A New Script

There are defining moments in every person's life. Those moments that make you smile or cry each time you replay them in your mind’s eye. Perhaps it is a song that triggers the memory, or a picture, a smell, or a movie. Whatever it is, I'm confident that each person has experienced defining moments that have strongly influenced who you are today.

I grew up around the sport of wrestling. Some of my earliest memories are from spending Saturday mornings in a gymnasium watching my "heroes" wrestle. Many people who hear "wrestling" and "heroes" probably think of Hulk Hogan, Sting, Andre the Giant, and the rest of the crazed men who once sported a Speedo and face paint. I am actually talking about names like Degood, VanDyke, Lampe, and the other young men who endured the excruciating work needed to become great high school wrestlers. I was young, but I took notice.

As I watched these guys wrestle, I began dreaming of the day I would compete and wrestle in front of a packed Gross Memorial Coliseum at the state tournament. My ten year old squirrely body would often—in the privacy of my own bedroom—rehearse my response to hearing the final buzzer sound in my imaginary state championship match. I would get up, throw my arms in the air, and thank God for the victory. I had no idea if I would actually ever experience this in real life, but it was a dream.

The small spark that was initially lit from watching great high school wrestlers compete when I was a young boy was fanned into flame by my dad. He spent countless hours helping young men become great wrestlers—over thirty years coaching the sport. He saw my dream, and he was equally committed to helping me attain it.

When I was in sixth grade, I attended a wrestling camp at the University of Iowa. In addition to driving me to the camp—it must have seemed like eternal distances driving across the Midwestern plains--my parents shelled out hundreds of dollars to pay for the camp. I walked around the campus amazed at the men I was encountering. “Wow”, I thought to myself, “There is Dan Gable!” I was star struck. Similar to a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert, I was in awe of seeing these people whose pictures appeared on posters that were hung all over my bedroom wall. In the midst of collecting autographs, I also managed to learn a few new moves. Most importantly, I jotted something down in a little notebook that would serve to motivate me for the next ten years. In messy sixth grade hand writing, I wrote, "My goal is to be an All-American."

I had a lot of dreams as a kid. Many of them were a little "out there". I proudly announced at my sixth grade graduation that my life goal was to become the middle linebacker for the Denver Broncos. That dream didn't quite pan out. Apparently, the scouts weren't looking for a 150 pound professional football player. But, the dream of becoming an All-American never faded.

Being an All-American is attained by placing in the top eight at a national tournament. My mom and dad were faithful to drive me all over the country during my high school years to give me the opportunity to accomplish my goal. In fact, it was common for them to drive seventeen hours only to watch me lose two matches and come home. Lord, bless them.

I had success in high school at the state level and eventually became a state champion. As sweet as the victory was, I couldn’t forget about my sixth grade goal of placing at a national tournament. I took the plunge and decided to wrestle in college. It didn't take long for me to realize that college wrestling is a different animal.

Halfway into my freshman year, I called my dad to announce I was quitting the team. His response was something that I can still hear ringing in my ears. "Son", he said, "You need to finish what you started." Being in college put me in a position where I didn’t technically have to listen to my dad’s advice. However, he had earned my respect as a man and as a coach. I chose to heed his advice and continued grinding along. I managed to barely qualify for the national tournament, and sure enough, my parents endured the marathon drive to Minnesota to support me. The result was the same as previous years. I found myself beat up, discouraged, and quickly out of the tournament after losing two matches.

It wasn't looking good for me to attain my goal, but I decided to wrestle for one more year. I had mediocre success during the regular season, and although I didn't earn an automatic bid by placing in the top 3 at the qualifying tournament, I was still afforded the opportunity to compete at nationals due to being named a wildcard selection. I obviously wasn't ranked and certainly wasn't expected to do much at the national tournament. To be honest, as bad as I wanted it, I really didn't expect it to happen either.

I remember distinctly how that tournament felt different than all the others. It wasn’t because I fully expected to attain my goal of placing in the top eight, It was simply because I realized that this would be my final tournament of what had been a seventeen year wrestling career.

I always got nervous when I heard my name announced through the booming loud speakers indicating that it was my turn to grapple. With extreme butterflies in my stomach and a less than confident look on my face, I started walking towards my assigned mat. When I arrived, I looked over and evaluated my competition. He appeared to be bigger, stronger, and more confident than I. He was nationally ranked and expected to be an All-American. Most people who knew the sport expected him to cruise through his first match--yes, against me.

 I looked across the coliseum and spotted my dad who had worked his way into a front row seat. Seeing him gave me confidence. The look on his face communicated that he really expected me to win. What was wrong with him?! Had he already forgotten about all of the other years? Did he really expect that this year would bring a different outcome?

I walked on the mat, shook my opponent’s hand, and within the first minute found myself flying through the air only to experience an abrumpt thump as my head bounced off the mat. Worse than the pain was the reality that I was on the verge of being pinned--and humiliated. I half-heartedly fought off my back and considered giving up. My mind instantly started replaying the same old thoughts: Here you go, again. It's not going to happen. Give up and get this over with.

Somehow I managed to fight off my back and even scored a reversal as we went off the mat. As I walked back to the center, I heard something that will forever be with me. It was the sound of my dad's voice as he yelled, "Come on, son. Fight." I can't explain it, but something inside me came alive. Confidence flooded my soul.

I was taken aback by his boldness. I think the entire section of the coliseum heard him. How embarrassing it would have been for him to boldly support me only to watch me come up short again. He believed in me, and it did something in me. The words that carried across the floor of the coliseum and overpowered the voices of hundreds of other fans ignited something that needed to be lit.

The faded dream of becoming an All-American suddenly became clear again. With a renewed sense of direction and passion, I fought back to pull out an upset win, 8-7. This was a defining moment in my life. My eyes were opened to see that the story doesn’t always have to follow the same ship-wrecked script.

I won my next match 10-8, which put me one win away from becoming an All-American. I can't explain the feeling I experienced when it dawned on me that this may actually happen. I got away by myself and prepared for the most important match of my career.

I was nervous but optimistic as I stepped foot on the mat. I didn't have a chance to see where my mom and dad were seated, but I was confident I would soon hear my dad—and so would the rest of the fans in the arena.

The first two periods were close and hard fought, but I trailed the entire time. I was a man on a mission in the third and final period, but my opponent defended well. He simply had to hold on for ten more seconds in order to seal the victory and crush my dreams.

In what felt like a miraculous moment, I snapped him to the mat, and shucked him by to score a last second take-down. My coach went crazy, and so did I, but the thing I remember the most was the speed in which my dad sprinted down from the upper seats, picked me up, and gave me the greatest bear hug of my life. Tears were freely flowing as we both embraced this moment that had eluded us for years.

It's been twelve years, and I still think about that moment often. As much as I wanted to become an All-American, that’s not what I think about or remember. Instead, I recall the joy of making my dad proud. He was delighted, and because of it, so was I.

I am convinced that it would not have happened if I hadn’t heard his words during my first match. I was defeated and on the verge of giving up, but my dad's belief in me was unwavering. He spoke courage to me when I needed it the most. In reality, he demonstrated the nature of our Heavenly Father.

I have since learned that this is how God operates. He believes in you whether you believe in yourself or not. The script that He's writing for your life doesn't include timidity, fear, or continual failure. As your Heavenly Father, He's speaking courage, life, and power. I believe He's daring you to believe that things can and should be different. Lean in and listen to His inspiring words, the very words you most need to hear.

I think you'll enjoy His script better than yours.

Crossing the Threshold...A Story of Hope, Healing, and Purpose

Meet Kris Munsch.

Kris has quite a story. And he's traveling great distances telling his story, learning more about his story, and meeting people with a story of their own. Oh, and I must not forget, he's changing lives and leaving a wake of hope wherever he goes.

Nearly seven years ago, I sat across a table from Kris in a relatively dark sports bar in Hays, Kansas as we enjoyed lunch together. I was a radio show host, and Kris was a successful businessman who sponsored the show.

All of the outward signs pointed to the fact that Kris was on top of his game. He had two successful liquor stores, a wife and a family, and popularity within every circle of the community. He was a likeable person. That's why I wanted to grab a hamburger with him. I enjoyed being around the guy.

As we sat in the sports bar, I looked at him and made a comment that seemed very random at the time. I said, "Kris, I can't explain it but I believe God is going to do something very powerful through your life." It was random because it didn't quite fit into the tone of the rest of the conversation (or any of our previous conversations), but I felt compelled to say it. Little did I know, but Kris's journey was about to take a dramatic turn.

In December of 2005, Kris's son, Blake, was tragically killed in an automobile accident. Shortly after, he experienced the failure of his marriage. His life was collapsing around him. This heartbreaking loss propelled him on a journey which he describes on his website (http://www.thebirdhouseproject.com/):

"I vividly remember the numbness I felt hearing Blake’s mother’s screams when I picked up the phone, seeing the police officers at my door, standing right inside the tire marks at the accident site. None of these came close to preparing me to walk into that room where my son would lay lifeless. I didn’t want to accept that he was gone – that everything I knew no longer mattered! But I took that step. I crossed the threshold because there was no more denying it; this was part of my life.

This year, after five years struggling and searching, I look behind me to the loss of my son, another failed marriage, and an unfulfilling career and accept that this isn’t the life I wanted, but this is the life I got. Once more I’m going across the threshold to face my fears and to find out what it will take to make some sense out of all of this, find my faith in God, and hopefully restore a little faith in myself."

In the midst of his pain and loss, Kris began to see things differently. He also began to recognize that he had a gift to help others heal in their own grieving process. So, he developed "The Birdhouse Project", and began a cross country journey--to be exact, visiting 48 states in 365 days. Armed with a distinct message and project that brought hope, he set out to experience healing--for himself and others.

I sat across a table this morning from Kris and enjoyed his company once again. It was the first time I had seen him in years. I listened to his story. I marveled at how God was using him. I was inspired by his boldness and courage.

Saying that Kris has courage is an overly simplistic statement. He sold all that he had spent years building, bought a little car that he had fixed up to communicate his message of hope, and took the first few steps of a mysterious and unknown journey...A journey that would challenge him at the deepest level of his soul.

While I sipped on cold coffee (I was so interested in his story that I lacked the initiative to continue to leave the table to warm it up) I listened to him describe the challenges of his mission. He sleeps in his car most nights. Many of his meals consist of a simple peanut butter bagel or a bag of ramen noodles. But, he assured me that he is having the time of his life. He spends his days speaking at workshops, support groups, churches, counseling perfect strangers in McDonalds, and continuously learning more about himself, God, and the story that is unfolding each and every day.

In addition to the physical challenges, he has also experienced rejection from some of the people that he loves the most. Many people have tried to convince him that he's "lost it". After he had sold everything and prepared to "cross the threshold", he had a loved one say, "Oh My God. You are going out to kill yourself." Kris responded by saying, "No, I am going out to live. Truly live. " I guess the two are connected. The only thing Kris was planning on killing was his old nature.

It dawned on me that I was sitting across from a man who was living the words of Jesus found in Matthew 16, "To find your life, you must lose it." Kris gave up all that he had in order to walk the narrow path that God was leading him down.

I left Panera Bread inspired and encouraged. I pulled out of the parking lot, looked in my rear view mirror and spotted his "hope mobile" behind me, and began smiling as I thought back to our sports bar conversation from seven years prior. To say that God had big plans for Kris Munsch may have been an understatement the size of this coast to coast journey he's on.

And I believe he's just beginning.

You can follow his journey at http://www.thebirdhouseproject.com/.

Four weeks ago, I asked Jeff Mayhugh if he ever runs. His response was, "No way!" What happened over the next thirty days is nothing short of miraculous. I asked him to share his inspiring story.

Running for your life - what God taught me in 26.2 miles
By Jeff Mayhugh

I have been an unashamed couch potato for the last couple of decades. Up until very recently, my heart was beating just well enough to allow me to sit in front of my home office computer screen by day, and my TV screen by night. My two constant companions were my mouse and remote control. Walking my dog was the extent of my cardiovascular exercise regimen.

Surprisingly, about six weeks ago, my wife told me about her goal to conquer the Manitou Incline; an intimidating, steep, mile-long staircase of railroad ties cut into and up the side of a mountain near Colorado Springs. On a whim, I decided to “do the incline” so I could tell her what to expect. What was I thinking?! Half-way up the face of the mountain, I was intimidated, gasping, aching, and wishing that I had never heard of the “incline.” But, the thought of returning home to my wife in defeat kept me moaning and groaning ever so slowly to the top.

The following day, I limped into church where I was volunteering to assist at my daughter’s youth service. I informed the Youth Pastor, Gabe Jenkins, of my previous day’s exploit. Rather than sympathizing, much to my horror, he suggested that we do the “incline” together. He told me about his intention to run a half marathon coming up soon in Denver, and that the “incline” would be good training for the event. I said, “Sure, let’s do it!” Again, what was I thinking?!

The fact is, I was both inspired and motivated by the thought of joining him on the incline. After all, I would be climbing that tower of stairs with someone who was accustomed to running several miles on a regular basis and training for a big race. I would be proud to be in his company. But, I thought, “I’d better do something to get ready for this, and quick!” So, the next day I managed to jog a whole mile on a relatively flat trail before my legs betrayed me. More than a little discouraged, and after a few days of recovery, I really pushed myself to jog almost two miles. It was more than painful, but I survived.

A few days later, the sequel to my “incline” nightmare had arrived. As we drove to the base of my impending doom, Gabe told me about his training program. He described how he started running 3 miles a couple of times per week, then 4 miles, then 5 miles, etc. At this point, I was becoming accustomed to feeling inferior.

As we scaled the “incline,” I managed to keep from embarrassing myself. As we reached the summit, between gasps for air, we talked about people and movies that inspired us. On the long stretch of Barr Trail that snaked down another side of the mountain back to the parking lot far below, Gabe listened to my dream of starting a non-profit organization called “A Greater Purpose.” My general plan for this charity fundraising organization, I explained, would allow me to do something more meaningful and fulfilling with my life, and encourage others to do the same. Although he raised some important questions and offered some valuable insights to the non-profit world (an alien planet to me), most importantly, he listened as I began solidifying in my mind the reasons for pursuing my lofty goal.

That walk and talk left me searching for guidance, direction, and especially, courage to pursue something larger than I would have ever allowed myself too seriously consider. I prayed. I prayed some more. And then I listened.

The response I got was not an audible voice, rather, I received a sense that God wanted to teach me something before I fully committed to “A Greater Purpose.” Or, maybe He was putting my conviction to the test. Either way, I received a tiny spark of a thought that at the time, I had no idea would later burst into a white-hot desire. The thought was this: “What if you proved to yourself that what you think is impossible, is in fact possible, if you have faith in Me?” With that cryptic question, I wondered, what impossible thing could I attempt to do to test my faith in Him? Then, just as suddenly as the question was raised, the answer came to me…run in and complete the upcoming Denver marathon! The thought seemed so ridiculous that I quickly dismissed it. After all, it almost killed me to jog two miles! Just the thought of running 26.2 consecutive miles was, well, unthinkable.

I quickly rejected the challenge and buried the notion. But as I continued praying about “A Greater Purpose,” the thought resurfaced. Although I resisted what I thought I was being called to do, something inside compelled me to see how far I could push my ever softening middle-age body. The next day, after climbing the incline with Gabe, I ran an unheard of five miles! At first, I questioned how I had done it, but deep down, I knew that I had been energized by the power of God to do what just a few days earlier was, in my mind, impossible.

I told Gabe that I would be interested in going with him on one of his training runs. The first run with him led to another longer run by myself the next day. Gabe asked if I was considering running in the marathon. Still, I resisted what God was doing in me, and responded that I would try running a few more times to see how my legs held out. Clearly, I was still hesitating to commit to what I was being called to do.

I found myself searching the internet for proof that there was no way someone who was a 49- year-old, self-proclaimed couch potato could run a marathon with only a month of training. Sure enough, I went online and found everything I needed. There were scores of 6-month training programs. Digging further, I found a few 4-month crash courses, and even a 3-month training plan for those who were willing to brutally punish their bodies. But, according to more than one expert on the subject, nobody should attempt a marathon without a minimum of 3 months of training. The human body, they stated authoritatively, is just not designed to take the abuse of a marathon without at least 3 months of training. What a relief. I was off the hook.

Even as I prayed and told God that I must have misunderstood Him, I knew that I was not being honest with Him. I could feel Him smiling, patiently waiting for me to do His will.

Still, I let my intellect override my spirit. After only a couple of miles running, I was having some major pains in my lower calves that appeared to be a tendon problem. Not only did I have expert advice, but physical deficiencies to justify not fulfilling what I felt God was expecting of me. But, I have since learned that He has an unwavering belief in me. When I told Gabe about my calf problem, he told me about a place that I could go to have my running gate analyzed and get fitted for shoes that might help. So I did. And what do you know? The new shoes solved the problem.

Finally, I gave in to what I was convinced God was directing me to do. I filled out the marathon registration form online, prayed once more for courage and His supernatural strength, held my breath, looked at my completed registration form in utter disbelief, and clicked “submit.” Let the fear of pain and failure begin.

With less than four weeks until the marathon, I sought advice and encouragement from every friend and credible source I could find. I started training runs of 6 – 14 miles, beginning by moonlight at 5:00 A.M. so I could whip my legs, heart, and lungs into shape before work each day. I needed to reach a peak 20-mile run within two weeks. This would allow time to taper down the length of my runs for the following couple of weeks and give my body time to recover before the race day.

Almost over night, ice packs and Advil became my new best friends. I would run several miles for two days and rest the next day. Of course, my “rest days” were actually “hobble around with aching joints & muscles and try to heal the entire lower half of my body days.” I could share with you the physical problems I experienced, trying to cram 3 – 6 months of training into four weeks, but suffice it to say, it was something I won’t be able to forget fast enough.

The 20-mile run I mentioned was designed to teach me to push past the pain that was sure to seem overwhelming after about 10 – 12 miles. Although it might have worked (somewhat) for my body, at mile 14 of my 20-miler, I found myself limping along at a snail’s pace in agony for the remaining six miles. This did little to boost my confidence that my body could endure an additional 6.2 miles that a marathon required, regardless of what my brain commanded it to do.

That was the point where I could decide to hang it up and resign myself to the fact that I just didn’t have enough time to transform my body for the Denver marathon, or have faith that it would not be by my own strength that I would finish the race. Although I didn’t think it was physically possible for me to do it alone, I accepted that where my strength in the natural ended, my faith in God’s supernatural strength would hold me up and carry me to the finish line.

The enemy worked me over the next two weeks. Self-doubt was now my virtually constant companion. What did I think I was doing? “You’ve never been a runner. How are you going to feel when you have to face your two young daughters and tell them that Daddy didn’t make it?” I asked myself. How would I feel when my aging and unconditioned body simply couldn’t withstand the beating of over 26 miles of hard pavement? How could I actually be attempting this? Again, what was I thinking?

But every time my fears were getting the best of me, my ever faithful friend and guardian stepped in. He reminded me that it is not by my own strength, but by His strength that anything is possible. As Jesus did, I commanded Satan to get behind me. I called on God to temper me and guide my steps, all 207,540 of them that I estimated would be needed to complete the marathon.

As the race day approached, I actually started to believe that I might be able to do it. An idea that seemed laughable to me just a few weeks earlier, was now within the realm of remote possibility. As I prayed and received confidence from Him, my desire to do the impossible saturated me. Sure, fear of failure still invaded my thoughts, but I began to dismiss the fears and insecurities that I knew were being sent by the enemy. I concentrated on my growing passion to test my faith by doing something impossible with His strength supporting me.

Sooner than I needed, but slower than I wanted, the day of the marathon arrived. I felt strong physically, emotionally, and spiritually. As I stood waiting with over 15,000 anxious would-be marathon runners at the starting corrals, I felt more alive than I could remember. The sensation brought to mind a quote from St. Iranaeus that Gabe had imparted to me; “The glory of God is in man fully alive…” Yes, that was it. I was at that moment fully alive, and God was rejoicing in me. It became clear to me that of course it’s important to do your best and finish what you start, but what God really wanted for me was to feel fully alive. He didn’t just want me to train and finish a race. He wanted me to experience something new and exciting with great expectation and joy. I realized it was time for one last prayer before I became a marathon runner.

Moments before the start of the race, I prayed that I would feel His presence throughout the race. I told him that I was not going to concentrate on finishing for the sake of my ego, to travel the distance in a certain amount of time, to beat another runner, or even concern myself with finishing the race at all. Instead, I committed to enjoying every aspect of what I was about to experience. For the next 5 or more hours, I would HAVE FUN running in a marathon! I would revel in the fact that He had brought me to this place that just a few weeks ago, seemed like a preposterous idea.

When the starting horn blew, I launched into a confident, comfortable stride. The time had come. I was actually doing it. And, it felt great! The course was lined with cheering fans as the huge herd of runners started on the long trek through the city streets. I reminded myself to contain my excitement and settle into a pace that would allow me to savor this once in a lifetime moment; my first and possibly only marathon!

With each passing mile marker, the mob of runners began to thin out, as did many of the enthusiastic screaming spectactors that marked the beginning of the race. In my mind, I heard all the voices of friends who had encouraged and advised me over the last several days. The prayers they offered filled me and made me smile while I noticed other runners were starting to look strained.

As the race wore on, rather than focusing on the pain in the various parts of my legs, I kept my attention on the beautiful city skyline, the gorgeous parks, and small groups of supporters who were around almost every corner. As I saw children eagerly holding up their hands to offer “high fives,” I sacrificed slightly quicker routes on the course to move closer to them and slap their hands, calling out, “All right! Thanks for the help!”

A few hours into the race, not only did many of the runners start looking down at the pavement with fatigue, but even the occasional lines of high-school cheerleaders ahead of me were losing their original high-powered enthusiasm. As I drew closer to them, I held out my hand to offer “high fives” and thank them. I noticed that this simple acknowledgement of what they were doing seemed to rejuvenate them. They would start screaming and jumping up and down again. We were feeding off of each other! I could still hear them cheering with exuberance well after I was several yards down the course.

There were characters wearing wild costumes and waving a variety of signs along the way. There were plenty of the traditional, “You can do it!” and “Don’t stop now!” signs. Others included, “Chuck Norris never ran a marathon!” and “Bike Rides - $50/mile!” that kept me encouraged and laughing along the way.

That was something I never expected. I was actually smiling, laughing, and having fun with people as I was in the middle of the most physically demanding challenge of my life. As it was happening, I knew that was what God really wanted for me. He didn’t want me to grind through the day in pain and agony so that I could say I’d finished a marathon. He wanted me to be fully alive and truly enjoying everything that this special day had to offer.

During the final miles of the race, I had an undeniable confidence that I was going to finish the race. There was no doubt. There was no fear. I had finally arrived at the place God had been planning for me. I imagined Jesus running beside me, proudly sporting his new Nike running shoes, smiling at me as I finally got the lesson. Yes, what I thought was impossible, was not only possible with Him, but it was a blast!

I searched for my wife and daughters in the crowd that lined the last few blocks prior to the finish line. I was anxious to finish, but even more excited about seeing them as I did it. And there they were, just a few yards from the finish line, screaming, and jumping up and down. What a feeling! Words can’t really describe it, but if you’re a husband or wife with children, you can imagine what a moment that was for me. I blew them several kisses as I ran the last few yards.

When I saw the finish line a few strides away, I put my hand over my heart and raised my other hand with two fingers pointing as far as I could reach over my head to Him. With my last breath as I crossed the finish line, I called out, “Glory be to you!”

I was physically spent, but emotionally and spiritually overflowing! God had done his work in me and taught me lessons that I will use in every aspect of this life He has given me. Yes, what I think is impossible, really is possible when I have faith in Him. And as I reach, stretch, grow, and travel, God is glorified as I truly enjoy every step, fully alive!