No. 50

This is the very essence of what it means to be the dad of a child with Asperger's.

Last week, I got a call from Jesse's teacher. No matter what she tried, he would not -- could not? -- complete his work. He wasn't being ugly. He just could not get going on what he needed to be doing. I went to school and wound up spending the rest of that day and two more observing and trying to prod him along.

Jesse, unpack your bag.

Jesse, get out your science book.

Jesse, work on your math journal.

Jesse ...

Jesse ...

Jesse ...

Once he did finally finish, his assignments were almost always perfect. He's got the best handwriting in the world ... not for a kid his age. In the world. Math word problems I would've taken hours to figure out, he was doing in his head in a matter of seconds. My time at school left me and Jeanie scratching our heads, trying to figure out the best course of action.

There's not a medication available that will make Jesse like other kids, and that's not our goal. Jesse was meant to be the way Jesse is, but we very deeply want to make the things that are difficult for him just a little bit easier. When that happens, watch out.

Tuesday night, Jesse had his weekly piano lesson and when it was over, his teacher had given him a book of Tziak ... Tchiacho ... Shakov ... Tskav ... Tchaikovsky compositions to practice -- yes, I had to look it up. At this very moment, as I type these words, Jesse is on the piano, playing the intro to the "Nutcracker March" in each of the different sound settings his has on his keyboard.

Thumbing through the book on the way home, he talked about the other books his piano teacher has -- stuff from Beethoven and Mozart. He couldn't wait to get his hands on them.

That's my Jesse.

No. 49

When I was a kid, Sept. 11 was one of the two most important days of the year. Christmas was when Santa Claus showed up, but Sept. 11 was my birthday and my mom always made sure that it was special. To this day, I can remember the G.I. Joe, G.I. Joe car and G.I. headquarters that I got when I turned five.

As I grew older, I still looked forward to the day. I've always been a big kid, and to be honest, I would really kind of like to stay that way. Kids don't have any worries.

Then came 2001.

The date is still the anniversary of my birth, but it will never be the same as it once was. I would love to have my birthday back, that same sense of wonder, that same sense of expectation. But how can I say that? How can I be so incredibly selfish over a birthday, when thousands of others lost so much more than I did that day?

This being the tenth anniverary of the attacks, coverage of that day has been virtually wall to wall for a few days now. Today, I've been nothing short of depressed. I wanted to maybe clear my head a little bit, so I went for a walk at the park. When I got back, Jeanie handed me some note cards that Jesse had drawn for a 9/11 project he's doing at school.

One of them caught my attention like a sledge hammer between the eyes. As far as I can tell, it's his own concept, not copied from any other source.

Here it is ...

I do not mind in the least admitting that I broke down in tears. God was there that day. We might not have been able to see Him, or feel His arms wrapped around us. But make no mistake ... He was there. He was in control, and remains so today. Best of all, there will be a day when tragedies like that day will be no more.

Thank you, Jesse. Once again, you've given your dad a lift just when he needed it the most.

The Little Voice

It's exactly two weeks out from the Victory Junction Gang Camp 5k fundraiser. I'm looking forward to it for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is because my best friend, Joe Estep, his sister Jennifer and their mom Sandi are headed this way that weekend.

This morning, I did a trial run and made three miles in about 36 minutes. That's well below my 40-minute goal, but short of Gray Garrison's "double money." I'm tryin', man. I'm tryin'.

That said, I came across an awesome quote this week that perfectly sums up what I'm trying to accomplish. I'm not racing anybody else ... I'm racing myself. I have not the faintest clue who George Sheehan might be, but in the quote I found, he said, "It's very hard in the beginning to understand that the whole idea is not to beat the other runners. Eventually, you learn that the competition is against the little voice inside you that wants you to quit."

I couldn't have said it better myself. I can walk basically until the cows come home, but every time I attempt to run, it's almost always the same back-and-forth conversation.

Stop.

Keep going.

This really hurts.

Keep going.

Two miles is enough this time.

No, it's not.

This is too hard.

Anything worth doing should be hard.

I can't breathe.

Take a deep breath and keep moving, Fat Boy.

I'm having a heart attack.

No, you're not. If you were, you'd be dead by now.

OK, so maybe it's a stroke.

And so it goes ...

Joe and Jennifer have both signed up to do the 5k, and so has a friend from church, Cory Yost. If you're interested in entering, here's a link where you can do so:

http://www.runtovictory.org/

Also, here's a link to donate to the effort:

http://www.active.com/donate/RTV2011/houstonrick

Hope to see you there!

A Soggy Prayer

A wonderful thing happened this morning.

After getting the the boys off to school, it rained during my two-mile walk. And then it rained some more ... harder still. Because the unpaved track behind our local Y has a tendency to get very slick, muddy and rutted when it's wet, I only tried to run during the first half-mile or so while it was still sprinkling.

As the downfall got heavier, I stopped for a moment to put my iPod in the car. My glasses fogged up and drops of water were making their way back and forth on the bill of my old-school Braves cap before finally falling off. I was getting soaked, but for the last mile and a half, all I could hear was the sound of the rain in the trees and the steady crunch ... crunch ... crunch of my footsteps.

It was just me, God and the rain.

Lord, help me to be a better dad. Let me have more patience.

Crunch ... crunch ... crunch ...

You know the things Jesse faces. Help him cope. He's so smart, waaaay smarter than his old man.

God, Adam is such a character. All I ask is that he can always have that same sense of almost overwhelming joy.

And Richard ... dear God, Richard. You name the time and the place, and I will be there.

Crunch ... crunch ... crunch ...

Be with Jeanie. There's no way I could ever do her job. Grant her wisdom.

Speaking of jobs, You know that one I've been going after so hard for so long? Any chance of You helping me out on that one?

Please?

Losing weight is so hard. Please help me stick with it this time.

Crunch ... crunch ... crunch ...

Father, for whatever reason, You've seen fit for me to be elected as a deacon at my church again. I do not want to fuss. I do not want to argue.

Every church has challenges, so when they take place at Maplewood, help us to be Christians first and right or wrong second.

Crunch ... crunch ... crunch ... 

Master Motivator

Gray Garrison, the promoter at Bowman Gray Stadium and a realtor here in Yadkinville, is a master motivator.

The 5k fundraiser for the Victory Junction Gang Camp is less than three weeks away, and this morning at church, I spoke for a few minutes about the race I'm going to run and why it's important to me. I told folks how they could contribute and left it at that.

After the service, Gray came up to me and asked what kind of time goal I've set for myself. As I've written here before, I hope to run it in 40 minutes or less. I believe I might be able to make it -- the last two times I've done a three-mile training run/walk, I've finished in 36 and then 35 minutes. Add in an extra fifth of a mile and the very hilly terrain around Victory Junction, and I might be able to make it.

Maybe.

Gray grinned, took a $100 bill out of his billfold and tore it in half. He kept one portion and handed me the other. "You can have the other half when and if you make it in 40 minutes," he said. Then, he added something else that caught me completely off guard.

"You can have the other half for 40 minutes ... and I'll double it if you finish in 35."

No pressure there, huh? I'm not promising anything, but I'm going to give it my best shot. Here's a thought ... if I finish in 30 minutes, how 'bout naming me the official pace-car driver at Bowman Gray Stadium next season?!?

What say you, Gray Garrison?

No. 48

Don't know how it happened exactly, but I've developed kind of a weird habit when the boys are in the process of getting in trouble.

Instead of saying something I'll regret and have to apologize for later, I've taken to saying, "For the love of ..." -- and here's the strange part -- I'll include the name of a baseball player from the 1970s or 80s. Thing is, the better the player, the more they know it's just a warning shot across the bow.

For the love of Pete Rose ...

For the love of Mike Schmidt ...

For the love of Tony Perez ...

For the love of Johnny Bench ...

For the love of Nolan Ryan ...

They're OK, for the time being. But if I start evoking scrubs, Adam and Jesse know for a fact that the four horses of the apocalypse are about to head through our house.

For the love of Biff Pocoroba ... Jesse, we're dead men.

For the love of Ed Armbrister ... hide. NOW!!!

Thanks ... I Think

Leaving the Y this morning, I met an older gentleman I hadn't seen in a while. He's always been encouraging, and he asked how much weight I've lost so far. When I told him, he smiled and gave me the ultimate backhanded compliment. He said, "You're about where you need to be. Now, you just look like a really big man."

Well ... gee. Thanks, I think. What did I look like before, a fat, hideous ogre?!?

No, wait. Don't answer that ...