Speaking of mandated delays, the last seven post-race days were an unchosen rest period for me.  During about mile 10 of the half, I picked up on some pain signals from various parts of my body.  On the way down to Seaside, I had flipped through the training manual that got me through my first half and once again internalized the message to, when noticing such pain, invite it along for the run. So although I felt like a total douche even saying “Come run with me, pain!” only in my head, I did it anyway. What I didn’t count on during my endorphin-sponsored high was that the pain would not only come running with me, but stick around for the next week.  Cut to the pirate-walking and week off from working out.

(And in case you’re wondering, yes, I did just learn how to embed a link.)

So last week, rather than rushing to the gym after work or fitting in a morning run, I took it easy.  Very easy.  I read, I baked cookies, I watched daytime TV.  For me, daytime TV consists of the Travel or History channel paired with lunch (Hello, my name is Rigid).  And so it was that on a lovely Thursday afternoon, I was housebound and riveted by a documentary on the rise of the Third Reich.

My newfound focus on gratitude is causing me to flex previously undiscovered muscles, for being thankful is not my natural inclination.  So although I was trying to see my injury positively as an opportunity to take a breather from sweat and cardio, I was still a little resentful over being told what to do by a bum foot.  So I may have already been on the temper flare-up register when I sat down to Hitler’s face on my flatscreen.  But the longer I watched, the angrier I grew.  Then I learned that German Jews who left their country in the late 1930s to escape rising persecution were forced by the government to leave 90% of their wealth behind.  The choice was either start from scratch, or face death.  And in the end, the wealth left behind funded 30% of the German war effort.

I stared at the screen.  Thirty percent of the war effort.  So what you’re telling me, Mr. History Channel voice-over man, is that the Jews–the very race facing genocide during this war–ended up paying for almost a third of their enemies’ costs?

Hitler’s stupid mustache flashed on screen and I wanted to kick him, but my foot advised against it.

After the anger subsided and my blood pressure returned to normal, and because let’s face it, everything is about me, I thought about the war effort in my own story. The very real presence of evil in this world and its insidious subsidiaries who infiltrate my life like roaches before I realize there’s a problem because come on, who really believes in the horns-and-pitchfork Bad Guy?

I don’t believe in the outfit, but I believe that evil is real and personified.  I also believe in my own brokenness and the power it has to become The Most Important Thing in every moment, manipulated by the hand of evil to render me hopeless and selfish.  The way it can leave me feeling isolated and beyond help, defensive and screechy.  The way it has me echoing Eve in the garden, all “You give me paradise and withhold that tree?  What kind of God are you?”

And the ways I contribute to my own demise!  Renting out space in my mind to negativity, living as both reservoir and dispenser of constant complaints, dictating how the path should proceed despite my blindness.  My perpetual willingness to see the downside, to capitulate to my cynicism, to trust my omniscience, needs more than happy thoughts and a flowery journal to be overcome.  And evil requires more than an alliterative five-point sermon and do-it-yourself guide to happiness to be vanquished.

I need someone with fighting experience, someone who has been to the battlefield and returned, and will lather, rinse, and repeat that cycle.  I need a warrior.  And I think I may know someone.

God is not a kindly old uncle, he is an earthquake. (Jewish proverb)

When I realize I’m not the general of the army, that the outcome of the battle is ultimately in someone else’s hands, then my share of the fighting takes on a counter-intuitive look.  Resting.  Laughing.  Trusting.  Not taking it all so seriously.  Giving thanks (even before the win).

Turning off the History Channel (that’s quite enough education for one day).  That cookie dough isn’t going to eat itself.