Dear Jeanie ...

Nineteen years. I simply cannot believe that it's been nineteen years since we were married.

I've never been so nervous in my life as I was that day at the church. You were my second chance to share my life and my love with someone, and I was scared to death. I shouldn't have been.

Then (and yes, that's a Mickey Mouse vest) ...

I used to think that I moved to North Carolina to get into NASCAR. Now, I understand that God moved me to North Carolina to someday find you, fall in love and then be a dad to Jesse and Adam. NASCAR's long gone now. You and the boys ... you're still here. I thank God for that every day.

I remember the exact moment I fell in love with you.

You showed up that afternoon on the doorstep of my apartment in Mooresville, ready to take care of me. It was then and there that I knew that you had my heart.

A bad case of food poisoning sent me home from work early that day, and when you found out, you headed to the grocery store for chicken soup, crackers, Sprite and all the other things people get for a person praying to the porcelain gods. I hadn't had that in a long, long time, and I loved you for it. I still do.

I can't imagine my life without you. I don't even want to think about it. Life before you seems like a bad dream -- it was a bad dream in a lot of ways.

We disagree on a lot of things, and they're important things, too. The spoons and forks go handle up in the dish washer, dang it. The couch in our den is brown, brown, brown and browner than brown. It could be none more brown.

... and now.

Not green, or any shade thereof. Thank goodness we agree on the all-important issue of toilet paper going over the top instead of down under, or who knows where our marriage might have wound up.

We've fought, but Lord knows I gave up actually trying to win a fight with you long ago. I'm a writer. I have to have time to compose my thoughts and you ... argue ... for ... a ... living. It's not fair.

There have been plenty of bad times. A miscarriage ... an adoption that fell through after the last minute ... the loss of my job with NASCAR ... your thyroid cancer ... the entire year of 2008 ...  but I can honestly say that out of every single one of those crushing disappointments has come a blessing beyond measure.

We've both talked about how the miscarriage and adoption led directly to Adam and Jesse. NASCAR shoving me out the back door meant time with you and the boys that I never would have taken for myself. 2008 ... well ... 2008 was just a bad, bad year all the way around. But we got through it, and we got through it together.

There's nobody I would rather have shared the last two decades of my life with. As completely opposite as our personalities might be, we're a pretty good match. We sometimes take different approaches to the same issue, but we almost always arrive at the same place at just about the same time.

Where do we go from here? I don't know, but I can only hope that the next nineteen years will be as good as the first nineteen years. God willing, I'll be here.

Love,
Rick

Broken Hearted

The only picture I have of myself and Gary Whitaker is out of an old church directory. There we are on the back row, behind the ladies, in a shot of the choir.

There are a lot of memories in that one snapshot. All those choir practices, me the new guy who'd never sung in front of people and completely ignorant about reading music. Gary would point to a note and raise his thumb or lower it, indicating that my voice should probably try to follow.

Gary Whitaker (back row left) and I.

On those many, many occasions when my warbling would wander off into some unknown dimension, Gary never fussed. He never made fun of me ... maybe he did once or twice, but it wasn't harsh criticism. We'd laugh about it and I'd try to follow along.

I tried to follow along with Gary in a lot of things. I was ordained as a deacon in our church in October 2003, and during the service, he leaned over and whispered something in my ear.

Don't ever let 'em get you down.

I didn't exactly know what he meant then, but I do now. I left the choir at one point, and while Gary never asked me why, I think he understood. I hope he did. He approached me one day after church and said that he had something he needed to say to me.

I figured something out about church a long time ago. When you go to church, you need to come in, worship with all of your heart and when the service is over, you need to just get the hell out of the building as soon as possible. 

I couldn't help but laugh. It was Gary's way of telling me not to worry about the stuff that sometimes goes on in a church and to focus on what really mattered. It was good advice. I've tried to follow it ever since, with varying degrees of success.

Less than a year ago, we had a fundraiser at church for my mission trip to Costa Rica. It was a success, raising every cent needed. Gary bought a bake-sale cake that night for $100. Later, he approached Jeanie and handed her an envelope. He told it wasn't for the cake -- he'd already paid for that -- but wanted for us to have this as well.

Don't look at it, now, he said. He told Jeanie he knew we'd be having various incidental expenses for the trip and this was to take care of some of those. Inside were ten $20 bills. I used the money to pay for my passport and photo and kept the change and receipts in the same envelope he'd given us.

Honestly, I'd meant to give him back the change and the receipts. I'd meant to, but never did. And  now ... I can't.

Gary died yesterday, the result of an accident while on a cruise with wife Susan and some buddies from their Honda Gold Wing club. I'm in shock, hurting from the kind of loss I haven't felt in a long time. It's nothing, of course, to the pain that Susan and their daughter Shelley are experiencing right now.

The thing to know about Gary is that he was a bearded bear of a man, the very essence of a good ol' country boy. I can't imagine what Heaven must be like tonight, with Gary singing in that rich, full voice of his.

I'm looking forward to hearing it again ...

Pay It Forward

The gentleman sat on the back row of the small conference room, and as soon as I entered and saw him, he looked vaguely familiar.

I couldn't quite place the guy, but I knew I knew him. Then, I heard him speak. I'd heard that voice before, but still couldn't put my finger on when or where. It's a gentle voice, a slow Southern-tinged drawl. Maybe that was at least part of the problem. In North Carolina where I live, slow Southern drawls aren't exactly uncommon.

A couple of minutes passed, and he spoke again. I turned in my seat and quickly stole a glance at the name tag on his credential holder, hoping to somehow get this thing figured out. My heart almost stopped.

Gordon West.

I was instantly transported back twenty-one years or so in the past. Gordon and I were sitting in his office at Sparta First Baptist in North Carolina's beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, and I'd just asked him for $20 in order to buy some groceries. More than two decades later, it's hard to suppress the emotions the memory conjures up.

I was working as the sports editor at The Alleghany News, a small weekly newspaper. The gig didn't pay much ... I was bringing home $150 a week. The "bedroom" in my tiny efficiency apartment was nothing more than a wide space in the hallway. I could lay on my box spring and mattress -- there was no room for a frame -- and place my feet flat on one wall and touch the other with my head.

Even then, I could barely afford the place. I got behind on rent, but when I got caught up, I always fell behind on another bill. The head of the local telephone company had a daughter who played basketball for Alleghany High School, and he gave me $10 off my phone bill every time her picture appeared in the paper.

So ... yeah ... Mary McMillan's picture wound up in The Alleghany News. A lot.

Still, my phone got shut off a time or two. So did the electricity. Paula Hampton, the office manager, allowed me to leave IOUs in petty cash. Co-worker Lynn Brooks invited me to eat with her family, knowing I didn't have much. You know you're on hard times when soup beans are the kind of blessing you remember two decades latter.

The Reynolds family ... James, Lib, Jamie and Amy ... we still laugh once in a while about the race Jamie and I attended on something far less than a shoestring budget. I was worried about the glowing red light on the gas gauge miles from home while Jamie fretted about being hungry. Momma Lib had pizza waiting on us when we finally made it back to Sparta, and it was the best pizza I'd ever eaten.

Ends never met, and more often than not, didn't even come close. That's ultimately what brought me in to speak with Gordon, the pastor at Sparta First Baptist. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. More than just financially broke, my spirit had also been broken. This wasn't supposed to be happening to me, not here. Not now. Not ever.

I felt like I had nowhere to turn and tried as best I could to explain my situation to Gordon. Although it was the most humbling thing I'd ever done in my life, he didn't try to send me to a benevolence committee. Instead, Gordon gave me the money out of his own pocket. Relieved, I headed straight for the local Food Lion and stretched that $20 bill as far as it could possibly go.

Thanks, Gordon. I'll pay it forward. I promise.

Not long afterward, Gordon took another pastorate and we lost all contact. I thought of him often over the years and tried searching for him on the Internet, but nothing ever turned up until he actually did, right there in front of me in that conference room.

As soon as the meeting ended, I stood up and turned to him. I stuck out my hand in greeting, not knowing exactly what to say.

Gordon, I don't know if you remember me, but I was a member of your church in Sparta about twenty years ago.

Clearly, he was having as hard a time placing me as I had him at first. I continued, still searching for the right words.

You helped me out and gave me $20 for groceries one time, and I just wanted to say thank you. 

The words caught in my throat. It was awkward standing there in front of him, admitting a long-ago weakness and getting as emotional as I seemed to be getting. He asked me my name and when I told him, my identity seemed to dawn on him. He smiled and asked how and what I was doing these days.

I told Gordon, who is now the senior pastor at Dudley Shoals Baptist Church in Granite Falls, North Carolina, about some of the books I've written and about speaking at the Life Lessons From Mayberry conference in Ridgecrest. I told him about Jeanie and the boys. I thanked him again.

Our reunion lasted maybe five minutes before the next session of the conference we were attending was scheduled to begin. Ever since that day, I've thought about the role Gordon played at such a critical crossroads in my life's journey. He was there for me at a time when I needed help the very, very most. So were James, Lib, Jamie, Amy, Paula and Lynn. It's left me with this question, and it's a big one.

How can I be a Gordon West for somebody else? 

I could've attempted to repay Gordon his $20, but I'm sure he wouldn't have taken it. That's not the kind of repayment he'd want. Gordon would want me to pay it forward, to give to someone else who needs a helping hand.

This isn't a New Year's resolution, either. Those tend to come and go, completely forgotten by the end of the first week in January. No. I'm going to figure out a way to give back, with interest.

That's my goal for 2015 and beyond. What's yours? How are you going to pay it forward?

Jeanie's Barbie Doll Christmas

The first Christmas Jeanie and I spent together as an engaged couple was one of the most memorable of my life.

I'm sure it doesn't exactly come as a shocking surprise to those of you who know me that I'm a big ol' kid at Christmas. I'm a big ol' kid for most of the rest of the year, too, but that's completely beside the point. When I was growing up, Christmas was absolutely magical.

Yes, I sneaked to see what presents were coming into the house. My brother, Doug, did, too. As soon as we saw the tail lights of my mom and dad's car leaving the driveway, we both raced to their closet to start the holiday scavenger hunt. It was fun, the kind of fun that only a child could have at Christmas.

Very strategically undoing the tape on the end of a wrapped package took work, but by gosh, I was up to the challenge. Was I spoiling the surprise? That was the surprise, the joy of it all. There were things we all wanted, and everybody else in the family would move mountains to make sure everything showed up on Christmas Day.

The remote-control R2-D2 I got for Christmas in the late 1970s is on a shelf no more than a few feet away as I write this. It couldn't have cost more than $20, but it remains one of the most special Christmas presents I've ever received. Why? Because I wanted it so desperately at the time, and my mom made it happen.

What time did we get up on Christmas morning? Well before sunrise. I can remember times as early as 4:30, maybe 5 a.m. What was the point? That was the point. Christmas was exciting, and who could possibly contain themselves and wait until daylight?

Oh, yeah. I was about to find out. 

Fast forward to Christmas, 1995. Jeanie collected Barbie dolls, and she needed a certain one to complete a certain line. It was pretty expensive ... I could well see paying that much for a set of baseball cards, but a doll? I wasn't so sure. Whatever. She wanted it, and I was determined I was going to surprise her. I couldn't wait to give her that stupi ... that doll.

Now, remember. We were already dating the year before, but I wasn't exactly a part of the family yet. I didn't know their way of doing things at Christmas, and they didn't know mine. I just thought everybody got up in the wee early morning hours of Christmas to begin the celebration, and to make the day last as long as possible.

Not so. Not so at all. I was living in a trailer we'd bought right next door to her mom and dad, and since I had a key, the plan was to place the doll under the tree in secret ... just like Santa Claus.

I made my way over and quietly let myself in early on Christmas morning to make the drop. Very early. Like, say, maybe 6 a.m. Yet that was long past the time I had been used to getting up on a Christmas morning. I was pumped, and looking forward to seeing the look on Jeanie's face when she got her Barbie doll. It was 6 a.m., and surely everybody would be up in a few minutes.

Then 6:30 a.m.rolled around.

And 7 a.m.

7:15 a.m.

7:45 a.m.

Was there something wrong? I slipped back across the yard and peeked in the window. Every light in the place was still off, no signs of life whatsoever.

8 a.m.

8:04 a.m.

8:11 a.m.

8:11 a.m. and a few seconds.

8:11 a.m. and a few seconds more. The clock started to look like it was actually moving back in time.

By about 9 a.m., I absolutely could not stand it any longer. I called, and when Jeanie answered, it was obvious she'd been sound asleep ... and it wasn't some sort of mistake. It was by design. She and her parents both were sleeping in.

On Christmas morning.

Go back to sleep, she told me. I'll call you when we get up. 

It was right about then that the ringing started in my ears.

Finally, at a little past 10 a.m., Jeanie called. Everybody was out of bed. I almost literally ran out of the house, across the yard and into her house. At last ... at last ... at last ... Jeanie was going to see her doll. Or not.

Breakfast was being prepared, and we're not talking about a quick bowl of Cap'N Crunch, either. This was eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes with all the fixings and then some. This was going to take ... some time.

C'mon, Jeanie, I told her. I think Santa Claus has been here. 

Her response wasn't exactly what I was looking for.

After breakfast. 

What kind of heathen family had I gotten myself into? The fact is, I hadn't seen anything yet about the Reavis way of doing business on Christmas.

I gulped my food down, and stared in disbelief as everybody else -- Jeanie and her mom and dad -- took their sweet, ever-lovin' time. When they were done at long last, the table had to be cleared and the dishes washed. After that was time for presents, right?

Nope.

But ... but ... breakfast is over, isn't it? C'mon. I think there might be something special for you under the tree. 

Jeanie's nephew, Denver, was just short of his second birthday at the time ... and let's just say he was the star of the show. Angie, my future sister-in-law, would be along directly with Denver. We'd wait until they got there at 2 p.m.

At 2:30 p.m., they weren't there.

They hadn't shown up by 3 p.m., either.

I was past the point of spun out and half turned over. I sat on the sofa, as forlorn as I could've possibly been. What was wrong with these people? By the time Denver showed up at long last around 4 p.m., I was ... I was ... well ... just take the dang doll and let's be done with it.

To this day, the Barbie sits in her doll case. I couldn't pick out which one it might be. I think it might be the one with the green dress or something like that, but it doesn't really matter.

I see a Barbie, any Barbie, and it's Christmas of 1995 all over again.




 

With All Of My Heart

Today is my son Richard's 25th birthday, and in the last six years, two months and four days, he's spoken to me once.

It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.

His mom and I separated when he was less than a year old, and divorced several months later. Richard has never known what it's like to have his own father at home, but with God as my witness, I tried to be the best dad I could be from 430 miles away. The memories of having him with me at several of the NASCAR events I covered are some of the very best of my life.

Richard didn't much care for football. It didn't matter, though. I loved him with all of my heart.

A Winston Cup Scene reader once asked me for my autograph in Richard's presence, and for sure, I thought it would impress the kid. Nope. Richard just looked at the guy and shrugged his shoulders.

Whaddya want his autograph for? He's not famous.

There was the time he wanted to drive back through the parking lot of a restaurant in the Scene company car. The vehicles had the paper's logo plastered on both doors, and he enjoyed the attention it drew when a race was in town. We once stayed at the same St. Louis hotel as the Colorado Rockies, and he loved Larry Walker and Vinny Castilla. We got off the elevator one morning, and there stood Larry Walker and Vinny Castilla. Richard was in awe. As we left to go to the track, I asked if he wanted to go back and try to get their autographs.

No. It was good enough just to get to see them in person.

December 26 had always been the worst day of the year as a child because it meant that the next Christmas was a full year away. Later on, however, it became my favorite day of the year because that's the day Richard always came to North Carolina. Nearly two decades later, the $40 bicycle and the Go-Kart I was able to give him remain my best Christmases ever.

Despite all that, our relationship obviously wasn't the same as it would've been had we lived in the same house -- or even in the same town, for that matter. More than the loss of my job in NASCAR ... more than struggling with my weight for so many years ... this is the single greatest failure of my life.

It didn't matter, though. I still loved him with all of my heart.

God knows I've wondered and fretted and worried and prayed over why things went so horribly wrong between us. The young man is smart, far smarter than I'll ever hope to be. He picked up philosophies in high school that were completely foreign to me, and we had an exchange or two because of that.

My boys.

He got off the airplane one year in North Carolina with hair down his back.

It didn't matter. I still loved him with all of my heart.

He met us for dinner one night in Nashville sporting a ring in his nose. 

It didn't matter. I still loved him with all of my heart.

The last time I saw Richard in person was on September 2, 2008, a couple of days after my father -- his paternal grandfather -- passed away. Richard didn't make it to the funeral.

I was upset over that, and I let him know about it in a long e-mail a few days later. I tried not to be ugly. Jeanie read it before I pressed "Send." Other than one brief 30-minute call a couple of years later, that's the last communication we had.

It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.

The last I heard, he's tending bar in Portland, Oregon.

 It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.

He evidently has some additional piercings.

It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.

And some tattoos.

This was Adam's favorite spot with his big brother.

It doesn't matter. I still love him with all of my heart.

I understand that he's lost his faith.

That does matter and it matters more than anything he'll ever face, but it's a struggle between Richard and God. My faith isn't hereditary. It's a decision he has to make for himself. All I can do is pray more earnestly for him than I have about anything in a long, long time.

The bottom line is this. I love my oldest son, and I love him with all of my heart, every bit as much as I love Adam and Jesse. I'd very gladly give my life for him, because that's what a father does for his son.

About a week ago, I got a call on my cell phone from a number originating out of Oregon. My heart nearly stopped. Was it Richard? Was there anything wrong? I answered with a hitch in my voice. It wasn't him, and I hung up without saying a word to the salesman on the other end of the call.

When and if Richard ever does call to say that he needs me, I'll leave a great big Rick-sized hole in the wall to get to him. It matters that much, for no other reason than he's my son, my flesh and blood. I'd heard Luke 15:20 a million different times in a million different Sunday School classes and sermons, but never paid the kind of attention to it that I do now. Now ... it means everything.

So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.

I ache for that day.

God, please. I love Richard. He's my son, and I love him with all of my heart. Bring him back to us in one piece, safe and sound.

The Incident

If you're a parent, you know the moment.

Your kids have misbehaved in some shape, form or fashion, and what they've done has left you momentarily speechless. Your jaw drops, and maybe your eye twitches a time or two. There's a ringing in your ears that won't go away. You don't ever recall being this ... this ... "angry" isn't even a good enough word to fully encompass it.

My mom and one of the many, many cakes she decorated over the years.

That kind of thing doesn't happen very often around here, but there are times when I can't help but wonder what could possibly have crossed Adam and Jess's minds ... or if they were even thinking at all.

Adam turns a blind eye to any basket of freshly laundered socks and underwear that happens to enter the room. Place it in "his" seat in our den, and he'll sit in another without saying a word. Plop it in front of the door to their bedroom, and he'll step over, around or quite possibly right in the middle of it. Situate it on his bed, and he'd sleep in the floor.

Say anything about it, and he's got his alibi ready.

I didn't see it.

Drumming his fingers ... oh, man ... that's another Adam specialty. He's actually got great timing and rhythm, but one solo is followed by another. And another. And then an encore worthy of every great drummer in history. I honestly don't think he's even fully aware that he's doing anything.

Adam ... stop.

Stop what?

Drumming your fingers. 

Oh ... okay.

Peck ... peck ... peckedy ... peck-peck ... 

Adam ...

What?

Please. Stop it.

I'm sorry.

Peck ... peck ... peckedy ... peck-peck ...

ADAM!!!

My 17th birthday cake, right after football practice.

And then there's Jesse. Born three minutes before Adam, it was the first race Jesse ever won and it will most likely be the last. Jesse has only one speed, and that's Jesse Speed. Whether it's a personality trait or a function of his Asperger's, the kid is never in a hurry.

Ever.

The good thing is that he'll never have to deal with any stress-related issues, because he simply does not concern himself with moving any faster than he already is. Jesse is perfectly content to get where he's going in his own time, moving at his own pace all the while. That's just Jesse being Jesse.

While Jesse may never be stressed, the same can't be said for me when I'm trying to get him on the move. Counting to ten causes him to speed up sometimes, but only by a little bit.

Throw in the fact that both Adam and Jesse are just beginning their journeys as teenagers, and life can often seem like one small battle after another. Just when I think I've had it up to here with one or the both of them, though, I remind myself that while Adam and Jesse might not be perfect, they've never come close to the dumbest, stupidest, most misguided, ill-advised, ignorant and childish thing I've ever done.

My brother Doug and I just call it The Incident.

Our mom baked and decorated cakes. It was her outlet, a way of expressing herself in a way that others tended to appreciate. I seem to remember a formal wedding cake or two, but her specialties were kids' birthday cakes with as many bright colors as possible.

The occasion escapes me, but Mom had spent most of a Friday night on a cake. There were bowls of colored icing everywhere in the kitchen, and when she and Dad left to deliver the masterpiece, both the bowls and several nearly full tubes of icing were left behind. Because of that, I've got to think that what happened next was actually their fault, not mine and Doug's.

My brother and co-defendant in The Incident, with one of HIS birthday cakes.

I honestly don't remember who struck first, whether it was me or my younger sibling, but one of us picked up a tube of icing and tried to squirt the other with it. That, of course, elicited retribution with another tube. It was on from there.Two squirts of icing became ten, and then twenty. There was not the slightest pause when one tube was emptied, because we had plenty more in our arsenal.

If only we'd limited our battle to the linoleum-floored kitchen that would've been relatively easy to clean ... if only ... if only ...

Not content with the destruction of one room, we began chasing each other through the house with the icing tubes. There was icing everywhere ... on furniture, in the carpet, smeared on the walls ... everywhere. If it had just been red icing, it would've looked like the goriest murder scene in the history of crime, but this had been a special cake with lots and lots and lots of colors.

You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz where the black-and-white Kansas scenery is suddenly replaced by the mind-blowing Technicolor of Oz? Yep. That was our house that day. 

There came a point when I realized the gravity of what was taking place, and what was going to happen when Mom and Dad got home. It didn't matter, because the damage -- literally -- had already been done. We kept right on going, right up until the very end. I vaguely remember the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and the front door opening, but not much after that.

My first R2-D2 birthday cake.

Let's just say that Mom and Dad believed in corporal punishment, and practiced it to its fullest extent that day. They tag-teamed Doug and I ... when one of them got tired of wearing our hind-ends out, they tagged out and allowed the other to take over.

And, really, who could blame them? They were the closest to being perfect Christians that day than they ever were, and that's simply because they didn't kill us.

Tony Rankin was my role model growing up -- he still is, for that matter -- and he was getting married that day to his fiancee, Amber. I didn't get to go to the wedding, which is probably for the best. If either of my parents had dropped me off anywhere that day, they almost certainly would not have returned to pick me up.

What's all the more shocking to me today is that the date was June 4, 1983. I was fifteen years old, and it was the summer before my junior year of high school. I was old enough to know better, for crying out loud, but did that stop me from taking part in The Incident?

Noooooooooooooooooooooooo ...

So, yeah, we can deal with some unsorted laundry and a little slowness afoot. Adam and Jesse have absolutely nothing on their old man and uncle. 

Say Goodbye

The photos are like a kick in the gut.

Jeanie and I took the boys on a road trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame back in 2009, and on the way back, we stopped in Gettysburg. I've always been a baseball fan and a Civil War buff, so it was the ultimate vacation for me and the boys. I had a blast.

At Babe Ruth's locker in the Baseball Hall of Fame ... and Adam's in front.

The problem is, I can barely stand to look at photographs from the trip. In almost every single one in which Adam, Jesse and I appear, I've very carefully placed one or the both of them in front of me in an attempt to cover up my belly. I look at the pictures, and then I look away because they break my heart.

More than a year would pass before I seriously started trying to lose weight. Deep down inside, I knew I had to do something but couldn't conceive of how to actually begin. It wasn't that it was going to be difficult. It was something far worse than that. It was going to be very nearly impossible. I'd tried too many times before, only to fall flat on my flabby face.

There was the time I stormed out of the Y because a group of uber-jocks refused to include me in what was evidently a private game of Wallyball. I didn't go back for nearly three years, regained the few pounds I'd lost and then some. And then some more. I really showed them.

With a display honoring the Big Red Machine Cincinnati Reds ... and Jesse's in front.

 The images are also a reminder of how hard it has been to lose weight. Even today, I still sometimes feel like a complete fraud. If people only knew how badly I want to dive into a Chinese buffet ... an extra-large super supreme Papa John's pizza ... a six-pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cup eggs ... a bag of Oreos, regular, double-stuff, Reese's Peanut Butter Cup-flavored or what have you ... they would know that all this is nothing but a smoke-and-mirrors show.

What would people think if they knew that I don't actually get a kick out of working out or running? I enjoy the sense of accomplishment, but only when it's over. I don't like pain. I'm allergic to it. Rolling out of bed in the mornings, especially on Saturdays, and going for a run is hard. It's especially difficult when it's cold ... or hot ... or when I plan on running a longer distance ... or when I'm still sore from my last run or boot camp workout. 

On Little Round Top at Gettysburg with the 20th Maine monument ... and both are in front.

It just seems like all this should be getting easier ... not easy ... just ... easier.

I'm not giving up, though. I've come too far to let a little thing like discouragement turn me back into the man I used to be. That. Ain't. Gonna. Happen. It's one of the reasons I've come to love the music of contemporary Christian music artist Mandisa so much. When she was on American Idol, Simon Cowell made some incredibly insensitive remarks about her size and weight.

Mandisa knows.

Mandisa knows, and she's recorded several songs just for the two of us. "Overcomer" is one. It comes on when I'm running, and I fix in my mind how far down the road I'm going to be when the song finishes. A lot of times, I make it. Sometimes, I don't. But I try, and I try hard.

As close to home as "Overcomer" hits, it's another song that has come to be my anthem in this journey. "Say Goodbye" is everything I wish I could say in song.

Mandisa

To the voice/To the liar in the mirror/ Saying you can't ever change/To the guilt that's sittin' on your shoulder/Always keeping you wrapped in chains ... 

These photos were taken years ago. That's not me any more. Don't give up. Keep going.

Say goodbye/Say goodbye/To the one that used to be/Say goodbye/Say goodbye/Every day is a brand-new mercy ... 

 My legs are hurting and I've got a couple more miles to go, but I'm not going to stop. I've got to keep going.

This is where it starts now/Everything can turn around/In a moment, here's your moment/You can say goodbye ...

As bad as it hurts to run and work out, I'm so desperately thankful that I'm not in the place I used to be. Keep going.

There is grace that you can't imagine/There is love that you can't outrun/There is peace you can hold onto/When your world is coming undone ... 

You don't have to give into the fear/Don't have to let your story stop here/When the hand tries to pull you back/You don't have to go back/You don't have to go back ... 

To everything that breaks you down/It doesn't have to define you now/Jesus can take it all away/Say goodbye/Say goodbye/You're not the one you used to be ... 

Amen. Thank you, Mandisa. You'll never know how much I appreciate you.