When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronaut, which is to say I was a kid. I memorized the name of all the space shuttles and had a picture of one in my room. I read books about the Apollo missions. I played with space-themed Legos. I had a blue VHS tape that was an infomercial from Space Camp. In my mind, there was nothing more awesome than to explore the frontier beyond this terrestrial ball we call home.

My interests eventually shifted, but the news of John Glenn's passing yesterday caused me to flashback to my childhood. Glenn served in World War II and Korea, he was a U.S. Senator, in 1962 he was the first American to orbit the Earth in the Friendship 7, and then three and a half decades later returned to space on the shuttle Discovery. That that sentence is about a single human being is ridiculously staggering.

Running in November and December has been somewhat of a struggle. I've been inconsistent. My pace has fallen off. It gets dark before 5 o'clock now and the home stretch before EA and the boys get here seems to get longer. It's easier to make excuses to just stay home. Running as an outlet has just kind of been off.

I dragged myself out the door after work earlier because it had been nearly a week since I last ran. I had trudged along for about three miles when I was waiting for a crossing signal on Blakemore. As I waited, another guy came running behind me and hit the intersection just as the light changed, allowing him to not lose momentum.

I decided to see if I could keep his slightly faster pace for a bit and ran a few strides behind him.

No one ever told me that being a parent would turn a trip to the movies into an emotional minefield. I guess I should have known that. Children in peril and loss are common themes in storytelling. But what you know in your head doesn’t always prepare you for what hits you squarely in the heart.

Arrival begins with these beautiful glimpses of a relationship between Louise Banks (played by the incredibly talented Amy Adams) and her daughter. Yet the plaintive score and the dreamlike cinematography alerted me that tragedy was just around the corner. With that sneaking suspicion, it disarmed me when the little girl said “Mommy” in a register very similar to our sons.

Back in seminary, I was part of a group that was responsible for putting together a chapel service around Thanksgiving. Since I wasn't going to be there for the service, I volunteered to put together a video prayer for the service. I've used it a couple of times since then (including this past week in Sunday school) and have continued to update it (even since this past week in Sunday school).

Before thanking people at camp, my dad typically commented that you get in trouble when you start thanking people because you are bound to leave someone out. I mention that to say that this is not an exhaustive list of those things and people for which I am thankful. The people is pretty much excluded to my immediate family, which is to say, "I'm still thankful for you other family members and friends." I should also mention that there was a cut of this that included my gratitude for "Unfollow" button on Facebook and Twitter, but that didn't seem to be in the proper spirit of things.

Interstate 40 is a straight shot out of Tennessee. It spits you out in the mountains of North Carolina where you dribble down to Asheville, switch to I-26, and slide on down to the foothills of South Carolina. I drove that familiar path last week as the sun set behind me. I was trying to make up distance and trying to make up time. The home that is my wife and sons was on the other side.

It's 356 miles from where I live in Nashville to where I used to live in Spartanburg. Driving solo between the two, it doesn't feel that long. But there are times when I can feel every inch of the distance. That has been difficult; more so than I thought it would be. Don't get me wrong. I knew it would be tough. When you're not with your wife/best friend of 11 years and the two souls that you swore you'd protect with everything, the absence is going to weigh on you. Yet that distance is a load to bear. When I left to go back to Nashville and my youngest whimpered, "I'm going to miss you," it darn near destroyed me.