"Three Pound Weights"

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I was in this exercise class, and we were all standing there holding a three-pound dumbbell in each hand.  We had to hold them fully stretched out in front of us.

For the first two minutes, it was a big nothing.  So what.

Then, with each passing 15 seconds, those little dumbbells started to feel like I was holding bowling balls in my hand.

It didn’t help that I was standing next to this about 115-year-old guy who didn’t seem to have any problem holding ‘em out there.  The more he could see I was about to pass out, the bigger his smirky grin got.

To get my mind off thinking about him and how I was a human Gumby, I started thinking about my days as an altar boy, back at St. Francis Xavier parish in Chicago.

I was really proud of my school record (it may still be the record today) of doing three zillion 6:15 AM masses in a row—from about second grade until I had a bountiful garden of zits on my forehead.

My dad would go to a lot of my masses, and sit out there in the first pew and give me a wink and a ‘thumbs up’ when I’d make an impressive genuflection or something.

See, to my dad, being an altar boy was a sporting event.  And the goal of all sports is to beat everyone else.

After the match (sorry for the typo, I mean ‘mass’), he’d drive me home and give me tips for the next morning’s game. 

While the priest would walk over to the pulpit to give his homily, the altar boy’s job was to light this gold-plated candle from the time of Abraham that was about two feet tall and weighed about 7,000 pounds. 

Then you’d stand there next to the pulpit holding that thing with your arms stretched out.

Part of the reason you held it all the way out is so the flame wouldn’t be right under your chin.

I’d stand like one of those Queen’s Guards at Buckingham Palace in their bearskin hats—and I’d stare up to the choir loft in the back of the church pretending like I was brain-dead or something.

Kind of looked like this…

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All I’d be doing was praying that the priest would cut to the chase and wrap it up. 

After about six minutes, my face would start to turn blue, and my eyeballs would start drifting up to the back of my head—thinking I was carrying St. Peter himself in my arms.

One Sunday, to a full house, on top of all that going on, the candle wax started dripping right down on my fingers—because I could no longer hold the candle perfectly straight. 

I had two choices. 

Either scream some profanity at the top of my lungs (that probably wouldn’t go over very well). Or suck it up and let that hot lava drip on my hands, while I felt like I was in a coma.

Being the Hall of Famer altar boy that I was, I picked #2.

Besides that, I knew I’d get some lecture by my dad in the car ride home about what Dick Butkus would have done—while I’d be blowing in the back seat on the burn marks on my fingers.

But then the craziest thing happened.

One morning, when that wax started melting my fingers again, I pulled an audible.

I just set the candle down on the ground next to me and held my hands together like I was Cupid or somebody.  A clean and crisp move.

The fans loved it. 

When I got in that car, my dad looked me right in the eyes and said, “Jimmy, you’re the George Halas of altar boys.”

From that day forward, after I’d light that thing, I’d just set that bad boy on the ground—and call it a day.  Like it was right out of Thomas Aquinas’ playbook.

Touchdown.

Enough reminiscing the glory days of altarboying. I was slapped back to reality—standing there in that exercise class, holding out those three-pound weights. 

The only thing worse than the pulsing pain sizzling up my rubber arms was the thought of looking at that old guy’s puss next to me if he outlasted me.  

All this yapping about altar boys and three-pound weights is really just so I can ask you a question.

Is there a three-pound weight that you’ve been carrying—that’s getting heavy? 

Maybe it’s a task on your to-do list that you’re putting off.  Or maybe it’s guilt about something.  Or maybe something you said to somebody that you wish you didn’t.

Maybe it’s time to do it.  Or let the guilt go.  Or make a call. 

Set the thing down. 

And blow out that candle.

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Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter with songs on 28 million hit records; songs, scores, and themes in over a thousand television episodes and many hit films; a screenwriter and producer of hit television shows; an award-winning book author; an entrepreneur—and his town’s “Citizen of the Year.” Reach out to him at j@jimmydunne.com.