I’m not sure what we were thinking, but Mark, the super fast, built for running type guy, who’s been running with me almost every Saturday for the last 5 weeks, and I started our 13 mile run on Saturday afternoon.  Earlier on we had tackled an excellent team service project at the Community Harvest Farm in North Grafton, then we decided to meet up again for what would be the longest either of us had ever run, even Mark, the super fast, built for running type guy.

Carie crushed the course, the morning before, and now it was our turn.  And I couldn’t have been more prepared and more scared of anything, including the time I rode the highest, fastest roller coaster in the world at the time at Cedar Point – The Magnum XL 200.  I’m not in the 8th grade anymore, but this was even more terrifying.  What if I couldn’t do it?

So we met at 4:30 pm, and started what we now know as the descent  up to our halfway point.  For that reason, the first half was really easy.  The whole thing was basically downhill, something we might have researched first.  So for 6.5 miles, I thought, we can really do this.  We wooped that run like David jacked up that dang giant with 5 smooth stones and a trumpet.  Then running back it started to get a bit harder.  It didn’t seem uphill, yet my legs were getting tired and when we eventually did get to a part that seemed uphill, I found myself ready to give up.

When I stopped running to take a break, I looked at our gps reading, and we had hit 11.11 miles, and it seemed like 2 more miles would never come.  I felt nauseous.  I felt weak.  I begged for Mark, the super fast, built for running type guy, to go on ahead so he wouldn’t have to wait for me.  He wouldn’t.  He was being challenged too.  The last two miles were so fierce.  Mostly uphill.  All tired.  And to make matters worse, we passed my house at 11.6 miles.  Couldn’t we just stop a bit early?

Finally we arrived at the 13.11 mile mark, and the run was over.  I had nothing left.  No legs.  No breath. Mark, the formerly super fast, built for running type guy and I walked quietly to our cars, looked at each other with faint glances of satisfaction, and went our separate ways.

I drove to my house and sat in my car for a few minutes.  I couldn’t really move and Carie was visiting some family, so sitting in the car just seemed appropriate for the occasion where one can no longer move.  I called Carie, told her I finished, and unfortunately, she was on the other end of what happened next.  I lost it.  For no reason that I know of, and just because I felt like it, or maybe it was because I had nothing left in me…

I just cried into the phone for the next 10 minutes.

This weekend I have to run 13 miles.

I’m not looking forward to it, but I now have an example to help quench my fear.  This morning my wife Carie ran that distance, and I’m pretty proud of her.  We’ve only been running for 5 weeks consistently (4 times a week), and now we’re ultimately training for a half marathon in October.  At first we considered a full marathon, then pulled back for this season.  But we’ve managed to stay on the training schedule for the marathon up to this point.

Because of scheduling conflicts, our training is one day apart, so Carie runs the training schedule one day before me most of the time, and I don’t mind telling you how scared I have been about my 13 mile adventures this weekend.  But Carie showed me it could happen, gave it her all, and finished the 13 miles.  Well, actually because her mom, who ran with her, took a wrong turn, she ran 14 miles, but I’m not doing that – on accident or on purpose.

Don Miller says that “A character in a story is a person who wants something and overcomes an obstacle to get it.”  I want to finish this half marathon, and I want to beat a few people along the way, and before today, I had a hard time believing that was possible.

Great examples and heroes are people who exemplify, not only how to live life, but the dreams which we already have in our hearts.  Running a half marathon may not make a big difference in the world, but it will make a big difference in me, which I believe will push me to make a big difference in the world.

Thanks Carie!

One day, a writer sat in front of his computer thinking about what to write on his blog.  He wrote all different kinds of stuff on a regular basis, but at the time, he had nothing interesting to say.  One thing he did know, however, was that the more he told stories as opposed to other genres of writing he tried, the better the results.

So he decided to write a story about himself, and how he was trying to figure out something to write and the epiphany came upon him that he was better at telling stories than trying to get people to feel better about themselves or challenging them to do something.

The problem was that the writer also realized that sometimes he ran out of stories to write, and that made him sad because he knew that, more than anything else, he should be making new stories to write about- going out and making a difference in his world or traveling through a comedy or a tragedy with friends.

You see, this writer seemed to do his best work, not when writing about imaginary lands or other people’s junk, but when he wrote about his adventures- Like the time he realized Jesus might be okay with beer, or the time a bee stung his mouth.

So making new stories became his mission, and he wondered what friends would like to be a part of that mission…

“That wasp just attacked me and stung me in the mouth,” I lamented to my two friends who previously were laughing at the thing to which I had just reacted so largely.

I finished volleyball minutes earlier after 4 big losses in a row and, already moping around a bit from an epic beating, I bowed low to get into my cellar in an effort to turn on the hose to wash our feet off before we entered the Holman household.  With the water turned on and mission accomplished, Bramlett, the left handed wannabee golfer, and Dagget, the wiry 3 languaged nightmare, took turns ribbing me about losing so many volleyball games.

We washed our feet.  I could have washed theirs in an amazing display of Christ-like humility via John 13, but I chose to turn the rays of my flashlight in the middle of their eyes instead.  I have much to learn.

When we were done with the water, I  crawled back down the cellar, turned the water off, all the while listening to their continued teasing about my athletic decent into Hades.  As I moved to the top of the cemented Cellar steps, a wasp, evidently very angry at something I’d done, attacked me, allowing absolutely no time for reaction.  It immediately hit the lower left side of my lip, and I immediately cried out in pain, holding on to my mouth like Steve Jobs holding on to his reputation.

As could be expected, Brams and Daggett continued their laughing as I grunted a pain-filled roar, at least until I mentioned how bad it hurt, then they stopped, and I could get on with feeling bad for myself.

It took only about 5 minutes for my mouth to resemble Will Smith’s from the movie “Hitch”, but it looked ugly, and I learned a valuable lesson that evening:

If you don’t play beach volleyball on Monday nights, then you probably won’t need to go down to the cellar for the water hose, which means you probably won’t get attacked by a wasp.

Capiche?

I’m not advocating this, but for the first 4 years I had a car (ages 21-24), only the first year did I have all the up-to-date “state-needed” credentials to owning and driving a car.  Ya know, things like car insurance, registrations, etc…?  For whatever reason, I had this great fear of the RMV.  So I learned to drive cautiously, like a scared bird flying over a gang of alley cats.  Every time I drove, I had all eyes open and ready to pull in some strange parking lot or driveway for fear that I would get stopped by a patrolling officer ready to take down the evil “non-compliant” boy from the midwest.

One time my first year in Holden, I was driving back to my apt. from a late night Boston excursion with some friends, and I finally arrived on to Bullard St around 2 am.  As I drove the mile down the street to my apt., I passed a cruiser pulling on to Bullard from one of its 4 side streets in that mile.  I was driving slowly enough, but the cruiser turned my way and followed me from a distance.  Knowing I wouldn’t speed up, and he would eventually catch up to me and probably see one of my many “non-compliant ways”, I gambled a bit.  I pulled into the driveway of  a house on Bullard St.  I had no idea whose house, just a house.  About the time I came to a complete stop, the cruiser slowly drove by, and I was left to wonder what I should do.

The cruiser turned right on to the next street, but I knew that the next street was a big loop and the officer had to eventually return to Bullard St.  So quickly I got out of the car, walked over to a huge (and wondrously low to the ground) pine tree, and dove under the pine tree.  Sure enough, the cruiser came out on to Bullard St and passed the house and my car once again, and this time even more slowly.  When the cruiser finally left my sight, I jumped up, rushed to the car with an adrenaline shot twice as powerful as any Monster drink, put it in reverse, and drove the rest of the half mile trip I had left.

Not that night, but eventually, I did get caught in my non-compliance, and I did turn from my evil ways and get all the credentials I need to be a good and safe driver in Massachusetts, but the one thing I, and my lovely wife Carie always remember is the way I drove during that time.

For this weekend, as we drove from Leominster back to our house in Holden, Carie complained that she was getting sick.  So she begged me:  “Please drive nice.  I’d like you to drive nice.  I’d like you to drive the way you used to drive before you started driving legally.”

I laughed, slowed down a lot, and looked around for a driveway or a parking lot.

9 years ago, my friend John (32 years old) from upstate, NY,  told me this story:

“When I was 25, a group of friends and I walked into a bar here in upstate NY.  We were looking to find some ladies and hook up.  Finally I saw this attractive girl, and decided she was going to be my “catch of the day”.  Walking over to her, I gave her a smile to let her know I’d be talking to her shortly.  We started talking and I evidently made her laugh enough that she seemed to be having a good time.  She was in college.  I was just out of college.  We weren’t looking for anything solid in terms of relationships.  Out for a good time.  That was our basic story.  We talked for long enough, so I asked her where she lives, and if I could take her there.  She said yes, and as we walked to my car, she gave me her address.  I stopped.  I hadn’t had contact with my dad for 3 years, and hadn’t had a relationship with him in 14 years, but I certainly knew where he lived.

“That’s my dad’s address,” I told her as we both glared at each other for what seemed like eternity.  “yes, Marty, that girl, who I was about to hook up with, was my half sister.”

As of yesterday morning at 9 am, I (back to Marty) hadn’t seen John in 7 years.  He walked into my office to surprise me after he spent a few days watching Red Sox games and taking tours of Harvard University.  Now he was headed home to upstate NY and decided to stop by for a visit.  We talked about family and life 7 years later.  I was married.  He was married with 3 kids.  He had now been a high school math teacher for 18 years.  I was now the lead pastor of Fellowship Church.  It really was great to see him.  Conversation eventually morphed into talk of old times, and I reminded him of the story I shared moments ago.  Then he asked me if he had updated me on that story.  I told him, “How could you have?  We haven’t talked in 7 years.  So he shared with me the rest of the story:

“So as you know, my relationship with my father has pretty much been non-existent for the majority of my life.  My mom warned me of his selfishness and that he was his own number 1 priority.  I learned that the hard way when I started playing baseball in high school.  He took off when I was a kid and all but ignored my existence.  Then I started playing high school baseball, played well, got my name in the paper, and he started to come around more.  “That’s my kid!” he would yell loudly for everyone around him to hear.  At first I was proud.  My dad’s finally taking an interest in me.  We would go fishing and talk a bit more.  Then later on in my athletic career, I hurt myself and couldn’t play anymore. I was on injured reserve in high school.

“As far as games go, it wasn’t a shock that he stopped attending them, but the fishing trips faded, and time with dad evaporated very quickly.  I would no longer have a relationship with him, and I realized our time together was connected to what I offered him.  It sucked.  Later on when I became a teacher and started coaching girls basketball at my school, our team went to the finals, and about the time my name appeared in the papers again, he made his way to the games again.  But this time I was an adult, and barely acknowledged his existence.

“Fast forward to the time I became a Christian, through our time together, Marty, on to when I got married and had kids.  My family and I attended a boys basketball game in February 2009.  I saw him and he saw me.  I looked away and hoped he would just go away, but he didn’t.  He walked over and we exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, while I chose to leave my wife out of the loop.  During a most awkward silence, my dad looked at my wife as if to tell me he’d like to be introduced to her.  I would not do it.  My heart was cold, and this basketball game would not be the place to thaw it out.  But after a look from my wife, I gave in and said, “Nancy, this is my dad.”  We’d been married for 6 years and lived in the same small town, and they’d never met.

“At the end of our conversation, which lasted much longer than I had wanted it to, my dad asked me to write down all of the names of my family and their birthdays.  I grabbed his pen and paper, and wrote them down.  After looking at the paper for longer than he should have, he anxiously said, “Could you write down yours too John?”  Anger flared up inside me as I realized the magnitude of this moment.  I suppose it took a bit of humility to ask me that, but my insides told me that years of neglect had affected me more than I knew.

“Before he left, he said he had gone through some health issues recently, and realized how selfish his life had been.  He wanted to connect more with our family.  I left knowing I should forgive, but not wanting to allow my heart to open up.  After several conversations with my wife, and knowing that I was going to have help from Jesus to allow for this kind of forgiveness, I could feel some improvement.  And though I secretly hoped he would never call or want to get together, I continued to ask God’s help for my heart.

“Then he called.  It was the birthday of one of my kids, and he asked if he could come and bring a gift.  We were having a party, so hesitantly, I invited him to come along with his wife.  They came and gave a gift and seemed to have a great time.  That birthday started a trend that year of spending time together as two families became one again.  Recently, my dad told me he enjoyed spending time with us because, as he put it, ‘Nancy and you treat one another differently than any married couples I know, and you’re good examples to us.’”

“As our relationship continues to grow, and as my heart heals, I’m learning so much about the amazing grace of Jesus, and though I didn’t deserve it, he freely gave it.  Though I have continually hurt him, he continues to forgive me.  So the least I can do is forgive my dad, and that forgiveness has opened up a lot of avenues for our family.

“In fact, Marty, he recently invited me to one of his family reunions that he goes to every year.  I knew he attended it every year back in the day, but I was never invited or whatever.  So I went and saw people I hadn’t seen since I was a kid.  I saw many of my half brothers and half sisters, and I saw one half sister in particular who I had met in a bar several years before.  “You look great!”  I said enthusiastically…

She responded, “You thought that about 20 years ago too!”

I have a fear that when we have a “good idea” at Fellowship Church, the idea in our minds won’t translate to getting across a real point of spiritual significance, but will translate into “Man, that sucked.”

Several weeks ago, Carie and I celebrated our 5 year anniversary at the Italian restaurant where Carie’s sister Jessica works.  It’s a nice restaurant that only recently opened by occupying another failed Italian restaurant.  The experience was enjoyable, the food amazingly delicious, and the only negative was the ambiance given off by the restaurant’s 1970ish looking decor.

Fast forward to last weekend when Carie and I decided to hit up a brand new Italian Restaurant in the same city that reoccupied a closed McDonalds.  To say I was skeptical of whether it would be a good experience or not is to under-exaggerate.  I figured that I would not be able to get past the fact that I had spent some time ordering “two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun” at this establishment.  For a short time at the new restaurant I felt this way, but eventually they won me over having redecorated the entire building, so only the outside was reminiscent of the golden arches.  Then the wait staff was outstanding, and the food was even better than the aforementioned Italian restaurant we visited on our anniversary.  (It should be mentioned here in all fairness that we have only eaten at both restaurants once, and in both cases the food was great!)  Also, the restaurant was packed, for this particular restaurant has four other restaurants in Massachusetts, and they clearly did a great job of building their platform nicely on this launching weekend.  Food, check.  Wait staff, check, check.  Atmosphere, triple check.

On the way home, Carie wanted to encourage her sister, who was working at the first restaurant, so we decided to stop by there for dessert.  The first thing we noticed as we walked in was the number of cars in the parking lot.  Clearly most of the Italian restaurant connoisseurs decided to eat we ate that night, as the parking lot loomed largely empty.  As we walked in, the same vibe that had illuminated Jessica’s place of employment 2 weeks earlier had clearly disappeared as we wondered if this was really the result of a new restaurant in town.

The hostess sat down in a booth, and within two minutes of sitting, we noticed something was going on about 20 yards from us on the other side of the bar.  It looked like…No, it couldn’t be.  “Are they setting up for Karaoke?” I asked Carie in disbelief.  Alas, the woman leading the karaoke in charge was about to answer my question as she picked up the microphone and made an announcement that singing and good times would begin in about 5 minutes.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked Carie and now Jessica as she also stood in apparent disbelief, having not known about this before we walked in.  In the next 5 minutes, three couples formerly sitting in booths and enjoying the remains of there dinners quickly left the scene.  And then as tradition has it, the woman leading the Karaoke charge takes the mic, asks the Dj to push play, and begins to bellow a nasty country song worthy of any honky tonk on any side of the ‘ol Mississip.  A new couple walked in holding menus and walked towards a booth, then realizing what was happening, and about the time they were passing our booth, silently and with cat like prowess, they turned around and walked out.  The woman leading the Karaoke charge kept on bellowing.  Nothing could stop her.  And Carie and I were witnesses to the unraveling of a classy Italian restaurant.

Jessica served us our fancy desserts as some guy who had a halfway decent hit a grand slam with a U2 song, the only runs of the evening.  She responded to my inquiries about who in the world thought it was a good idea for a nice Italian restaurant to host karaoke by telling me the Chef was pissed and felt like the evening was a slap in the face to him and his kitchen staff.  By the time we walked out for the evening, the bar held a handful of wedding singers and the booths were practically empty.  Later, the owner confessed to his staff that he was trying to boost his bar numbers, and thought this was a great way to do it.

So he compromised what his restaurant was great at for a lackluster attempt to resurrect what was not going so well, and the result -  at least for that evening…

An epic failure in every area of the restaurant.

Today we tear trailers down at Fellowship Church.  Trailers that have been around for a lot of years, have a certain amount of nostalgia associated with them, and currently house scores of little furry creatures that, for years, have caused much headache on our property.

We would like to have built first, a children’s facility or a new sanctuary, but before we did that, the trailers had to come down.  Years of use, abuse, decay, and becoming the habitat for skunks, raccoons, and ground hogs have left the trailers unusable for us, so before we put another building up, and continue to improve our facilities, we had to ask ourselves, “What has to go?”  I think before we said, “What do we need to do?”, we needed to say, “What needs to go?”

This was a must in terms of our  future maturity.

This is so not the point of this post, but it about sums it up.

Crossing lines and building bridges seems to be what Jesus was all about:  Samaritans and Jews, friends and enemies, first place and last place, none of that mattered to Him, as long as they were being pointed to His Father.  As for me, sometimes I just want to do my own thing.

A bit over a year ago, I traveled with my friend Steve to Gillette Stadium to see the Patriots play the Steelers.  Being a Steelers fan has its benefits, one of them is having the coolest, manliest colors in the NFL, so I wore my number 7 jersey proudly, along with a turtleneck, a Steelers coat, a Steelers hat, Orange long johns (nobody was going to see them anyway),blue jeans,  my terrible towel, and a pair of work boots.  Loving the Pats like he does, Steve opted for the red, white, and blue of Patriot nation, and the battle was on.

The weather cooled off that weekend just in time for the game, as what had been 60 degree weather turned into rain and 38 degrees on just over a few days.  Our apparel was warm, and our ambition and competitive spirit was high.  Arriving at the stadium early allowed us to find a decent parking spot to pay $40 to park, and this was a good price.  If you’ve ever been to Foxboro, you understand that it isn’t like Boston. There’s plenty of room there, so the owners charge so much for no reason other than their own greed.  This makes me happy I’m a sports fan.  Let’s all cheer for teaching morals and values through sports!

As we walked the half mile or so to the stadium (I suppose a parking a quarter mile away was $60), the drizzle came down like a fine mist, and the conversation with Steve flowed about the game and the big players and our excitement for the evening.  I also asked him in a most humble and wussy way, “Um, Steve, if someone tries to beat me up today because I’m wearing Steelers gear, you got my back, right?”  Steve assured me he would be there.  This made me much happier than the $40 payout I had just given to Bob Kraft and the gang.  When we arrived in our seats, I noticed an unhealthy environment issue around me – When we walked to the stadium, I saw plenty of Steelers fans with their towels and heavy black and yellow clothing and beer in hand, ready for a great game, but when I sat down, my section enjoyed almost all Pats fans.  It was after all, in New England.

I purposed in my heart that I would not overtly be a butt head or an over zealous ‘away team’ fan, so as the game started, when the Steelers had something good happen, I cheered, but did not stand or scream, or even wave the “terrible towel”.  Of course, early on, very little happened to make me cheer, so this wasn’t difficult.   Eventually two opposing things happened to make my night as confusing as a young teenager who just wants to be friends but can’t live without that person (please see your teenage friends facebook status for details):  First, it started raining.  The entire game it rained and rained, until everyone, myself included, felt miserable.  Overpriced hot chocolate from McDonalds didn’t help.  A hot dog, that based on what I paid for it could have fed a small orphanage in Peru, didn’t help.  The rain came down cold and wet and nasty, and eventually pressed through my clothing into my skin like tiny tacks that the devil might sit on, ouch!

Secondly, by the time the game ended, even I, who cheered heartily for the victory the future super bowl champion Steelers pulled out that night (33-10, in case you wondered, though that was so not the point of this post) was happy to be walking back to my car.  The entire crowd moved slowly and almost everyone looked down at the ground, not only because of the loss, but also because of the intensity of the rain at the cold at this point in the evening.  As we walked towards the exit, I felt something happen to me – I no longer had my terrible towel in my hand.  Very slowly I turned around a full 360 degrees and saw nothing. And then, deciding to take an additional 90 degrees for fun, I saw these three guys laughing at me and looking back about 15 feet behind me.  I looked at the ground in that particular direction and saw my towel – cold, wet, and clumped on the ground being walked on by other passerbyers.

Glancing toward the direction of Steve, I noticed he had continued walking and with his hood on, he wasn’t able to see the stressful situation his friend had found himself.  So I looked back at the 3 guys and said to the one that appeared to be the culprit, “What are you doing?”  He was short and probably drunk and kind of reminded me of Johnny Lawrence, the anti-Ralph Macchio from the movie “The Karate Kid.” His response was typical of someone who was angry at the loss of his sports team and had numbers to back him up:  “Whatever I want to do, what are you going to do about it?”

So now I have an ethical decision to make in the midst of all this chaos.  Thousand of people walking all around me, most of which think I’m stupid for wearing the colors I’m wearing, and I’m processing,  Do I say something sarcastic and inspire their ire, or do I stand back and not give in to what they clearly want me to do?  Extra, extra, read all about it, local pastor arrested for inciting an argument after last nights game.  He clearly was at fault because of his clothing choice. After some careful thought in 3 or so seconds I was able to think, I looked straight at them, and said:

“Well, I’m going to walk back there, pick up my towel, and celebrate MY team’s victory.  Have an amazing night guys!”

Someday I will be more like Jesus and use that opportunity, not to have an ounce of sarcasm in my voice, but to point people to the Father.  Unfortunately though, it didn’t happen that day…

and it probably won’t happen in that sport.

Fremont Baptist Temple’s Christmas Cantatas in the 80′s and 90′s were big.  Big everything.  Big drama.  Big music.  Big crowds.  Big hair.  Practice for the choir started in the fall on Sunday evenings a few hours before the Sunday 6pm service.  From the age of 13 I sang in the choir, first as a tenor, then sometime after puberty when I didn’t sound like Charlotte Church anymore, bass.  I loved getting to sing with guys like Steve and Bill, and contributing to the production as a whole.

Sheltered isn’t even the word to begin to describe who I was in those days, because it wasn’t just that I was actually sheltered, but I embodied my parents desire to shelter me.  That is, I never really fought it.  I so wanted to not disappoint them or even impress them at times that I did my best to tow the line when it came to all things “worldly.”

So one Christmas our church performed a production entitled, “Born to die.” The story and song told of a young man who walked away from his family’s Christian tradition to go live with his friends in “the world” and no doubt do some pretty monstrous things like listen to AC/DC  and smoke and get to 2nd base and beyond with his worldly girlfriends.  Eventually our young protaganist loses his job and has no money, which is right about the time all his friends leave him for better concerts (Poison perhaps?) and his girlfriends  go looking for hotter guys with money.

Eventually he gets to the place where he gets evicted from his apartment, and has nothing but a desire to return home for Christmas, a very few dollars, and a gold watch his grandfather had given him years earlier.  So he goes to the bus station trying to get home and attempts to talk the ticket guy into giving him a cheap ticket since he doesn’t have enough money to get across the street much less back home.  A conversation ensues and the guy ends up feeling bad for the repentant hero, and barters with him to trade a ticket home for his grandfather’s gold watch, which also happens to be the last remaining worldly possession the young man has.

I remember sitting in the choir during the rehearsals and the performances refreshed to know that I would never end up like that guy, stripped of everything because of his stupid decisions which could have been avoided had he just listened to what the Bible taught.

Years later I found myself in Christian college, still towing the line and making my parents proud of me for what I was not doing, when I became a floor leader (the rest of the world calls it an RA, but the “tattle tale” structure was different there).  One of my responsibilities was called “shadowing”.  “Shadowing” was necessary when a young male or female college student didn’t tow the line via the rules of the college, and when they got caught (if it were a big enough crime, like going to the movies or talking to the person they were dating on an unchaperoned sidewalk), they would have to go through an appeals process to stay in the school.  During the appeals process, the person being “shadowed” would have to follow the floor leader around their classes or to their rooms and they couldn’t talk to anyone else besides administration or floor leaders.

I remember “shadowing” several of those people during my junior and senior years in college, and feeling sorry for what they were going through, but also encountering a certain happiness that I was glad I would never go through that situation or be like those people, having lost many of their college friends because of one or two bad choices they made when they could have just followed God’s advice.

Then I graduated from school and moved to Atlanta to become a high school history teacher.  I really loved it, but working at a christian school I got paid enough to eat and sometimes pay the rent.  My real life had started, away from the rules and the people telling me what to do and towing the line.  I remember one beautiful September day walking on the school campus feeling like I could take on the world, having put myself in a great situation, loving the co-workers and students with whom I was constantly  surrounded.  And I thanked God I was not that guy who would sell his soul and his family out for a good time, or those people who messed their life plans up by some stupid choice to go off campus and visit Hooters or other people I knew who did bad things.  I towed the line.  I did the right things.

And then, just like that, I became that guy/those people and I would never be the same.