so many of the people I loved. It was a story I wanted to help tell.

Old Soldier, Larry Kramer

That was a long time ago. AIDS is still killing people, but it has long since stopped being the disease du jour in fashionable circles. I recently read an interview of playwright and activist Larry Kramer in Salon where he lamented the new generation's changed attitude towards AIDS in particular and the gay community in general.

I don't know why so many gay men don't want to know their history. I don't know why they turned their back on the older generation as if they don't want to have anything to do with them. I would like us to get beyond that.

Yeah, I know. It kind of sounds like one of those "What's the matter with kids today?" speeches that old guys are always spouting, but there's something important here, too.

The story isn't being told.

Like so many in our culture, the gay community is losing track of its history. The pride and strength that we all can find in the struggles and triumphs of those sometimes heroic, but always human warriors for dignity and justice is being lost. Their story must continue, no matter how painful it is to hear.

I moved from Brooklyn to the Bible Belt to help tell that story. It's been a long time since I've had a chance to do that on stage.

So what does all this have to do with Easter? A lot, I think. The dead have taken over so much of our world. Our stages are filled with the works of dead playwrights and warmed over versions of cartoons - characters that never lived at all. Seemingly brain-dead politicians and demagogues preach worn-out gospels of fear and division that encourage cynicism and weakness. Athletes we don't know playing games we can't play are used to sell us shirts and shoes we don't need. We spend time and money - we spend our lives - seeking inspiration from the dead, when real inspiration, real love lives and walks among us every day.

Jesus Appears to Mary Magdaline
Lavinia Fontana

Like Mary in the garden, we look into the eyes of Christ every day and see a bum, a fag, a socialist, a fascist, a fat pig, a tree hugger, a wet back, a terrorist. For thirty years - my god, can it be thirty years? - we have looked into the eyes - or is that avoided the eyes?- of men and women dying of AIDS and asked, "What have you done with him? Tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away." And all the time, the body of Christ lay bruised and broken right before us.

The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.That phrase first appears in Psalm 118: 22, and it is repeated in the New Testament over and over. What the world rejects, God uses to build the foundations of God's kingdom. The teenage mothers. The fatherless children. The deadbeat dads. The abused and the abusers. The unemployed. The unpopular. The untouchables.

The story has to be remembered for God's sake, and for ours. The story has to be told. Just as Julieanne's love helped to bring me back from the edge of death, God's love, working through us, can help to redeem all of God's suffering children. And who among us is excluded from that group?

I love my Bible. I say my prayers. I rejoice in worship and praise. These things connect me with the communion of saints, the "great cloud of witnesses" who testify to God's loving grace throughout the centuries. But when the hymns have all been sung and the communion cups washed and put away for another week, Christ is still among us, waiting for us to serve the living. As Gus, Seth's therapist in The Happy Hour tells him as he struggles with his own sense of purpose and identity:

Peace begins with you. Love is a gift from God. Justice is elusive.

We may never know a just world. But with God's help and love, we have to capacity to live in peace, with our Creator, our neighbors and our selves. Christ doesn't live in prayer books and hymnals. He lives in the eyes and hearts of our sisters and brothers. That is where we must seek him. That is where we must serve him.

That is the story I want to tell. That is why I make theatre. When I woke up on Tuesday, the opportunity to do that was already waiting for me.The stone had rolled away in the night, and I didn't even hear it moving.Strange as it seems, I believe this is the reason God redeemed me from death's grasp. I may not make a bit of difference in the world, but in serving my neighbors, I serve the God who loves them.

May God grant all of us such a mission and, when we need them, such lucky servants.

Peace and Alleluia,

Pennsy