Yesterday, I voluntarily allowed a stranger to stick a metal Slurpee straw needle into the bend of my right arm and extract approximately 10% of my blood supply. For me, this is a big step in overcoming one of my fears because the idea of allowing someone to take a bagful of blood from my body through a large needle is not something I look favorably upon. Needles are a definite phobia of mine.
As it happens, my wife is on a first name basis with most of the vampires personnel at the United Blood Services donation center in Goodyear, AZ because she goes so frequently to give blood. After her last visit, she decided that I should participate in the blood-letting donation process, so she ever-so-generously scheduled an appointment for me. There’s nothing like getting up in the morning and having your wife greet you with a kiss and an, “Oh, I forgot to tell you that I signed you up to give blood. Your appointment is today at 1:15.”
Naturally, I tried to weasel my way out of it, but Heidi guilted me into going convinced me to go by reminding me that my giving blood could mean another chance at life for some poor soul in some hospital somewhere. Eventually I decided I should just man-up and do it.
So I did.
To be honest, it was a surprisingly pleasant experience. The new donation facility in Goodyear is very nice and the staff are all remarkably personable. After they ask you a list of simple-to-answer questions like, “Have you ever paid to have sex with a man from Sierra-Leone?”, they sit you in a reclining chair that would be perfect for watching a Cardinals game, and gently slide the needle in your arm while you squeeze and release a section of PVC pipe in your hand. In all honesty, you can barely feel a thing.
After about 15 minutes, they let you relax in their canteen area where you are free to replenish your strength by sipping on free Capri-Suns and munching on Famous Amos cookies. Not a bad deal.
As I sat there for my mandatory 20 minute rest period, I wondered what percentage of people have ever even darkened the door of a blood donation center. The pandemic fear of needles alone probably keeps a large portion of the population away, but what about everyone else? I figured that this question gave me a perfect opportunity to try out my new blog poll widget. Weigh in won’t you?
Loading ...And since we’re on the subject, why don’t you take a few minutes to find the blood donation facility in your area and schedule an appointment for yourself? If you are one of the weenies like me individuals who won’t go because you hate needles, I challenge you to face your fear for the sake of someone else’s well-being. I promise that it’s not as bad as you think. If you do decide to schedule an appointment, I’d appreciate it if you leave me a comment letting me know.
Here’s wishing you a fabulous phlebotomy!
Consensus is a popular word in today’s culture. Somehow, the idea of getting everyone at the table to agree on everything under discussion has become the ideal achievement of teamwork and the truest evidence of great leadership. The only problem with this notion is that true consensus is an ever-elusive destination, and the journey toward it often results in frustration and wasted time.
While sitting in a meeting today, I experienced this wild goose chase first-hand. This last-minute gathering should have lasted one quarter of the time it did, but the inane quest for consensus made it a painfully drawn-out ordeal.
A small minority of people at the table raised relatively minor concerns about an event that had already been planned, approved, and communicated to the public. Those concerns were valid and had every right to be voiced, but despite the fact that the majority of those in attendance saw no reason to alter the already-scheduled event, we as a team were still expected to come to an eleventh-hour compromise. Because consensus demands that everyone leaves the meeting in agreement, each side spent a great deal of time trying to convince the other side of the worthiness of their cause.
After more than an hour of seeking consensus, our only achievement was a roomful of unnecessarily bruised egos and a cut-and-paste compromise that left neither side feeling content. The only real reason we reached any semblance of a “consensus” was that we were all tired of talking about the issue and we just wanted out of the room.
As I drove home, I thought about the fact that no one person in the meeting had leadership over the decisions surrounding that particular event. We were all equal members of a team, and each held equal sway over the others — a recipe for disaster.
Leadership requires one person who will ultimately set a pace and direction that others can follow. Leaders should be eager to listen to concerns, advice, and ideas from the team, but eventually the final decision falls on them to make. Leaders don’t often have the option make everyone feel equally validated, but they do tend make choices based on what’s best. Consensus, on the other hand, typically results in frustration for everyone and produces a mediocre result in the process.
I’ve come to learn that the only people who can hold a position of leadership and also manage to achieve overwhelming consensus are brutal dictators. If true, effective leadership is desired in an organization, consensus should never be a definition for success.
After a long journey of disconnected solitude, I have decided to jump on the Twitter bandwagon and go for a little ride. Those who have gone before me frequently and fervently sing Twitter’s praises — almost as if the little bird in the logo was the very dove that brought the olive branch back to Noah’s ark. By all accounts, I must prepare for the miraculous.
To be quite honest, I’m doing this for one purpose alone — to experiment and see if this technology truly does make me more connected with others. I am very much a face-to-face kind of guy and I have a hard time seeing how Twitter will give me anything even resembling the sort of connectedness that I get in a personal friendship.
Since its unfair for me to say I don’t like Twitter when I have never actually used it, I figure its worth a test drive. If you want to follow my 140-character-or-less musings, my Twitter name is MichaelSGray
You’ve got to admit, the title intrigues you; it mysteriously draws you in and makes you want to keep reading, right? Well, that’s because you have a sick mind and a twisted sense of entertainment. But don’t feel too guilty, I fell for it too when I originally watched the video below on Jon’s blog.
I love it when blog posts, books, magazines, and/or speeches challenge public perceptions of reality — when they cause people to think a second time about a long-held assumption, or look at an issue in a completely different light than ever before. This speech by Dirty Jobs host Mike Rowe does just that. It’s a lesson on finding out just how wrong we can be, even when we feel most confident that we are right.
On a completely different note, what do you think of my new, wider layout? I realize the header image needs to change and I’ll get to it when I can. I just got tired of having to resize all my linked videos to make them fit my post.
This evening, Heidi and I walked to our community park to let Harrison play around a bit (his new favorite thing is going down slides). We also wanted to take an opportunity to get out of the house and enjoy some of this beautiful Phoenix weather. Unfortunately for us, our trip of fun and family time was contaminated by a particular behavior that I believe has gotten out of hand in America: public cursing.
The playground at our park is within earshot of the basketball court where a dozen or more kids — I’d say between the ages of 8 and 18 — were hanging out and shooting hoops. It was not difficult for Heidi and me to hear most of their conversations, and I’ll be honest in saying that I was shocked with a lot of what I heard. The language these kids used was disgusting, and they had no reservations about making their voices heard, despite the proximity of younger kids and other families.
I tried my best to ignore the language and to focus on enjoying the time with my family, and I was doing pretty well — that is until I heard the word “nigger”.
I hate that word.
My ears perked up and I listened more intently to what was going on. Just for the sake of clarity, it’s important to note that all of the kids in the group were black, so this was not a matter of a person from one race referring to someone of another race using a hateful term. The word was uttered at least a dozen times inside a minute and was said in the same casual, conversational tone you might expect to hear from people at the local grocery store. No one was being picked on, no one was trying to start a fight, they just used the word as if it were a punctuation mark — and they punctuated loudly.
Harrison is not old enough to understand or repeat the words he hears (and I doubt seriously that he heard them anyway), but I decided after hearing it a dozen times that we were done. I don’t want my child exposed to foul language no matter what his age and “the n-word” threw me over the top. I gave very serious thought to going over and expressing my opinion about them using that word with such abandon, but I am a product of modern American society, and society basically says that a middle-aged white man better never utter the n-word around a black person, even if he’s asking them to stop using it because he finds it so vile. I fear now that I missed an opportunity to stand up for what is right out of concern for how I might have been perceived.
As we walked home, I told Heidi how bothered I am by the fact that by far the place I hear the n-word the most is from the mouths of black people. I know of no one in my circle of acquaintances that ever uses that word, and I can’t tell you the last time I’ve witnessed a person of any other race say it publicly. Sadly, I do hear it all through the black culture — especially in rap/hip-hop music — and it’s disturbing for me to think that the primary reason that word is still a part of our lexicon is because many of the very people to whom the term is so offensive have nurtured it and allowed it to become a common and acceptable part of their everyday language.
Well I say shame on them.
I am writing this post to express my feelings on a particular spiritual issue that has been festering away inside me for years. In many ways, I imagine that what I have to say will generate some pretty strong opposition, and I welcome any challenges or thoughts you may have about this post. For what it’s worth, I have heard probably a hundred sermons on this topic and none of them have brought me to a resolution that makes me comfortable.
I dare say that just about every person who has been to church more than three times in his life is familiar with the story of the prodigal son found in Luke 15:11-32. To sum it up for you, a son goes to his father demanding his inheritance early, squanders it all on whores and partying, goes flat broke, realizes that he never had it better than when he was back home, returns to his father, and receives the celebration of a lifetime when he walks through the door. This is an incredible parable that Jesus tells to illustrate the fact that, no matter what happened in a person’s past, God is waiting with open arms to accept him and forgive him.
But the story doesn’t just end there.
The prodigal son had an older brother who stayed behind and continued to work faithfully for his father while the younger son was livin’ la vida loca with the large inheritance he so selfishly demanded. After the younger son returned, this is what Jesus says went down:
25 “Now his older son was in the field; as he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 So he summoned one of the servants and asked what these things meant. 27 ‘Your brother is here,’ he told him, ‘and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’
28 “Then he became angry and didn’t want to go in. So his father came out and pleaded with him. 29 But he replied to his father, ‘Look, I have been slaving many years for you, and I have never disobeyed your orders, yet you never gave me a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. 30 But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your assets with prostitutes, you slaughtered the fattened calf for him.’
I gotta be honest, I feel for the guy; on some levels I really relate to him. This parable is used over and over again in churches as a reminder that we as Christians need to be about the business of reconciling others to Christ, and I am completely on board with that. Where my biggest hang-up arrives is in the fact that this ungrateful punk already knew the life his father could provide and left it anyway.
I can see how the church would rejoice when a non-believer comes to Christ — no matter his or her background — but it kills me to think of the church equally celebrating the return of a believer who knew God before making the deliberate decision to live for the world. In my mind, this sort of person is welcome to return to grace, but not by way of a ticker-tape parade. It seems to me that stories like these typically end up as tear-jerking video highlights or moving on-stage testimonials, while the stories of faithful Christians who struggle each day to deny themselves are ignored completely.
I know that my disdain for the prodigal son is probably a bit off-base theologically, but its difficult for me to celebrate the deliberate disobedience of someone who I believe should know better. I have seen this story happen over and over again since I was in college, and it only gets more difficult to deal with each time I witness it. I guess if I had to boil my thoughts down to its simplest form it would be this: I’m not bothered with the forgiveness in this passage, but I am bothered with the fanfare.
What do you think?
I was sick last week and couldn’t do any of my half-marathon training, but this week I have been feeling much better. In celebration of the end of my bad cold, I ran 3 days for a grand total of 1 hour, 54 minutes, and 7 seconds over 9 miles of this earth (3 x 3 miles). Don’t bother trying to figure out my average time per mile — it’s still pretty crummy.
In the past I never did much running for running’s sake, but I think this may become a permanent routine in my life — and I think I may be starting to enjoy it. Today, I ran to the point of bleeding through my shoe. Please, no jokes about me bleeding pink.
D-Lo ran with me again and this time he brought a beanie for me too. Here we are making pre-run poses that far exceed our actual badness level:
Both times we have run together, Derrick has come to my side of the tracks, but next time, we’re going to hit the streets of Dreaming Summit and see what sort of damage we can do there. I’m looking forward to a change of scenery.
I spent the month of November training for a 5K race that took place on Thanksgiving Day. This picture of me flexing has nothing to do with that training, I just think it’s a cool photo. Plus it’s sure to be intimidating to all my foes (you know who you are).
These are the shoes and the new pedometer I bought prior to training. The shoes help me grip the pavement, and the pedometer shows me just how much time it takes me to run such a short distance. I’m pretty sure it makes fun of me when I’m not around.
This is my one-time training partner D-Lo. He was kind enough to join me one Friday for a run. I’m not sure why he wears that beanie — he’s already got a full head of hair to keep his dome warm. Maybe I should get one.
The 5K race took place in Fountain Hills, AZ at 7:30 on Thanksgiving morning. The whole night before, it poured down rain and only let up an hour before the race. It was a beautiful day for a trot.
Heidi and her sister Heather did the 2K fitness walk on the same day. This is us posing with the turkey mascot before the race began. That smile on my face is real.
This is about 1/3 through the race. At this point, I am still surrounded by a good handful of people — the little 10-year-old girl running with her dad is not too far ahead of me. The only reason it looks like I’m running perpendicular to the crowd is because I am getting into position for my next photo.
This is the money shot. I love the look of determination on my face, my fists raised victoriously in the air, my gut and man-boobs flapping violently in the breeze. Unfortunately, this slight photo-op detour has put the 10-year-old and her dad out of my reach. The old man behind me, however, is going down!
This is the final straight-away. To my dismay, the old guy blew by me at about the half-way mark and I never really saw him again. At this point, no one is even running with me. The people on the left finished their race long ago, completed a full after-run stretching routine, downed some bagels and juice, took a dozen photos with the turkey mascot, and are now heading back to their cars.
Just a few strides away from the finish line at this point. Heidi is there cheering me on yelling, “You can do it Michael! Give it all you’ve got!”. She told me later that she thought I would have kicked it up a notch on that last leg. What she didn’t know is that I was giving it all I had. The remaining race-watchers were nice enough to shout some encouraging words to me while they waited for their 85-year-old wounded war-vet grandfathers to round the corner in their walkers. I could definitely feel them breathing down my neck that last quarter mile.
I’m now across the line. As I strain to fill my lungs with much-needed oxygen, the lady in blue takes a moment to check me out in my sexy, form-fitting red running shirt. I swear, sometimes a guy just wants to have a workout where no one ogles his rippling abs and rock-hard pecs. Am I nothing more than a piece of meat?
This close-up shot clearly shows the agony that I endured to get to this point. I had finished my first 5K run in 40:07 — certainly not record breaking, but a steady 13.3 minute mile pace (pretty good for a fat guy). As my body began to recover, my eyes scanned the parking lot for the on-site ambulance and EMT team — just in case.
As soon as I was certain that no medical intervention was going to be necessary, I stopped to take an after-race photo with my beautiful wife. I love that she was there with me, but that smile on my face is very forced. It took every last ounce of strength I had left to have my brain tell my facial muscles to make a smile. What a day!
Well, the first hurdle toward my ultimate 2009 resolution has come and gone. While I’m not terribly impressed with my 5K run, I think it marks an important milestone and showed me that I can improve. The idea of running 13.1 miles by next September seems daunting, but then again, so was the idea of running three miles by Thanksgiving.
Disneyland, here I come!
I just returned from a Friday morning run (read: lumbering jog) with my good friend D-Lo. Since he has Fridays off, he was gracious enough to drive all the way to my house early this morning to join me in 2 miles of self-inflicted torture through the chilly streets of Avondale.
The photo above was taken just before we started. If I had taken another afterward, I would look like death warmed over and he would look pretty much the same as he does in this picture. Jerk. He makes it look so easy.
Hopefully, we can continue with this Friday tradition, and one day I may be able to keep up with him the entire time. If anyone else wants to join our running group, just give me a call. Maybe we can turn this living hell into a fun and challenging Friday mini-mini-marathon.
