Zion - Part 1 - the Narrows

Last week, Lia and I embarked on an incredible adventure. We traveled to the Southwest corner of Utah and spent a week exploring Zion and Bryce Canyon National Parks. It was a long anticipated vacation; we hadn't spent a week, just the two of us, since the summer after our first year of marriage (August 2001). We were overdue. Especially considering the fact that Lia is due again in February with a boy! This trip was our "Baby Moon" or "Moon Baby" according to Lia who said she read the term in a book: a vacation one takes before the birth of a child. Needless to say, we were excited, excited and anxious - we (or I) had planned an action-rich week, one that would stretch and challenge and hopefully provide a few memorable experiences of the positive variety. Our expectations were high and, as it turned out, exceeded in every way. The following series of entries will be a snapshot chronicle of the adventure...

Adventure 1 was a two day hike through "The Narrows," the world's longest slot canyon, 16 miles top to bottom, my sources tell me. Gordon was our shuttleman. I stiffed him on the tip because I left my wallet in the car. Fortunately, he was our shuttleman for our 3rd adventure so I got to make it up to him.

As it turned out, The Narrows thru-hike was a perfect introduction to Zion National Park. We began in this field of wild flowers, a tiny stream serving as our sole trail description. It was hard to imagine such a small thing could cut a 1,000 foot trench into the earth. Soon enough there was nothing to imagine - the proof was chiseled almost out of sight on both sides of us.

We ate lunch on some slickrock outcroppings. Tuna-bagel sandwich. Lesson learned: don't pack tuna. We had bought "family size" (it should have been called "small army size"). It served as lunch and dinner. And it's a good thing that we were not in bear country because it stunk! We would have been goners for sure.

We spent half the time wading. If the water wasn't so low, we would have waded even more. We crossed that river so many times I wouldn't have been able to keep count. The trail continued to grow "narrower." Soon we were completely bracketed by impossibly high cliffs. I think I said "woah" more times in these two days than on all others combined.

We found our campsite around 5pm. It was already beginning to get dark. We set up camp, ate dinner, and enjoyed the last bit of light down by the river. We had quite a laugh at the expense of my feet. Peeling off the canyoneering boots and neoprene socks we had rented, I was introduced to one of the most frightening sights of my life. My skin was this crazy stale purple color, and it hung hideously in wrinkles from my bones. It reminded me of Emperor Palpatine's skin in Star Wars, at least what I imagine his feet looking like based on his face.

We were fast asleep by 8pm. The next morning we ate peanut butter bagels (much better than tuna, though Lia had been a bit (way) extreme in her apportioning) and lamented the lack of coffee. We had decided not to bring my peculator on the two day hike because we didn't want to have to take dumps (they give you these foily bags to poop in and make you carry it out). However, our plans were spoiled by gastro-colic reflex from the humongous glops of peanut butter. The poop bags worked great until one exploded as I was cinching it down to my pack. Still things were ok. I simply put one bag in the other, and it was fine, until the second exploded when, while I was wading, chest high, I slipped, throwing my bag to safety but having it land directly down on poop bag two. I'm pretty sure people could smell us before they saw us.

Speaking of people, the first day, we saw a grand total of three. The next, we didn't see any until about 11am or so when the bottom-uppers began trickling upstream. Frankly, it was kind of weird seeing them. We had grown accustomed to having the canyon to ourselves.

What a beginning! What a blast! And amazingly we came out unscathed. Lia did have one plunge, but the pool was so deep she didn't hit any rocks; only her wrist (and the camera she was holding) remained dry.

Adventure 1 compete. If it had been the only thing we did all week, it would have been well worth the trip...but there was much more to come...(by the way, to give you some perspective, in the picture below, you can just barely see me, climbing the bottom of the rock!)

Apple Festival 2008

Growing up, my best friend and I used to eat what we called "Fat Apples." Starting in late summer, we'd be sitting around and one of us would get the hankering. We'd get on our cool sneaks and jog through yards until we got to the trees. There was an orchard about a mile from his house. We'd go up and pick the largest one we could find and try to eat it as we walked home. These were "fat" apples mind you. Easily over a pound each. Over two dollars of apple by yesteryear standards. That's why we stole them. I loved every bite.

Another friend of mine introduced me to hard core leave no trace apple eating. That was a brand new thing for me: taking on an apple down to the seeds, putting the seeds in your pocket, walking them off the trail. I usually found a fertile spot and planted them. I only eat apples this way when I'm camping.

Currently, I probably average five apples a week. It dominates my fruit intake. And over the years, I guess I have become a kind of connoisseur. For those of you in the know, you will agree that of the grocery store variety Gala apples are the best, followed by Fuji. When my future wife and I were dating, I interviewed her once on her apple taste. She told me, straight-faced, that Red Delicious were her favorite. It still ranks as the only thing I have changed about her in nine years.

Our town puts on an apple festival each year at Bethabara Park. It is a great time. It's more than the apples. It's the old-timey games, the bluegrass music, the atmosphere in general. Anna Rose loves the horses. Mommy loves the cider. I love the apples. I love it all, really. One of the local vendors turned me on to his Jonagold's, a cross between a Golden Delicious and a Jonathon. Man, was it good. I've been eating them all week.

All this apple stuff has gotten me reminiscent. More than any fruit, the apple has shaped me - my understanding of a balanced diet, my compulsive drive to acquire massive amounts of fluoride, my love of all things crispy. I love them. I really do. Sharing it with Lia and Anna Rose, friends like the Andersons, Briggs, Murphees, and Williams at the Apple Festival makes it all the more tasty. Thanks y'all for coming with us. I can't wait for next year!

Unexpected

I should have picked up on it when Lia decided to take the morning off work just because the night before Anna Rose sort of kind of had a little bit of a running nose. But I didn't. I wasn't expecting it. Tomorrow was no big deal.

There are other days. You know, the big ones, like dropping them off at college, or their wedding. But the first day of preschool? Come on. To fall to pieces over that! To become such an emotional wreck you can't do anything but blubber for an hour! Over preschool! I was seriously unprepared. I was unprepared on many fronts.

No one warned me that it would be this hard: this first tangible experience of handing over. I waited with bated breath to hear how she did. The first thing I wanted to know was if she cried. The second was if she wanted to be held the whole time. The third was whether she had fun. Yes.

But Ms. Tana also told me that "She did awesome." So I have to believe that it was the right decision. Preschool will mold and shape her in ways that I can't. I have to believe that. And it is true. But it doesn't make the letting go any easier.

Fil, a friend of mine, shared with me a story he shared with another one of his friends, Tom, as Tom was preparing to give away his daughter to a young man. Fil said that he was told by an older man that when each of his children were born he imagined it was like God had given him a fistfull of balloons. And on each one of those eventful days, like the first day of preschool, he would imagine letting one balloon drift off into the sky. He would do this at each major event all the way up to the last one, the day his child got married. He shared the image really comforted him. Tom listened and thanked Fil for the story. A week later, his daughter was married. A week and a day later, my friend Fil received a call from Tom. He said, "Tell your friend with the balloons that he's full of shit." Amen brother. Amen. It ain't that easy balloon man.

The Dash to the Teat...

...was the way Robbie "quadzilla" Mills sold it. Robert "veins of tungsten" Milam, Chris "if I can hike the AT I can do anything" Turner, Michael "power of the Celtic" Hummel, Greg "eye of the hurricane, teeth of the tornado" Amweg, and me were the ones who bought it. In the end, all six of us did it. 30 miles of pure awesome slash pure pain.

The challenge came from two angles. The first being that none of us are bikers. I was the the only one with a road bike (having been loaned it the day before by my father inlaw). Mills and CT had hybrids though CT's back wheel was half flat (or half full depending on how you looked at it). Milam and Hummel had mountain bikes that had at least been sat upon a half-dozen times in the last five years. And Amweg was on his, the one he got in sixth grade, the one he last rode to go yard saling around the neighborhood with Mark Carter in eighth grade. So equipment was an obstacle to overcome. The second was the mountain itself. Getting to the base of the mountain is tough enough - 30 miles of the rolling hills of the Peidmont. But once there, you have a 1,400 feet up a 10% grade to manage. It's two miles of your heart stretching your chest cavity to the breaking point.

...but biking, walking, crawling we all made it, and we have the pictures to prove it! Looking forward to the next thing, bros.

The Story Behind the Music

Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go...George Matheson

O Love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

Written in five minutes in June of 1881 by George Matheson on the evening of his sister's wedding - a ceremony he was not allowed to attend. He was blind.

Years earlier, Matheson, a promising young theologian, was engaged to be married himself when his eyes gave way. There was no reason behind it; he just started losing his sight. Doctors were at a loss. Learning of her fiance's fate, she broke off the enagement. She told Matheson she could not go through life with a blindman.

Crushed, he poured himself deeper into his studies. He wrote a book, brilliant in places; however, because of his poor eyesight, there were also unmistakeable errors. Critics took him to task. His second dream dashed to pieces.

During this time, his sister had taken care of him. With her help, he was able to take a pastoral position and began speaking to a reported 1,500+ people a week. But she was no longer to be there for him. Even this opportunity was slipping away. And tonight, this night, she was getting married. His family had left him at home.

It was in the midst of this that he wrote these words...O love that will not let me go, I rest me weary soul in thee...O Joy you seek me through the pain I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, and feel the promise is not vain that morn shall tearless be...

Matheson once wrote that his was “an obstructed life, a circumscribed life…but a life of quenchless hopefulness, a life which has beaten persistently against the cage of circumstance, and which even at the time of abandoned work has said not “Good night” but “Good morning.”

George Matheson now has eyes. He lives in a land of everlasting mornings. I hope to meet him someday. Until then, thank you, sir. Thanks for persevering through trial after trial, for leaving this song and for living with quenchless hope.

To hear and see a recent rendition with Sandra McCracken and Derek Webb go to

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEeJx67Egwo&feature=related

8 8 0 8

We had a great time celebrating the opening ceremonies! I'm still in awe of the drum and box routines, not to mention the size of that one Iranian's head. That guy could seriously whoop me in any sport. Thanks all for coming!

Special props go to Sean, Christal and Cooper Giese for winning the coveted costume prize. Really, props go to all...Blake and Ashley from Mexico, the Edens representing Australia, Chavis for England, the Mussers for Kenya, as well as Ryan sporting the Tusker shirt, the Ellis's going all out for Germany, Sarah and (blanking on name) as the Jamaicans, Bobby and Debra looking fine for Italy, Ben and Jessica bringing it home for Djibouti, the Millers taking on the Iceland, the Steeles supporting the homeland of the D.R., and the Craigs as the good ole U.S. of A. Lia and I as the hosts were China. After much effort, I never looked quite Asian enough for my satisfaction (though I did enjoy wearing the silk pajamas from Victoria Secret (via Goodwill)). Ha! See you all in four years.

A-Ro and Wall-E

Wall-E, I choke up a little bit just writing that little robot's name. What a magical afternoon! It was two Thursdays ago. After naps (Mommy had one too), we switched out diapers (just-A-Ro's) and were out the door for the late matinee.

We had been talking to Anna Rose about it for a week. We were going to the movies! I'm not sure if she entirely understood. But she did master the word robot pretty early on. And for a day or two it even surmounted A-Ro's perennial favorite word elephant. Even so, I really don't think she knew what she was in for.

It was so new...We show up at this enormous building and talk to this person through this circular strainer thing and he scoots us some rectangular pieces of paper between this glass notch and metal trough. This guy in this flashy maroon vest scoops up a huge bag of popcorn and fills this gigantic soda pop. And we walk finger in hand down this long hall. And the ceiling is so high. And it is all dark. And the screen, it is SO BIG!

And I'm taking pictures the whole time. I take one with Anna Rose getting the stubs back from the ticket-ripper lady. I take a couple in the theater (which I think may be against the law). I would point to Anna Rose and mouth "First Time" to those people who seem like they had a problem with flash photography during movies. It did the trick. We ate popcorn, drank soda pop. The eating and drinking was actually pretty funny because Anna Rose was so riveted the only part of her body that moved was her mouth. It was the most still she has ever been. For real. It was amazing. And she was silent...until the space voyage...the moment when she yelled "What's that?" Everyone turned. I whispered spaceship. She pointed and exclaimed, "STARS!" I said yep. Otherwise, she was mostly quiet. It was awesome. And to top it all off, the movie was great!

Happy Birthday Anna Rose!

Anna Rose turned two years old last week, July 7th to be exact. She ate the crab part of her birthday cake. According to her, the best part were the "eyeballs." To read her reflections on this milestone, please visit Anna Rose's blog ("A Chat with Anna Rose").

(Thanks Cara...Anna Rose, you were really born on the 9th. You're daddy is an idiot.)

...I should have a "Year in Pictures" up soon...

OBX 2008

The Simpson crew came "our" way and spent the week with us on the beautiful, rugged Outer Banks of North Caronlina. If this place isn't the summer vacation capital of the world, it is one of them. What an atmosphere! A place where literally every person is there to relax and spend time with family.

There were a lot of favorite parts...the general things like water, sand, long meals, playing games...and the specific stuff like getting addicted to Settlers of Catan, Travis and his Suped-up Church Van from Hades (What a Yahoo! Ha! (you had to be there)), and everything Anna Rose.

I've always loved the beach. How I love it more now that I have enjoyed it through Anna Rose! Sand, water, shells, crabs, seagulls, kites - they have all taken on new meanings. And my girl: she was fearless. Not even when a rogue wave slapped us from the hind side and had us both gasping for air. In two minutes, A-Ro was asking for more. Waves, we learned, make her giggle. (All those hours of using the sound machine has paid off!) And when it came to destruction, I couldn't get a sand castle past the first story before she came over with her mini-giant feet to knock it down. But the highlight was really the discovery in it all - how Anna Rose would cry out every time a pelican grazed the waters, or when a crab would poke its eyeballs (her word) out of its hole, or as the water sank her feet into the sand.

Here are a few pics of our crew. Thanks Cara! (Rich, Sue, and a happenin-hat-wearin Evy; A-Ro, Mommy and Daddy; surfer Chad, nuff said; Todd and his trophy wife, Caitlin; the mighty Logsdons, Jeremy, Cara and Evy)

Daddy Daughter Day at the Zoo

It's been a daddy daughter weekend. Lia's up in Chicago for a mommy daughter weekend (she being the daughter). So back to daddy daughter. We had a great day. Woke up, breakfast at the Old Chesapeake, then off to the North Carolina Zoo.

The zoo was great. A-Ro is at the perfect age to appreciate everything, even the animals. There were a few harrowing moments: the "hugging" chimpanzees for instance. Fortunately, at the time, Anna Rose was being captivated by the bubble gum lodged in the crevice of the Plexiglas. Thank God for debris!

I'll tell you, monkeys are so much like humans. They chew with their mouths open, eat their boogers, and like to groom. This baboon that A-Ro is pointing at - I mean, I have seen the exact same hairstyle on a few humans I know. This gorilla, he picks his nose with his pinky finger just like me!

There are few things better than watching the world through a two year old's eyes. She screamed when the sea lion pulled off a loopedy-loop swim-by inches from her face. She nearly gave herself a concussion jumping out of the stroller to see the giraffe. We had to go back to see the lions three times (and all they were doing was sleeping). Upon seeing a herd of buffalo, she said "Buff-lo pretty." Who thinks buffalo are pretty? In this picture, A-Ro is pointing at a turtle (not the lady). We spent ten minutes watching this turtle eat one leaf of lettuce. A-Ro was enthralled. So was I.

The Crazy One

I thought I was the crazy one. I think we all did. But I have come to the humbling realization that every one in my family is crazier than me. I don't mean crazy in the nut job sense. I still own that title. I mean crazy in the adventurous way.

My little sister started it several years ago when she moved to Macedonia and started living with gypsies. She now lives in Istanbul and lives with gypsies. She also has four kids, which is really crazy. I have one, and that is crazy.

And now, two weeks from now, my parents are leaving for China! Moving to Chengdou where the earthquakes were. They have joined the Peace Corps of all things. Are you kidding me? They're crazy!

And as their son, I couldn't be more proud. Although being the sole Erickson in America is going to take some getting used to. I am thrilled for this opportunity for my folks. What an adventure!

And so, of us all, I have turned out to be the lame one. I live in the suburbs. The closest to danger I get is when I mix the chemicals for the pool, and the most hard core thing I do is go down the slide with my daughter. When and how my family surpassed me, I do not know. I guess I have always looked up to them.

What can I say? I have a crazy family, one I am honored to be a member of. Go get em, team!

Money Laundry

So here is the moral dilemma. Over lunch, a friend gave me 30 bucks so I could pay the babysitter he forgot to pay yesterday. I said sure, and cinched the money in my shorts because I didn't have any pockets. Drove home. Had to crap. So I sit on the can and do my business, and as I get up to flush and leave, I see my buddy's 30 bucks circling the bowl. So I reach in and grab it (of course), but now what do I do? I mean, I soaped and rinsed it, but do I still give it to the babysitter? Does she need to know? And if I don't give it to her, do I use it for something else. At some point, someone's going to have to touch it. Is it better or worse if it is a stranger?

I guess the best thing to do is to burn the money. But it's 30 bucks! That's a lot of cash. So what would you do? How would you solve this problem? Needless to say, my first experience with money laundering has been a filthy one.

Judge a Judge by His Daughter

You are not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but I'm telling you, you can definitely judge a judge by his daughter. Judge John M. Tyson is the incumbent NC Court of Appeals judge and is running in tomorrow's election. He is a great guy in his own right. Here are just a few of his stats: While policy allows 90 days for opinions to be filed, John averages 39 days, using taxpayer’s time and resources judiciously. Tyson majority opinions affirmed or left undisturbed by the Supreme Court: 98.5%. Total Supreme Court adoptions of Tyson dissenting opinions: 39. But I'm telling you, vote for John Tyson because he raised one of the coolest, most solid kids ever. Caroline Tyson Cox is the bomb.

Which brings to mind: how do I choose who to vote for anyway? I mean, what do you do when you are not like my friend Bill Davis who happens to know every candidate on a personal level? I mean, what do you do instead of asking him (which is what I do)?

I had an interesting breakfast a couple weeks ago up at Windy Gap (a camp in western Carolina). I asked the guy what he did. He said, "Nothing right now." I said, "Cool, are you a starving artist like?" He said, "No, I work security detail for high profile people when they go over to Iraq and Afghanistan." "Oh," I said. "I'm taking some time off." So of course I asked who he has hung out with. He said, "I can't tell you," then proceeded in basically telling me everything. Ha! Let me say, it was very enlightening. I don't feel comfortable releasing this information on the internet, and I can't tell you his name, but if you want the inside scoop, give me a call, we'll have a beer.

The only person I really know about is John Tyson. Vote for him tomorrow. Vote because of Caroline. She is the pudding where the proof is.

Running Takes On Whole New Meaning at the Boston Marathon

Marathon running is the gold standard for human perseverance. Nine years ago I was coaxed into my first experience with it at the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. Since then, I have run four more: renegade at the Disney Marathon in 2000, the Louisville Marathon in 2002 (Lia ran half), then the OBX marathon with Robbie last year...it was during that run in the pouring rain that I decided to see if it was possible: if I could train my body into running fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon...so I did, and last March, I managed to post a qualifying time at the Ocean Drive Marathon in New Jersey. A year later, it was time to go to Boston.

Training had gone fine. Because of Haiti, a speaking engagement, and the delightful inconvenience called parenthood, I was unable to get in the distance that I would have wanted, but I was definitely in fine enough shape to have a pleasant experience. However, things changed last week. Most likely, the bug was the one that Lia had the weekend before. It got to me on Thursday morning as I proceeded to crap out everything that I had eaten Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Friday was more of the same. I lost my appetite. Friday, I ate two pieces of bread and four bites of chicken. Saturday morning I stepped on the scale: 136; I hadn't weighed this little since high school! We flew to Boston. I ate one captain wafer and dinner with Dave and Katie (which was fantastic - which I pooped out later). Sunday (race eve) I ate one pancake, half a sandwich, and some pizza. Didn't feel great, but was pretty confident I could gut the run out the next day. But I was definitely bummed about how I was feeling. (An added disappointment was that because of the timing of naps and what not, we were unable to get to the registration bib pickup until they had run out of cool shirts; all they had left were X-large, XX-large and women sizes. I got a woman's large. See picture. Sucks to be me.)

At 4:30am, I woke myself up in mid puke, fortunately (if you really can say such a thing) catching it in my mouth and keeping Dave and Katie's blankets clean. I cannot say the same for their commodes. For the next hour, I barfed one more time, and dookied seven. About 5:30 or so, the dookie became straight water. My head was throbbing, I read cover to cover their toilet reading (Worst Case Scenario: Parenting - I give it a 6). Around 7:15, I called my father-in-law for some advice (Rich is an expert in many things). After talking it through, we decided to drink some Gatorade and if I could manage to keep it down, then I would go for it.

So I packed up my stuff, and Lia and I (and A-Ro) went to the CVS for Gatorade and Immodium. Lia stayed in the car; I grabbed her purse and walked in. And as I get to the drink aisle, my head starts spinning, and I begin to blackout. The next thing, I was leaning up against the cold glass doors, sliding down to a knee. Tears started rolling. I staggered to my feet and knocked over a stack of paper towels. People were looking. I decided to take a lap around the store to regain my composure and wiped the crying into my cheeks. I paid for the Gatorade with Lia's card, but I was having difficulty focusing on the key pad. The numbers were moving on me. And I mistyped. I started crying again. I couldn't see straight. And the lady at the counter patiently helped me push the buttons as I tried again. I walked to the car a broken man, painfully clear that I was too dehydrated to make a go of it. Lia held me as I weep in her lap.

Over the day, I managed to keep some fluids in. We did get to watch some of the race. It is quite an event. It was hard not to be devastated. My stomach is still up and down. I have been to the can already once during this journal entry. (I need to go now). But what can you say, marathon running is what it is - a test of perseverance - in many ways. There are going to be good days and bad days. The Boston just happened to land on a very bad one for me. But as our angelic stewardess counseled me last night on the airplane ride home: character is what matters and things like this build character. And things could be worse. And I still have my legs. And if I can qualify once for Boston, I can do it again. For me, it will just take a bit more work.

Haiti - 3 of 3 Dance

This is Dance (Day-ahnce). He's the one on the left. We met cutting rebar ties in Messailles, Haiti. And it only took him an hour or so to get comfortable enough around me to laugh at my multi-faceted inadequacies at everything manually laborious. It took me about a day for him to become one of my favorite people in the universe.

Communication had its obstacles. He didn't know English, I didn't know Creole, we both knew about the same amount of French, which wasn't that much. For instance, when he asked me how old I was, I said trois cent trois which I thought might mean thirty-three, he just shook his head like I was crazy. "What?" I said. "Can't you understand numbers?" He grabbed a 2" x 4" and wrote 303 with his finger. "Oh," I said, wiping my palm over the imaginary numbers like I was erasing them. With my finger, I wrote two threes, blushed and smiled. I think he said he was 58. Either 58 or 78. Something with an 8 on the end.

I learned that he had six children. The oldest was sick; he was waiting to see a doctor. Dance took me by the hand and introduced me to him. I brought Lia over and assured Dance that my wife would personally see to it that his son would get better. We were walking back to the construction site when he stopped to look me in the eyes. He said, as best as I could understand,"That man in there is my first son. Mon enfant premiere!" Love was in his eyes. And I think what he was trying to say was that although his son was sick, that he was proud of him, that he would always be his beloved son in whom he was well pleased.

The next day, I met three of his grandchildren (I never caught how many he had). They had just finished morning classes and were showing him the box of goodies that one of them had received. It was her birthday (her name was Grace, I think she said), and she unwrapped a cube of grape Hubba Bubba for him to chew. And then she offered one to me. And I wasn't paying attention because I was holding back the tears at how beautiful it was to see Dance with his grandchildren eating Hubba Bubba in the middle of Haiti. And Dance got to his feet, put his arms on my shoulders and introduced me to his grandchildren. He called me his Dear Friend, Ned. And I leaned over to the three girls and said, "Votre grand-pere est une homme tres importante," which was as close as I could get to the words I wanted to say.

That night I started scheming about how I could smuggle Dance back to America with me, to help him escape a country that couldn't pay him more than 10 dollars a day (The average wage is 2), to give him a chance to retire and live his last decades in peace. He could come home with Lia and I. And we could go on walks and sit on the back porch and name the birds. I could teach him to watch television. And the more I got to thinking the more I realized that even if I figured out a way, Dance wouldn't go.

Why would Dance want to leave? Leave his healthy cow and house that he had built with his own hands? Leave his six children who all live within walking distance? Leave the opportunity to work right next to the school where his grandchildren go? Leave the fruit juice slushy he shared with one of them every day at 10am? Leave his home? He had everything a man could ever hope, wish or imagine.

And it got me to thinking, is all the stuff I have really that great? Does it make me any more happy? What am I missing that Dance seems to have in wheelbarrow loads? (Let me tell you, the man can haul a wheelbarrow.) Why does this land of plenty leave so many of us wanting? What if Haitians really have it better than we do?

Maybe they do. Maybe Dance does. But as I have marinated on all of this the last few weeks, what I have come to decide is that the stuff or lack of stuff that is in our equation is beside the point. The solution is somewhere else. What Dance embodied was contentment. He actually enjoyed mixing cement; he loved his son even when he was sick; he adored his family; he wanted his picture taken; he was proud of that healthy cow of his, the fruit trees that dotted his property. He was happy being Dance. He didn't want to be anyone else.

There were other Haitians I met that wanted something else - to be living somewhere, to be doing something, to becoming someone other than who they were becoming. They were the pictures of hopelessness, resignation and despair. And those were the images which broke my heart and most reminded me of so many of the faces I see every day back here in America.

Contentment is not the same thing as complacency. It is not the antithesis of motivation. Contentment is something else. As the Apostle Paul writes, "I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want." It is a secret Dance has learned.

So I went to Haiti for Dance to teach me. And maybe I do need to simplify, there probably is some stuff I need to get rid of, but I shouldn't fool myself into thinking that simplicity is the answer to my problems. And I shouldn't think that adding something will either. Contentment is found somewhere else entirely. That's what I began to learn in Haiti. That's what I witnessed in my dear friend Dance. That's what I hope will stay with me forever.

Davidson

Davidson College has easily gotten more press in the last few weeks than any other school, certainly any other school with a team in the NCAA men's basketball tournament. And I have not minded one bit. I am so proud of those guys, and I have never been prouder to be an alumnus. I know I am biased, but there truly is no better school in the country than Davidson College.

Haiti - 2 of 3 Benson

It's hard to know when exactly this story begins. There was a boy on a table. His father wearing a yellow hard hat and baseball jersey. Was it of the Dodgers or am I remembering it wrong? I will never forget the boy. He was dying. The closest to death I think I have ever seen somebody. His eyelids parted slightly. His eyeballs were misty and as alive as marbles. His head flopped lifeless when his dad tried to prop him up. He had a temperature of 105. They don't have thermometers but his fever had been that way for three days.

The night before I was lying in bed when I had this sudden sense that I was alone. Sensations were taking on peculiarities because I had been wearing ear plugs. One has to in Haiti. Not for the snoring, but for the dogs, the turkeys, the braying of donkeys. But as I opened my eyes, I noticed I was right. Lia was gone. And as I dislodged my plugs I learned why, as my naked ears heard the retching in the bathroom. It was the first of a half dozen such waves poor Lia went through throughout. She spent the morning until noon in bed trying to recuperate. She was weak, but she rallied. Her one patient was a boy.

His name was Benson. I don't know how old he is. I don't know if his parents do either. By the time I checked in on them (he and Lia), Anita Skena had put in an IV for fluid. Lia and the other doctors felt that based on his symptoms, Benson was likely suffering from cerebral malaria, a disease which if left untreated is fatal within days. Since he was unconscious, their only hope of saving him was by giving him liquid quinine or chloroquine intravenously. They didn't have any liquid quinine or chloroquine. In desperation, they decided to rush Benson to a hospital to purchase the necessary medication. Convincing Pastor Charles Amicy to drive turned out to be more complicated than they expected. He had received death threats; there had been a rash of car-jackings lately. In fact, when the father saw Charles getting behind the wheel, he could not hide his astonishment. Bill Petty got into the passenger seat. John Phipps reached in his pocket and gave Bill all the money he had. He hoped it be enough.

The hospital was closed. The doctor gone. A nurse who happened to be there refused to help them. Charles pulled off the road in front of a cement shack. It turned out to be a pharmacy. That's what he called it. They did sell drugs. They bought what they needed. And they needed to get back, back to a place where they could get Benson his medicine. But there was traffic, and stuck there, somehow Benson opened his eyes. Quickly, they purchased a bag of water (water comes in bags in Haiti (don't drink it)) and Benson opened his lips. Dad quickly administered medicine. By the time they reached home, Benson was sitting up. He was strong enough to tie his shoes. The transformation was so dramatic, Bill felt comfortable allowing Benson's father to take him home. They would come tomorrow to check on him.

It had been quite apparent that a miracle had just taken place.

Charles Amicy told us that night how touched the father was by their courage and faith. He gave glory to God. And only then did he tell us that the father was an assistant priest in the local Voodoo temple. That Benson's grandfather is the witchdoctor for that area. That it was the Voodoo priests who were the danger to Charles' life. It was dead silent as he spoke. "I hope to serve God every day of my life," he said. Tears were running down his cheeks. "I want to die serving God." He ran out of the room. We let him go. We were too stunned to follow. To speak.

The next day, Lia, John, Bill, Anita, and Charles drove the rutted road to the sugar cane field which marked the border of Arnold the witchdoctor's compound. Charles had never been there before. He was nervous now, but they went anyway. Lia admitted, the place had an oppressive feel.

Arnold met them warmly. He was less than five feet tall, but he had a charisma about him. He was very excited they were there. He showed them the "hospital", a black room full of spent candle wax. It had been where Benson had been until they had giving up hope. Three nights earlier, I had heard drums as I was walking back to our room. Yelling and drums. I had told Lia about it as I was changing into my pajamas. Down the road some party was going on. "We should go," I said. She looked at me, the way Lia only does. "Ned," she said, "that's not a party. That's a Voodoo ceremony." As it turns out, it was a ceremony for Benson. Arnold showed them where he listens to the spirits, where they do sacrifices. He clarified, we stopped sacrificing children several years ago. Speaking of children, they were everywhere. Arnold has 32 offspring. 14 of his grandchildren go to Charles Amicy's school. The oldest sang a solo at church on Sunday.

And then, out came Benson. He was smiling. Lia checked him thoroughly, explained how and how often to administer his medications. Anita snapped a photo. The one at the top of this log. His fever was still above normal. But he was better. He was running along after the other children. It was a miracle. An honest to God miracle.