I’m a little overdue in offering a new post, since coming back from a short out-of-town trip. I intended to write about how nice it was to have a break from weekend training and how I enjoyed spending time with many relatives I hadn’t seen in years. I was going to even joke about how I called my walking teammates on Sunday morning on my way to a late breakfast with my cousin and his two sons, after we had slept in, while the walkers were well into a 15-mile training day in the heat and humidity of late July.
The events here in Minneapolis last Wednesday evening seemed to sap whatever motivation I had to write about something so trivial.
On the other hand, it is the trivial, the mundane, the relatively inconsequential moments of daily life that allows us to return to normalcy. Most of us know that there is little we can do in the wake of the collapse of the I-35W Mississippi River Bridge, other than keep the victims and their families – as well as the injured and those working at the site – in our thoughts and prayers. We hope the missing will be found, the debris will be safely cleared away, and the questions will be answered, so that the rebuilding can soon begin.
Aside from that, our role is to get up every morning, acknowledge the gift of life with which we are blessed, and go to work or school as we always do.
It is not denial or ignorance or even self-involvement. It is an act of faith, one that has to do with being called to do our part, however small it may seem.
On Wednesday night, I sat in a restaurant with my 3-Day teammates. We were having our monthly gathering, the last time we would all be together until Day 1 on August 24. Initially, we were awed by the pictures of a collapsed bridge, shown on the large TV screens, and could not look away. But soon, we forced ourselves to focus our attention away from the destruction. For the remainder of the evening, while our eyes occasionally drifted back to the televisions, we appreciated the opportunity to be with each other.
I talked with the women sitting next to me; exchanging stories of our respective weekend activities. Tracy told me about her vacation day at a local beach, her training for an upcoming bike race, the lack of players on her church softball team, and the migraine headache that troubled her for several days. Dawn told me about the 18 miles they walked around the lakes in Minneapolis last Saturday and the 15 miles they walked in and around Bunker Hills Park on Sunday. She showed me the blisters that resulted from those walks and wondered aloud how in the world she was going to survive the 3-Day.
I spoke of how my family surprised my aunt and uncle with our visit, in honor of their 50th wedding anniversary. I said that I spent most of the weekend with my cousin Michael, eating too much, drinking my fair share, and laughing at our relatives. (That is, until they opened boxes of old family photographs, which contained a few shots of us as children, wearing “how could you do that to me?” clothes and hairstyles.) I visited the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, along with thousands of others who were there for the induction of Cal Ripken, Jr. and Tony Gwynn.
Afterwards, I went home and sorted through the mail and newspapers and laundry that had accumulated in the previous six days. I went to bed and got up in the morning, as I always do – well, not quite like I always do. I did my best to do my work on Thursday and Friday. I e-mailed and called friends, to assure them that I was safe.
And this weekend, I walked – 10 miles on Saturday and eight on Sunday, returning to my training. It was my attempt at a return to normalcy.
The events here in Minneapolis last Wednesday evening seemed to sap whatever motivation I had to write about something so trivial.
On the other hand, it is the trivial, the mundane, the relatively inconsequential moments of daily life that allows us to return to normalcy. Most of us know that there is little we can do in the wake of the collapse of the I-35W Mississippi River Bridge, other than keep the victims and their families – as well as the injured and those working at the site – in our thoughts and prayers. We hope the missing will be found, the debris will be safely cleared away, and the questions will be answered, so that the rebuilding can soon begin.
Aside from that, our role is to get up every morning, acknowledge the gift of life with which we are blessed, and go to work or school as we always do.
It is not denial or ignorance or even self-involvement. It is an act of faith, one that has to do with being called to do our part, however small it may seem.
On Wednesday night, I sat in a restaurant with my 3-Day teammates. We were having our monthly gathering, the last time we would all be together until Day 1 on August 24. Initially, we were awed by the pictures of a collapsed bridge, shown on the large TV screens, and could not look away. But soon, we forced ourselves to focus our attention away from the destruction. For the remainder of the evening, while our eyes occasionally drifted back to the televisions, we appreciated the opportunity to be with each other.
I talked with the women sitting next to me; exchanging stories of our respective weekend activities. Tracy told me about her vacation day at a local beach, her training for an upcoming bike race, the lack of players on her church softball team, and the migraine headache that troubled her for several days. Dawn told me about the 18 miles they walked around the lakes in Minneapolis last Saturday and the 15 miles they walked in and around Bunker Hills Park on Sunday. She showed me the blisters that resulted from those walks and wondered aloud how in the world she was going to survive the 3-Day.
I spoke of how my family surprised my aunt and uncle with our visit, in honor of their 50th wedding anniversary. I said that I spent most of the weekend with my cousin Michael, eating too much, drinking my fair share, and laughing at our relatives. (That is, until they opened boxes of old family photographs, which contained a few shots of us as children, wearing “how could you do that to me?” clothes and hairstyles.) I visited the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, along with thousands of others who were there for the induction of Cal Ripken, Jr. and Tony Gwynn.
Afterwards, I went home and sorted through the mail and newspapers and laundry that had accumulated in the previous six days. I went to bed and got up in the morning, as I always do – well, not quite like I always do. I did my best to do my work on Thursday and Friday. I e-mailed and called friends, to assure them that I was safe.
And this weekend, I walked – 10 miles on Saturday and eight on Sunday, returning to my training. It was my attempt at a return to normalcy.
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