When the cop arrived at My Father’s House, a homeless shelter in Paola where I volunteer, I was shocked to find out he was there for me. What unfolded afterwards was equally surprising.

See, I was negatively profiled this week. On Monday I paid for my gas at the pump at a station across from the shelter. I did not get a receipt, because I never do – I just write down the amount and move on (less paper to waste). Then I went inside where my family was purchasing drinks, poured myself a cup of coffee, paid for the coffee, and went across the street to the shelter.

Twenty minutes later I was being escorted back across the street by a police officer and accused of skipping out without paying. I asked the obvious questions – why did the gas pump allow me to pump gas if the card didn’t work, why didn’t you say something when I was inside – and received vague answers. Then I was presented with the bill and it was seven dollars higher than my purchase. But, as I am often wrong, I just paid for the gas and moved on.

The next day I went to the bank to check my transactions. As it turns out, I did pay for the gas the first time, so I paid twice. The manager of the station was very nice to me when I went back to clear up the mess. I got my money without incident, and moved on. But why was I accused? Why were the cops called? I was accused of skipping out because the cashier lost seventeen dollars and panicked. She assumed the issue was my fault and could come after me because I went to the shelter (and because I have tattoos and a bushy beard?) I know this because the manager told me, and because of the notes written on the receipts I was given.

Everyone told me that I should go “give her a piece of my mind” and “demand justice!” But, instead, when I went back to get drinks at this same station, and this same cashier was working, I simply smiled and informed her she was out of 32oz cups, and asked for more. She seemed shocked. But why would revenge or vengeance get me anywhere? How would that change the stereotype she has of people who are associated with My Father’s House? Easy – It wouldn’t. It was just as easy to be nice to her and hope that she would realize that all homeless people are not sneaky crooks or deviants. I tried to love her like Christ loves her, and acknowledge that she simply made a mistake.

I think this same philosophy applies to those who are reacting one way or another to the Chic-fil-a issue. On one side, some Christians (as well as non-Christians) are being insensitive to the LGBT community by blindly supporting an organization without considering the ramifications to everyone involved. On the other side, Christians are blasting the first group and saying how appalling their actions are, and how they don’t want to be associated with them.

But, how does this change our perception of Christians? How do any of these actions help further the cause of love that Christ called for? As I see it, it is easy to love an oppressed group or a group facing discrimination, especially if they are being oppressed or discriminated against by a group we are associated with. But what about loving those who oppress? What about praying for those who don’t realize what their actions are doing? What about standing with them, not against them, as fellow travelers rather than setting up false hierarchies and divisions. Rather than disassociating ourselves with Christians who we think failed or made mistakes, perhaps we should simply pray for them and love them the same way we want them to love others. Perhaps they view others as we view them, but we want them to change instead of us. This unnecessary division will cause nothing but more issues and help nothing.

See, we all suck. We all make mistakes. We all do things without realizing how they hurt other people. We all fail. But the answer isn’t more unnecessary divisions. The answer is love. Love for the hurting, love for the healthy, love for those who we think are right, and love for those who we think are wrong. There are not divisions, there is only us.

As for the LGBT community, I will try to love them like Christ loves them. As for Chic-Fil-A and those who support Chic-fil-a, I will try to love them like Christ loves them. As for those who speak out against supporters of Chic-fil-a, I will try to love them like Christ loves them. Nothing else matters and nothing else will make anything better.

As I stood at in the bathroom of Kaufman Stadium in Kansas City, the urgency of the upcoming election became unavoidably clear to me. This year there are many important issues being discussed by politicians, news writers, and everyone who has the ability to project an opinion: gun control, health-care reform, the economy, and welfare. While these issues are quite important, I am calling for a focus on what I see as a major issue in today’s society – paper-towel dispenser consistency. Any politician who can promise a change in this area will have my vote (as many times as I can provide it).

There I was at Kaufman Stadium, having just washed my hands like a good citizen, waving madly underneath the towel dispenser, yet not getting my towel. A fellow baseball fan took pity on me and showed me the roller on the side. I nodded a quiet thank you to the man, rolled the dispenser a few times, dried my hands and went on my way.

But I should not, nor should any other citizen of these great United States, be fearful when entering a public restroom. We should be confident that when we need a towel we will know how to get it, yet this basic freedom still eludes us. Are we to dispense the towel ourselves, as was the case at Kaufman? And if we are to go the do-it-yourself route, are we to reach around the side of the dispenser and turn a wheel, or do we reach underneath and push or pull a lever? If we push a lever, how many times should the lever be pushed? Will one push do the trick and dispense an adequate amount of towel, or do we need to push multiple times in order to satisfy our dry handed dilemma?

Though these questions deserve an answer, we cannot even be sure to encounter a manual dispenser, I’m sad to say. No, often times the dispenser will do the job for us. However, the auto function only adds to the issue. Will the dispenser need to be triggered by waving a hand underneath? If so, how many towels will be issued, and how long must one wait before waving again if the amount of towels is not adequate? If the dispenser is triggered by motion, and a towel is issued by merely walking towards the dispenser, is it polite to take a towel, back up, and re-approach to get more towels? After leaving, if the dispenser provides an additional towel that is not needed, should it be taken and thrown away or left for the next person? If it is taken, the dispenser will inevitably produce another towel, that if taken will leave the handwasher in an infinite loop of infiniteness.

These are the issues that need addressed this election year. I call for reform of our paper-towel dispensers in public places, so the public can rest easy knowing that, when we have wet hands, we can safely and effectively get a towel to dry them. The time is now. We cannot wait another year for this scourge on society to be addressed. Join with me and cast your vote for those who will stand with us, not against us, and provide calm in our time of distress. What do we want? Consistent towel dispensers! When do we want it? When our hands are the wettest!

Running is an addiction. For me, however, running is more fun when I worry less about my personal times and focus instead on supporting other people. Don’t get me wrong, I love to train hard and push myself to go longer distances and at faster times, but I think when we do that it is easy to miss out on some amazing experiences because we are too inwardly focused. This year’s Psycho Psummer trail run served a perfect illustration for this philosophy.

In 2011, after completing one agonizing 10 (11? 12?) mile loop at the Psycho Psummer, my wife, Beth, set a goal: run three in 2012. After that one loop she said she felt as bad as she had after any road marathon, and wanted to exact some revenge on the trail. Knowing her as I do, I knew that the trail didn’t stand a chance.

She developed a training plan and stuck to it religiously, asked advice from several knowledgeable runners, and never let her goal get too far out of reach. She asked my assistance as well, which I gladly provided. I have completed several ultras, multi-hour mountain bike races, and long distance adventure races, but what I really enjoy is running with her. We have completed two marathons together, and do most of our long training runs together. Nothing builds a strong marriage like running together for hours and hours. Beyond that, I know what it feels like to finish the first ultra, and I wanted to share that experience. I decided that I would run the entire course with her to provide what I call conversation and support, and what she calls distraction.

During the year since she decided to run the 2012 Psycho Psummer, we hosted a trail race of our own at Hillsdale Lake in Kansas, developed a small but faithful running/training group, and convinced four other local runners to join us at Wyandotte, including our fourteen year old son, Israel. Our training runs were mostly successful, with the exception of a few falls, hurt knees, and twisted ankles. Despite some lingering injuries, on race day we both felt good.

The forecast for the day was easy, and fitting with the forecast for the past few weeks: hot and dry.

We knew that the first lap was crucial, since it did her in the previous year, so we planned to take it slow. We ended up near the rear of the pack, and walked more than we planned due to people stopping in front of us to walk “hills,” which we had planned to run. This was aggravating at the time, but was, perhaps, a blessing instead – as it allowed us to save some energy for the other two laps. Regardless of the time spent walking, the first lap was successful. Beth’s training included fueling and recovery, and this training served her well during the run. We ate at every aid station, drank the right amount, took a shot block every half-hour, and popped s-caps like they were the source of life. We finished the first lap in about 2:30 and felt as good as could be expected, and certainly good enough to run two more loops. First goal accomplished – kick the first loop’s butt.

The second loop was much more interesting. Though we felt good, the signs of fatigue were all around us. At the second aid station, several runners were in obvious distress and the volunteers had their hands full taking care of them (which they did with éclat). One of these runners was a man I have known for several years, and is as experienced and knowledgeable as anyone. If he succumbed to the heat, I thought, anyone could.

We slowed down.

We drank a lot.

We walked the hills.

We laughed and talked and enjoyed ourselves. We forgot about hitting a certain time and focused on finishing. We knew that we had to finish the second loop before we started the third, and made each moment count by eating, drinking, and staying as focused as possible.

We finished the second loop at 5:33, under the cut off and still feeling good. We reloaded and headed back out. The third loop was a success from the beginning. Not that it wasn’t difficult, but Beth said that her goal for the race was to start the third loop. “If I start,” she said, “I’ll have no choice but to finish.” Starting is one thing, however, but finishing was a whole different story. It’s difficult to express how hot it was out there, but to put it in scientific terms, it was really, really hot.

By the time we reached the first aid station, we were miserable. The volunteers at the aid station, however, changed our attitudes. Actually, we were surprised that they were still there because we thought were the last runners to hit the time cutoff. But they had plenty of aid left and met us with smiles. They grabbed our water bottles and refilled them, gave us s-caps and watermelon, pickles and Pringles, and of course – ice. “You look great,” they said, “you’re going to finish strong.” For some reason, we believed them.

On our way to the second station, we passed a few people, which raised our hopes. Then we came upon the miracle man. He was sitting on the trail, crippled by cramps. He said he had been there for a while, but was planning to finish. I put some ice on his legs, Beth gave him some Gatorade, and I gave him the last s-cap I had. I tried to help him up, but he couldn’t. He asked that no one come back for him, but we didn’t see how he was going to make it on his own. We told the volunteers at the next aid station about him, and they said they’d take care of him.

We finished our loop, together, like we have on every training run for a year. We were hot, we finished much slower than anticipated, but we finished. At the finish line, our running group was waiting for us, cheering us on. Our ten year old son was also there, with a coffee mug for me and flowers for his mom. Ben Holmes put the medal around our necks and I told Beth that she was now part of the club. It doesn’t matter what the time is, running an ultra-marathon is an accomplishment to be proud of. In this race, 61 people dropped from their target distance due to the heat, the terrain, or both. The race was difficult, but our training paid off and we were not among those 61 people.

As for miracle man – he finished as well – on his own two legs without any assistance. I thought he was done for, but he made it. On races like these, we run to see who has more guts rather than who is fastest. I’d give that medal to him. And me — I got to see a lot of people push further than they thought they could. I got to experience my wife’s first ultra. And I got to witness ordinary people persevere to finish a race for nothing other than pride and self-respect. That’s what this sport is all about.

As a teacher, I am often humbled by my own assignments.

This summer, my Composition II class is spending time at the Miami County Historical Museum. Their assignment is to find something interesting about Miami County and write about it. I asked them to find a new angle if possible, and then make an argument for historical research using their work as evidence.

On Tuesday at the museum, I was privileged to be at the right place at the right time, and got to go through a scrapbook and picture album from the late 19th century that hadn’t been opened for some time. I looked through the book and landed on a picture that was taken in 1902. The picture was of a man about the age I am now. He was with a woman who appeared to be his wife and two small children played in the background. A dog was lying at the man’s feet, and their large home stood tall and elegant behind them.

But I couldn’t help but connect with him — his eyes and the look on his face reflected feelings that I have felt many times – the stress of life, worries about family and finances, and uncertainty about the twists and turns that life will undoubtedly be sending his way. As I stared at the picture, I felt as if the man was begging me to not make the same mistakes as him. “Don’t worry about the little stuff,” he seemed to say, “enjoy your family and your health while you can.”

One-hundred years have passed since that man stood in front of his house and had his picture taken. He, like me (and everyone), stressed over his life more than he should have. But where did it get him? He is forgotten, his photo album stuffed in a drawer in a museum until it was found by accident. All of the struggles and issues he dealt with in his life are long forgotten and don’t matter at all now.

As for me, in 2102 I will be gone, just like the man in the photo. All of the issues I face will be gone with me. The things that I stress over will be forgotten. All that will be left of me will be the stories that my friends and family pass on, and perhaps what I communicate through my eyes to those who look at my picture in a photo album.

The little things don’t matter as much as we think they do. That’s the point. We should make our photos real and alive and enjoy ourselves while we can. It’s not a fact that one day we’ll be just another photo in an album somewhere because we can be so much more if we don’t take ourselves too seriously and learn a lesson from history.

For the last ten years, a friend of mine has been working with his dad on a twin engine plane. They have rebuilt, painted, fixed, and tweaked it, going through ups and downs, good days and bad days, but did it all together.

This week, they took it up in the air and flew it for an hour and a half. He has been in planes before, but said it was different because he had never been in one whose screws he had tightened, whose landing gear he had assembled, or whose engines he had bolted down. But they made it. When I asked my friend how it felt, he said, “it feels good to be alive.”

I thought about his statement, and realized that it is times like those, when we are faced with a real chance of dying, that the joys of life are the greatest. When we push ourselves to our boundaries we become cognizant of the beautiful world we inhabit, and the little things seem to just fade away.

When I told another friend about the flight, he said, “why the heck would he do that, he could die.” I said that the chance of death is exactly why he flew the plane. He had to see where his limits were, he had some questions that needed answered, and he had to see what he was made of.

“Besides,” I said, “you could die just as easily driving your car on the highway. If you want to be completely safe, you are never going to be happy.”

But how often do we play things safe in our lives and think we’re doing the right thing? Too often, I think. As a teacher at a small community college, and pastor at a church that meets in a homeless shelter, I am told constantly why something can’t be done, why something won’t work, or why something should be done a different (safer) way. But that’s rubbish. We can’t win what we don’t put in the middle, and we can’t prove that we are alive if we don’t test the theory once in a while.

My suggestion: start something new and scary – study a language, run a race, forgive someone, talk to someone new, take art classes, volunteer, skydive, mountain bike, ride horses, travel, or all of the above. We only have one chance to get it right.

Thomas Merton, the 20th Century philosopher, theologian, and Trappist Monk, wrote that “the beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.” He went on to say that the greatest goal of life is to love others and “not exist for ourselves.” Most people would agree with Merton’s words, yet they are a perfect example of theory being easier than practice.

This week, my brother, owner and operator of the Osawatomie Journal decided, after almost three years, to shut it down. The paper began in 2009 as the collaboration of Doug Carder, my brother, myself, and many other people who volunteered their time, money, gas, and advice to give Osawatomie another choice regarding reading material.

Unfortunately, due to a turn in the market, some interpersonal issues, and other unforeseen circumstances, my brother ended up running the paper mostly by himself with the help of a few other writers and volunteers.

Now that it is shut down, he has become the target of some criticism that I think needs to be addressed.  Most of the criticism I hear is based on how it affects those who wrote for the paper or read the paper or had things to do with it other than actually run the paper (handle the billing, lay out the pages, deal with advertisers and employees and other day to day obligations).

The fact of the matter is that the person that this affects the most is my brother: not me or my wife, though we both enjoyed writing for the paper; not the other writers for the paper; not our family or friends or even the investors. The truth is that we should be worried about how Jeff is doing, not selfishly worrying about where we are going to publish our stories or other meaningless drivel. The selfishness and self-absorption that I have witnessed is atrocious and those involved should be ashamed.

I use Merton above in order to round out my argument, and show that my thoughts come from more than just family ties. Too often we look at our world based on how it affects us, not with others in mind. I argue, along with Merton, that the only way to truly be happy is to put other people first and push selfishness aside

As is the case with the subject of many of my last columns, this week I was struck by the comparison of two different and opposing events. Where last week I compared the loud boasting of inconsequential actions by Facebook to the unheralded actions of Nicholas Winton, this week I couldn’t help noting the differences in two sporting events.

The first happened in game seven of the NBA playoffs between the Miami Heat and the Indiana Pacers. Played in Indiana, at halftime young fans lined up near the locker room to cheer on their team. David West, an Indiana forward, was caught on camera walking to the locker room and avoiding each and every one of the young fans as they reached out to give him a low five. Each and every young fan, who look up to David West and his teammates, were ignored and snubbed and the actions of a self-absorbed athlete who thinks he is bigger than the game were broadcast into millions of homes.

The next day on the other side of the world, soccer fans in Russia witnessed a different type of event. That night, Vadim Evseev, a famous and very successful Russian soccer player retired. To honor him, his coach took him out of the game at the 67th minute so he could get an ovation from the crowd, who hold him in high regard due to his accomplishments. Evseev’s replacement in the game was a 5 year old boy named Hrisan Dzheus, the son of a local and well respected director of a Russian children’s charity.

Evseev’s team was down 4-1, so as the young replacement dribbled the ball downfield, his opponents pretended to try and stop him. They acted out the parts with humor and playfulness, finally allowing the young boy to score a goal and make the score 4-2. Then both teams congratulated the boy and gave him the ball he scored with, and made a big deal about his accomplishment. The boy’s face told the story of how much the experience meant, and both teams are better off because of it.

See, the Pacers lost their game against the heat. They are done for the season and have to think about their loss until next year. But West has more to deal with than a loss in the playoffs, he also lost the respect of a lot of people in Indiana, as well as basketball fans across the nation – myself being one of them. I was rooting for Indiana until I saw West’s snub. I know that changing my mind may seem like a knee-jerk reaction, but I can’t root for someone who ignores those who allow him the privilege of playing pro sports, especially when it comes to children.

West lost much more than a game, whereas Evseev’s opponents won much more than a game. Instead of winning 4-1 they won 4-2, but in the process, they also served to remind us that, at the end of the day, pro sports aren’t that serious – after all, they are just a game. They also showed us that being a little selfless and having some fun is more important than the final score of a game.

I think that we should all be less concerned about the final score, and more concerned about how we treat people along the way. If we do that, there really isn’t a way we can lose.

This week I was reminded of a situation where I was wrong. Twelve or so years ago I left a company the wrong way. I had worked at this organization for seven or eight years, and was leaving so that I could make more money and better support my growing family.

I gave two months notice, but then I found out some things the company was doing that I didn’t agree with and I called them on it. When I didn’t get a satisfactory explanation from my direct supervisor, I went to the president of the company and was told to mind my own business. So I wrote a letter and sent it to everyone involved with the company, and called out the wrong doers. I had decided to never go back, obviously, and left hurt and bitter.

However, last week I thought it would be nice to return there part time, or as needed, because it seemed like something I would enjoy doing again. To be honest, I completely forgot about the events from over a decade ago until Friday, when at 4:30 (when the offices close) I received a form email saying “thanks but no thanks.” I thought it was interesting, especially since I had talked with the head of HR and was encouraged to apply. Getting a form letter is difficult, but when it’s from someone you know it’s worse. I was hurt. Again.

But then I remembered what had happened before the turn of the millennium and my shock turned into a mix of remorse and pride.

I felt remorse because I have burned a bridge. I feel guilty that I conducted myself in such a shameful and selfish manner, and I regret that it happened. I should not have acted the way I did, and I am still working to get over the humiliation that comes from remembering my actions. Even though I thought I was right and justified at the time, I should have known better.

However, I didn’t. It happened and I can’t take that back.

But my remorse is coated with a layer of pride. The children’s pastor at my church preached on Sunday. He spoke on forgiveness and grace, and encouraged us to forgive those who have done us wrong, and to forgive ourselves for hurting other people.

As I listened, I realized that for over a decade I have lived with forgiveness for the company that I felt betrayed me. I moved on and have completely forgiven them for the hurt they caused me. They, however, have not. I do understand that companies have to make decisions about their personnel, and that they want to make good decisions in order to do what’s best for their business. I understand that, I do not begrudge them for their decision.

However, I have not been forgiven. I’m also okay with this. Everyone deserves a second chance, but second chances have to be offered. They can not be forced, or they aren’t real. All I can do is make sure that I am offering second (and third and forth . . .) chances to those who have hurt me, and live with the peace of knowing that I do not hold and ill feelings toward anyone. I am comforted that I have forgotten my own mis-steps, and forgiven myself, even if those who I hurt have not forgiven me.

Facebook went public this week, making a lot of people very wealthy. Their business is worth billions of dollars, and their success has been celebrated very publically this week. Congratulations to them.

In contrast to news of Facebook’s amazing success, this week I also stumbled upon the story of Sir Nicholas Winton. Winton is a British humanitarian who nearly single handedly rescued 669 children, mostly Jewish, from Nazi occupied Czechoslovakia.

Winton worked as a stockbroker in London. In 1938 he visited a friend in Czechoslovakia and realized the urgency of the political climate in the area, and the danger the Jewish citizens faced from the Nazis. Immediately, Winton established an organization to aid Jewish children find homes in England so they could avoid being sent to death camps with their families. While the children escaped, most of their families perished. But because of Winton, 669 children escaped death at the hands of the Nazis and grew up to live long productive lives.

Here is the interesting part, however – and where the contrast to Facebook becomes so interesting. Winton worked tirelessly to help children escape to England, and he also served as an airman with the British military during WWII, earning the rank of flight lieutenant. Though he accomplished so much, and impacted so many lives, he never told anyone.

In 1988, Winton’s wife, Greta, was looking through some papers and found a scrapbook containing names of children he had helped save, as well as their parent’s names and the names of the families that took them in. Letters were sent and 80 of the children Winton helped rescue were found. During an episode of a British television show called That’s Life Winton met these survivors and was given credit for the amazing work he undertook in WWII.

Even after he was recognized, however, Winton still remained humble, pushing praise from himself onto others who worked with him, especially those who worked in Czechoslovakia.

When asked what advice he would give to younger generations, Winton replied: “don’t be content in your life to just do no wrong, be prepared everyday to try and do some good.” But also, based on Winton’s example, don’t go looking for a pat on the back, either. I think Winton’s story shows us that doing good and getting credit don’t go together. When we look for credit, we end up getting it – but it’s shallow and passes quickly.

I want to be like Winton, not like the founders of Facebook.

La semana pasada dos personas me dijeron que sólo debemos hablar inglés en Estados Unidos. No estoy de acuerdo. Creo que todos en Estados Unidos deben tratar de hablar inglés porque la mayoría de la gente habla inglés en Estados Unidos y es más fácil vivir aquí si lo hace.

Eso no es lo que quiero decir. Mi problema es con las personas que tienen un nosotros contra ellos forma de pensar. Dicen que en Estados Unidos “ellos” deben hablar inglés. Creo que hace que los estadounidenses parecen ser muy ignorante y feo.

He aquí algunos comentarios que muestran lo que quiero decir de Yahoo-Answers:

• It irritates me when i look at a business sign on the side of the road and its in Spanish! and i have no idea what was is being said! I mean if you want to advertise for a restaurant , do it in English!

• If we all spoke wut ever our native tongues where would we go to school? i think english is a must because it brings us all a little bit closer adn with English we are all able to communicate. What if something were to happen and i din’t know ur language and i was helpn u out. There should be something common in all of us, if not the culture/reliegion than language.

• because this is America. that is the language are ancestors spoke. they didn’t have to , but they did. so we Americans adopted that language. all other LEGAL immigrants adopted the English language. some one comes up to me and starts talking like they got crap in there mouth i tell them shut . . . up

El problema es que tienen miedo, creo. Miedo de aprender. Miedo a crecer. Miedo al cambio.

Creo que en los Estados Unidos sólo hablan inglés, ya que no quieren aprender otro idioma. ¿Por qué? ¿Debido a que no tenemos razón para aprender? Tal vez. Podría ser porque no es necesario. Pero creo que es porque no vemos los beneficios. Creo que es porque no veo cómo otros lenguajes nos hacen pensar de forma diferente. Creo que es porque no conocen los beneficios de pensar de manera diferente, también.

¿Por qué tenemos que ver a Estados Unidos como un país solo idioma? Creo que es bueno hablar inglés en Estados Unidos pero yo creo que debe estar abierta a los beneficios de aprender otros lenguajes, también. Un hombre que conocí en Israel hablaba ocho idiomas para poder hablar con los clientes. Fue bueno para su negocio.

Si se aprende a hablar otros idiomas, podemos:

• A entender mejor otras culturas

• A entender mejor nuestra cultura

• Cambiar la forma en que pensamos acerca de nosotros mismos

• Si hablaba español se puede leer esta columna

Si usted aprende otro idioma, no quiere decir que no son todavía Americanos.