Peculiar Preacher

            On most Saturday mornings I go to Mountain Park Park (Note to the editor—that’s not a typo.  It really is the name of the park.  Mountain Park is the name of the city). (Second note to the editor—maybe you should leave the previous note in the column.  It might be funny.)  (Third note—do you think you should leave in the second note, too?)

            My park is set up for old people and small children.  The track winds around tennis courts where everyone plays doubles, a playground with tiny slides and swings, and a pond with old ducks.  The mile-long path has wooden markers each tenth of a mile offering encouragement to runners every couple of minutes.

            “Run” may not be the exactly the right word to describe what usually goes on at my park.  “Jog” would be closer.  “Trot,” “lope” and “saunter” fit.  We go slow.  We time our miles by the position of the sun.

            My crowd wears knee braces, warm up pants and “Carter/Mondale” T-shirts.  We include lots of moms with strollers.  (I have only seen one mother smoking while out getting her baby some fresh air.) 

            Our children have given us iPods so we don’t talk much, but we recognize one another and (even as we listen to the Tony Bennett our children downloaded for us) nod in a friendly manner.   We admire one another, because we know it takes more than a New Year’s resolution to keep people like us showing up.

            I’ve named one of the regulars “Rocky.”  He wears an orange University of Tennessee visor.  He must be in his eighties.  The way he runs makes me think at least one hip and one knee are recent additions.  He moves slowly, but he is often at it when I arrive and still at it when I leave.   

            “Mabel” waited too long to start substituting the side salad for the fries.  I’m guessing she is there on doctor’s orders.  It is easy to imagine her a few years after her kids left home suddenly surprised that she is wearing XXL.  She brings a white poodle—“Killer”—who keeps her moving though not always in the right direction. 

When I got to the park one recent Saturday, I immediately knew something was terribly wrong.  Young people in $200 Nikes were dashing around at a startling pace.  The high school cross country team had invaded our family friendly track.  A thundering herd of sixteen-year-olds with 2% body fat (even though they still eat double cheeseburgers) were running five minute miles like they owned the place.  They were frightening our ducks.

What had always been a leisurely stroll now felt like running with the bulls of Pamplona.  Parents cheered their sons wildly.  Coaches lined the way with stop watches and megaphones.  If the enthusiastic crowd even noticed slow-moving people like Mabel and me, it must have been with condescension. 

            At first I felt bitter about being run off the road, but after the whippersnappers left I calmed down and began to wonder whether the wrong people are getting the applause. 

            Who are the real runners?  It takes more for my gang to be there than the 100-pounders with teenage knees.  Mabel sweats, labors, and struggles, but she keeps coming.  Most people Rocky’s age have given up, but he still shows up.  Maybe the tenth graders darting around the track will still be at it forty years from now, but isn’t the applause premature?

The runners we should admire the most may not be the young fast ones, but the grandparents who drag themselves out of bed when they are feeling sore all over. 

            The real heroes and heroines may not get the loudest ovations.  The quickest, smartest and best-looking should not get all of the praise.  The best Sunday school teacher may not be the one with the biggest class, but the gracious friend who has been caring for the same good people for decades.  The best pastor may not be the one with the biggest church, but the minister who faithfully serves a congregation that struggles to survive.  God’s finest are the ones—young and old, large and small—who are not running for applause. 

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 17th, 2009 at 8:42 pm and is filed under Hopefully Humorous Columns. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.