Stephen Yeargin

I was sitting next to a gentleman on the plane between Salt Lake City and Denver last week as he rambled on about hedge funds and paperwork to his business partner. I was very road weary (and perhaps a bit hungover) from the evening before. It was a business trip with two other co-workers for a tech company out there. A new project always brings with it a sense of hope and excitement, but this one took it to the next level. But sitting next to the window on a very crowded flight with a guy who would shut up about his ex wives (yes, plural) and the supposed ineptitude of his female staff was more than a bit draining. I wanted desperately to nap, as ours was the first flight out of Salt Lake City.

I pulled out my phone and began reading the cached tweets that I had downloaded just prior to takeoff. Particularly when on a hectic travel schedule, Twitter is the last thing I think to check, and not having Internet for the short flight meant that I wanted to at least grab a snapshot of what everyone was talking about. As usual, most of it was fluff and re-tweeting celebrities. No offense to those I follow on Twitter, but I felt a bit let down. In the middle of all of that were headlines about the proposed mosque in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.

Rewind to the afternoon before. We were walking around downtown Salt Lake City on Temple Square. This area is home to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly referred to as the Mormons. Having grown up in rural west Tennessee, I do not recall having ever met a Mormon. At least, if they were Mormon, they certainly did not advertise it. I do not even recall meeting any devout Catholics until moving to Nashville. Faith in small-town America is as deep as it is illogical at times. Even the protestant denominations have their own backbiting against one another, barely acknowledging their common bonds while focusing on their differences. Where you spent that hour on Sunday morning was important to the fate of your eternal soul, which is why I spent most of those hours in bed after leaving the region. I wanted to make sure my soul was well-rested.

Downtown Salt Lake City is a beautiful area, even if I felt a little uneasy walking through the quasi-Vatican of a faith that is not my own. I was a certainly a stranger in a strange land, as young men and women with missionary name badges walked around the walled courtyard. We tried our best to keep any political incorrectness to ourselves. After all, we were guests and our humor was lighthearted. These men and women deserve to practice their faith in any way they see fit, and it only serves to broaden the greatness of their city.

A few people in Murfreesboro, Tennessee see things a bit differently. From The Tennessean

Collier Hopson drove his pickup to the vigil. In the back was a plywood sign bearing the spray-painted words “No Mosque.”

He said that local Christians have a right to build churches. But mosques should be banned, he said.

“I don’t support their beliefs,” he said. “ No one wants them here.”

Standing in front of the pickup, Kimberly Kelly agreed. She said she is afraid of Muslims and that the violence from Iraq and other countries could come to Murfreesboro.

She said if the fire at the mosque site was arson as many suspect, Muslims deserved it.

“I think it was a piece of their own medicine,” she said. “They bombed our country.”

I read that last quote at least five times, hoping that with each reading I could find a different interpretation of Ms. Kelly’s words. But I am not naive enough to find the best in everything, and I know that she meant it exactly as it sounds. An entire faith with more than 1.5 billion followers was responsible for what can only be assumed to be the events of September 11, 2001. And because of that, somebody was perfectly justified in committing arson to intimidate them.

I am going to go out on a limb here and say that Ms. Kelly and Mr. Hopson are good people. I do not seek to discredit them personally. But what I will say is that the level of ignorance and its close cousin intolerance that both of these individuals spewed off to the newspaper reporter is breathtaking. Perhaps there is something in their past that at least rationalizes their sentiments, but I doubt it. I begin to wonder if either of these two Tennesseans ever really grasped the whole “Love Thy Neighbor” thing. Perhaps their church had a few asterisks next to that one in the Holy Bible to exempt them from loving their Muslim neighbors. I have looked — mine does not.

Do either of these people ever talk to anyone that has a faith other than their own? What would happen if it came up in conversation? Would they snap out of their southern hospitality — something I would much rather rural Tennessee be known for than bigotry — and start shouting and cursing? Would they do that to a woman and her children? How can anyone maintain that level of hatred towards the person who may live next door? I certainly do not have answers to any of those, but a man from Galilee had an easy one. He said, simply, to love thy neighbor. And for those that proclaim to follow him, they do not get the luxury of appending exceptions to that rule.

We live in a free country, and that means men and women risk their lives each and every day protecting the rights of Kimberly Kelly and Collier Hopson to say and feel how they will about their neighbors down in Murfreesboro. And I believe strongly in their right to say it, even though I could not disagree more with their sentiments. But our laws and our conscience do not protect the cowards who would destroy property and intimidate people in order to force their beliefs upon them, or chase them out of their city. They are becoming the very monsters that they believe that they are trying to keep out of Murfreesboro, and I say a small prayer that they arrive to that conclusion very soon. I fear that we may soon hear of further violence from our neighbors to the south, perpetrated in the name of a man who spoke peace and against a people who mean no harm.

No matter how many times we are featured on The Daily Show, this could quickly become no laughing matter.

A little over a week ago, I got the call to work with one of our new clients on a fairly large project. The project meant that we would need to spend a day meeting with their team face-to-face, not an uncommon need for getting things off to a good start. Most meetings are with clients around town, with a pair in Knoxville and Memphis. Those further out typically were just handled via teleconference. This one would be the first that I have had that has required a flight and a two-night stay in Utah.

Those playing at home might remember that Samantha and I’s trip to Chicago last fall was the first time I had ever flown. This trip has a layover in Denver for both the outbound and returning flights, so I will effectively double my number of flights on a single round-trip. As I have said before, I have no fear of flying — life just never mandated that I use air travel as a means to get to where I needed to go. I have often wondered if I really enjoy traveling, or if it is just a reaction to my perpetual restlessness. Long car rides usually mean naps, and I certainly do not take a lot of pleasure in driving. All the same, this will be the first time in a rather long time that I am crossing the state border, and it will be the furthest west I have been since two very long car trips to New Mexico back when I was in elementary school.

What I am looking forward to the most is slightly cooler weather, and way less humidity. I will pretend that the Tennessee August will somehow transition to Tennessee Fall by the time I get back in a few days.

An East Nashville co-worker suggested a simple flow chart to answer the question, “When is the Tomato Art Fest“. It only needed two paths to answer the question, “Is it the hottest weekend of the year?” If the answer was no, it was obviously not time for the Tomato Art Fest. It comes as no surprise that the moment I stepped out the door this morning for the festival’s 5K road race that I instantly broke a sweat.

I drove my car a street a few blocks from the starting line, a point bemoaned by my wife and her friends. Sure, we live a little over a mile and it would have been an easy walk in anything other than this oppressive heat. Even if I had braved it, the “getting home” part would have sucked after the race was over. I also needed the car as a place to leave my wallet and keys, as I do not think the post office would appreciate it very much if I used my PO box as a locker.

I searched around for the registration table, finding it right next to the starting line. When I picked up my packet, I noticed that Samantha’s name was still on the list, and that her bib had been printed. We had arranged for a friend of ours from college to take over her number, but it apparently was too late to get the name (and gender) changed on the registration. I went on, but I was already fairly sure what was about to happen.

The mayor was the grand marshal for the race, announcing “I’ll give you guys the same advice I use for myself: start the race slow, and finish slower.” I joked to myself if this was also his campaign strategy when the convention center opponents go to the polls next summer. We were off, and I set into my usual race strategy — keep pace with the “casual runners” until I need to let up a bit. That lasted for about a half mile for this one, as we started hitting the more hilly areas of the East Park area, and realizing that some of the crowd I had been running with had trained quite a bit more than I had. The East Nasty runners group was out in full force, so I tried to avoid setting any benchmarks that I knew I could not hit. Seeing one of their shirts usually indicated such a benchmark.

As we rounded 6th Street to head back towards Five Points, my one mile time came in at 12:37 (if the time keeper was to be believed). If I could have that pace for all three miles, I would be a lot happier with how I do in 5Ks. My goal is to consistently get below 40 minutes, and then pick a target that will probably not go any lower than 35-36 minutes. My 200-pound body is a bit tough to lug around, even with long legs.

Around the halfway point in the race when the course goes by Sky Blue Cafe (the owner goes to our church), the smell of bacon from breakfast wafted out into the street. I think I would have put up a sign that said “Too hot to run? Come inside for BACON!” She probably would have had at least a dozen or so folks take her up on the offer.

As we made the final series of turns to go back towards Five Points (after running through a sprinkler that one of the homeowners along Fatherland has mercifully pointed over the sidewalk), I encountered the unexpected. There, standing along the street was a woman in a red apron with a pan and a pair of tongs. She simply said “Bacon?” This mystical woman was offering that very thing I had craved 10 minutes earlier. My first thought was that I was hallucinating, and that I had actually fallen over in a ditch somewhere along the course. I took the piece of bacon, thanking the Bacon Lady and ran on. She continued to offer it to other runners, so I at least have other witnesses that can verify my story.

Bacon was a bad choice, by the way. My stomach, already jostled from two bottles of water and two miles of running, did not react well at all to the sudden influx of greasy goodness. It tasted great though, so I cannot say that I necessarily have any regrets. Another couple was talking across the street ahead to their neighbor about inviting them over for Bloody Marys. One runner stopped and said “Bloody Marys? What house number is this?” The unamused guy said “You’re on Russell Street.”

We were on Woodland.

I tried my best to run the last few blocks, making that the toughest fifth of a mile I think I have ever tackled. Nothing — lungs, back, legs, feet — on my body wanted to do that. I plodded across the finish line, watched my run tracking app crash and did some quick math. I came in at 43:33 according to my phone, but my chip put me in at 42:52, certainly not my best performance of the year, but not too far off pace from my other races.

We do not have any other races scheduled for the fall yet, but I am certainly looking forward to the cooler weather.