Endurance

144 hours. It is, by far, the biggest number I've ever written on my time ticket. Ten straight 12-hour days, with a 20-hour marathon stuck in the middle, bracketed by two eight-hour routines just to ramp up and ramp down. Intense, competitive numerical analysis, mathematical modeling while-you-wait, long-range business and economic forecasting, all with a heavy dose of psychological inference, small-group dynamics, and political gamesmanship: these were the ingredients of the past two weeks of negotiations. Throw in the chaotic background of political and economic crisis-management currently playing at our nation's capital, just to complete the picture.

To claim exhaustion would be to obsess over the obvious. I will rest, after I write. But exhaustion is not at this moment on my mind; endurance is. I have long admired and drawn inspiration from those who excel not just for brief moments, but over protracted periods and through vacillating circumstance. The Kentucky Derby showcases an exhilarating two-minute manifestation of speed and skill, but the Tour de France exposes enduring strength and character of a different sort. March Madness generates a plethora of pressure-packed moments and "plays of the day," but the names I notice with deepest regard are those that reappear every spring, the coaches and programs that demonstrate excellence year after year, despite dramatic changes among their courted cast. Businesses seek success through mitigating risk and capitalizing opportunity, both games of chance with high coefficients of incertitude. Lucky and well-timed guesswork sometime yield fast fortunes, but those who continue to prosper, though good fortunes and ill, give evidence of fortitude and acumen worthy of examination and imitation.

My own endurance eludes evaluation; I simply lack the objectivity required. But I know what I seek, and I recognize the contrast between what I am and what I wish to be. More to the point, I am gaining understanding of what helps and what hurts, what enhances and what detracts, from my capacity and resolve to excel over time, to endure.

The greatest obstacle I know to endurance is futility. The insidious impulse that one's effort is pointless and devoid of purpose will do more to deflate determination than any other impulse I have experienced. Yet the seedlings of that debilitating thought are pervasive and persistent. The common generic reply, "Whatever!" carries in it's womb the nascent conviction that nothing you or I say or do actually matters at all, that we have overestimated our impact on the people and world around us. The cynicism embedded in "so what?" dismissiveness and "wtf?" mockery begins with the benign observation that some people take themselves much too seriously (as perhaps I do), but leads too easily to the unrestricted irresponsibility that nothing in life is serious or meaningful at all, that actions do not have direct consequences, that concentrated effort is unlikely to produce substantive results.

A second obstacle, not far behind, is the underestimation of our own capacity. "Nobody's perfect" and "I'm only human" are truisms which often mask a negative assessment of human potential. Guilt and shame are burdens we carry which constantly remind us of failures past, and relentlessly project similar failures into our future. To believe that I cannot do something, simply because I have never done it before, or worse, because I have tried before and failed, spawns a self-defeating spiral of incapacity and ever-lowering standards of aspiration.

Obstacles can be overcome. A brief but formative confrontation taught me this in a very memorable way. It was during the training I received in ROTC, at summer camp in Fort Bragg, NC. at the Obstacle Course. Having never excelled in athletics, meeting the Army standards of physical fitness by a hair's breadth at best, I was intimidated by the Obstacle Course from the beginning. About half way through, with low-ranking soldiers shouting harsh curses intended as motivation, I was actually doing okay, much to my surprise. Until I got to the Log. A simple log, supported by lashed tripods at either end, which I was required to get my body over, by whatever means available. About neck high, a foot or so in diameter, slimy and slippery, it stared at me. Not really at me, but through me, as if I wasn't even there, oblivious and unsympathetic to my efforts to overcome it. I tried many, many times. I could not do it. The experimentation was exhaustive and the analysis conclusive: I lacked the physical strength and agility to launch my body over that log. I wish I knew that name of that lowly private who shouted endlessly and relentlessly at me, "GET OVER THAT LOG, CADET!" (If I did know his name, I would probably curse him before I thanked him. But I would definitely thank him.) Somehow, his conviction carried more weight than mine did. Without a doubt in my mind, the one and only reason that I did not give up on that Log was the passionate persistence of his constant clamoring voice. I didn't quit because he wouldn't let me quit. I don't remember how long it took, or how many tries. I do remember, with tears in my eyes thirty years later just from the retelling, that I did, in fact, get over that log.

Passionate persistence and deep determination are often sited as key elements of endurance. The unfortunate inference made by many is that these keys must be found within one's own heart and soul, which if true, is at best partially true and unduly limited. The rich resource available to those with "eyes to see and ears to hear" is the persistence and determination of the people around us. Friends and family, preachers and teachers, coaches and counselors all devote themselves, with irregular but nonetheless reliable fervor, to fanning the flames of courage and strengthening the sinews of heart. Cumulus clouds of witnesses inhabit the very air we breathe, conveying to us ancient testimony of unimagined possibilities and incredible capacities. God's voice can be heard in theirs, affirming the very goodness of creation, inspiring death-defying hope and everlasting conviction.

Inspiration is not measurable. I don't know how much of it I have, nor how much I need, nor how much I have to share. I do know that it is there, that it is available in sufficient quantities to exceed all forecasted demands. I know that, like love, it grows in the sharing, and that the only thing that impedes it's growth is the illusion that it is gone. It isn't gone. It's right here. It's free. Take some. Share some.

Get over that Log.

Endure.

Storm Damage

The weathered workers at the table next to us wore matching khaki shirts with a common logo, identifying them as part of a unit, a working team. Surrounding circumstances made it easy to guess that their skill-set involved electricity and power lines, and that they were part of the massive effort to restore utilities to the victims of last week's ice storms, victims numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Little imagination or investigation was required to understand the magnitude and urgency of their task. Waitresses and fellow diners offered up understated appreciation as circumstance and civility allowed.

As the men were getting up to leave, either to return to work or to attempt overdue rest, we took the opportunity to convey our thanks as well. A brief conversation revealed that this team had come up from Florida to help out. It seems that a few years ago, after a hurricane had hit their home state, crews from Kentucky had journeyed south to lend a hand. When this crew heard about our ice storm damage, they journeyed north to return the favor.

It does something to your soul, this simple unexplained evidence of human connectedness. No, I didn't catch his name or his e-mail address. I probably wouldn't recognize him, were we to meet again a few years or weeks from now. But I will remember him, and his crew. I will remember his simple explanation of extraordinary sacrifice and service. I will store it alongside other miscellaneous scraps of evidence, gathered through the years, that teach me things of the human spirit which I may never fully grasp, much less explain.

Storms do damage. Some of the damage is thankfully short-lived; much is deep and enduring, perhaps permanent. I would never (well, rarely) wish such damage upon anyone, friend or foe. But I have seen good things emerge from storms, even from the midst of the damage they do, which I doubt would ever have appeared, had not the storm raged.

Beyond the homes and businesses without power tonight, perhaps my cynicism has lost some of it's power, too. My doubts about human compassion and service are simply not as well-grounded as they used to be, or seemed to be.

May this storm, or some storm soon to come, damage your doubts as well.