Go Ahead, Be a Fire-Breathing Dragon

I just came back from my grandson's kindergarten graduation (which was probably the cutest thing I've even witnessed in my 48 years). The halls leading tot he gym were decorated with self-portraits all baring the common phrase “When I grow up I want to be...”

There were carefully-crafted creations of veterinarians, doctors, teachers and the odd pie-in-the-sky, field-afar NHL hockey players. But no, not my grandson. No, when Logan grows up, he want to be...(wait for it)...a fire-breathing dragon. There it was, blazed on the wall in full-crayoned glory.

Of course. Why let a little thing like reality get in the way of a dream? I mean, imagine if Marconi, Edison, Tessler, Banting, or the Wright brothers had bothered with reality? If you told someone 200 years ago that we would have an International Space Station floating around the earth, they would think you were psychotic and totally off your "rocket."

A couple of weeks ago I ventured—more like slunk—into my doctor's office. Apparently I hadn't been there for a little while. We can't be sure exactly what “a little while” is in Heather-years as the office switched to an electronic system quite a while back, and apparently my name reveals a blank slate. Nostradamus was probably predicting the end of my doctor appointments, not the end of the world, because it was certainly pre-2012. In reality, probably closer to 2010.

My mission, if I chose to accept it, was to walk out of that office with a requisition for an MRI on my right knee. End of. That's all I wanted from this visit. Total. Easy. Simple. Singular.

Maybe due my poor medical-office attendance, fear that I may never show up again for another five to ten years, or the fact that when asked about my parents I may have casually mentioned some sort of crazy autoimmune arthritic attack and the words “breast cancer,” I suddenly had requisitions flying at me from every corner of the room. I was getting everything from mammograms to bone density tests to blood work for lupus. My head was literally spinning.

“I see you aren't up to date on your whopping cough, tetanus, and....”

I didn't catch the third horrific disease.

He continued, “How do you feel about vaccinations?”

I think the question made him nervous. He didn't give me pause to answer. I think he was envisioning me as a staunch Jenny McCarthy follower. I may have mentioned plant-based diet earlier in the appointment. I mean, I looked the part of one of those. So, before I could pontificate on my philosophical and social outlook with regards to the topic of vaccination, the nurse was locked, loaded and administering me the needle. There is no doubt she certainly would be the last one standing in the Wild West.

Then came the real moment of panic. He mentioned the S-word. That was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, so to speak. “When was the last time you had a smear?”

I don't know if it was because I was holding my freshly-jabbed arm so tightly or if the look of overwhelming fright on my face was, well, frightening or if my attempt to joke, “I've booked my 10-year physical for November. Can it wait until then?” tugged at his sense of decency, he took pity on me and stopped the madness. The S-word would be saved for another day. Flippantly, on the way out I asked if I could get my vitamin D levels checked. It was added to the blood work. I had been reading a lot about ideal levels for optimal health and was curious where I was on the spectrum. I was outside running a little bit with my daughter and occasionally supplementing, so being deficient in the sunshine vitamin was completely outside the realm of reality.

He also ordered the MRI for my right knee. In fact, I didn't even have to hint at it. It was his idea. Usually I go the doctor with a pre-determined outcome in my mind. But, today, he beat me to the punchline. He twisted my leg a certain way, I yelped and he may or may not have used the words “meniscus,” “knee,” and “replacement” in the same sentence. Actually, it's probably a fact that he used those three words in the same sentence. What's really in question is whether or not I heard them.

Probably not, because since our lovely get-together, I've run a race with my daughter and went on a beautiful trail run with Karen and Lyndsay last weekend. I can't remember the last time the three of us all ran together, but we need to do it more often.

It is therapeutic, rejuvenating and cleansing—even if performed without the luxury of knee cartilage. My doctor did mention that I have superior knee tendons by the way. Just saying. I do have something to brag about.

We're all dealing with “stuff”--family, work, loss. And, it is so nice to leave a piece of the pain behind on the run. With the information age, I'm finding it more and more difficult to find joy, and I don't see how in reality, the world's problems can be fixed: war, killing in the name of religion, racial inequality, shooting people in church, throwing baby chicks into a grinder, cruelly slaughtering pigs, caging calfs, cutting down rainforests for beef, destroying the planet, removing the oil from the earth, global warming, pesticides, herbicides, genetically modifying our food without our say, Bill C-51. People not seeing the irony of having a BBQ (of pork hotdogs) to raise money to save the lives of cats in a shelter? How bizarre, kill the pig to save the cat? Religion, racism, sexism—speciesm. This current reality is madness. Total madness. I'm told this is how it is. An intervention, Godly or human, seems necessary to alter this reality. I don't want to hear—no, I don't want to accept—this current reality as our future reality.

* * *

There is hope. I got a few of my medical test results back. And, so far, touch wood, the only problem is I am terribly deficient in Vitamin D. 

I rest my case. Reality isn't always as it appears and it can change.

So go ahead, be a fire-breathing dragon.

Showing Up

My Grandson's mind works a little differently. This is in no way a bad thing, except when it comes to eating a varied and wholesome diet. His ability to eat things is hyper-dependent upon texture, colours and packaging—well beyond just a four-year-old's discerning pallet—and his mother has his diagnosis and tax credit to prove it.

So, when my daughter was advised to get a multi-vitamin with iron in it, the two went for some mother-son shopping. Unfortunately, the only vitamins with iron are hard and my grandson is used to gummies. This was a challenge of epic proportion. So, his mom did what every good, determined parent does. She bribed him. With his long-coveted favourite car toy.

Although not there, this is what I imagine the conversation going like:

“Do you want this car?”

“Yes.” answered emphatically.

“Okay. I can get you this car but you will have to eat one of these tonight and every night. Do you understand?”

Silence.

“Do you want the car?”

“Yes.” said with increased earnestness.

“Okay, if you want Mommy to get you this car, then you will have to have one of these every night.” pointing at the vitamins.

Blank stare.

“If you want the car, you will have to have a vitamin every night. Okay?”

Long pause, “Can I think about it?”

Last week, while taking some garbage into the garage (the dimly-lit garage I might add because after considerable nagging the light bulbs were still not changed), I slipped on the second step down. Glad it wasn't caught on tape, because I doubt it was my most graceful moment. I heard the smashing of glass and felt the stretching and twisting of my right foot and hip.

Now, you should know that four adults, two children, three dogs and a cat live in my house. I made quite a noise. You would think someone or something might consider popping by to see what all the ruckus was about. And, to be fair, my daughter was at work so she remains in my good books. I did hear a voice yell in the distance but no one came running: no queries of “are you alright?” or loud Lassie-like barks from our Australian Shepard. No, nothing.

Well, not quite. My cat came running. Without any undue drama (well maybe just a little), I could have been lying there unconscious, bleeding with broken appendages and the only one to show up was my cat. A house cat. An 8 lb house cat. An 8 lb, barely audible house cat. I mean, what could she do? She couldn't bark incessantly until the neighbours came running. It isn't like she had an opposable thumb so she could call 911—like a HUMAN--maybe even one living in this house. At first blush, it appeared that the least qualified being in the entire household showed up. And, I love her for it. It's tuna all-round for the next three months. At least she could curl up on my head and purr as I fought for my life.

Apparently I am a somewhat resilient closer-to-50-than-40 year-old and had no serious damage at all. I've been interested in returning to running again and we've signed up for a half-marathon. On the last “long” run—and I use the word “long” loosely if you think 7 km is long—I struggled. I gasped for breath, ran slower than I could walk up minor inclines and took frequent breaks. I'm slow, I'm weak and struggling. I'm no longer qualified—but I showed up.

No longer asking “Can I think about it?”, I need to realize the victory, at least for a while, is going to be simply showing up. And, the funny thing is, if you keep showing up over time, you become qualified. I hope that eventually, one day, I won't feel as slow, or quite so weak, or like I'm about to have a coronary on a tiny run.

My cat, Echo, appeared to be the least qualified to help me face-down in the garage, however she packs a lot of genius in that little skull of hers. She can get you to follow her when she wants her bowl filled and I've seen her put a 50 lb dog in its place. She knows the second I put my favourite blanket on a chair and no matter where she is in the house, will come and defile it with her hair and presence. And, she can locate and kill a mouse without any front claws.

A few years ago she had a large kidney stone. For a cat who faithfully uses her little box, I thought her communication skills were exceptional when she jumped into our white bathtub to show the stark contrast of the blood in her urine against the porcelain background. She's never done it since. Quite clever.

So outer appearances are deceiving. No matter how incompetent you feel, giving it the old college try is better than not trying at all. Right now I feel I'm “just a cat”, however, maybe one day and it won't be soon (trust me) I'll feel like a Cheetah—at least in my own mind!

A Different Kind of Race

It always seems impossible until its done.

- Nelson Mandela

I always thought it was impossible for me to be in the same room as Mayor Rob Ford (please note the loose and approximate use of the word Mayor). That is, until last night.

While attending a charity function to raise money for the typhoon victims in the Philippines at Toronto's notorious Virgin Mobile's Mod Club, in walked none other than Rob Ford.

Deadpan and straight-faced, the woman next to me said of the three quarters filled room, “Rob Ford is here? He'll fill out the room.”

“Rob Ford is here? I'll try not to crack up.” came another voice along the bench.

I couldn't help myself, I found myself laughing.

I turned around to see the Toronto Mayor standing but 6 feet away from me, larger than life (as the expression goes)...red-faced and surrounded by an entourage of equally space-requiring mammals.

Never in a million-and-one years could I have predicted this set of circumstances even in my wildest dreams. Quite frankly, I just don't run in his crowd.

If nothing else, this was definitely a triumphant Facebook status opportunity if I ever saw one. Thank goodness (and Karen H.) for the modern miracle of cell phones.

"I am in the same room as Rob Ford…not on purpose, mind you."

The responses came fast and furious:

“RUN!!!”

“WHAT?!??

“Where are you and what at you doing??”

“Are you dealing now??”

Wow, this was a stellar status update to elicit multiple punctuation markings at the end of every entry.

I took a picture of John next to the mayor. Expecting John to give a polite “Thank you,Your Worship” or a nod and a “Mayor Ford” or even, maybe, just maybe a casual “Thank you, Mr. Ford” I almost catapulted into hysterics when my ears rang with a broad Cockney accent, a slap on the back and a cheerful, “Thanks, Rob” with a first-name familiarity often only shared by the likes of college roommates or fishing buddies.

Then guilt overtook me. I had been objectifying this man. He was so surreal to me he was like a cartoon character in my mind. But, standing there right in front of me I realized that he and I were in the same race—the human race. He is human, albeit a drug-using, lying, often crass, poor decision-making, sufferer from the illness of addictions, maybe (as in for sure) delusional, best friend of criminals, runs with gang members, extortionists and possibly murderers--human. But human, just the same. He is someone's husband, father, brother and sadly, still someone's mayor. Maybe I was laughing at him to distance myself from what he represents--that humans, my race, our race, are capable of such behaviour. Because if he is capable of such things and I am made of the same stuff, what does that make me? My mind doesn't even want to go there. Is it possible that we could all be painted with the same brush strokes?

My cynical self thinks he was there for good PR but his brother did make a donation (not sure if he used the City of Toronto stationary) but I don't know his heart and should not stand in judgement of that act. I am sure regardless of motive the money will contribute to the good of the people of the Philippines. And, God bless him for that.

Something else happened yesterday. Nelson Mandela passed from this life. What an incredible icon who lived life within the context of the “whole picture.” He dedicated his life tackling racism, poverty and inequity. He spent 27 years of his life imprisoned. But, the greater the grief, the greater the triumph and when he was released he later became the first black President of South Africa. He served one term and did not run for office again, instead, seeing the greater good and worked fighting HIV and poverty through his Nelson Mandela Foundation. Some say, and arguably so, he is the most celebrated political figure ever.

Mandela's life is good news for me because he is also in the same race as I—the human race. There is hope. If I only affect positive change to a miniscule fraction of what he did, I would have lived my life well.

True, we are all in the same race, but how we run it is up to us. We have a choice. I remember the first time running the Ottawa Marathon and noticing people in wheel chairs, another with only one leg, large people, small people, fit people, struggling people. But they were all moving.

Forward.

With purpose.

With the finish line in mind.

Different paces, different resolve, some fast, some slow, some doing a good job, some not so much. We are all struggling in our own way.

We only have one shot during any given race...and at being human.

With communication being unlike any other era, we have witnessed unbelievable human depravity and selfishness. Likewise, we have also seen incredible sacrifice, love and compassion.

The human race has it all—the good, the bad; the in between. But, as Mr. Mandela said himself, “Man's goodness is a flame that can be hidden but never extinguished.”

He also said, “When a man has done what he considers to be his duty to his people and his country, he can rest in peace.”

You certainly can rest in peace, Mr. Mandela. Yes you can.

The human race—our greatest gift is that we get to choose how we run it.

Do Less, Be More

My dad has been helping (well, I use the word "helping" loosely. It is more like single-handedly spear-heading) the entire renovation of the ailing, basement bathroom. Taking a gamble on a Sunday night, we drove to a local big box hardware store, knowing full-well it would be closed.

Our pre-conceived notion was confirmed when we saw three lonely cars in the vast asphalt acreage the size of a small South American rainforest.

“Just drive by the doors just in case.” I suggested.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I looked at the posted hours. Not only was it still open, we had a full half hour to spare.

“It's not supposed to happen this way for me,” my dad said. It's amazing how incredibly happy you can be when you set the bar low.

It was definitely the most memorable and pleasant experience I have ever had in a hardware store. The weather was abysmal so the cavernous, empty store greeted us with 10 eager employees bored out of their skulls, competing at the chance to help us find an obscure mechanism for a toilet. It was kind of like a new reality show: “Survivor Hardware,” “Lowe's Got Talent” or “Home Depot Idol.” It was all about who could find a toilet flapper the fastest.

My birthday was just over a week ago and it was one of those days when all the planets aligned and all the cosmos complied. In the minds of many, a birthday reminds them of the day they were born. Since last year, my birthday is different kind of anniversary marker. It is, and will always be, in my mind, the day my mother came home from the hospital last year. What was supposed to be a day surgery lingered longer, but she was strong and kicking on my birthday and was released. It is a good day. In fact, I consider it lucky.

Since it was my birthday, I had to renew my license. However, I was suffering from a condition known as “Plate Denial”. Although it sounds like a mental illness, it has more to do with not paying your ETR 407 bill on time. However, one could argue that driving on the ETR without a transponder doesn't speak too favourably about one's state of mind in the first place. I was concerned. The bill was the size of the GNP of a developing country and I didn't think I could catch it up in a day.

So, I phoned the ETR and was told that I didn't have to pay the whole bill as only a small portion was overdue. In fact, I could pay it at the location where I renewed my license. Of course, this was the case. It's my birthday.

When I got to Service Ontario, they renewed my license without hesitation. Not even a hint that I was a seriously wanted criminal on the run from the authorities of the ETR. I couldn't help myself. I asked.

“Oh, that's just for sticker renewal, not for your license. And, you bought the two year renewal last year and don't need to renew this year.”

Of course I did. It's my birthday.

A friend awaiting biopsy results got great news and sent me a joyous email. Of course I expected this result. It's my birthday.

Lyndsay texted me from Walmart. She just heard from the vet. Her lovely cat, Eugene's results were favourable. His liver was improving. Of course I knew this would happen. After all, it's my birthday.

It simply was one of those rare days when the flow is all in one direction—mine. I realize that most days won't be like this and sometimes it is necessary to just lower expectations and become joyous for no real reason. We all need a time to re-charge, feel accomplished and whole.

My current goal with running is to just get out there three times a week. I am not worrying about how far or how fast. It is now week three and I'm pretty much on target and it's good. Karen, still spinning from her New York City Marathon, is now trying snow shoe running and Cross-fit. Lyndsay is attempting a ropes class and yoga (however, she informed me that it was more like paying a fee to try not to pass wind for 1 1/2 hours. She was pleased to report, however, that she was able to hold it all in well until the last five minutes of silent meditation, when she had squeezed so hard that the gas was now escaping internally causing a high pitched stomach noise.)

My niece, Terri Lynn, told me that her family was “trying to do less and be more.” I think that is amazing. I know one day I will be motivated and excited about training hard for a race—and so will Karen and Lyndsay. But not today, Today, like my birthday, is a day to regenerate—just a day to rejoice, reflect and enjoy what comes my way. I want to temporarily lower my expectations, and really celebrate the small, do-able victories. I want to just accept my current level of motivation and energy and just “be”.

Yep, 'tis the season to do less, be more!

Always look for the leopard print shoes

It's been a bad day. Don't get me wrong, not a devastating Armageddon, WW III or even terrible news at the doctor's office kind of bad day but a rotten day just the same. More of a stub your toe, ran out of toothpaste, forgot to get cat food, spilled tea on your new shirt, CRA wants to do a tax-audit, flat tire, speeding ticket, a virus erased all your financial records on your hard drive, Outlook locked you out of your email until you remember the name of your great grandmother's second grade teacher, your electricity is cut off because you forgot to pay the bill on time, the “check engine” light is flashing, your dog got sprayed by a skunk and the toilet overflowed and wrecked the ceiling drywall in the basement kind of day. This may be hyperbole, but sadly only slightly so. There were more ups and down in my day than a Canada Wonderland roller coaster.

Unfortunately this trend has also extended to my running. Instead of a bad day, it has been more of a bad year running-wise. Injury, a tumble on the ice, weather, distractions and flailing commitment has blown me off course. This was never more apparent than a couple of weeks ago. Tim Horton's must be right because apparently I “always have time for Tim Horton's”--especially slap dab in the middle of what was supposed to be a 16 km run.

Instead of completing the run, I bailed, trading in strides and sweat for a cozy steeped tea and bagel, sending Karen and Jan to go tell my ride to come back and pick me up at the fast food joint. Why do 16 when you can stop at 10 and drink tea?

It's funny how it sometimes seems easier to handle the large, catastrophic events in our life, yet the little, niggling irritants can throw us into a spiral of unbelievable discord. Luckily, the unexpected surprises are what can also pull us back up. It can be a just as small, and seemingly insignificant event to turn things around.

It was one such event that snapped me back into consciousness from my coma of sheer misery. While awaiting my grandson's dismissal from school, a parent waltzed by who caught my attention. I was sitting on the curb so I was at about knee level as she passed me.

Wrapped in sunglasses and full jihab, exposing only her face, this demure mother walked on. You might not have been able to see her face, but you certainly could see her soul. She wore it in her feet. From the top of her head to the bottom of her legs, she belonged to Allah, but from the ankle down she was all infidel, baby. Her leopard print, diamond-studded, 10 inch cork platform high heels rivalled anything the Bee Gees ever wore. There was more bling on her shoes than at a Eminem concert. Her bright red toe nails would make for a great poster board on the red light district of Amsterdam. I guess if that's all you are allowed to show, you might as well flaunt it. Although, technically, she was probably following the rules, I'm not sure the spirit of the law was being observed. Those feet were were so unexpected, so in contrast with the rest of her that it made me smile. I couldn't help it.

It is those unexpected, wonderful miracles that add the spice and texture to our lives. They can lift us from the worst pain and agony in a milli-second. All we need to do is notice them.

Lyndsay is running a marathon very soon in Prince Edward County and Karen and Jan are representing Team Fox at the New York City Marathon this year. (If you want to learn more, check out Karen's blog at http://karenhultslander.wordpress.com) Since I am not running far and certainly not racing this year, I want to send along a recommendation to Lyndsay, Karen and Jan—enjoy the unexpected that shows up. Find those surprising moments, the moments that can pick you up, knock you out of a daze and push you into sheer joy—find your version of the diamond-studded, leopard print, platform shoes in a jihab--and I'll be eagerly waiting to hear all about it!

In the Know

As we walked into Nike Headquarters Canada, I felt like I was entering a secret society like the Illuminati, the Masons, or the group of people who can assemble Ikea furniture in less than an hour (and without curse words). Firstly, there was no sign with the name “Nike” on the building, simply a signature swoosh on one corner.

Once inside, I felt like I was a cast member in a sci-fi movie. Everything was modern, glass and chrome and secret doors everywhere. However, I was catapulted by to 21^st century when the rep showed up. I found him to be rather an anomaly in this futuristic setting. Half his head was shaved and he appeared to prefer the use of ink to clothe his body rather than the traditional--well--clothes. I found this odd considering he was trying to get companies to buy clothes. He did manage a pair of shorts and a tank top barely covering his hyper designed skin.

Apparently he was a runner. This did not fare well as I was there to learn about soccer cleats, of which he knew very little. But, it was his attitude, not his appearance, that got my hackles up, creating a prejudice that would not step aside.

He was rude, elitist and condescending. I wasn't a happy bunny, especially since I wear Nike almost exclusively. The whole experience made me think about athletic companies in general.

The thing that strikes me about many of these companies is I believe they are trying to create a little mystery, mostly by the pronunciation of their names. They like to keep the general public guessing, as very few of them are straightforward. You hear the word “Nike” said two ways consistently and I am not even able to count how many variations of “Saucony” I have heard.

Why do they do this? I believe it is to create an aura of mystery, elitism and to see if you are really in the club. If you can pronounce it right, you are truly an athlete, a member of those 'in the know'.

Well, I believe we should all be 'in the know' so I am going to crack open the code. Move over Dan Brown, I'm going to solve mysteries even Robert Langdon might find challenging. Forget anti-matter and the Pope, I've got the inside track on how to say “Puma” correctly.

So, let's do this in alphabetical order, shall we. After years of research, I am here to give you the answers you've been looking for. Let's start with the As.

Addidas. Looks simple enough. This one is a little tricky because it depends where you live. If you are in North America, you should pronounce this Add DEE Das. However, if you are European and you said it like that you would be looked at as if you had three heads. In Europe, it is said Addy DAS. Since Puma and Addidas are rival companies owned by two German brothers—a fascinating backstory—I think the second pronunciation is probably how the owner says it.

Asics. The name of the company "ASICS" is an acronym of the Latin phrase "anima sana in corpore sano" which translates to "a healthy soul in a healthy body" or "a sound mind in a sound body”. I nearly choked on my green tea latte one time--while in a store a patron asked to look at the  employee's ASS-icks. I don't know how the attendant kept it together, but he did. If someone asked me if they could look at my ASS-icks, I think I'd slap them. The “A” is a long vowel sound. Trust me. It is. So, please, do yourself, me and the 18 year old part time employee at the sports store a favour and ask for EH-sicks please. Just do it. Oh, wait, that is Nike's slogan...

Nike. This is Greek, named for a god. And, judging by that rep's attitude, some of the employees think they are gods. So, in Greek, anything ending in an e is pronounced 'ee'. So, although many people say Nike, rhyming with bike, it is actually Nike, rhyming with Mikey.

Saucony. A lot of people say sah-CONEY (rhyming with pony). However, the name itself comes from the Saucony Creek in Pennsylvania. The correct pronunciation is SOCK-ah-knee. I've even heard sauce-ney which sounds more like some type of ice cream topping than sneakers.

Puma. Only two options here. One sounds slightly off-colour, kind of in the vein of Asics. Pooh-ma. Nope, not that. It is Pume (rhyming with doom) ma.

There you have it. You are now in the club. No more mystery, no more guessing. You should be good, until, of course, you decide to pick up that Sugoi shirt...

Nine

Nine.

Nine is the number my grandson forgot to mention in this video:

It is the final single digit in the course of counting.

It is a perfect square, divisible by 3.

In minutes, it’s long enough to make a really good sandwich

or take a nice hot shower.

Maybe to vacuum the main floor of the house, clean the bathroom or drink a good latte,

In nine minutes you can check your emails, facebook, phone messages and twitter.

Nine.

Until yesterday, nine represented the distance in qualifying minutes between Boston and me.

Nine.

Now, nine means something different.

Nine is the number of candles on a cake that 8-year-old bombing victim, Martin Richard will never see.  As he sat there innocently with his family, watching the race, he was robbed of his life, not yet nine.

Martin is described by neighbours and friends as a vivacious boy who loved to run and climb; he was a member of a little league.

I can imagine him excited, wonder-filled and enjoying the glorious hype that comes with the power of collective racing, running, enjoying, being.

He enjoyed running.

He will never see nine.

Martin, I have never met you but I honour you and cry for your family. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for every time I have ever said, “If I ran Boston, I could die happy.”

I didn’t mean it. I am sorry for my flippancy and lack of respect for life.

My mind can’t handle ‘what if’ when I think of all the times friends and family have watched me race.

If I could hug your family--I can’t begin to imagine their pain--I would. I pray that your community and the world surrounds them and gives them some type of peace.

I am so sorry this happened. You deserved better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thank God there are also numbers greater than nine.

As I watched footage of the disaster, I saw dozens of support personnel rushing in to help. I saw lists of homes, eager to house and feed stranded runners. I heard of runners, weary from their race running straight to the hospital to give blood.

I saw compassion, love, hope, help, so insurmountable it can’t be quantified by numbers.  On this world stage where unspeakable evil occurred, we also witnessed people performing good in unlimited measure .

Let’s not forget to give our attention to those that saw an opportunity to help, to be of assistance, to try in the most horrible circumstance to be of some good.

They say what we feed, grows. My prayer today is that goodness expands.