Grateful for Gratitude

It’s finally Thanksgiving and I’m happy. Even more, I’m grateful.

I’m grateful for this year’s Thanksgiving enchiladas, chili rellenos, smoked ham, sweet potatoes with poblano chilies, pecan cream pie, and healthy apple cake.

I’m grateful for a second chance to work through many of my life goals (especially hiking and backpacking goals).

I’m grateful that, for all the things in life I worry about, I don’t worry about Cyndi loving me. She make me braver, stronger, nobler, and more creative.

I’m grateful for the circle of people God has entrusted to us: family, friends, and ministry.

I’m grateful to be surrounded by big-picture thinkers who live their lives and calling in God’s larger story.

I’m grateful for longstanding traditions. Maybe the reason we hang on so desperately to family traditions (watching the Muppet Christmas Carol, running the Turkey Trot, reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, going to a Thanksgiving movies, decorating the yard and house, and like that) is because we need them. Too many things in life change too much too fast; we need traditions to hang on to.

I’m grateful for my family who introduced me to Jesus before I was old enough to walk or talk. In fact, they had me in church long before I was old enough to roll over, or even hold my head up by myself. Rich Mullins once wrote, "Despite our insistence that we are self-made men and women, we are dependent creatures. We like to think that we determine our destiny, but in reality we have very little to do with it. The people who raised us, our parents and our older siblings and our extended family, have tremendous influence on who we become." I’m grateful for a family legacy of multiple generations following Him, who continually put me in the path of God. They made my own decision to follow Jesus so much easier.

I’m grateful for the people who love me. Love is a huge risk no matter how you come at it, and yet the people who’ve loved me longest still do. It’s a rare blessing I don’t take for granted.

I’m grateful for gratitude itself. People who regularly practice gratitude experience more positive emotions, feel more alive, sleep better, express more compassion and kindness, and even have stronger immune systems. It’s not a passive activity.

Being intentionally grateful takes courage because so many things come at us unexpectedly. It’s easier, lazier, to simply complain about everything, but who wants to live a sorry life like that. How do you live more gratefully? First, you just decide to do it. As my dad said after an hour of hiking on Guadalupe Peak, “You can’t train for this, you just have to do it.”

I believe the grace of God follows, even chases after, hearts full of gratitude. And so, I hope this holiday season is a grateful, thankful, worship experience for you. Thank you for reading these blog entries. I am grateful for you.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

The Western Wall

Friday was our day in Jerusalem to visit the Western Wall, and we began by going underground. Our tour guide asked if anyone was catastrophobic (an accidental portmanteau from catastrophe and claustrophobic). He asked because we were going into our second tunnel tour in two days.

Most of the old archeological sites in Jerusalem are deep under the city, and tunnels are how they were discovered and explored. This particular tunnel followed the length of the Western Wall.

After the temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, the base of the walls were covered in rubble. Succeeding conquests continued to fill in the valley to make the city easier to defend and make more space for houses, which means that today, much of the Western Wall extends dozens of feet below ground level. So the tunnels were excavated to trace the wall and understand generations of development around it.

After an hour in the tunnel, we went to the above-ground part of the Western Wall where Jews go to pray because it is the closest they can get to the location of the Holy of Holies in the Second Temple. Our guide gave us some time to take photos and observe and to pray.

I wasn’t especially drawn to pray at the wall. Neither its age, nor proximity to the Holy of Holies spoke to me. I thought of it as a ritualistic symbol of a lost temple based on a religion of rules. I suppose, if anything, it was 2,000 years of accumulated prayers in this location that attracted me.

Not wanting to cause an international incident, and not certain of rules or protocol, I approached the portion of the wall not occupied by the tribe of men dressed in all black, with big black hats, swaying forward and backward as they prayed. I went to the south of them, to a spot where there were more men dressed like me.

I found a tiny crack between stones and inserted my piece of paper with this simple prayer: Jesus, make your home in my heart; make me like you (it was a tiny scrap and that was all I had room to write, but maybe that’s all I need to pray, ever, anyway).

I stood for a few minutes with both hands on the wall, absorbing with my entire body, before retreating back to a white plastic chair (they were scattered all over). I wanted to soak up the environment. God, speak to me through this.

I was surprised. It was a deep and moving experience; I lingered in my chair for about ten minutes.

There is a part of me that wants the attention to detail, the focus, the physical connection I saw in the worshipers around me. It’s so easy for me to descend into an intellectual understanding of faith. I need more physical, tangible connections to ground me in reality.

Hands-on worship has become more important to me lately. Soaking in a sacred space, or feeling tangible stones, helps me escape from the mental exercises I so often run to when thinking about God.

While sitting in the white plastic chair I realized, maybe since I was on an orchestra tour, that my engagement with worship music is similar. I go deeper when I’m playing my trombone with the group than when I’m merely listening. I need to participate physically, with breath and body, to settle the music and make room for God to speak.

I’m grateful to belong to a church that still uses an orchestra, that has a place for me to play my trombone, that provides a physical outlet for me to worship. I’m grateful to God for the gift of music, and more specifically, the talent and desire he has given me to play. And I’m grateful for these ancient stone reminders me of the dependable nature of God.

Lord, make my faith like these stones: large, solid, long-lasting, and foundational.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Singing in the Garden

“I thought I heard singing, sir.” (Jonesy to Captain Mancuso, Hunt for Red October, 1990)

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Cyndi and I were part of a musical tour of Israel with the Global Missions Project Celebration Orchestra, and Saturday morning our group visited the Garden Tomb, also known as Gordon’s Calvary, owned and operated by a British charity since mid-19th century.

 Even though we were there very early in the morning, there were dozens of other groups going through the site at the same time. But we didn’t interfere with each other since the Garden had special sitting areas for each group, providing privacy and separation so we could each hear our own guide. On and off we’d hear one of the other groups singing, and by the time the day was over I had counted at least six languages (of course I kept a tally). It was one of my favorite parts of the entire trip.

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“Music is love and love is music if you know what I mean. People who believe in music are the happiest people I’ve ever seen. So clap your hands and stomp your feet and shake those tambourines. Lift your voices to the sky, tell me what you see. I believe in music; I believe in love.” (Mac Davis, 1971)

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 I knew in my mind the church is worldwide, and it didn’t surprise me that people worship differently. But it was amazing to actually hear so many worshiping in their own heart languages, one after another, each different in tone and melody and meter and accent, all clearly praising God.

 Later, one of my orchestra friends said, “Imagine when we get to heaven we will all speak the same language.” I agreed with him, at first, but then I didn’t. I hope we continue to sing and praise in our earthly heart languages. It would be a shame to lose those voices. I’m not sure I want a future where we all sound alike.

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“What the people need is a way to make them smile. It ain’t so hard to do if you know how. Gotta get a message; get it on through. Oh, listen to the music.” (Tom Johnston, 1972)

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We all interpret God’s grace through the narrow view of our own experience; that view only gets broader when we listen to each other’s stories. For me, it got larger again hearing all those voices and languages. It was a deep, solid, hit to my soul, and I haven’t yet stopped thinking about it.

We went to Israel intending to share God and share our hearts through music. Nothing spans culture and language gaps like music, and by playing with the Celebration Orchestra we hoped to share the gospel of grace with anyone who’d listen. I never expected God to speak to me in the same way. I thought I’d hear more from God through geography and archeology. We came to Israel to give; we ended up receiving.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, in Life Together, “Love for the brethren begins with listening to them. It is God’s love for us that he not only gives us his word, but also lends us his ear.”

Thank you, God, that we can hear people sing about you, even when we can’t understand their words. Thanks for your gift of music.

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Days pass and the years vanish and we walk sightless among miracles. Lord, fill our eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing. Let there be moments when your Presence, like lightning, illumines the darkness in which we walk. Help us to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns, unconsumed. And we, clay touched by God, will reach out for holiness and exclaim in wonder, “How filled with awe is this place and we did not know it.” (Mishkan Tefilah, The Jewish Sabbath Prayer Book)

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Traveling Lighter

Monday night, during a break from packing and paying bills and working on my list, I read Leo Babauta’s brief e-book, Ultralight. Cyndi and I are leaving Friday, joining two other couples from Midland on a musical tour with Global Missions Project’s Celebration Orchestra, led by Camp Kirkland, and I want to do a better job packing my suitcase than I’ve done for past international trips.

So I read Babauta’s book looking for advice to pare down my packing list for the trip. I’m trying to approach this particular trip like I would backpacking – how little can I take and have a good time.

I use a gear list to prepare for each backpacking trip, and my list has gotten shorter and more refined through the years. When I get home from a trip one of the first things I do, even as I am unpacking and putting my stuff away, is go over the list and mark what I used, what I didn’t use, and make notes for next time.

However, I’ve never gone to that extreme for a vacation-type trip. This will be my first. In fact, last night I used my most recent backpacking gear list and modified it for this trip. I’m planning to use a similar list for all future trips (at least, those longer than a simple weekend visit) so that I can refine what I take and continue to reduce my load.

For this particular trip I’m taking my trombone and hardshell case, trombone stand, music stand, music in a 3-ring binder, music clips, and clothes for performing. All those are mandatory. Everything else is optional.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I have a few other mandatory items: My Kindle (loaded with books (I don’t want to run out (one of my greatest fears))), journal, Daily Bible, pens, and reading glasses. Without those I have no way to digest what I learn on the trip.

The point of learning to pack lighter is not to brag about my minimalism (a common motivation among ultralight backpackers). No one cares who wins the lightest bag contest.

I also don’t want to travel so light I’m a burden to my fellow travelers.

No, my goal is to lighten my load in all of life. Packing for a trip is only a practical application of how I want to live going forward. As I get older I want to focus my energy and activities into those lifelong passions that drive me, and leave behind the baggage I’ve been carrying for so long because I thought I was supposed to carry it, or because I was afraid everyone else thought I was supposed to carry it and I was afraid to not live up to their expectations.

The Bible tells about people who walked away from Jesus because they were carrying too much baggage. For some the load was possessions, for others responsibilities or expectations. If we want to follow Jesus, we should be prepared to travel light. Jesus says, simply, “Follow me.: He calls us to be nimble and responsive, ready to drop what we’re doing and follow Him, right now, to wherever.

Now that I’m 60 years old, I have a firm grip on what I’m good at, and where I want to invest my time and energy. Those are what I want in my luggage going forward with life.

But packing lighter, and living lighter, can be scary. The reason we pile so much into our suitcase and onto our life is because we’re afraid of the unknown. Babauta wrote, “I learned from ultralight backpacking that people pack their fears ... We bring along more than we need because of our fears. We are worried about unexpected conditions.”

Mike Foster wrote, in his book People of the Second Chance, “Rather than responding only to real threats, we are reacting to imagined risks ... We have lots of false positives when it comes to fear”

So my prayer is: Lord, take my fears. Teach me how to keep a loose grip on all this stuff of my life, all these responsibilities, awards, attention, so I’m ready to follow you anywhere. Give me a faith that’s ready to move.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

The Power of Fear

      The scariest thing about rappelling isn’t dropping over the side of the cliff. The equipment is simple and procedures are easy. All you have to do is clip in and step off the edge. Not that that dangerous or difficult.

      No, the scary parts are the questions inside your own head: Can I do this? Will I chicken out at the last minute? Will I be the only one to fall off? Will I be the only guy to bust my head? Will I be the one who freezes halfway down the cliff and the belay-guy has to rescue me?

      I recently attended a men’s retreat in Colorado at Bear Trap Ranch, and we spent one afternoon rappelling off a 120’ cliff. It was great fun.

      It was also scary, that is until it was finally my turn and I went over the edge. Then, it felt like flying. I fed the rope at a steady pace like a big boy, making my way down the mountain with beautiful bouncing steps. (At least, that’s how I want to remember it.) Fear turned into joy and I wanted the cliff to be even taller. I wanted it to last a long time. I wanted to go forever.

      Later that afternoon in the safety of my own bunk I read the Bible story from Luke 24 about two people who spent a day with Jesus while walking down the road to a village called Emmaus. One was named Cleopas; the Bible doesn’t tell us the other person’s name, but I think it was Mrs. Cleopas. The story took place immediately after Jesus’ death and resurrection, when Jesus’ followers were still hiding in a room with the doors locked. They were afraid the same people who had killed Jesus would come after them.

      There is no indication in the biblical account or historical record that authorities were pursuing followers of Jesus, but they didn’t know that. It all happened so quickly and violently the followers of Jesus had no idea what would happen next, so they holed up in a room with the door locked for protection.

      They were locked in, out of fear.

      Curiously, the only ones among them who had personally seen the risen Jesus, saw him when they were outside the room.

      That is the power of fear. It paralyzes us. It keeps us locked in. It causes us to avoid trying scary things. Even when our fears make us feel safe, they keep us from finding Jesus.

      It isn’t easy to remove fear from our life. You can’t just decide not to be afraid. For one thing we put so much energy justifying and defending our fear they begin to feel like logical and sane reactions to the scary outside world. As in, anyone in their right mind should be afraid of what’s happening right now. It’s hard to get around that.

      We have a friend who has watched so much 24-hour news on TV she is afraid of everything. She worries about which roads not to travel, what not to eat, all the evil people in politics, and none of it with personal knowledge. All her conversations are about her fears. It hasn’t always been that way with her. We used to have long intelligent conversations about books and big ideas. She was one of my favorite people to talk to, and now we all avoid her. Her life is so tied up in knots from fear, which has morphed into resentment and bitterness, no one wants to be with her. I suppose all the things she is afraid of have become true in her dark, isolated, small world. It’s too bad. It didn’t have to turn out that way.

      So how do we escape the power of fear? Here’s what helped me when we went rappelling - I wasn’t alone. I was with a bunch of guys and we shared our courage.

      The followers of Jesus finally overcome their fear and went back outside after direct intervention by Jesus. He came to them, appeared in their locked room, and said, “Peace by with you.” He immediately turned their doubts and fears into joy.

      What are you afraid of? Find someone to share courage with you. Ask Jesus to appear, and to set you free.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Being the Hero

      It’s hard to remember the exact details from something that happened over twenty years ago, but I heard that during a showing of the movie Apollo 13, at the end when the returning Command Module finally appeared in the sky and radio contact was reestablished and everyone knew the astronauts would return safely and the whole world breathed relief, someone in the theater leaped to their feet, arms in the air, and cheered. The reason I am fuzzy on the details is because at the time it happened Cyndi was tugging on my shirt and saying, “Sit down!”

       Even today, two of my all-time favorite movie scenes are from Apollo 13. I love the scene where all the engineers grab their slide rules (just like my own Post Versalog 1460) to recalculate and confirm the navigational rocket firing coordinates, as well as the scene when the mission controller dumps a big pile of stuff on a table and tells the engineers to build an air filtering device from only those components. Two sides of engineering at its best! As a profession, engineers don’t get many scenes better than those.

       Why am I writing about a space mission that took place in 1970? Because Captain James Lovell, 88 years old, commander of the real Apollo 13, spoke in Midland this week. He was amazing. Even when telling a story he’s told countless times since 1970, he held the audience tightly.

       During the question and answer time, someone asked how Apollo 13 changed him. He said, “I don’t worry about crises.” And then he added, “When crises occur, you just do the next important thing, solve the next critical problem, and depend on your team.”

       One of our most basic human desires (well, at least for men) is to do something epic and heroic. And we all have stories from our life when everything went terribly wrong yet we lived to tell the story. Apollo 13 is more famous today because of its heroic survival than it would be had they successfully landed on the moon.

       Lovell said whenever he speaks, no matter where he is, he hears a similar story over and over, and never gets tired of it: “I was a youngster fascinated by space travel, so I became an engineer, and I’ve practiced engineering for 30 years.

       Yes, Captain Lovell, that’s my story as well. I too was captured by space and rockets and astronauts and a very young age. I heard astronaut Ed White speak in San Antonio the summer of 1965. He was fresh from taking America’s first walk in space. My grandparents took me to the outdoor ceremony so I could see him and hear him. I don’t remember much about it except that it was very hot and humid and the crowd was huge and much taller than me. My grandfather had given me a cardboard periscope about 24” long when extended, and I used it that day to watch Ed White make his speech. It was very cool, and from that day forward Lt. Colonel White was my guy.

       I was nine years old. I’ve been an engineer for 37 years.

       They asked Captain Lovell which was harder and more stressful, being an astronaut or a CEO (something Lovell has been at least twice). He said being an astronaut is easier. It might be more intense, but there is a beginning and an end to each mission, then it is over. A CEO has to make hard decisions and solve daily crises for months and years

       So in our desire to be the epic hero we can take Lovell’s words to heart. The real hero is someone who makes good decisions, solves the next problem, and depends on their team, day after day for a lifetime. Maybe you and I won’t go to space, but we can all be heroes.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

A Change is Gonna Come

Where do you go to work things out? Where do you go to understand daily life?

There is a Bible story about the Apostle Peter that took place after Jesus’ death and resurrection. It says, Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael from Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples were together.  “I’m going out to fish,” Simon Peter told them, and they said, “We’ll go with you.” So they went out and got into the boat, (John 21)

The question is, why would Peter want to go fishing at a time like this? Was he reverting back to his previous life so soon after seeing the resurrected Jesus?

There are a lot of possible reasons for the fishing trip, but I wonder if the guys were merely going for comfort food, so to speak. Maybe they worked out their issues and problems and talked about the future better in a fishing boat than in the safe room where they’d been hiding.

I’ve had men tell me all sorts of private things while on a mountain trail together, as if the shared effort between us earned the privilege and safety to talk. Could Peter and his guys have been looking for that? Could they work out all that had just happened to them better doing something hard, something familiar, with their closest allies? Maybe they needed a conversation they couldn’t have in the safe room in front of everyone else, in front of the women.

One place where I go is an annual retreat called Base Camp Gathering with The Noble Heart Ministries at Bear Trap Ranch, in the Rocky Mountains just west of Colorado Springs. I have attended this event every fall since 2012, and this week I’m going again.

I always go to Base Camp with a heart full of questions about life and ministry and what to do next. Remarkably, even though I don’t come home with something as tangible as a bullet-point list of action items, I always leave with a sense of what to do next.

I know from experience if I go somewhere different, away from my regular haunts, I’ll notice different things and think different thoughts. I learned a formula from Mark Batterson, ΔPL + ΔPA = ΔPE, meaning a change in place plus change in pace equals change in perspective. It works for me even when the new place is not exotic or far away. The smallest changes in pace and place can trigger my imagination.

The questions on my mind this year are about ministry and timing. What should my teaching ministry and men’s ministry look like during the next few years? I don’t expect to stop doing either one, but there are beginning vibrations in my heart that change is coming. Does it mean a different teaching assignment, or deeper involvement, or doing more outside adventures, or turning more over to other leaders? I don’t know, but I’ll be listening intently while in the mountains.

My outlook on the future has changed significantly in the past twelve months. So many things I’d given up on as lost opportunities (such as running, hiking, backpacking, walking with a normal gait, etc.) have been reborn into real and hopeful dreams. Thanks to modern medicine and titanium, all of those are back on my goal list, and my list grows almost daily.

That alone has set my heart to wondering what will be next. How should I take advantage of this reboot? How much longer do I have to do the things I love? How can I use my new dreams to speak into the hearts of young men?

In addition, I just returned from a Labor Day backpacking trip into the Pecos Wilderness with about 15 men, and it was a mighty experience. We had a great time, and I can’t wait to go again. As part of this adventure I planned an attempt to hike to the summit of Truchas Peak (13,102’) as the next step in my year-long incremental knee-testing plan. Not only was it a successful climb, but it wasn’t as physically hard on me as I thought it would be. In fact, I looked back in my journal from the last time I did the same hike, in 2009, and I think I had an easier hike and quicker recovery this time than then. It opened my eyes to a brighter outside future.

It occurred to me I must not waste this second chance at influence. I should plan more frequent group backing trips during the year, making it my goal to get outside with more men more often. I should also recruit kindred spirits to travel to bike races, and quit waiting for someone else to take on that responsibility. When God gives us a burden, he is also giving us the assignment.

What about you? Do you sense changes ahead? Sometimes all it takes to glimpse the future is let go of certainties. Are you willing to open your heart and mind to big changes?

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

A Second Chance

“How do your new knees feel?” asked, well, almost everyone around the campfire.

“They feel great. They feel like I got a second chance.”

It was Sunday afternoon and Clark, John-Mark, and I had just arrived from a successful climb to the summit of Truchas Peak. We were right behind four young flat-bellies who hiked ahead of us.

I was tired. No, I was whipped. I felt all of 60 years. But more than anything I was happy and proud.

A year-and-a-half ago I had pretty much given up on hikes like this. I just didn’t have the stamina, or the knees, to keep it up. And then I got a second chance.

Truchas Peak is located in the Pecos Wilderness in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, about 20 miles north of Santa Fe. For some reason it’s seldom visited, isn’t even covered in the books "50 Hikes in New Mexico" or "100 Hikes in New Mexico".

It’s a difficult hike. We started at Pecos Baldy Lake (11,000’) and hiked four hours up to the Peak (13,102’). The final push to the top was a scramble on boulders and loose talus. I suppose a missed step or slip would produce at best a 100’ face-down slide, or at worst an end-over-end tumble to the bottom, but it didn’t seem that dangerous at the time. Maybe the lack of oxygen clouded my thinking.

I used to tell people I was built for tug-of-war, not distance running. I usually said this while bent over, hand on knees, gasping for air, after finishing a distance race. But I’ve come to understand that running and hiking are not just things I do, or even what I’m good at. They are a privilege; a gift.

They are also thin places for me. I seldom draw inspiration from a stunning view I drove to; somehow I need to earn it. For me it’s not the view but the effort, the process, which opens my eyes and heart to God. My stories tend not to be about finding God in nature, but finding God on the trail.

And I like touching the top of mountain peaks. For one thing there is the feeling of accomplishment; you know when you’ve reached the end. And after a head-down stare at the trail that goes on for hours, the sudden break into the clear at the summit feels liberating. Your perspective changes immediately. The whole world looks different than it did just moments before.

For years I identified with the term Peregrinatio pro Christo. I loved the idea I was a lifelong pilgrim for Christ, always learning, always searching, never completely arriving, but growing deeper and wiser and wider and more graceful and loving, moving further up and further in. My many solo backpacking trips fed this yearning for pilgrimage.

Now, however, I realize being a lifelong pilgrim is not enough. Merely searching for God is too small a life. My heart’s desire has changed from being a pilgrim to being a guide. I don’t want to journey alone. I want you to come with me to the high country. Together we’ll grow and live a deeper, richer life with God.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Loading My Gear

To be honest, I’m always a bit apprehensive when assembling my gear for a backpacking trip. I’m not sure why it bothers me. Afraid to look like an unprepared beginner, I suppose.

One of the attractions of backpacking is uncertainty - what the weather will be, how the altitude will affect me, do I have the right food, can I still lug my pack up the trail, and like that. Experience solves some concerns. I have better gear nowadays, I’ve accumulated a few skills, and I’ve learned to trust both of those. If conditions turn bad I might have a few miserable moments, but I will survive. More likely I’ll have an amazing time with great stories to tell.

Most of my backpacking trips to-date have been solo efforts, spiritual pilgrimages into the backcountry to feed my heart. But this trip will be communal. We have as many as eight men in my group, and we’re meeting more at the camp spot. We’re headed to the Pecos Wilderness of New Mexico, and weather permitting, hiking to the summit of Truchas Peak.

Curiously, knowing this is a group hike has made me less apprehensive. I’ve enjoyed pulling gear together, loaning gear, and talking check lists with the guys. I pack differently when I’m with a group rather than my typical solo trips. I know I won’t spend as much time alone reading and writing, and will probably spend more time cooking and eating with the group.

Here’s the thing: every trip I take I try to reduce my load, but my pack always seems so heavy – too heavy. The question of how much gear to take is the dilemma that fuels backpacking. The more things we are afraid of the more gear we carry, just in case, and the heavier our pack becomes. Every ounce we carry makes the trip more enjoyable, more comfortable, and safer. And yet every ounce we carry also makes our trip less possible, less enjoyable, less comfortable, and less safe.

Fear adds weight to life. Fear presses down on us and limits our movements and squashes our freedom. Fear makes us heavy on our feet, and unlikely to try new things. Fear is a great subtracter, and the more you feel it, the less you feel the wonder of life. Fear kills adventure.

Part of what makes it hard to pack light is that you’re convinced you’re already doing it. But with each trip I am able to go lighter. It’s true, the more you know, the less you need.

I expect to live in the backpacker’s dilemma the rest of my life, always lightening my load, leaving behind habits, behaviors, desires, and possessions I no longer need or want, subtracting the obvious and adding the meaningful.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

Solitude

One question you don’t have to ask me is, “Are you OK by yourself?” The answer, 99.99% of the time, is “Yes.”

One thing I've learned about myself is that I have to be alone. Not all the time, but some of the time. If I go days or weeks without any solitude I get crabby and irritable and unhappy. 

Sometimes I think I would enjoy the monastic life, spending my days reading and studying and writing and praying. The idea of unlimited time to develop thoughts and work through ideas is very attractive. I would hope to qualify for an order that wore jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes instead of scratchy brown hooded robes and sandals. And I'd hope to avoid the bald-headed part.

Unfortunately, real monks spend a lot of time working hard, and rising at 4:00 AM for prayer. And I doubt they’d allow Cyndi in the monastery; I would be miserable without her. 

A few weeks ago I was enjoying breakfast and quiet time in Dave’s Café in downtown Cloudcroft, NM. The last words Cyndi said to me as she hustled out the hotel room door to go to yoga class was “the family is going down to the little café for breakfast if you want to join them.”

I didn’t want to join them, actually. Not that I don’t like my in-laws, I like them a lot. But this was a wedding weekend and I knew I’d be surrounded by people all day, so I felt very noble going down to the café  to join the family instead of making coffee in my room and sitting alone on the porch in a rocking chair with my book.

When I got to the café, however, there was no family present. I was the only one. Perfect. I found a table toward the back and ordered breakfast and dug out my Bible and journal. It was going to be the best of both worlds – I could claim credit with Cyndi about how hard I tried to be sociable without actually associating with anyone.

And then I got a text from nephew Kevin, who was up the hill at the main hotel. He invited me to join him and everyone else for breakfast.

I wrote, “Oh. I’m at Dave’s Café. I thought that’s where the crowd was going.”

Kevin wrote, “Who is with you? We’re all up here at the hotel.”

Me, “As it turns out, only two friends: peace and quiet.”

Kevin, “We’ll fix that. We’re on our way.”

In a few minutes, about twenty minutes, actually, since it takes this family a while to get going, they started trickling in to the café. By then I’d had sufficient time alone to recharge and I was ready to socialize again.

I recently celebrated my 60th birthday with about 1,000 of my closest friends. Maybe it wasn’t actually 1,000 but it was enough to be overwhelming.

What made me happiest was how many people have come in close to our lives, and how much I need them. There was a time when I didn’t think I needed people around me, either because I thought I was self-sufficient enough to do everything by myself, or because I was afraid. Maybe both. I don’t feel that way now.

The older I get the more I like being around people. I don’t think it is a change in my personality so much as a desire to influence. It’s hard to change the world holed up in a hermit’s cave.

Thomas Merton wrote, "And since no man is an island, since we all depend on one another, I cannot work out God's will in my own life unless I also consciously help other men to work out His will in them." 

There has to be a purpose in solitude or God won't bless it. He doesn't need more desert saints all puffed up with superior spiritual insight but with no one to serve. And in fact, I don't want to live alone. I cannot imagine learning anything new and different and not sharing it. What a waste that would be. It is the sharing that I really learn what I know, and it is the opportunity to share that makes me want to learn more. That is the source of my joy in teaching - the chance to give away what I've learned. It can't be done living alone in the desert. 

How about you? How do you recharge – in solitude, or in community? How do you give away what you’ve learned?

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32