Anniversaries

Autumn is an inherently nostalgic time for me.  The dip in temperatures, change of wardrobe  and falling leaves stir up memories of halcyon days long gone.  That feeling is amplified in my family because between September 13 and November 22 of each year we celebrate five birthdays and our wedding anniversary in addition to Halloween and (sometimes) Thanksgiving.  The final third of each year provides a predictable overdose of reminiscence.

Yesterday was our thirteenth wedding anniversary.  My memories of the event are as crisp as the temperatures we enjoyed on our wedding day.  Friends and family from all over the U.S. and Canada had flown in to celebrate with us, and we surrounded ourselves with seven bridesmaids and eight groomsmen on the stage, a phalanx of brothers and sisters covenanting to hold us to our vows before God.  Most of all I remember my youthful bride, inexplicably radiant as she walked down the aisle toward a guy who felt like he’d just won the lottery.  Last night we looked through a scrapbook that Toria made years ago, documenting our engagement, wedding and honeymoon.  We look ridiculously young in those pictures.  Looking back now, it seems that we hardly knew each other.  But things have worked out pretty well.

Some of the many things that have worked out well are our children.    The third of our four celebrates his birthday today.  This morning he woke to pancakes and presents.  He was as delighted opening his new Star Wars toys as I was opening mine 30+ years ago.  I put him on the school bus with a smile on his face, anticipating a full day of recognition. 

In twelve days we’ll observe our oldest’s birthday.  November 22 carries some pretty heavy historical baggage.  On a day when lots of people will be telling stories about where they were when JFK was assassinated, we’ll be celebrating the birth of a kid born 35 years later. 

I find it notable that the concept of “anniversary” – whether for weddings, births or assassinations, is central to our concept of remembrance.  It’s part of our psychological DNA.  God put it there.  Annual observances in the form of feasts and festivals was and is a critical part of the Jewish recognition of God’s prior acts of deliverance and mercy.  Time and again God calls his people to remember.  Time and again his people falter when they forget. 

A properly observed anniversary serves as a psychological monument to an event worthy of remembrance.  I don’t think that anniversaries are overdone.  I think that they are underdone, or done poorly.  What if each Easter served to truly re-orient the wayward mind and to fix it on Christ’s atoning sacrifice?  What if each Thanksgiving led to a genuine outpouring of gratitude to the giver of all good gifts?  What if each Christmas directed us toward the never-failing promises of an eternal God?  Better yet, what if each Sunday’s worship accomplished those things?  Or best of all, what if we ordered each day around remembrance of what God has accomplished in us, and inviting Him to accomplish more through us?

So, perhaps these months don’t provide an overdose of remembrance so much as a proper dose.  To the extent this season leaves me fatigued, I suspect it’s not because I am remembering but because I am forgetting.  I am forgetting the very purpose of these observances. 

Is there strife in your marriage?  Then I suggest that you remember the days when you were falling in love.  Are you struggling with your child?  Then I suggest that you remember the vows you made as you first held that child and brought him into your home.  Are you struggling with anxiety?  Then I suggest you remember the times that God has provided and prevailed in your life, and commit to memory some of his many promises of protection and provision.  There’s a great deal of wisdom in not merely seeking to learn something new, but in diligently and purposefully remembering what we already know. 

Remember the wonders He has done, his miracles, and the judgments he pronounced.  I Chronicles 16:12

 

The Sun Still Rises

I’m suffering whiplash from the collision of current data and eternal truth.  Each day as I talk with clients, read trade periodicals and check on the news I am inundated with tales of loss, business failure, and pessimism.  At the same time I read that Christ promised an abundant life, joy and a peace that passes understanding.  The cognitive dissonance is dizzying.

Just a sampling from some of the things on my desk today:

“Office market nowhere near bottoming out.” Atlanta Business Chronicle

“These things I have spoken to you so that My joy may be in you, and that your joy may be made full.” John 15:11

“Problems at the Federal Housing Administration… are becoming so acute that some experts warn the agency might need a federal bailout.” New York Times

“Do not worry about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on.  Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothing…And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life?”  Matthew 7:25, 27

“Doomsday blast kills 49 near Pakistan Bazaar.”  MSNBC

“These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace.”  John 16:33

“Initial [unemployment] claims remain well above the 325,000 that economists say is consistent with a healthy economy.”  AP

“And my God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”  Philippians 4:19

Outside my window picketing laborers and protestors march all day, their angry chants wafting their way up to my window.  There’s a malevolence in the air.  Strangers on the street seem edgy and agitated.  In the midst of it, I am called to put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Some days that’s hard to do.

For years I’ve been blessed with a robust practice as clients have bought, sold, developed and refinanced real estate projects.  Since late last year that’s nearly come to a stop.  So I spend much of my time counseling distressed clients, waiting for the stagnant economic haze to clear and the sun of commerce to shine again.  Some days it’s hard not to view the world through a lense tinted with gloom.  And yet I know that’s not what God intends for me.

Last weekend my wife and I joined two other couples for our third trip to the Len Foote Hike Inn at Amicalola Falls State Park near Dawsonville, Georgia.  After we’d all dropped off our kids at various places, we piled into a Yukon and left the city behind us.  We had beautiful weather, and I spent most of the 5-mile hike lost in thought about the current state of things.  For me, there’s nothing better than a trip to the mountains to re-shape my perspective.  The quiet and beauty of the forest, the grand scale of views from the top of a mountain, and the fellowship of good friends all serve to remind me of what is eternal and significant versus what is temporary and ephemeral.

Once we reached the inn, we found some rocking chairs on the porch and sat.  There are no electronics, no TV’s, no recorded music, and very little noise at the Len Foote Inn.  I find a great deal of joy in sitting.  We played the guitar a bit and laughed a lot.  One of our friends took this picture of Toria and me on that porch.  I’ve studied this picture quite a bit this week.  I’m not sure whether I look wise or weary, but I certainly look all of my 40 years.  My bride, however, looks as youthful as the day we married.  Her optimism sustains me, and preserves her.

I’m not sure how long we sat on that porch, but it was hours.  We eventually joined the other guests for a great dinner, and then shared bottles of wine  as we continued to tell stories and make plans.  I slept better than I had in weeks.

In the morning the innkeeper walked around the perimeter of the lodge softly beating a drum, which was his way of communicating that the sun was about to rise if we wanted to watch it.  I pulled myself out of bed, poured a cup of coffee and made my way to the overlook.  Once there I made my shortest journal entry of the year:

Sunrise.  Crisp.  Beautiful.  Coffee.  All is well.

 

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”  Lamentations 3:22-23

I don’t know what next year, next month or tomorrow will bring, but I know that God has always provided for me, always sustained me, and never left me wanting for any good thing.  It is worry, the very thing I am commanded not to do, that inhibits my joy.  And it is my divided loyalty between God and money that prevents my peace.  I repent of those things.

As with all trips to the mountains, the time eventually came to descend.  I was refreshed and renewed.  But the renewing of my mind must continue.  Someone told me today that I think too much.  Maybe.  I definitely need to think better thoughts.  After a week in the lowlands, I am more convinced than ever that the better thoughts are the eternal ones.  And when it comes down to choosing between trust in the vagaries of the real estate market or trust in the power that set the sun in the sky, I’ll go with the certainty of the sun. 

 

On Turning 40

I turned 40 on Sunday.  To be honest,  I was kind of mad about it.  My anger was irrational, because the alternative to reaching my 40th birthday wasn’t a particularly good one.  And I’m pretty pleased with my life – married to a beautiful woman, father to four healthy and wonderful kids and experiencing an arguably successful career.  Still, I’ve never been able to reason away my emotions, so the anger stuck.   

Knowing that I planned to take Friday off, my co-workers arrived early Thursday to decorate my office with black balloons, a gravestone, streamers and all the typical decorations for a benchmark birthday.  My associate gave me a package of Depends and some Centrium vitamins.   It’s nice to be thought of on my birthday, even in a mocking sort of way.

The next day my wife and I left for Tennessee where we’d rented a cabin for the weekend, just the two of us.  We off-loaded the kids to my in-laws.  I love long drives with my wife.  There’s lots of time for uninterrupted conversation, music and the sort of connection we often miss during regular life.  Other than the abysmal traffic in Pigeon Forge, it was a great drive. 

As we sat on the deck of the cabin enjoying the spectacular view, my wife handed me a gift.  The box wasn’t heavy, but I soon learned that it carried great weight. 

Inside the box Toria had carefully packaged 21 letters from friends and family written for me to read on the occasion of my 40th birthday.  The letters represented relationships from childhood, high school, college, single days, and married life.  Some were filled with memorable stories, others with words of encouragement, and all with a great deal of affection.  The words sang off the pages like the Who’s of Whoville while my  once angry heart grew three sizes too large.   The fact that my wife had been so thoughtful in the midst of her insanely busy life was tremendously touching in itself. 

The balance of the weekend was full of other good and enjoyable things.  On Friday night we ate a wonderful dinner at the Dancing Bear Lodge in Townsend, Tennessee (on “the quiet side of the Smokies”), and the following morning rode our bikes through Cades Cove in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.  We rode in the early hours while the road was shrouded in fog.  Tens of deer grazed in the meadows, and we passed within a few feet of a mother bear and her cub.  It was a spectacular ride (but I didn’t take my camera with me beyond the car).

Following that adventure we went back to the cabin, showered, and drove into Knoxville for the Tennessee/UCLA game.  I’ve been a Tennessee fan for years, and my uncle is a UCLA booster, so he was in town with my aunt, my parents and some friends.  The game day vibe was great as Tennessee had won big in its first game and shown some signs of emerging from its recent slump. 

Despite the enthusiasm, Tennessee hasn’t fixed its issues on offense and suffered an inauspicious loss after some unfortunate quarterback play.  But it was a great experience to watch a game in one of the largest venues in the country.   Most importantly, it was great to spend some time with family.

The next day, on the day of my actual birthday, Toria and I made our way home where we were greeted by the rest of my family.  The kids had all made posters, and my in-laws cooked a marvelous birthday meal.  Sparing no expense, my mother-in-law prepared a cake with 40 candles.

They topped it off by giving me “Guitar Hero” for the Wii, which was completely and delightfully unexpected. It was a rare moment of excitement for me.

It was a great birthday weekend, and I couldn’t have asked for better.

Great wife, great kids, great friends, great life.  So why was I angry going into the day?  I was mad because it’s all going by so quickly and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down. 

My children are still young, but won’t be for long.  I’m still fit and healthy, but it won’t last forever.  Muscle tone is harder to maintain now.  My joints ache more often.  I take longer to heal.  None of that is going to improve in the next 40 years.

Sure, the grocery store magazines insist that “Life Starts at 40!”, but I know it’s not true.  My life on this earth started 40 years ago, and it’s likely to end about 40 years from now.  It’s halftime, and each coming year will seem to pass more quickly than the one before it. 

The morbid theme of my office decorations, though humorous, are a reminder of an inescapable truth.  I’m going to die.   Talk all you want about living life to the fullest, but if death were the ultimate and final end, then a birthday would truly be something to mourn.  But death is not the end.

This is the promise which He Himself made to us:  eternal life.  I John 2:25

What awaits me is not mere consciousness. I look forward to an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for me.  (I Peter 1:4).    As for the days on earth that I have left, I intend to spend them storing up the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that I may take hold of that which is life indeed.  (2 Tim. 6:19).   How does such a life look?  It is characterized with humility, gentleness, patience, tolerance and love.  (Ephesians 4:3).  Something I note about that list – humility, gentleness, patience, tolerance and love – is that I cannot experience any of those things outside of the context of relationships.  In reading the letters that I received for my birthday, I was reminded that the richness of my life is in my relationships.  We both experience and serve our creator in the context of community.   

The quality of my life is defined by the quality of my relationships, and the primary relationship in my life is (or should be) with my creator.  So, for the second half of my life I resolve simply this – to love Him by loving others so that my joy will be complete.  (John 15:10-12).

Bless the Lord, O my soul

and all that is within me bless His holy name.

Bless the Lord, O my soul

And forget none of His benefits;

Who pardons all your iniquities,

Who heals all your diseases;

Who redeems your life from the pit,

Who crowns you with lovingkindess and compassion;

Who satisfies your years with good things,

So that your youth is renewed like the eagle.

Psalm 103:1-5 (NASB)

 

A Prayer

This morning I had the privilege of leading congregational prayer at our church.  It was also the morning when first graders were recognized in front of the congration and given Bibles.  My son was among them.  As I prepared for prayer this week, I thought a lot about my son and the other children receiving Bibles.  My thoughts resulted in the following prayer.  It’s not a verbatim recitation of what I prayed because I didn’t write it out word-for-word, but it’s close.

Heavenly Father, I am so grateful this morning for these children who stood before us and received their Bibles.  I pray that you would take this Word that we have put in their hands and install it in their hearts and minds. 

I pray that as they read your word, they would adopt the heart the psalmist who prayed “The law of your mouth is more precious to me  than thousands of gold and silver pieces.”

I pray also that they would plead, as the same psalmist pled, “One thing I have asked from the Lord, that I shall seek:  That I will dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life.”

I pray that they would hear and believe and obey the words of your son Jesus when he said “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven where moth and rust do not destroy and thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart is also.”

I pray that they would take on the heart of Paul who said “I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but rubbish so that I may gain Christ.”

I pray that they would have an overcoming faith, born of God, fearless, devoted, passionate, unwavering and unattached to the things of this world.

For those of us who are older, whose love has perhaps grown cold like the Church at Ephesus, whose effectiveness for you has been choked to the point of fruitlessness by worries and the deceitfulness of riches and desire for other things, I pray that we’d stop conforming to the patterns of this world and would instead be transformed by the renewing of our minds.  I pray that we would have a heart that desires, first and foremost, to walk in the light as you are in the light so that we can have fellowship with you.  I pray that we would come to you as these children come.

I pray that we’d stop viewing our eternal hope as some distant abstraction only to be realized after our deaths, and that we’d recognize that you are  not merely the source of eternal life, but you are eternal life, and we can have fellowship with you now.  Infuse our lives with an urgent vitality directed toward serving your kingdom.

Lest we think that we are too far gone, too entrenched in the world, too unusable, I claim your promise that you are able to do more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think according to the power that works within us.

Break our shackles Father.  Tear down the walls of experience and expectation and usher in a new awakening of your power in us, your servants.  Here, today, at this very hour.  Amen.

 

Backwards

I was an extremely mediocre cross country runner in high school.  Cross country was a “no cut” sport at my school, which is the only reason I made the team.  I ran primarily because it was a fall sport and I wanted to stay in shape for spring soccer.  I was unenthusiastic at training, but people had told me for years that I had a natural running style, so I thought that I’d be good at it.  My first race as a high schooler proved that natural ability is a poor substitute for training, at least in the world of endurance sports. 

I did bring one very special talent to the cross country team - throwing up.  Well, I didn’t actually throw up, but I was always the first to dry heave during our training runs.  Over time, our coach developed the inspirational line - “we’re going to run until Peterson pukes.”  Maybe it’s because my old cross country coach conditioned me to believe that I could make the pain stop by throwing up, or maybe it’s just because I’m particularly susceptible to dry-heaving when I am over-exerted.  Either way, it’s a talent that I’ve retained since my youth.

This morning I ran my fourth Peachtree City sprint triathlon.  The distances are manageable – 600 meter swim, 13 mile bike and a 5k (3.1 mile) run.  When I first started doing these triathlons, they were relatively novel and there was a certain “wow” factor in simply completing a triathlon.  These days I feel hard pressed to find someone who hasn’t run one, including my wife and two oldest children.   I ran my first tri four years ago and barely crossed the finish line.  My first triathlon became my first blog post, and I’ve been writing about my endurance events ever since.

I don’t race because I am particularly gifted or goal oriented, I just need sufficient motivation to exercise, and signing up for races has served me well in that regard, at least until recently. 

For various reasons, I did not register for any races this year until today’s triathlon.  Last year I ran the ING half marathon, a 5k and another triathlon before  this point in the year, but until today I didn’t have any challenges on the horizon, so my training throughout the year has lacked intensity.  A couple of weeks ago my wife finally said, “so, are you still planning to do this tri?”  That was her kind way of saying (and she has no other way of saying things)- “s0, are you pretty much surrendered to getting fat as well as old?”  About two weeks ago I ratcheted-up my training schedule, but that’s not enough time to adequately train for a tri.

Another development that greatly mitigated the intensity of my training was that I was running this one alone.  In the past, I’ve always run with friends, or had my family with me.  Even though Peachtree City is less than an hour away, we’d treat it like a destination race – we’d get a hotel, go out for a high carb dinner the night before, and push each other onward and upward, that sort of thing.  This year, I ran alone.  My friends have all either lost interest or had other things going on, and my wife and I have decided that dragging the kids to a race 50 miles away at 6:00 in the morning isn’t the best way to start a Saturday.   Consequently, I traveled and raced alone.

I went to bed early last night in hopes of getting a good night’s sleep, but woke to thunderstorms, and then some lower gastrointestinal distress in the middle of the night.  During trips to the bathroom I thought about turning off my alarm and sleeping in rather than making the lonely trip to Peachtree City, but I resisted the temptation.  My alarm went off at 4:45, and I rolled out of bed, made some coffee, picked up my bag and hit the road.

As always, the race was well-organized and amply staffed.  Race volunteers directed me to a parking space and then packet pick-up.  I got my body marked (they write your race number on your legs and upper arms and your age on your right calf with a Sharpie), and moved into the transition area.   The transition area is where you put your bike, helmet, running shoes,  and all of the stuff you need for the race.  There’s a science to proper organization of your transition area, and it makes a difference in your finishing times, as today’s experience proved again.  This being my seventh triathlon, I wasn’t as obsessive about checking and re-checking my gear as I have been in the past.   Soon after I had arranged my stuff, we were called to the swim start area.

Though I don’t turn 40 for a few more weeks, the USAT considers you to be whatever age you will be on December 31st of the year in which you race.  Consequently, “40″ was written on my calf, and I raced in the 40-44 age group.

In years past, this particular triathlon has been characterized by the large number of first-timers, and there were a few there today, but this race was a championship qualifier of some sort in which the top 33% in each age group qualified for national competition.  There were some ultra fit looking folks in the swimming queue.  A guy in front of me was talking about his experience at the Iron Man race in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho in June.  A fellow behind me was talking about his experience this year at a Half Iron Man race in South Carolina.   I was surprised at the number of seasoned and serious triathletes in the group.

As I stood there at dawn, listening to the bravado around me, reflecting on my lack of training, and lamenting the fact that I hadn’t brought any friends, I suddenly felt something in my gut.  No, not the intestinal issues from the previous night.  It was something primal, aggressive, almost angry.  Something in me said, “I am going to freaking do this!” 

In this triathlon the swimmers go out two by two, separated by 5 seconds.  This normally eliminates the viscious aquatic scrum that I’ve experienced at other triathlons where a hundred swimmers sprint into the water at the same time and jockey for position.  When the starter told me to “GO!”, I did.  I ran into the water with abandon and swam with methodical intensity.  One of the challenges in the swim is to control your adrenaline so as not to burn out too quickly.  Most triathletes develop a stroke the relies primarily on the arms so that they can preserve their legs for the other two elements of the race.  After a few seconds of frantic kicking, I got my body under control and started to glide through the water, passing several people – including Mr. Coeur d’Alene.  Another challenge to the swim is to simply see where you’re going.  There’s no neat black line at the bottom of the lake, so you have to periodically lift your head from the water and look ahead.  This morning the swim seemed more instinctive and natural.  Unlike previous races, I mostly avoided getting tangled up with other swimmers and kept a fairly true line to the finish.  I had my best swim split ever – 10:51.

Managing transitions (moving from the swim to bike, and then the bike to run) was a key to setting my personal best in 2008.  For whatever reason, I didn’t manage them as well today.  I lost 31 seconds in my first transition relative to last year.  Still, I felt like I had some gas as I came out of transition and mounted my bike.  My quads ached as I started, but I knew that it would pass.  Once I cleared the initial congestion outside of transition, I leaned into my tri bars and started focusing on my cadence and stroke.  A few clusters of advanced riders passed me, but for the most part I held my own.  I set a personal record on the bike course of 40:46, averaging 20.6 mph.  That’s not impressive in general, just impressive for me.

My next transition was also sub-par.  I lost 35 seconds relative to last year.  All told, that was 1:06 that I really shouldn’t have given up.  I can’t say why exactly, except that last year my bike was located closer to the transition exit and I can run faster without my bike than I can with it.

My legs resisted the run at first, as they always do after a ride, but I settled into a normal pace after about a half mile.  At the first mile marker I calculated that an overall personal record was still in play, so I pushed harder.  I started to compose an inspirational blog post in my mind.  At mile 2 I was still on pace.  My mental drafting was getting better with each stride – I was going to write about will power, attitude and drive.  Then, at about mile 2.2, Peterson puked. 

At first, I was able to run through it.  I noted that the retching sound actually had a dampening effect on the runners around me, so I thought that it might be of some tactical advantage.  Eventually, though, I had to stop.  I’ve never stopped in a tri before, not even my first one.  Stopping to walk was a surrender, but there was no decision about it, my body made me stop.  I heaved several times while the runners I’d carefully reeled-in over the past two miles started to pass me, one by one at first, then in a big pack, as if it were a coordinated effort to mock me. 

I’m not sure how long I walked, a couple hundred yards perhaps.  I finally felt well enough to start running again.  I recaptured a little ground, but not enough.  I finished the 3.1 miles in 27:49, a lousy 8:59 pace.  I’d done sub-8’s in the past.  My finishing time was 1:23:14, which is second best among my four Peachtree City Tri’s, but the most disheartening.  Roy Hobbs didn’t bust the outfield lights, Ray Kinsella’s dad didn’t emerge from the cornfield for a catch, and Rudy didn’t get the sack against Georgia Tech.  A middle aged guy just finished a race in the middle of the pack, and no one who cared about him was there to see it.

I finished 372nd out of 952 overall, and 54th of 98 in my new age group.  Not horrible.  But until today, I’d never gone backward in a race – not in a 5k, 10k, triathlon or anything similar.  I’d always improved with each race, however marginally.  At nearly 40 years old, I suspect that today’s trend will continue, but I can’t blame today’s result on age.

Running has always been a spiritual exercise for me, and I took some good lessons from this morning’s experience.  Finishing strong in life, as in racing, requires discpline. And not just on race day.  And going backwards isn’t good, at least not in the important things.  While going backwards doesn’t matter in things as trivial as a sprint triathlon, it matters a lot in terms of maturity and character.  No matter how old I get, I can’t let up.  I can’t stop earnestly seeking the significant things of life.  If I stop, I will go backwards.

 

What Happened to Dick Whitman’s Baptism?

 AMC’s “Mad Men” television series is a slick, well-crafted homage to the early 1960’s, an era sandwiched between the ill-remembered but much yearned-for 1950’s and the angst-ridden Vietnam years.   The historic backdrop of the series is more than an excuse for tailfins and Bossa Nova soundtracks, it is a character in the story, simultaneously glamorous and seedy, poised and desperate, obsessed with pleasure seeking, but experiencing little pleasure.  The actors, scripts and sets of Mad Men are sharp, rich, evocative and gorgeous. 

For those unfamiliar with the series – the protagonist is Donald Draper (Jon Hamm), the creative director of a Madison Avenue advertising agency.  He is confident, talented and ridiculously handsome (or so my wife tells me).   In the series’ first episode, we see him first with another woman, a bohemian actress living in Greenwich Village.   It is only after he dramatically saves the Lucky Strikes account that he returns to his immaculate suburban home to greet his spectacular wife (January Jones) and two sleeping children.   The  otherwise ordinary scene of his homecoming is jarring because there was no hint of a wife and family in the first 47 minutes of the show.  Draper is a man with two lives, and the nature of his identity is the most explored theme in the series.

Snippets of the following episodes serve as brush strokes slowly painting Draper’s past.  He was born as Dick Whitman.  His mother was a prostitute who died in childbirth, and she welcomed him into the world with an epithet that became his name.  Dick was raised by his father’s understandably bitter, fanatical wife.  He escapes his abusive upbringing by joining the Army and shipping off to Korea.  He and his senior officer are alone when snipers start to fire on their position.  Neither of them is hurt, but Whitman is so shaken by the event that he drops a cigarette lighter which causes an explosion that takes his officer’s life.  His officer is so mutilated that Dick is mistaken for him, and so he chooses to take his officer’s name – Donald Draper.  It is his first rebirth.

On occasion, Dick Whitman’s life threatens to encroach into Don Draper’s.  His long lost brother appears, an army buddy recognizes him on the train, the real Don Draper’s wife tracks him down, a co-worker opens a letter that reveals his past.   In each instance he is able to escape and preserve his newly made self, but Dick Whitman relentlessly pursues and we know that Don will never be free of him.  Don claims to love his wife, and he clearly adores his children, but he remains detached.  He thinks that he should want what he has, but yearns for something he can’t see.  His duality is both enabling and paralyzing.  In the penultimate episode of Season 2, he says, “I have been watching my life. It’s right there. I keep scratching at it, trying to get into it. I can’t.”

In Season 2’s episode, “The Jet Set”, Don drops out of life.  His wife had kicked him out of the house for one of his many affairs, and he seems to be growing weary of the new life he’d created for himself.  While on a business trip, he leaves his young protege holding the bag at a client meeting while he hops into a convertible with a fetching girl of uncertain origins and barely legal age.  “Do you need your things?” she asks as he coolly steps into her car.  “No”, he answers curtly, and they drive away.

This girl seems to offer him all that any man without sufficient mooring could want – a no strings attached relationship with a gorgeous young girl whose rich father promises to take him on an endless vacation around the world with no responsibilities, no work, no ties, and complete anonymity.  Just as it seems that he might take that tempting plunge, he is awakened by children squealing as they play in the pool.  This triggers a longing for something he once had and has lost.

The following episode is my favorite of the series.  In it, he reconnects with the real Don Draper’s wife.  While we get few details, we learn that she had discovered Whitman’s duplicity years ago, and then indulged and enabled his theft of her husband’s name, apparently in exchange for financial remuneration.  Despite its inauspicious origins, the relationship is critical for Don because Anna Draper is the only person on earth who knows him.  Consequently, in Don’s conversations with Anna we see him at his most genuine and transparent.  He lamets  that he has ruined his perfect life. Anna encourages him that he can start again, he can be reborn.  The episode concludes as Don baptizes himself in the Pacific Ocean while George Jones sings “Cup of Loneliness.”  

After his poetic transformation, I had expected to see something different in Don Draper.  But in Sunday’s Season 3 premier, I saw more of the same.  Series creator Matthew Weiner continues to play with Draper’s identity.  A stewardess calls Draper by the wrong name (still another name, taken from the label on Don’s borrowed suitcase), and he takes on not only the name, but a complete other identity as he allows himself to be seduced.   The new name seems to license his conduct.   In this and in his previous affair, we also begin to see a misogynistic trend in his relationships with these other women, something subtly sinister, controlling and cruel.  It’s as if Dick Whitman emerges to take revenge for the withheld love of his mother and step mother, simultaneously sabotaging Don Draper’s attempts at happiness.  Season 3’s opening episode was frustrating to watch because Draper is not only enigmatic and conflicted, he is also destructive and hopeless. 

Christian baptism is a beautiful symbol of our identification with Christ in his death and resurrection.  But Dick Whitman didn’t take on the identity of a perfect man, he took on an imperfect identity of his own making.  He was not remade, he merely re-engineered his handsome facade.  I enjoy Weiner’s frequent and powerful use of Christian imagery, and I suspect that Weiner is as skeptical as I am of Whitman’s ability to truly remake himself. But I doubt that Weiner believes what I believe – that man’s hope is in God alone.  Based on what I’ve seen thus far, and what I saw in “The Sopranos” (another of Weiner’s creations), his belief is that man has no hope at all. 

I’d like to see Dick Whitman experience a genuine rebirth.  Now that would make for some cutting edge television.

I see Christian pilgrims so redeemed from sin
Called out of darkness a new life to begin
Were you ever in the valley when the way is dark and dim
Did you ever drink the cup of loneliness with Him
Did you ever have them laugh at you and say it was a fake
The stand that you so boldly for the Lord did take
Did you ever have them mock at you and say in ways quite grim
Did you ever drink the cup of loneliness with Him
Oh my friends ’tis bitter sweet while here on earthly sod
To follow in the footsteps that our dear Savior trod
To suffer with the Savior and when the way is dark and dim
To think of the bitter cup of loneliness with Him

George Jones – Cup of Loneliness

 

A Little Bit of Snow (Rocky Mountain Adventure Part III)

When my wife and I planned our family vacation to Estes Park, Colorado, one of our top priorities was to schedule a hike up one of the peaks in Rocky Mountain National Park (“RMNP”).  The day after we arrived at the YMCA of the Rockies, we talked with a knowledgeable young girl on staff who recommended a few different routes.  From among her suggestions, we decided to hike to Flattop Mountain, the first of three peaks comprising “FHO” (the other peaks being Hallet and Otis).  We scheduled our hike for our last full day in Colorado.

In between our initial planning session and the actual hike, we had a series of other memorable experiences, some of which I’ve described in earlier posts.  One afternoon, my wife and I drove the Trail Ridge Road where we enjoyed spectacular scenery.  At one point we got out of the car, hiked up a nearby hill and scaled some of the rock formations at the top. 

 

On a more mundane afternoon, we walked the charming streets of Estes Park and looked in a few shops.  I’m not normally big on souvenirs, but one item caught my eye at Brownfield’s (a really excellent gift shop if you go for that sort of thing).  It was a coffee mug with the RMNP logo.   It was massive, green and emblematic of much that I love about the Rockies.  I didn’t buy it initially, but kept thinking about it all week and purchased it before we left town.

Though I enjoyed all our other activities, the climactic big hike at the end of our trip was always in the back of my mind.  I love my native Appalachian hills, but their appeal is more bucolic than grandiose. I was eager to ascend one of the great Rocky Mountain peaks that juts up like a jagged saw tooth against the big western sky.

On the morning of our hike we put all four kids in day camp at the YMCA.  One wonderful and potentially dangerous thing about our kids is that they are  absolutely fearless when it comes to being left with strangers.  Consequently, there were no protests when we dropped them off with their camp counselors. 

Before leaving the camp, we stopped by the recreation center again to get some final input from the charming girl who had helped us select the route.  She indicated that she and some other staffers had hiked to Flattop early one morning in the prior week so that they could watch the sunrise.  They’d made the ascent in complete darkness.  She warned us that there was “a little bit of snow” that obscured the trail, but assured us that we could follow boot tracks to avoid getting lost.  With that bit of parting advice, we hopped in the van and drove to Bear Lake, the site of the trailhead.

As a Boy Scout, I was taught to “Be Prepared.”  It’s one thing to memorize the motto, but the scouts had also put me in a few situations that instilled the motto in more substantive ways.  I had learned, for example, that early summer weather at high elevations can be unpredictable, and that people get lost even when hiking on relatively short and established trails.  Consequently, on the day of our little trip I carried a day pack with plenty of water, a little food, some fire starter, a map and compass, and a couple layers of extra clothes. 

The trailhead at Bear Lake is deceptively developed.  It’s a popular spot with a huge parking area.  A short, paved trail surrounds the small lake allowing small children, the elderly and handicapped to  enjoy the scenic path. 

The trail to FHO begins to ascend steeply shortly after it leaves the Bear Lake trail.  Before long, we started to encounter patches of snow.  We thought it would be fun to take pictures of ourselves in the snow at an angle that would make the snow look more abundant than it really was.   Within a couple of miles our staged photos of scattered snow patches seemed ridiculously unnecessary.

The views grew more stunning the higher we climbed. 

The mountains were also pretty spectacular.

The trailhead is at 9,475 feet and Flattop Mountain’s summit is at 12,324, making for a net gain of 2,849 feet in 4.4 miles.  As we climbed higher, the snow became more and more prevalent.  We had to crawl over some of the taller snow banks on all fours. The  ice numbed my fingers and cut my shins.  Every now and then our boots would  punch through the ice and we’d find ourselves hip-deep in snow.  Eventually, amidst the trees and snow, we lost the trail.  The girl at the Y was right, there were boot tracks to follow, but apparently a lot of other people ahead of us had gotten lost as well.  Taking the path most traveled is no sure way to avoid getting lost.  Very occasionally we saw stacks of rocks that folks had placed along the trail to assist hikers through the snow.  We looked for those stones, made some educated guesses and kept pushing ahead, but the the stacks of stones stopped appearing after awhile and both of us had the growing sense that we were  truly lost.  Before long, we weren’t even sure that we could find our way back to the established trail.  The “little bit of snow” was a lot more snow than this Georgia boy expected to encounter in June.  I was amazed that the young YMCA staffers had managed this trail in the dark.

We stopped to try and get our bearings with the  map and compass.  Though I’d taken the time to procure a map, I hadn’t bothered to confirm that I’d been given the right one.  The map we had was useless.  Though neither of us said so, we were both thinking about the thousands of acres of rugged mountains that surrounded us, and the fact that we’d not seen a soul since shortly after leaving Bear Lake.  I took some comfort from the supplies that I’d brought in my pack, but I really didn’t want to test my wilderness survival skills during what was supposed to be a 4-hour hike.  To top it all off, the sky had darkened and we could see thunderheads in the distance.  Then, just as I was about to surrender and start walking straight downhill in hopes of hitting the trail, we heard a voice crying in the wilderness.

Well, the voice wasn’t actually crying .  We heard two voices engaged in conversation, and they seemed to be descending from the summit.  We followed the voices through the trees, and eventually caught up with a couple who looked quite at home in the mountains.  The man looked like I picture John the Baptist, except for the earring and GPS watch.  He had a wild beard, long hair  and looked lean and solid as a rock. 

“Is this the trail?” I asked.

“Yes, if you’re going to Flattop,” he answered with a smile.

“It’s really good to see someone.  We were starting to think that we were lost.  Is the trail hard to follow from here?”

“If you keep going, you’re going to have to climb over some 8 foot snowbanks and the trail is easy to lose among the trees, but you’re just about to get above the tree line and the trail is pretty easy to follow after that.”

“Will we need crampons and and ice axe?” I asked with irony in my voice.

“Um, I don’t think so”, he answered without a trace of irony in his.  “But you should keep going, it’s worth it.”

Bolstered with their advice and encouragement,  we pressed on.  John the Baptist was right, we did lose the trail again, but we had a better sense of our general direction and so were able to reconnect more quickly.  After about a half mile, we emerged from the trees into sunnier areas of the mountain where the snow had melted.  Though the rest of the trail was a test of our aerobic fitness, we were confident that we were headed in the right direction. 

Once freed from the anxiety of being lost, we were able to enjoy the tremendous beauty of the place.  The tiny wildflowers, hearty high-altitude animals and majestic vistas were well worth the walk.

 Then, near the summit, we faced the most impressive bit of snow yet.  I don’t care where you’re from, this isn’t just a little bit of snow.

We finally reached the summit, and as our bodies cooled and the wind picked up, we donned the additional clothes in my pack.

Looking down from the top, the course of our ascent seemed much clearer.  At the summit it was all beauty and perspective and peace.  I was keenly aware that the creator of all that I surveyed is also the author of my salvation, the provider of all my needs according to his riches in glory.  I wondered why I’d limited the joy of the day by allowing myself to worry at all.  As we ate our Cliff Bars, we talked about our life and our worries…well, my worries.  Toria’s not a worrier.  I lamented the fact that I have forfeited so much of the joy of my very rich life by choosing to worry about things that almost never come to be.  It was wonderful, but the time came to start our descent.

Once we descended back into the trees we got lost again, though just briefly.  The shrouded section of the trail seemed less frightening on the second pass.  We encountered another couple that was lost and looked unprepared. The girl seemed worried.  I called out to them once Toria and I reached a clear section of trail, but they didn’t answer.  I trust that they made it down okay.  Not everyone responds to voices crying in the wilderness.

The trip had taken longer than we expected (about 5 hours), so we were in a bit of a rush to pick up the kids at the end of their day of camp.  We made it just in time.  We finished the day with a horse-drawn hay ride and campfire with the kids.

And then, the sun finally set on our Rocky Mountain adventure.

We’ve been back home for a month and a half now.  The beauty, perspective and peace I experienced on the summit at Flattop Mountain has worn off a bit, much like the logo on my prized souvenir mug.

For all the trouble that it caused us, I’ve realized that the snow on Flattop Mountain made the trip beautiful, memorable and exciting.  I suppose that the same can be said for many of the stresses of life, whether that be maintaining a law practice in a struggling economy, raising four children in this crazy world, or beating back distractions so that I can write.  It’s all just a little bit of snow. 

In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.  These have come so that your faith – of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire – may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.  I Peter 1:6, 7

 

God’s Mailbox (Rocky Mountain Adventure, Part I)

One of the key challenges in any Peterson family adventure is escaping the city.  Counterfeit urgencies, illness  and a hundred other obstacles seem to threaten our every attempt to escape the bustle of Atlanta.  Unwanted obligations cling to our legs and cry like spoiled children as we make our way out the door.  I’ve named this collection of distractions “The Noise.”  Our recent trip to Colorado was no exception.  But we pressed on, and made our escape last Thursday.

The Noise continued as we navigated the expressways, parking lots, security lines and general hubbub of the busiest airport in the world.  It waned a bit as our plane ascended and headed west.  The Noise threatened a bit as we went through the inexplicably lengthy process of renting a van.  But once we arrived at our destination in Estes Park, Colorado, The Noise had diminished completely.

Nothing captures my imagination so much as the mountains, and there are no mountains quite like the Rockies.  The YMCA of the Rockies was established in 1910, some five years before Rocky Mountain National Park was created. It boasts rustic lodges, sits at 8,010 feet, provides visitors a 360 degree panorama of extraordinarily majestic mountains, and lies adjacent to the famous national park.  We are members of the local YMCA, which is essentially nothing more than an L.A. Fitness for families, so I was pleasantly surprised to learn that this YMCA seems more dedicated than most Y facilities to its Christian mission.

On our first morning at the camp, we were presented with a wealth of opportunities.  The Y offers all sorts of classes, athletic venues, a museum, a crafts facility, an indoor pool, horseback riding and a dozen other options.  So, after a hearty breakfast, we split up.  Toria walked the two younger kids around the Y, and I took the older ones for an archery class.

Never missing an opportunity to impress my kids or anyone else watching me, I took up a bow and drilled the target a few times.  I hadn’t shot a bow in years, but I spent many 8th grade afternoons in my backyard firing a bow into a bales of straw in our backyard.  I was pleased that my skills hadn’t left me altogether.  My kids were impressed, but at some point will realize that their Dad had nothing better to do during junior high than shoot a bow and arrow in the backyard by himself.

After our classes, we joined my parents for lunch and decided to take a hike.  After a couple of wrong turns, we ended up making the climb to Bible Point.  Among other things, Bible Point is the burial place of Edwin Brandt.  Brandt died tragically at 18 years of age in 1918, and had so loved the spot that his father requested that he be buried there.  His parents installed a mailbox next to his grave where they placed a Bible and a register for hikers.  And so the place earned its name.

The hike was a relatively short, but steep ascent up to 8,650 feet, and my Mom and youngest daughter stopped mid-way up the climb.  The rest of us were rewarded with stunning views on a beautiful day.

King David wrote, “If I go up to the heavens you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  If I rise on the wings of the dawn and settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”  (Psalm 139:8, 9)  So I know that God hears prayers uttered from from my car or my office as easily as those issued on the mountain, and yet The Noise seems to subside when I’m above the racket of the world, and I feel more capable of hearing Him.

I thought of the prayers that Edwin Brandt likely lifted up from those very rocks nearly 100 years ago, and the cries of a father burying his son at the same spot.  Edwin died in a car accident on his way to his brother’s wedding.  I can only imagine the confusion, grief and anger of the surviving father of this spiritually precocious son.  And yet, his father thought to put a mailbox and Bible at his son’s grave.  His confusion, anger and grief didn’t morph into disbelief.  I don’t know the whole story, only that in God’s economy the whole episode had a purpose that escapes our understanding.

I think much disillusionment with God stems from the fact that prayer is an ineffective tool for manipulating God.  People pray for what they want, don’t get it, and assume that God either doesn’t exist or doesn’t care.  Much to our surprise, prayer just isn’t a way to get what we want.  It is, however, an exceptional tool for experiencing God. 

As I breathed the rare air at the site and watched my father and my sons, my wife and my daughter, I became acutely aware that I have been richly and wonderfully blessed, and that it is God who has blessed me, not just with opportunities like going to the mountains, and not just with a beautiful family, but with a knowledge of Him.  So many of us think of eternal life (if we think of it at all) as something that happens after what happens here.  Christ describes it differently, “Now this is eternal life: that they may know you, the only true God , and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.”  (John 17:3).  Eternal life is now.  And all that is true seems truer to me from a place like Bible Point.

 

 

Being a Dad

I love being a dad.  I’ve got four kids – 10, 9, 6 and 3.  Of all the riches of this life, nothing compares to having a house full of offspring.  Our house is not a neat and polished place.  It is filled with dings and scuffs and evidences of activity.  Each day brings unexpected blessings and challenges with these four sentient, sinful and marvelous creatures under our roof, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

My second child, Mary Kate, was born on Father’s Day.  She was the greatest Father’s Day gift ever.   As evidence that I’m a normal guy as well as a dad, one of the many things I remember about the day of her birth is watching Tiger Woods win the U.S. Open – while my wife was in labor.  I also remember saying to my wife immediately after the delivery, “well, that one was pretty easy.”  Yes, I can be oblivious.

We just wrapped up Mary Kate’s 9th birthday party, and I continue to marvel at the differences between boys and girls.  During our son’s 10th, his friends were playing indoor tackle football at 4:00 a.m.  Mary Kate and her friends made crafts and conversed quietly through the night, allowing us to sleep.  But as I watched my remarkably creative daughter interact with her friends, I mostly felt gratitude.  A few years ago she was in the hospital with an affliction that had the doctors baffled.  I remember thinking that I’d give everything I had just to see her well again.  She’s well now, and it’s easy to forget that her health was ever in doubt. 

I remember scary complications during our oldest’s delivery when the emergency medical staff was summoned. I remember our youngest arriving without the benefit of a doctor and the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. I remember the children we lost before they arrived.  But I look at the four now living in our chaotic house and marvel at their beauty. 

Whatever else this life has to offer, I have to consider myself blessed.

Sure, there are days when I wish I could have more uninterrupted conversation with my wife, more time to sleep, more opportunities to get together with the guys, and more time to indulge in my many interests, but in the end my kids enrich me in ways I’d never experience otherwise.  They make me a better man.

When I was in my 20’s, before I’d met my wife and had convinced myself I never would, I felt pangs of grief when I saw parents with young children because I suspected I’d never have my own.  That emotion seemed very unmanly at the time, but now I know what I was longing for.  I was made for this. 

The books of Psalms includes the phrase “As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth.  Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.”  I have a quiver full. So, as this Father’s Day approaches, I’m not looking for gifts or “me time.”  I’m just glad that I fall into the category of Dad.

 

A Walk at Lunchtime

I’ve been taking walks at lunch lately.  As the wheels of commerce have slowed, I have more time for such things.   Fortunately, the area around my office is a great place to walk. 

My office is at the intersection of 14th  and Peachtree Streets in an area of Atlanta known as Midtown.  That intersection marks the center of Atlanta’s business and art districts.  Most of the city’s large law and accounting firms, as well as the High Museum of Art, Woodruff Arts Center, the Savannah College of Art and Design and 14th Street Playhouse are all within a few blocks.  The intersection is also just a west of Piedmont Park, the Atlanta Botanical Garden and Ansley Park.  In busier times, it’s easy to forget that I work in such a culturally rich place.

 The High Museum is one of my favorite new haunts.  The High is hosting some pieces on loan from the Louvre, and they are extraordinary.  Some of the works are bleak, some uplifting, and they are all brilliant.  My favorites are the pieces from antiquity.  I find it remarkable that while  man was still struggling to claw an existence from the soil, he started creating things for no purpose other than beauty.  God put that there.  There’s no Darwinian explanation for man’s appetite for art, his need to express himself in words, color, texture and music. 

The museum was closed today, so I turned right on Peachtree Circle and walked into Ansley Park.  Ansley Park was Atlanta’s first suburb.  It seems odd to describe it as a suburb now because it’s as “in town” as any single family community in the city.  But when it was begun in 1904, it was north of the city center.  It was conceived as Atlanta’s first motorcar-oriented suburb, and it attracted Atlanta’s elite families.  Some of the well-travelled Atlantans of the day asked their architects to duplicate Italian villas or English country homes they’d seen on their travels.  Consequently, Ansley Park’s home have a rich architectural diversity, and many are now over 100 years old.

Whenever I venture in the direction of Ansley Park, I’m struck with the sudden transition from dense urbanism to elegant single family homes with meticulously manicured yards.  Some of the larger homes have been converted into condos, apartments or offices, and there are a few spots of blight, but for the most part the neighborhood has maintained its original character.

It was a gorgeous day, and there were a lot of other folks strolling through the neighborhood.  An artist was standing in the front yard of one of the houses, probably her own, and she gave me a quizzical stare from behind her easel.

“Why is everyone walking around today?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  Maybe it’s because none of us have anything else to do.”

“Oh,”  she answered.  She looked a bit crestfallen.  I suspect that she, like the rest of us, keeps watching for the promised tender  green shoots of spring that will signal a recovering economy.  Watching normally busy professionals wander around her neighborhood during the work day probably isn’t a good sign.

“Or maybe it’s just a beautiful day?” I offered.

“Yes, it is,” she smiled.

I continued my walk, listening to the mid-day bells tolling at First Presbyterian Church where I was married 12 1/2 years ago.  I thought about how we, as a nation, came to be where we are.  I’ve read a great deal about it, that’s part of my job.  But I think it boils down to too many people borrowing too much money creating an economy that was premised on people continuing do the same.  Nowhere is more emblematic of that than the exurban subdivisions of new money mansions that lie 40 or so miles from where I was walking.  We seem willing to consume as much land, expend as much money, and commute as far as necessary in order to possess bigger, more impressive homes and the trappings that come with them, but the end of the rainbow is littered with foreclosure notices.   

It’s popular to beat up on suburbia these days, especially in my circles in commercial real estate.  “New Urbanism” is all the rage, and everyone from the White House to the Mayor wants us all to move back into densely populated, “sustainable” communities.  Of course, those folks often forget why people left in the first place.  There are reasons why people moved so far out in recent years, and reasons why, over 100 years ago, Edwin P. Ansley conceived of an automobile-based community away from the city.  Crime, corruption, poor schools, and punitive taxes.  Today, the homes in the neighborhood that he conceived are out of reach for all but the wealthiest, and even in Ansley Park most education-minded parents find the schools unacceptable. 

On the other hand, though we suburbanites found our lower taxes, bigger houses and better schools in the suburbs, many of us lost our sense of community along the way.  As we’ve encased ourselves in cul-de-sacs, we’ve lost the art of living together.  The conversation I had with the artist was longer than any conversation I’ve had with my next door neighbor in years.   But I’d be naive to believe that the folks in Ansley Park are any different.

There’s got to be a both/and scenario where we can develop desirable, sustainable places to live that are not “communities” in name only, but places where people connect, cooperate and thrive.  The solution lies, at least in part, in recognizing that our deepest longings have more to do with relationships than possessions.  God put that there as well.

I was back at my desk within 50 minutes of leaving the office, richer for what I’d observed.  Even when things pick up, I think I’d be well served to take a walk every once in awhile.