Gluten-Free Gratitude

Man does not live on bread alone, but I’ve been known to give it my best effort. I love bread and all

things related to bread. Pizza is its own food group. Bring me an old-fashioned, chocolate-glazed donut and you’re speaking my primary love language.

But, I’ve got news for you. I’m now gluten free. My new mantra is: if it’s made from dough, it’s gotta go.

For a pasta-loving Italian with very little food discipline, this has been an easy move because I don’t want to be in pain. I had been living with excruciating feet pain for as long as I can remember. The pain wasn’t constant, but it was daily. I could hike and play sports without any problem. It was standing that created the most discomfort. And standing all day is a number one on a teacher’s list of job requirements. Five minutes in line at the grocery store would create pain. Amusement parks were not amusing. Standing-room only events were my personal nightmare.

I’ve seen more podiatrists than I have toes and I’ve tried every remedy this side of surgery: ice, stretching, night-splits, physical therapy, electric-shock-wave therapy, and cortisone shots. The only thing that helped was NOT standing.

Somewhat by accident, I learned that le pan, was creating all of le pain.

I have a chiropractor friend, who has known about my pain for a while. Other aches and ailments would come up in conversation. She suggested a gluten-free diet. She was right and the relief was remarkable and quick. Apparently, the evil gluten was causing intense pain-creating inflammation in my feet. Now I can stand during 45-minute assemblies. Hour-long trips to the computer lab are no longer trouble. I don’t have to kick my shoes off in the car and ice my feet when I get home. I’m still surprised when I notice that my feet don’t hurt at the end of the day.

Like manna from heaven, this cure was completely unexpected and shocking. I had given up on finding relief. I couldn’t see a possibility for anything different and I had stopped praying for healing. I figured this was how my body was. Praying for a change was akin to asking God to make me taller. It wasn’t going to happen.

Oh me of little faith.

In the Bible, Jesus and bread appear together often. He tells us to request our daily bread. He warned his followers to beware of the yeast (the teachings) of the religious leaders (modern translations now interpret his wording as the “gluten of the Pharisees”). He refers to himself as the Bread of Life. He fed a couple of large crowds with a handful of loaves. And in his last meal, he took broken bread and before giving it to his 12 disciples … he gave thanks.

Christians commemorate this last meal with communion, a term also known as the Eucharist. Ann Voskamp, in her brilliant book, “One Thousand Gifts” explains that in the original language, “he gave thanks” reads eucharisto. “Eucharisto,” she writes, “envelops the Greek word for grace, charis. But it also holds its derivative, the Greek word chara, meaning “joy.”

Eucharisto. Thanksgiving. A combination of grace and joy.

Who doesn’t need more helpings of grace and joy? I have a friend at school who laughs all day long. Her joy is infectious. But I don’t consider myself an overly joyful person. Is the lack of joy a byproduct of ingratitude? Voskamp says that ingratitude was really the original sin. Adam and Eve were simply ungrateful for what God gave.

“Isn’t that the catalyst for all my sins?” she writes.

Like the gluten pooling in puddles of inflammation in my feet, ingratitude can settle in my heart and suffocate my joy. The eyes of my heart focus on what’s missing. I forget to be thankful for what I have.

I love the November Facebook posts of friends sharing their eucharistos. I eat them up like I used to devour a loaf of sourdough. They make my soul smile. I started the year trying to count my blessings. I even bought a “Gratitude Journal”. But it was hard. I could never get past the big, obvious things for which to be thankful: job, home, friends, family, etc. Despite the occasional random life blessings: safety while traveling, sunsets, and a good parking spot at Costco … most of the time it felt like I was repeatedly counting the same things over and over.

Sometimes I was able to go a little deeper in my eucharistos. Instead of being thankful for my dog, I noticed how listening to him snore brought me joy. These are the things Voskamp challenges her readers to discover. She went on a mission to find 1,000 under-the-radar gifts from God. Nothing is too small or insignificant for her list. All the sights, sounds, and tastes around her make the cut. From clean sheets to the way the sunlight refracts in the sink’s soapy bubbles. All of these things are gifts from God, she says, and if we see them, we experience him and his joy.

While I’m still acknowledging the big things like pain-free feet, I’m now trying to create my own list of 1,000 gifts. So far I’m up to four:

      1. Peetey waiting expectantly while I prepare food
2. Students racing across the playground for an end-of-the-day hug

      3. Listening to the teacher next door goof around with his class
4. A student’s priceless reaction after I played a little joke on her

So happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I’ll be taking today’s eucharisto with some precious friends. I’m bringing a dessert for all and gluten-free stuffing for me. I’m sure there will be enough chairs around the table, but if not, I’ll be happy to stand through the meal.

It’ll be something to joyfully add to my list.

The Olympics of Teaching

I love the Olympics.

Despite NBC’s (Nothing But Commercials) coverage, every four years I become a passionate viewer. I love the swimming, diving, gymnastics, and track (aka … the only four sports shown during Prime Time). I got hooked on the Olympics as a kid, and I’ve been a fan ever since. From Nadia in ’76 to Phelps and Co. this year, I can’t get enough. I love the rivalries in the pool, the podium’s tears of joy, and the bum, bum, bum … bum, da dum of the theme song. I love the expressions of shock, elation, and unbelief. I love newcomers bursting onto the world’s stage and I love veterans who can show that they’ve still got it. I love world records. I could watch Usain Bolt run with my hair on fire. Dan Hicks and Rowdy Gaines could make excitement out of a lawn-mowing contest.

The Olympics are founded upon dedication and sacrifice. I can’t wrap my head around the amount of work these athletes put in. The hours it takes to qualify for the Olympics is mind-boggling. And then winning or losing is potentially decided by a hundredth of a second. Unfathomable. I don’t want to smirk at how much professional athletes work. But at least they get to play regularly. Yes, many Olympic athletes compete in college or in annual national and world events. It’s still not the same. Phelps has had 30 Olympic finals. LeBron James has played 987 games. We know Mike Trout is the best because he plays every night. Simone Biles, Katie Ledecky, and Ashton Eaton have to wait every four years to display their talents.

The Olympics are just different. As a life-long sportster, I know what it’s like to hit a homer, sink a game-winner, or smack a forehand down the line. But I have no idea what it’s like to plummet 30 feet into a pool in the smallest of speedos. I can’t relate to spinning, flipping, cartwheeling, and twirling on a four-inch leather-wrapped plank. I’ve never had to stick the landing, take my mark, or answer Michelle Tafoya’s side-lane questions.

The Olympics are about simplicity, repetition, and a pursuit of perfection. Team sports have so many moving parts. There’s strategy and play calling. Even sports like golf and tennis have multiple swings, shots, specialties, and strategies. But so many of the Olympic sports can be boiled down to one simple task. Swim. Dive. Run, or jump. Then repeat 10,000 times in search of excellence. One misstep, slip, or fall can spell defeat. Every component to each race or dive or routine has to be flawless. Great baseball players fail 70 percent of the time. Superstar basketball players miss half of their attempts. Hall-of-Fame quarterbacks misfire on 40 percent of their passes. Olympic athletes can’t afford a single mistake.

School started this week, and the early morning wake-ups have put an Olympic-sized crimp in my Olympic viewing. But that’s ok, because being a teacher in itself comes with it’s own set of exhausting events. Here are just a few:

• Weightlifting – Setting up a classroom after summer break isn’t just about hanging some posters and passing out books. Teachers also have to move desks, file cabinets, and tables. Last week after changing classrooms for the umpteenth time, I also had to track down my missing files because the “district’s movers” wouldn’t lug my file cabinets upstairs. Then the bookcases in my new room were older than Noah Webster. Thankfully, I was allowed to get three new ones, but only after carting them 800 meters and hoisting them on my back up a flight of stairs.

• Heptathlon -- Olympic female track athletes compete in seven differing events. Meanwhile elementary school teachers are also adept at being medical-care providers, psychologists, counselors, entertainers, social workers, field-trip guides, and in my district, breakfast servers.  

• Decathlon – Male track athletes compete in 10 grueling events, while elementary school teachers are experts in reading, writing, math, history, geography, science, art, P.E., health, and the ever-important event “cutting and rolling eight-foot lengths of butcher paper”.

• Hurdles – As if engaging 24-36 bright little angels with mind-blowing lesson plans isn’t hard enough, teachers are also forced to jump through many hoops. Staff meeting, adjunct duties, professional developments, grade-level meetings, district assessments, and standardized testing are just a few. Plus there’s enough paperwork to keep an administrative assistant busy all day.

• High Jump – Olympic high jumpers may clear the bar at over seven feet, but every year I grade a stack of papers tall enough to make Dwight Stones shudder.

• Marathon – When Spring Break arrives early, the stretch drive to the end of the year can feel like running a 26.2 miles.

• Sprints – As soon as the recess bell sounds, teachers have to race to the nearest restroom with Bolt-like speed and precision.

The next summer games will be in Tokyo. However, in my mind, the real Olympics take place at Taper Ave. Elementary and in thousands of other schools across our nation. Every morning I get to say hello to some gold-medal-worthy instructors. I know they daily strive for pedagogical perfection in the same way that Allyson Felix and Brianna Rollins run for athletic glory. It is a pleasure to call them colleagues.

Here’s to the Olympics and to a great school year!

Misophonia and the Voice of God

“Do you hear what I hear?”

     -- Some old Christmas carol

I’m going to let you in on a secret, a glimpse into my own little world. I have a special power. No, I’m not faster than a speeding bullet, but I could hear one coming. I’m unable leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I could hear a spider scaling a skyscraper. Steve Austin had a bionic arm. I have bionic ears.

Like Radar O’Reilly detecting the wounded-carrying choppers, I can hear a person eating popcorn in a theater 40 seats away. However, until the FBI creates a need to overhear criminals smacking gum, my super power is basically useless. In fact, it’s more of a curse.

My supercurse recently received a name: misophonia. Misophonia is a ‘’’hatred of sound’, is a purported disorder in which negative emotions, thoughts, and physical reactions are triggered by specific sounds. It is also called ‘soft sound sensitivity syndrome’, ‘select sound sensitivity syndrome’, and ‘decreased sound tolerance’.”

Negative emotions, thoughts, and reactions: check, check, check. It’s really nice to have an official syndrome. Everybody should get one.

All of those descriptions pretty much sum up the hell in which I live at times. Certain sounds create an inner angst that makes me want to rip off my own skin. I describe my curse as the inability to block out distracting noises. I am without the ear-based filters that most sane people use to, well, remain sane. To paraphrase Cosmo Kramer, “my hammers, anvils, and cochleas are all screwed up!”

Sadly, and this is difficult to admit, but many sounds create intense internal frustrations. The inability to block out sound creates a struggle to concentrate that drives me crazy. The mini-blinds tapping against the window frame, the lawn crew down the street, and kids playing in the next yard all bug the snot out of me. Loud noises are amplified to level of a jet engine in my ears. I’ve never liked fireworks. The guy next door using a nail gun to build the Taj Mahal of Lomita turns me into a grumpy Clint Eastwood, “Get off my lawn and get out of my ears!” The other day as I was walking into a store a truck pulled up next to me and released its air brakes. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Large-group settings and social gatherings are really tough. It’s very hard for me take part in a one-on-one dialogue because I can’t filter out all of the other conversations in the room. I have to strain my ears to hear what the other person is saying. I cringe when someone brings crunchy food to a meeting. Carrot sticks and mixed nuts, seriously? What’s wrong with a nice chewy lemon bar? Where in scripture does it mandate that there must be food at all bible studies and church meetings?

Listening to people chew is a major annoyance. I require my own vat of popcorn in a theater because the sound of my own chewing blocks out the chewing of people around me. Without my it, I can’t focus, let alone, enjoy the movie.

I’ve learned to adapt. I choose my lunchroom seat carefully, avoiding apple-and-celery-eating coworkers. I bring my headphones to the beach. I wear my earplugs around the house. I mute all TV commercials. I leave the room while the dog eats. At age 47, my eyesight is finally waning. I can’t wait until my hearing starts to decline. Maybe then I’ll be able to sit in a Starbucks without being distracted by the incessant espresso machine.

I’m certain that most people don’t hear the stuff I hear. While typing right now I’ve got a siren, a truck, an airplane, and a motorcycle all in my ears. My motto is “Silence is Golden.” Too bad it’s so elusive. In my book, even libraries are noisy. However there are some sounds that I do enjoy. Babies laughing. Birds singing (when I’m not trying to read), the crack of the bat, a waterfall, and Peetey’s snoring.

There is one thing I wish I could hear more clearly. The voice of God. Wouldn’t it be great if everyday we had those voice-from-heaven-this-is-my-son moments like Jesus did? God could tell me when to take an alternate route to work to avoid a traffic jam. He could tell me to not say something stupid before I utter it. He could remind me to be more patient, forgiving, and loving before the fact. Because reminding myself after the fact is getting old. And don’t get me started on the big decisions in life. A little heads up on the housing bubble would have been peachy.

But if God was audible, things could get pretty wonky, fairly quickly. Imagine being in a crowded store:

God: Follow me.

Me: I thought I was.

God: No, the guy looking at iPads.

Me: You want me to follow the guy looking at iPads?

God: Not exactly.

So, it’s probably better that God is more on the down low. Because he does speak. As singer Chris Tomlin puts it in his song, Good, Good Father: “But I've heard the tender whisper of love in the dead of night.”

The tender whisper of love.

And you can add to that peace, forgiveness, courage, acceptance, and grace. I’ve heard his whisper in times of grief and when things are going good. I’ve heard him at home and on the other side of the world. Like anything that requires faith, there’s no formula to hearing God. There are thing you can do to quiet you mind and eliminate distractions (super hard for me). Slowing down life’s pace and reducing stress are good practices too.  God is also a great listener and I think if you ask Him for a word, he’ll provide it. Just don’t forget to slow down and catch it.

Because as Jesus said in Matthew 11:15, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

I’ve definitely got the ears, it’s just that on most days, I wish I didn’t hear Ever…y…thing!

Names of the Game

Baseball is back and reality is certainly stranger than fiction. The story of the early season has been a rookie shortstop in Colorado named Trevor Story. Nobody in Hollywood could script a beginning like Trevor’s: a pair of homers on Opening Day and seven total in his first six games. From Coco Crisp to Urban Shocker, baseball has always been filled with colorful names (such as the list compiled here). As we come to the end of the first month of the season, I thought it was time to peruse the Dickson Baseball Dictionary for the best baseball names within its 974 pages.

A is for Al Capone – As in a double play or a “twin killing”. The new slide rule means that base runners can no longer get away with murdering defenseless middle infielders.

B is for Baseball Annie – A generic name for any unattached woman who favors the company of baseball players. Harriet Bird, played by Barbara Hershey in The Natural, is the most notorious Baseball Annie to date.

C is for Carmine Hose – A nickname for the Red Sox. Or what Italian players in Boston such as Dom DiMaggio, Rico Petrocelli, and Tony Conigliaro, called their stirrups.

D is for Dexter Meadow – A synonym for right field. Not to be confused with Cubs centerfielder Dexter Fowler or former journeyman reliever Brian Meadows.

E is for Edison, as in Thomas Edison – A pitcher who is always experimenting with new pitches. With team ERAs all over 5.58, the Reds, Brewers, and Rockies are looking to Menlo Park for some new pitching inventions.

F is for Father Chadwick – A player who is past his prime and has outlived his usefulness, in reference to the venerable sportswriter Henry Chadwick. At age 42, and the oldest players in the big leagues, both Bartolo Colon and Ichiro Suzuki are the current Father Chadwicks.

G is for Garrison Finish – A game in which a team comes from way behind to win. It is said that a true Garrison Finish requires the winning team to have been down by at least five runs with two outs in its last at-bat. Last year the Royals staved off elimination with a Garrison Finish against the Astros to by scoring five runs in the 8^th inning of Game 4 in the first round of the playoffs.

H is for House of David – A nickname given to several barnstorming teams whose distinguishing characteristic was that all the players wore long beards. The unshaven slobs of today’s game could all take up residence in the House of David.

Justin Turner is the Resident Assistant in the House of David.

J is for Jesse James – An umpire. It’s a players’ term because the umpire “robs” from them. Back when only two umps worked games it was common to call the duo “Jesse and Frank” or the “James Brothers”. Before instant replay, Tigers’ pitcher Armando Galarraga filed a motion to have the term switched to “Jim Joyce”.

L is for Linda Ronstadt – A fastball that “blew by you” in reference to Ronstadt’s 1977 hit single "Blue Bayou". Today’s game features so many hard-tossing hurlers that many strikeout victims are returning to the dugout wishing that they had more than “Just One Look”.

M is for Michael Jackson – A batted ball that bounces “Off the Wall” in reference to the King of Pop’s 1979 album title. Jackson originally wanted to call the album “Over the Fence,” but back then producer Quincy Jones considered Michael to only have warning-track power.

P is for Peggy Lee Fastball – A fastball that travels more slowly than expected, or has nothing on it. Batters who see the pitch are then reminded of Lee’s 1969 sad song, “Is that All There Is?” See Jared Weaver and his 80-mph fastballs.

R is for Reuben’s Rule – The legal decision allowing fans to keep foul balls based on a 1921 case in which Reuben Berman sued the New York Giants after being removed from a game because he refused to give back a ball hit into the seats. Berman won the suit and was awarded $100 for mental and physical distress. This year fans in Atlanta, San Diego, and Minnesota should sue their respective clubs because of the poor product on the field.

S is for Sammy Vick – A ballplayer who overeats in reference to a Yankees’ outfielder in the ‘20s who was “noted for possessing one of the most voracious appetites in the big leagues.” Sammy Vick in Spanish is Pablo Sandoval.

T is for Tom Brown – A feebly hit ball. See anything hit by the Angels and their league-low .217 batting average.

U is for Uncle Charlie – A curveball. I could watch Clayton Kershaw deliver his Uncle Charlie with my hair on fire.

V is for Van Heusen – A synonym for collar, which refers to a batter going hitless for a game. Albert Pujols recently went 0-for-a-week. And given his salary, he can afford new dress shirts for everybody in Orange County.

W is for Wilson Pickett – A skillful defensive player who uses his “Wilson” glove to “pick it” in reference to the aforementioned soul singer. Bill Buckner is said to be the first to name his glove Wilson Pickett, which is somewhat ironic considering, “… that little roller up along first”.

Z is for Zimmerman – A bonehead play, in reference to New York Giants third baseman Heinie Zimmerman (who apparently made some crazy miscue in the 1917 World Series). According to the stat Win Probability Added, Daniel Murphy of the Mets made the second biggest Zimmerman in World Series history last year. Second only to Bill Buckner and his gloved named Wilson Pickett.