Three years ago I went through an involved surgical procedure that practically shifted my weight.
My lower jaw was resected. All accompanying teeth except for two went with it. The fibula that kept my right leg in balance was harvested to form a substitute mandible. The large stripes on my thighs are tattoos of grafted grace. The lacerated scar across my neck reviews the wonder of it all.
As of this writing, I have never been this physically fit.
The recovery has been miraculous. My doctors attribute the bounce to the prequel of my historical commitment. Prior to my operation, I went to the gym six days a week. I was told that all that hard work prepared me for the armageddon of August 2013.
At the helm of this preparation was a personal trainer. Somehow, I sensed the need for a true bolt to anchor, if I were to recover again.
I researched the vast field and was led to Kelly Maresch. She has the equivalent of a PhD in the aspects of core anatomy. During the brief but intense training, my mentor honed my psyche towards the center. The core muscles must be built.
Every now and then I get a glimpse of Kelly leading a flock of neophytes. With kindred involvement, I also see her often with his son, bonding: pilates-parenting. It does seem that everthing in life stems from the core.
At my nucleus is the centrality of an invitation: Christ is constantly offering what He deems as paramount workout. He pumps out all my weariness. He spots my deep issues. He grants me membership in gymnadzo: the life of sanctification.
A guarantee is thrown in: a lifetime set that always leads to blissed out rest.
