On the agony of more trips to the orthopedist, the ecstasy of airport reunions, and the singular joy of helping introduce refugees to Thanksgiving (vol. xxvi, no. 11)

Dear Family,

As the holiday season gets underway, we note with sadness the passing of our beloved bread machine, which stopped working on Thanksgiving while Crystal was making rolls. A bridal shower gift to Crystal from Rod and Karel nearly 29 years ago, the appliance was an important source of sustenance to us during our impoverished student days. As it matured, we used it less as a baking machine and more as a dough-maker. I don’t know that I’ve ever made dough for pizza, pretzels, or rolls other than by throwing all the ingredients into the bread machine, hitting the “Dough” setting, going off to do something else, and coming back 90 minutes later to a perfectly kneaded and proved ball, ready for shaping.

Fortunately for us, Crystal knows how to make dough for rolls without using the bread machine. She cranked out her usual 10 dozen or so and Thanksgiving was saved. I, however, have no idea how to make dough without it. Fortunately, the soft pretzels from Wawa are pretty good.

Sports & Injuries

Exhibiting somewhat greater resilience than that of a bread machine, I managed to make it to my 50th birthday earlier this year without having broken a bone.

Ten months later, I have now broken three of them.

(If your memory needs refreshing, you can read my riveting account of the car-versus-bike incident in March that broke my first two bones here.)

A fractured scaphoid and radius attributable to getting hit by a car is one thing. (Those are both completely healed now, thanks for asking.) But breaking your left pinky toe by stubbing it on an ottoman, as I did three weeks ago, is kind of pathetic and embarrassing. 

A rather large ottoman, it sits in front of the rather large sectional couch in our basement and doubles as a storage container for several blankets. It was sitting maybe six inches closer to the TV than usual. And even though my first thought after kicking it was “what blithering idiot left this giant &!@*$#^ thing sitting out in the &!@*$#^ middle of the &!@*$#^ room,” there’s at least a 50/50 chance that the blithering idiot in question was I. And as long as we’re being honest here, I have no idea how I didn’t see it. Being tall is not always advantageous. 

You know how when you stub your toe, it hurts like the dickens for maybe 15 seconds and then the pain quickly subsides? This was kind of like that, except the initial curse-word-inducing pain persisted for considerably longer and never entirely went away. Not only did it continue to hurt hours later, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to walk.

This concerned me doubly because I was set to run the Richmond Marathon seven days later. Unlike almost all of my dozen or so previous marathons, I had actually dedicated much of the spring and summer to training specifically for this race. I usually take a more haphazard approach to training – I log a lot of miles but not at any particular pace or with any particular purpose. To rectify this, I joined the Montgomery County Road Runners Club’s “Experienced Marathon Program” (“XMP” to the cool kids) for the express purpose of putting together a respectable marathon (for a change) rather than just muddling and shuffling through to the finish line as I usually do. XMP featured long runs early every Saturday morning with a friendly pace group that held me accountable. It also prescribed track workouts every Tuesday and hilly tempo workouts every Thursday, both of which I had the privilege of doing with an incredibly friendly and supportive group of folks.

Two weeks out, I had never felt more prepared for any race than I felt for this one. Three weeks earlier, as recounted in last month’s letter, I had bested my personal record in a half-iron-distance triathlon by nearly ten minutes. And that was with an awful swim and a bike split that was good (considering we rode through the remnants of a hurricane) but not my fastest. Literally all of my improvement had come on the run.

At age 50, I felt supremely confident that I was on the verge of running the Richmond Marathon at least 20 minutes faster than I had run it as a 40 year old. 

And then, with one week to go … the ottoman. 

(Or as Larry, one of my neighborhood cycling buddies, put it: “Those damn Turks!”)

I was pretty sure I had broken my toe. But I did not know what that meant for being able to run. I mean, come on, how important is your pinky toe anyway? An appeal to the internet returned a typically useless melange of conflicting advice.

I got in to to see the orthopedist (2022 has been a banner year for me and orthopedists) two days later. He confirmed that my toe was broken and strongly advised against running on it. He was especially adamant that I not try to run a marathon on it.

The ensuing conversation with the doctor was an exercise in selective listening on my part and hearing what I wanted to hear. He said I could still swim and ride a stationary bike. A reasonable person might infer from his telling me that I could ride a stationary bike that I was not supposed to ride a real bike. But he did not explicitly say that and I purposefully avoided asking for clarification. Consequently, while most of my cycling in the past three weeks has been on the Peloton in our basement (a short distance from the ottoman that relegated me to it) thanks to an unusually mild November, I have also gotten out on the road a few times.      

Swimming and cycling are fine but aren’t really a substitute for running. Absent the motivation to get out with my running crew, I found it increasingly easy to adopt the slothful non-runner’s lifestyle of sleeping in until 6:00 a.m. and sometimes even later! This had to end. At both my initial visit three weeks ago and last week’s follow-up appointment, the doctor told me it was unwise to run on my broken toe if it still hurt to walk on it.

This instruction raised a number of other questions – the central one being, “How do you define hurt?” If what they say is true about the Inuit language having fifty different words for snow, then endurance athletes have at least that many ways of referring to pain. We experience tightness, soreness, and tenderness. We feel twinges, tweaks, niggles, and varying levels of discomfort. If we only ran when everything felt great, we would never run at all.

The doctor resorted to a tired cliché. “Listen to your body,” he advised. 

Thanks, Doc. The one and only thing that every doctor, fitness blogger and YouTube creator in the known universe can agree on is that I should “listen to my body,” whatever that means.

So I listened, and my body told me to give running a try on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Twenty days after breaking the toe, I noticed it literally on every step, but I wouldn’t describe the sensation as “painful.” Only time will tell, but I feel like I’ve turned a corner. 

And so instead of subjecting you to 800 words on my triumphant performance at the Richmond Marathon, you’re getting 800 words about my broken toe. I’m honestly not sure which thing is less interesting. But you’re welcome.

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In other injury news, the left middle finger Crystal jammed when she was hit by a car while riding her bike on Rosh Hashanah (a story that somehow escaped mention in my September letter – probably because it didn’t happen to me) does not seem to be healing. A recent trip to the orthopedist confirmed that nothing was broken but offered little additional insight. The doctor referred her to a hand surgeon, and we’ll keep our fingers crossed. (Well, I’ll keep mine crossed. It’s too painful for Crystal to do it.)

Wrapping up this month’s injury report, Ceres (our goldendoodle) was hit by a car (on her leash) while crossing Colesville Road (in the crosswalk, with the light) near Trader Joe’s on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I did not witness it but am told the offending motorist ran the red light, hit Ceres, and sped away. People can be disappointing sometimes. Fortunately (and miraculously) the dog seems fine.  

Refugee Thanksgiving

One of the benefits of Crystal’s current church position¹ is that we frequently become aware of interesting opportunities to serve in the community that we might not have otherwise known about. You have probably noticed that being helpful does not come naturally to me. But if somebody holds my hand, leads me to a particular place, and asks me to do a specific thing, I am generally willing to do it.

One such opportunity arose on the Sunday before Thanksgiving when we learned that the local Ethiopian Community Development Council was hosting its 10th Annual “Refugees’ First Thanksgiving Dinner” and needed help transporting several hundred mostly Afghan and Ukrainian refugees to and from the event.

Crystal signed us up and soon thereafter was asked if we could pick up an Afghan family of ten – ten! – at their apartment in Landover, drive them to the dinner in Arlington, eat with them, and then drive them home. The whole enterprise sounded exhausting to me – a major effort upgrade over my usual Sunday afternoon routine, which lately seems to consist mainly of falling asleep down the basement in front of the NFL RedZone channel. But not even I am a big enough jerk to turn down a chance to help refugees at Thanksgiving.

It embarasses me to admit that I felt a modicum of relief a couple of days before the event when Crystal received word that the family was sick and wouldn’t be able to go. I figured I would still get whatever good karma I had earned for having been willing to do it, but without actually having to get up off the couch. This feeling lasted exactly one day – until Crystal learned that there had been a mix-up and the family we had been asked to drive would be able to go after all. 

And so we made our way over to Landover. Crystal and Grace picked up the mom and four girls in the Highlander, while Ari and I picked up the dad and four boys in “Grace’s” minivan (both of which can seat 8 people provided they aren’t especially large). I was looking forward to spending the 30-minute drive to Arlington learning more about the circumstances that had forced the family to seek refuge – what they had done to combat the Taliban or whatever their story was. Unfortunately, the dad’s English, while better than my Pashto, wasn’t good enough to carry on a discussion much beyond the weather and his current job as a DoorDash driver. But they were friendly and appreciative and have promised to have us over for dinner sometime. (At least I think that’s what they said.)

The event itself was well worth the trip and felt like America at its best – an agency founded by an African immigrant introducing hundreds of mostly non-African refugees to Thanksgiving. Playing even the tiniest role in it was immensely satisfying. Just helping to put chairs away at the end felt like God’s work.

Thanksgiving Proper (Getting the Band Back Together)

As satisfying as the Sunday before Thanksgiving was, Thanksgiving Day was even more so. Two trips to the airport in an eight-hour span had a lot to do with it.

Wednesdays night’s journey to BWI was to pick up Sophie, now our family’s newest returned missionary. The stake president (Sophie’s uncle Grant, who was spending Thanksgiving in Chicago) released her via FaceTime as we drove home. We got a few hours of sleep. Then, at 6:00 on Thanksgiving morning, Crystal and I were back at BWI picking up Hannah, who had opted to take the red-eye from Salt Lake.

I had to consult the archives to be reminded of the last time all six of us were under the same roof on Thanksgiving. Turns out it was 2017, which is more recent than I would have guessed. I think the covid era has warped my sense of how long ago things happened.²

In keeping with tradition, Thanksgiving dinner was at Grandma’s (and Grandpa’s) house. We were joined there by most of Matthew’s family and most of Andrew’s family (everyone in those families except the children living west of the Rocky Mountains), as well as by Colleen, Lyndee, Todd, Shem, and Geneva Henrichsen. (Did I forget anyone? Hopefully not anyone who actually read this far.) 

Nothing we did over the weekend was particularly remarkable. We made a quick Black Friday jaunt up to Baltimore’s Christmas village with Mom, Peter and most of Matthew’s and Andrew’s families. The best part was marching into The Cheesecake Factory (the one at Inner Harbor) without a reservation and requesting a table for 17. I expected the host to laugh at us. And he did. But within 5 minutes we were seated and I’m still not sure how that happened.

Apart from that, we watched the World Cup³ and did some shopping but mostly just hung out. Hannah and Grace sang Taylor Swift songs on repeat and at full volume. Uncharacteristically, I did not find any of this annoying. So much did I want to be in everyone’s presence that I even sat through Disenchanted (on Disney+) without complaining. (It’s hard to complain when you’ve fallen asleep.) When I woke up, I couldn’t really follow what was going on, but by then all of my children were taking turns mocking every character and plot element, which made me happy. Stupid, stupid movie. 

Hannah flew home early Monday morning and I am still coming down from the high of having had everyone here. I’m excited to have Sophie around until she returns to BYU in January.

Music

As you doubtless recall from past letters, one of the members of my aforementioned running crew, Ira, plays bass in the National Symphony Orchestra. He is also one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet, and this month he came through with tickets for Crystal and me to hear the NSO play behind renowned violinist Anne Akiko Meyers as she performed the world premiere of Michael Daugherty’s violin concerto Blue Electra. I had never heard it before (no one had, it’s brand new) but it was magnificent.

It was a lot of fun and reminded me that we need to get out and do stuff like this more often. It also reminded me that you probably know you’ve arrived when your photo is hanging on the wall at the Kennedy Center.

Grace auditioned for the Maryland All-State Chorus earlier this month. I imagine she did a better job than she thinks she did, but she hasn’t yet heard whether she’s in. In a similar vein, Grace also submitted a bunch of college applications on or around the Nov. 1st early deadline. She hasn’t yet heard back from most of them, either.

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The Washington D.C. Temple Choir has started its Christmas performances. Our first public performance will be on Dec. 10th at the temple visitors’ center. That will be followed by public performances on Dec. 11th at the Frederick stake center and and Dec. 19th behind Jenny Oaks Baker (another first-rate violinist who, coincidentally, played in the National Symphony Orchestra for seven years) at Capital One Hall.

Those are the public performances. We are, however, already in the middle of three private performances. The first of these was Sunday night at the annual Christmas devotional for temple workers. Depending where you live, our temple probably differs from yours in that ours has this giant assembly room on the seventh floor that serves absolutely no purpose as far as temple ceremonies are concerned. But it turns out you can seat 1,200 temple workers and guests in there (one of my fellow baritones and I counted from our perch in the top row of choir seats) with quite a bit of room to spare. Sophie was able to come as Aunt Colleen’s plus-one. I expect most of the attendees came primarily to be taught by a real live apostle of Jesus Christ, Elder Quentin L. Cook. He and his wife were fabulous. But the choir was pretty good, too. (Everyone said so.)

We sang again tonight (Tuesday) at a private visitors’ center event for a couple hundred ambassadors and other diplomats (and their families) to flip the switch and officially kick off the 45th Annual Festival of Lights. Speakers included Mitt Romney, Bill Marriott, the ambassador of Singapore, and Elder Cook (who presumably did not fly home after Sunday’s temple devotional). At the end of the meeting, the ambassador and Elder Cook jointly pressed a totally legitimate-looking button together and all the Christmas lights came on. Whether one thing actually had anything to do with the other is anyone’s guess, but it looked plausible.

I just got home from the event. Here are some pictures of my view from the choir seats. You might not find any of this interesting. But I’ve been to this visitors’ center approximately 80 zillion times and have never seen it set up this way, so it was interesting to me.

We’re re-running the whole show tomorrow for a different group of dignitaries. I don’t know whether they’ll go through the charade of turning the lights on again. Either way, I’m looking forward to it.

This letter is nearly 1,000 words longer than usual and would undoubtedly benefit from another round of editing. But it’s late, I need to go to bed, and you’re going to just have to deal with it. Tomorrow morning I’ll be the organist at the funeral of Karen Freeman, my first piano teacher. Hopefully I’ll do her proud. I’m feeling particularly grateful right now for her, for Martha Pittman (my piano teacher in New Jersey), for Virginia Southgate (my organ teacher) (the latter two died many years ago), and for parents and grandparents and others who gave me the gift of music. Few things in life bring me more happiness.

The only things that do are not things. They are you. Thank you for being so kind to me.

Love,
Tim

1. Crystal is the stake communication director. Among other things, she coordinates community outreach and service (via JustServe.org).
2. For reference, the Nationals won the World Series in 2019. (I vaguely remember it happening because I actually managed to stay awake for some of the games.) That seems like about 500 years ago.
3. Hannah initially rolled her eyes when she walked into the room where I had soccer on and asked if we could watch something other than sports. I told her this wasn’t “sports,” this was the World Cup. And within five minutes, I had her totally invested and rooting for Ghana with me. (As you’re wondering, here is the hierarchy of who I root for in any given World Cup match: 1) The U.S., 2) France, 3) England, 4) every African country, 5) Mexico, 6) Brazil, 7) Canada, I guess, 8) whoever’s playing against Argentina, 9) whichever team has the coolest kit.)