Never Give Up

More often than not, I think it's safe to say, a breakaway group in a cycling race eventually gets caught by the pursuing bunch. And when they are getting caught, one can identify the exact moment they give up. They sit up in their saddles, slow their pedaling cadence, and resign themselves to the inevitable catch.

And all the riders who attempt a breakaway know this. But they also know that there is always a chance. Sometimes, a break makes it all the way. And sometimes, if he doesn't give up, just one rider finds himself fighting for the finish, trying to outlast the chasing horde of riders behind him for a sweet, sweet victory.

Such was the case in the seventh stage of the Tour of Turkey yesterday. Here's a two-minute clip of what happened. Totally worth it (again and again).

Surely that is enjoyable to watch, even for someone not remotely interested in cycling races. The commentator's utter excitement over the events almost guarantees it. A slightly longer version with better quality and a different commentator can be found here. (And for anyone interested in a 12-min clip with context on either side of the event, it is here.)

I wanted to post something about this finish, not only because I found it absolutely fantastic, but because I hope that I will look through my blog in the future and be able to enjoy it again later on. But early this afternoon I realized another reason to post it: I feel that this race's finish corresponded very well to what I just read in Christ's Object Lessons. To me that seems funny, but the more I watch this video and think about the chapter I read, the more similarities occur to me.

"Be ready in 30 minutes," he said.

When I think of traveling, it's never like this. Not really. I tend to imagine observing carefully, watching, listening, marveling at the landscapes, architecture, and people, maybe even running—but not for my life. Not in flight from those who would kill me and the people I'm with.

At the same time, those are the moments that tend to create the most striking images, that if captured, more easily become legacies in themselves. At times I think war photography is the best photography of all. The most intriguing to me, that is. I've never even been close to experiencing it or observing it in person, but my imagination leads me to think of several skills and traits one must have: quick technical camera fingers, a heart of sensitivity to recognize the emotion in a scene, a heart of stone to withstand the horror and sadness and fear without going fetal, courage, fitness, traveling sense, cultural sense, ideally looks that aid in blending in, and at least some familiarity with the local language and customs. What a stressful adrenaline rush it must be.

It makes me think of the film Triage. And of the photographer I did a report on during my photojournalism class, Eugene Smith. Powerful stuff, but it must take its toll.

I suppose from a comfortable distance war photography fascinates and intrigues me. I wonder myself into war scenarios and imagine the images I'd capture, full of fear and pain and sometimes hope. Then my mind takes the next step and questions how I could get into that kind of job. And then it all stops because I realize that's ridiculous and I'd be too afraid anyway.

I'm not even paying attention to why Syria is having such a war, what is being done about it, what the losses are, or even the photographs coming out of such a conflict. But since I did happen upon her story, I have to say, I have a lot of respect for—and yes, curiosity about—photographers like Zohra Bensemra and all the others who risk their lives, and the lives of those supporting them, in conflict zones. It's almost unbelievable. But they've got pictures to prove it.

Loose Change

It's loss I don't like, not change. Loss of the things I can control, like my time, mostly. I feel like I'm in charge of that, so when something is sprung on me, it puts me off guard and sometimes upsets me, even to the point of anger at times. But that's usually when it's something that gives me the immediate gut reaction of unease. I don't know where that internal barometer is or how it gauges things, but at a split second I have already judged things, and I've learned that I need to suspend those feelings (or, accept them for the moment) and consider the situation more carefully. Often this means ultimately going against my gut reaction because I feel that it is logical to do so, although not necessarily more comfortable (i.e., less upsetting) by any means.

Most of this is very subconscious and instinctive. I'm only recently beginning to realize this kind of tendency in me has been cultivated over time and is probably a significant contributing factor in my inability to understand how God works—and how to let Him work—in my life. Literally, it means Him controlling my mind, essentially being me. That's how I understand it for now, anyway. And while all the pastors get up front and say that living with Christ is such a big adventure, go for it, it doesn't seem to be that way (and least, in the sense of it being all fun and games which is often the kind of slant I seem to hear) and even if it was, it's not like that even makes much sense when talking about an invisible God and a personal relationship. One can drop everything and go explore the Arctic at the drop of a hat, but one can't drop everything and immediately know someone else. And that's what this is about here, right? Abiding in Him and He abiding in me?

I'm changing my view of change. I am going to try and remember to not say "I don't like change" anymore, but rather "I don't like loss." The latter is much more consistently true and accurate than the former, and I like consistency and efficiency. (And I must emphasize that that thing—consistency—doesn't mean absence of change. It can be a consistency at a foundational level with truckloads of tweaks and alterations at a more surface level, which is generally what I'm talking about and what I see.) This means that I will admit to being wary of the threat of loss that succumbing to God's will surely means, but I'm also very eager, at some level, to experience the change wrought by such submission. Surely, there is a great difference. So, the loss may be great, but the change is to be greater.