Living a Monk's Life?

This is an excerpt from my latest book, Practicing Faith

       I’ve wondered if I would enjoy the monastic life. Being alone and spending my days reading and studying, writing and praying, sounds pretty good to me. The idea of unlimited time to develop my thoughts and work through ideas is very attractive.

       But real monks don’t seem to spend that much time reading, writing, and studying. If that was all they do, they would starve to death within a few weeks. Monks spend most of their time working, just like everyone else. Everyone has to earn a living. Most accounts of monastic life tell of hard labor and hot work in the fields or the kitchen all day, every day - and of rising at 4:00 a.m. for morning prayer - and of meeting for worship five or six times daily. Monks may be isolated from the outside world, but they hardly live in solitude. A monastery is a tight community of people living their whole lives close to each other.

       That isn’t what I wanted. A monk’s life didn’t seem to leave much room for expression or individuality, and I would have a problem with that. And besides, wives aren’t allowed in monasteries, and I would be miserable without Cyndi. The whole celibate thing trumped all the benefits, if you ask me.

       But the idea of holing up by myself had always sounded good.

       One Thursday morning I found myself sitting on a big rock perched on the lip of a box canyon in the badlands southwest of Iraan, Texas. I was under a tree, in the shade, watching for rattlesnakes and waiting for a wireline truck to finish running the perforating guns into the casing of a gas well I was working on. A cool breeze was blowing, and I was writing in my journal. It was so quiet and peaceful and stimulating to be sitting there by myself, I wondered if I could be happy living as a hermit in the back of one of these canyons. That is, if I had an ample supply of food, water, shade, books, and of course, running shoes.

       Louis L’Amour wrote, in his autobiography Education of a Wandering Man, about a time when he was hired to guard a mine that lay in a basin at the end of thirty-odd miles of winding, one-lane dirt road in remote southern California. There was a concrete bunkhouse to live in. L’Amour’s boss dropped him off in front of the bunkhouse and drove away, leaving Louis all by himself. He wrote, “It was not Walden Pond. There was no water here except what came from a well. There were no forests. There wasn’t a tree within miles.” But there were boxes of books left by the previous occupant, and Louis L’Amour devoured them. He said the loneliness never affected him because he was so busy reading.

       Well, that sounded a lot better than being a monk: minimal obligations, plenty to eat and drink, unlimited time to read, and time to go for a long run every day. I wouldn’t even have to fight for survival, like Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away, and I wouldn’t have been without books or paper. I could really be alone, thinking and reading.

       But as I sat on that rock and contemplated the uninhabited canyon in front of me, I knew I wouldn’t be happy living that way for long. Besides the fact that I couldn’t be happy without Cyndi, I realized I was never totally happy learning and studying and analyzing unless I had an opportunity to share what I’d learned. It wasn’t enough to do something; I wanted to tell my stories afterward. Somehow the sharing was part of the learning process, as if I wouldn’t have room to learn more unless I passed along what I already knew.

       So, while I dreamed of a hermit’s life of solitude, I knew it was a mythical, idealistic image I’d created. Sure, I could live alone—but I didn’t want to live alone. I couldn’t imagine a life without Cyndi, and I couldn’t imagine learning anything new and different and not having someone to share it with. What a waste that would be. It was in the sharing that I really learned what I knew, and it was the opportunity to share that made me want to learn more. That was the source of my joy in teaching—the chance to give away what I’d learned. It couldn’t be done living alone in the desert.

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

Hearing God in the Drive-Thru Lane

      I was in the drive-thru lane at Rosa’s on Andrews Highway a couple of days ago and, I don’t know what I was listening to that prompted this but, I started praying while I waited.

      “Lord help me through this transition stage of mostly unemployment but sort of being retired, until I land with enough work to keep me active and busy. I can envision an ideal solution and I’m asking you to make it happen. Prepare my heart and mind for the future by giving me peace, contentment, and patience.”

      And then, as I made the hard 90* turn to the left continuing toward the ordering station, I considered that, maybe, probably, what I call transition isn’t transitory at all, but is here to stay for a while. In the past, when I’ve told myself I’m in a temporary situation waiting for the next step, often I discover what I considered temporary was God’s answer all along. He wasn’t waiting for my perfect scenario or for all the details to fall into place. He was actively engaged and had me where he needed me.

      The problem of transitions is I’m seldom fully invested in projects and chores. I’m always holding back. There is a cost to living that way. I miss the present because I’m looking to the future.

      Later, when I told Cyndi about this, she reminded me what Legolas said to Gimli in The Return of the King, “Do not spoil the wonder with haste!” In other words, don’t race through the present on your way to the future. Leave space for wonder.

      As I turned in my order – two #12s beef and a large Diet Coke – I remembered something I’d noticed recently while reading my Daily Bible. In Jeremiah 29 God told the Jews to settle into their captivity in Babylon, to make a home and plant food and accept the bad situation. Settle in; you’ll be here for a while.

      And then, only ten pages later, in Jeremiah 51, God warned them not to remain in Babylon, but be prepared to move on. Pack up; it’s time to move on.

      In my reading plan, the two seemingly mixed messages were only three pages apart. In real time they were separated by seventy years.

      I thought – what if the present, which feels unstable and unsettling to me, is not transitive, but where God wants me. What if this is it for now, whether three days or seventy years, so settle in, and also prepare to move on?

      I was so moved by my mental journey I pulled into a parking place so I could scribble notes on a yellow sticky pad. I considered going inside the restaurant to tell Rosa’s they should put up a sign saying, Listen to God speak while in the drive-thru line, but decided against it. It was noon and they were too busy to listen to my advice.

*  *  *  *  *

      P.S. Here’s the thing. It’s easy to tell stories about the drive-thru lane and write about what I learn from Jeremiah; it’s harder to do something about it. If I intend to take this present transition, season, interval, or maybe the rest of life, seriously, then I need a plan.

      The first two things I thought of were very practical: (1) finish putting away my boxes of office stuff and make a workspace upstairs, stop waiting until I get busy enough that I need to do it; and (2) finish the painting we never got around to because we were too busy stumbling through 2020.

      That’s a good start.

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

Makes Me Want to Slow Down

      Monday was a surprisingly relaxing day even though Cyndi and I spent it, essentially stranded, in Houston.

      It started the day before when we were trying to return from a family beach vacation in Florida but got ambushed by tropical storm Fred. I say ambushed, even though we knew for several days the storm was approaching. But being from West Texas we tend to disregard weather interruptions of our plans since storms typically dissipate before we make changes. Not this time. Not in Florida.

      Our first delay was in Panama City when our flight to Houston was delayed two hours. First because of weather in Florida, later because of weather in Houston. By the time we finally left Florida we knew we had (1) missed our flight to Midland, then (2) learned the flight had been canceled.

      It wasn’t a big upset until we discovered that, no, we couldn’t catch the sunrise flight home, but our only option was 6:50 pm. Cyndi lost color in her face and said, “I’m in trouble.” She immediately started working her Monday schedule in her mind, counting the number of substitute teachers she would need and the private sessions she’d cancel. The sweet Southwest Airlines gate attendant in Houston rebooked our flight to Midland (there were only four seats remaining for Monday). She told us to grab our suitcases at baggage claim.

      I mingled with several hundred other stranded and delayed passengers in baggage claim for an hour while Cyndi filled her classes. The entire crowd was frustrated and tired. Then, as it turns out, we learned we’d been misinformed about our suitcases; they were being held back and would be put on the first available plane to Midland.

      So, we shuttled to a hotel and settled into our room, which went quickly since we had no luggage.

 *  *  *  *  *

You make want to slow down
Baby, make it easy
I'll take the long way around
Just as long as you're with me
In a city full of neon burnin' too bright
Baby, you're my yellow light
You make me want to slow down

(Slow Down, by Caillat, Young, Reeves, Joy, and Kenney.)

*  *  *  *  *

      We both woke up about 7:00 am Monday morning, pondering how to spend the next twelve hours until our flight home. Thanks to the Around Me ap we discovered a Whataburger within walking distance, our closest choice for spending time. We grabbed our books and iPad and walked the two miles, arriving hot and sweaty but happy to be somewhere else, ate our taquito and pancake breakfast, absorbed the air conditioning, and did a bit of work (scheduling, reading, web maintenance, writing, that sort of thing). Cyndi and I have had study dates at fast food restaurants frequently during our forty-two years together, so we have learned to not only redeem the time, but to enjoy it.

      After about an hour we walked back to the hotel and showered (it was August in Houston, after all). I tried using a hair dryer to dry out my only clothes with limited results; they were still damp when we shuttled back to Hobby.

      Well, it was 1:00 pm when we cleared TSA. We found a table near an electrical outlet in the food court and set up office. And there, in that place, we spent the next five hours – again, reading and writing and computing and watching yoga videos and taking notes and occasionally walking around to exercise or find food. It was a surprisingly relaxing day. We knew it was impossible to get home any sooner so why worry about it. Some of our best moments as a couple, our most repeated stories, come from being stranded somewhere.

      Granted, it would have been a different story if we’d had young children with us. Or if we weren’t prepared with projects to work on. Or if we hadn’t discovered a perfect location to set up camp. But, instead, it was a good day.

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

Oh, How The Years Go By

       Cyndi and I married on July 28, 1979, so this summer is our 42nd anniversary. A few years ago, I realized one way to celebrate our anniversary was to spread love around. We feel fortunate and blessed to have each other, and we want to share that with people close to us.

       So, in 2007 I started giving away love songs. I searched my archives and the internet and found twenty songs I wanted to share - twenty because that’s how many fit on a CD. I burned a stack of CDs and started handing them out.

       And so now, I’m doing it again. This is my 15th collection to give away, but my second to give away as a playlist rather than actual CDs. This playlist is on Spotify – I will burn a physical CD for anyone who wants one, but as Cyndi reminds me, most people don’t have easy access to CD players like they did when I started in 2007. She’s right. Neither do I.

       The move from CDs to playlist was surprisingly difficult for me. Sharing a playlist instead of a CD is like giving an elbow bump instead of a handshake; it might be better and more in keeping with the times, but much less satisfying. Burning CDs was time-consuming but giving them away made my happy. It reminded me of giving away mixed tapes back in the 1970s.

       I’m sorry. One of my life goals to not become that Cranky Old Guy who goes on and on about the past. And here I am, doing it.

       Bummer. I’ll stop complaining.

       The only way to stay together in love for forty-two years is to constantly adapt to changes, and moving from CD to playlist is a tiny change compared to our lives these past months. At least when you listen to one of these songs on Spotify, the artists will receive a few pennies. I can be happy about that.

       Falling in love often feels like an accident, but staying in love is a learned response, a spiritual practice. If listening to love songs reminds us how to be in love, shouldn’t we all listen more often?

       I expect there will be many more of these since I intend to stay with Cyndi for a long time. If you have suggestions for future lists, please send them to me. In the meantime, play these and dance with the one you love.

       To find my playlists (I have them all, back to 2007), follow this link to Spotify, or this link to my webpage.

1. Anticipatin’, The Explorers Club, 2012. These young men must have listened to their parent’s Grass Roots albums when growing up, because they have the same vibe. It makes me smile.

2. Wouldn’t It Be Nice, Trousdale, 2020 (This is a sweet version of the 1966 hit by The Beach Boys.) “Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up in the morning when the day is new? And after having spent the day together hold each other close the whole night through.” Yeah, it is nice. Looking forward to more of this.

3. Faster, Matt Nathanson, 2011. Mrs. Simpson, “You make my heart beat faster.”

4. Anyone At All, Carole King, 1998, from the movie, You’ve Got Mail. Sometimes it feels inevitable that we ended up together married, but most of the time when I tell my story it feels fragile and improvisational. “You could have been anyone at all, A net that catches me when I fall, I'm so glad it was you”

5. Can’t Help Falling in Love, MountainCity, 2016 (Originally by Elvis Presley, 1961). It is a gift from God that even after 42 years together I still can’t help falling in love with you.

6. If I Love You, Gabe Dixon, 2016. “If I love you will you love me, too?”

7. Look For The Good, Jason Mraz, 2020. I know this isn’t precisely a love song, but the biggest part of love is looking for the good in each other, giving benefit of the doubt, always assuming good intentions. “Look for the good in everything, Look for the people who will set your soul free.”

8. Oh How The Years Go By, Amy Grant, 1994. Forty-two years have gone by amazingly fast, but it makes me happy that we’ve shared them with each other. I’m looking forward to the next forty-two. “And when the storms came through, they found me and you back-to-back together.”

9. Could It Be I’m Falling in Love, The Spinners, 1973. This song was recorded three years before I started falling in love with Cyndi. It must have had an impact on me. “You've made me such a happy boy.”

10. Slow Down, Gone West, 2020. Sometimes you make my heart beat faster, as in song #3, but other times you slow me down. “Just a minute layin' next to you and time stands still; You make want to slow down.”

11. Stuck On You, Meiko, 2012. “You are the one, I could see having fun with.”

12. Til I’m Ninety Nine, Nathan Angelo, 2013. I have thirty-four more years until I’m ninety nine. “When I'm deaf / and you're going blind; And when we're buying teeth to help us smile; Even if I lose my mind; I'll love you / I'm gonna love you til I'm ninety nine.”

13. Whatever It Is, Zac Brown Band, 2011. “She got a gentle way that puts me at ease; When she walks in the room I can hardly breathe; Got a devastatin' smile knock a grown man to his knees.” Yes ma’am, that’s correct.

14. Wherever You Are, Kodaline, 2020. “Wherever you are; That's where I'll be.”

15. You’re Still the One, Ben Rector, 2018 (originally by Shania Twain, 1998). “You're still the one I run to; The one that I belong to; You're still the one I want for life. You're still the one that I love; The only one I dream of; You're still the one I kiss good night. You're still the one.”

16. Your Smiling Face, James Taylor, 1977. “Whenever I see your smiling face, I have to smile myself, Because I love you, yes, I do … No one can tell me that I'm doing wrong today, whenever I see you smile at me.”

17. Loving You, Loving Me, Dave Barnes, 2018. “What I say out loud is only half of what's in my head; Tonight, I'd rather look at you instead; And I can't get enough of you.”

18. Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You, Jadon Lavik, 2017. “And I can’t take my eyes off of you.” Yep.

19. Meant to Be, JJ Heller, 2015. This is a song about inevitability, the flipside of song #4. “When God made you, He already knew, That we were meant to be; With love as deep, As the big blue sea, We were meant to be.”

20. Dance with Me Tonight, Hugh Grant, 2007. This is from one of Cyndi’s cookie decorating movies, Music and Lyrics. I’ll admit the lyrics aren’t the cleverest, but the song makes us want to get up and dance.

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

Baptism

      I was in a church committee meeting recently when Doug told everyone it was the anniversary of his conversion and baptism, his spiritual birthday. Several others in the room quickly rattled off the date of their own, and it was a fun exchange among people who’ve been following Jesus for many years.

      Except, I had nothing to share. I know that I was seven years old when I made a decision and was baptized, but I never knew the date. I don’t remember anyone in my family talking about a specific date. We had stacks of Bibles around our house but not one of those giant family Bibles full of recorded births, conversions, and deaths. As I heard my fellow committee members call out their dates, I wondered why I didn’t know my own.

      I’m actually a great chronicler of events and important dates. This may come as a surprise to you, but I have a spreadsheet titled Family Timeline where I list events by date. I use it to track backpacking trips, music events, Guadalupe Peak ascents, Iron Men retreats, births of granddaughters, and all that.

      So why don’t I know the actual date for my baptism?

      Not because I wasn’t sure about it, or unconvinced that it really happened, or that the experience might not have been genuine. I come from a tribe of highly observant Baptists. We attended church twice on Sunday (even on vacation) and once on Wednesday, along with a wide assortment of regional and associational meetings – even weeklong revivals. My mom was the church secretary, so I spent days with her at the church entertaining myself. Our family was littered with preachers, deacons, worship leaders, WMU leaders, RA and GA camp directors, so things like baptism of the oldest grandchild, which I was, were not taken lightly. I’ll admit being seven years old means I didn’t go through much of a life change but being baptized still mattered a great deal to me.

      I’ve been a member of a Baptist Sunday School since I was born. Well, almost. There may’ve been a day between birth and membership. My dad enrolled me in the Cradle Roll Class of East Fourth Baptist Church (I think – my memory wasn’t that solid as a newborn) while I was still in the newborn wing of Malone Hogan Hospital in Big Spring, Texas. With that early start there has never been a time in my life when I was not a believer, not an observer, not a follower. It took me several years, decades, to convert that family faith to my own personal faith, but it’s one of the deepest roots of my story. I suppose the fact I didn’t have a life-changing experience might account for not knowing the date.

      I do remember this: my father, who was the worship leader at Grace Temple Baptist Church in Kermit, Texas, our home church during most of the 1960s, asked me how I wanted the service to go. I chose to be baptized by Rev. Harold Scarbrough, pastor at Grace Temple, following a sermon from my grandfather, Rev. Roy Haynes, pastor of First Baptist Church in Ira, Texas.

Grace Temple as it appeared in the 1960s

      After the church committee meeting, I was curious about my own history, so I looked up Grace Temple Baptist Church and sent an inquiry. I knew there would be records buried in a dusty archive somewhere, and while I didn’t expect a quick answer, I knew the right person would find the records. And then, sure enough, Wednesday night, two nights after my inquiry, at my poolside birthday party dinner, a friend and current member of GTBC, Deonna Hardaway, told me her friend at church got the message and she was working on it.

      The next morning Deonna wrote to me with the date, January 19, 1964. She said a copy from the handwritten ledger book would follow.

      How cool is that? Digging out fifty-seven-year-old data in three days. My thanks to Anita at Grace Temple.

*   *   *   *   *

      Because of an exercise I do with other men, called Journey Group, I tell my life story often. It usually takes about an hour-and-a-half, so it includes a lot of details. It’s become more important to me as I get older to remember those long threads that run through my life, especially the ones that go all the way back to the beginning. It feels deep, permanent, and significant.

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

A Happy Man, Still

This piece first appeared on my blog April 26, 2007. I pulled it back out because, well, (1) it’s all still true, and (2) today I received several notices from lifelong friends about a magazine article that featured James Pankow, trombone player for Chicago. As I’ve been reading the article, I knew I had to publish my blog again.

      Can a rock band play my heart language? Can it be that simple? What I mean is, can the language of my heart be so simple that a bunch of guys who started playing rock and pop music about 1967 speak to it fluently. Guys who don’t even know me.

      Last night (April 25, 2007) I joined Cyndi and several close friends in the Ector County Coliseum to hear a concert by Chicago, an event I’ve been anticipating for weeks, or months, and especially during the past few stressful days.

      Chicago Transit Authority (Chicago I) was the first full-length album I ever bought with my own money, sometime around 1971 or 1972. Within a couple of months, I’d cobbled together enough cash to buy Chicago’s second and third albums, and I started saving up for the fourth. I was hooked. I was in deep.

      Even today, if I close my eyes and listen to the music, I’m once again seventeen years old, lying on my bed studying music scores while listening to Chicago II on my record player. It was a time when I was vulnerable to spiritual influences, and their music captured my soul.

      Some have heard this story so many times they can repeat it back to me, but here it is again. I remember working in the backyard of our house on Thorpe Street in Hobbs, New Mexico, one hot summer afternoon in 1971. Up until that summer I had played trombone in the school band; I enjoyed band because my friends were in with me, but the idea of music hadn’t yet seized me. I wasn’t a particularly good player, and the trombone seemed so lame, and I was hungry for changes in my life that would open up my world … all in the summer before my sophomore year of high school.

      But that afternoon while I was pulling weeds, the radio played a song by Chicago, “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is”, which I’d heard many times before, but this time the DJ let the music play all the way to the end before talking - so I heard, for the first time, the brief trombone solo that famously finishes that song … and, all I can say is, my life changed that day. There’s no other way to say it. My life changed. It had to be a gift from God because no one else could have changed me so completely. The day before I heard that solo, I was a goofy teenager ambivalent about almost everything; the day after, I was a musician. That event changed how I saw my future, it changed my thoughts about playing the trombone, it changed the path of my life, it was my Damascus Road … it changed my heart.

      As a result of that experience, that conversion, I’ve been playing my horn ever since. Thirty-six years later (now, FIFTY years later) I still play several times every week. I play mostly in my church, with our orchestra, and with our praise band … and it brings more joy to my life than almost anything else I do. Playing impacts how I write, how I see the world, how I teach, the rhythm of my speech.

      So, all day long, last Tuesday, I heard from friends who called to ask if I knew Chicago was playing that night. Of course, I knew, and of course they all knew I knew. I’d been carrying tickets in my wallet for weeks. Even my brother Carroll, a phenomenal drummer who lives in Austin, called to tell me he was jealous. I said, “Don’t give me that – you live in the Live Music Capital of the World.” He gave me some lame excuse about work and kids and not having time to hear very many bands, but I wasn’t listening. Let him wallow in his jealousy, I say.

      The concert audience was made up mostly of people my age, which means we sat in our seats most of the evening. I did stand up with outstretched arms when James Pankow played his trombone solo on “Does Anybody Know What Time It Is”, and also when the band played “Free”, which has the hottest horn riff ever recorded in America (at 1:17 in the link). And it was a pleasant surprise when I realized Cyndi and I and our friends were sitting in almost the same location where I sat, in the same coliseum, to hear Chicago, with my friends Rick and Carol, in 1974.

      Afterwards, while we were all buzzing in the parking lot, a friend who sat behind us in the concert joked about how most guys play air guitar during a concert, but I was moving my arm back and forth playing air trombone. “I don’t think you missed a single note,” she said.

      I don’t think I did, either. It was a great evening. It did my heart good. I know what it means to be a happy man. (Still.)

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

What Do You Want?

      Recently, I was a guest in a young-married Bible study class, invited by my friend Clark. The class had been discussing ways to do discipleship better; I was there to discuss a mentoring exercise I do called Journey Group. It’s been an important part of my personal ministry, but also of my own spiritual maturity and growth. I’ve learned as much from the men I meet with as they have learned from me.

      Before the class, Clark emailed a list of questions, and I spent a week working through my answers, trying to understand my own motives and desires and expectations for the groups. I knew the answers, but not how to articulate them out loud to new listeners.

      Until Clark’s invite, I hadn’t spent much time thinking through the program. Well, not true – I spend a lot of time thinking through everything I do, including Journey Groups – specifically about structure, procedure, and what can be improved. But this project was different; I’d avoided analyzing something that was working, afraid to ruin it.

      The thing is, Clark knows as much about Journey Groups as I do. It wasn’t details he was after; he wanted to hear what I would say and how I would say it. His list of questions was more for my benefit than for him.

*   *   *   *   *

      In two of my favorite Bible stories Jesus asked the question: “What do you want?”

      One story is found in John 5:6, when Jesus encountered a man who had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years. Jesus asked, “Do you want to get well?”

      The other story is about the time a man named Bartimaeus, who was blind and a beggar, asked Jesus for mercy. In Mark 10:51 Jesus asked Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?”

      The curious part of both stories is, why did Jesus ask them what they wanted? The answer should’ve been obvious to everyone. Except that Jesus never asked questions because he wanted information. He already knew all there was to know. Jesus asked questions for the benefit of the other person rather than for himself. Jesus asked, “What do you want?” because each man needed to hear his own answer, out loud, in public.

      That question – what do you want - can be surprisingly difficult to answer. For example, I’ve prayed frequently that God would heal my left foot and ankle. Is that what I want?

      I have flat feet, no arches. My feet have never been flexible, and I can’t extend them as much as I should. Through the years my toes have taken on bizarre shapes, but I didn’t care as long as I could still run and walk. It isn’t a recent phenomenon – my feet have been that way since I first got them. However, they never bothered me, and for years and years I never thought about them. They carried me through nine marathons and thirty-thousand miles of running. I should be happy, right?

      But last year my left ankle started collapsing and suddenly, almost overnight, I was limping. I now have custom orthotics in my shoes, and they help, but I seldom go without discomfort in my ankle and foot.

      I believe in the power of prayer, but it feels strange to pray for lifelong chronic problems. In the back of my mind, I think this must be how God wanted me – since the root cause goes back to the beginning. Why would God respond to my prayer and fix it all now when this was how he created me?

      How would I answer if Jesus, looking down at my left foot, asked, “What do you want?”

      In truth, I can put up with a bit of pain and limping. I don’t expect my life to be easy. I’m content when compensating and working my way through problems. What I really want is continued use of my ankle, so I can run – no matter how slow – and hike – again, slow – and bike, for years to come. I want the confidence to plan adventure trips such as hiking the Camino de Santiago and the Colorado Trail.

      My answer today when Jesus asks what I want? Show me how to keep moving forward, both down the trail, and through the lives of these young men and women.

*   *   *   *   *

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

Call of Adventure

      It happened the summer before my sophomore year in high school. We were living in Hobbs, New Mexico. It was 1972.

      My friend Doug and I spent the summer riding our 10-speed bicycles all over town, and somehow along the way we decided to take an epic bike trip across the state. After discussing all our options, we determined to ride our bikes to Cloudcroft, 168 miles from Hobbs with a 5,000’ increase in elevation. Doug’s uncle worked at a hotel in Cloudcroft, and we figured we could spend the night with him, then ride back home.

      Looking back, I realize this is the sort of over-the-top challenge that usually results from the combination of bragging and alcohol, but there was no alcohol involved in any of this. Rather, it was just the youthful yearning for epic adventure.

      My bike was a Volkscycle, purchased at Mack’s Sharp Shop down the street from our house. I have no idea what Doug rode, but both bikes were standard-issue 1970-era 10-speeds. Heavy, in today’s terms.

      We didn’t have any cool cycling gear. I wore Levi cut-offs and a tank top, the official summer uniform of 1972. We certainly didn’t have any performance cycling clothing, and probably didn’t know it existed. We didn’t have helmets since it was safer back then. I had a hippy-style floppy hat. I don’t remember gloves, either. I’m also sure we wore our Stan Smith tennis shoes.

      We traveled with sleeping bags, one change of clothes, food, water, and tools for roadside repairs. All of that was tied onto our bikes. I’m sure we also took money, but I don’t remember how much … probably not near enough since teenagers always underestimate how much money it takes to do anything. I only have one photo of the trip. Before digital cameras people didn’t take as many photos as they do now.

      We left Hobbs one Friday morning at 6:00 AM and took Highway 62/180 west toward an intersection of roads called Arkansas Junction. Then, we joined NM Highway 529 and rode and rode and rode. We stayed on the narrow shoulder of the two-lane highway, hanging onto our bikes as oil field trucks whizzed past.

      It was a long, lonely highway and we didn’t come to our first town until we reached Loco Hills, NM, 52 miles from Hobbs. In the small café there was a chalkboard that said, “Today’s menu: Bowl of chili or Hamburger.” We had hamburgers. It was too hot for chili.

      We rolled out of Loco Hills after lunch and headed west on US Highway 82 toward Artesia, another 20 miles away. Our original plan was to ride through Artesia and on to Hope, a tiny town with population less than 100, where we would camp on the ground for the night. There was an abandoned gas station beside the highway, and we figured we could set up under the awning.

      Remarkably, we had no flat tires and only one minor roadside repair. I don’t even remember what broke, but I do remember repairing it with a piece of bailing wire I found alongside the road.

      We rode together all the way into Artesia until Doug got sick. I think he’d been suffering for a long time but wouldn’t talk about it. Once we crossed the city limits, however, he got off his bike and threw up into the bushes. It wasn’t a good sign for the rest of our adventure.

      It was clear to both of us by now that we were in no shape to continue, but being guys, we’d have kept going to the point of collapse, neither of us wanting to be the one to quit. However, now that Doug was obviously sick, it was over. He said, “This is it for me. I can’t go any further.” He had been recovering from a case of mononucleosis and thought it was all behind him, but 78 miles of bike riding brought it all back. It was a gift for both of us. It was better to stop in a town than alongside a deserted New Mexico highway, and by this time we both knew there was a zero chance we’d complete the trip.

      Doug knew a family friend on the Artesia police force; we phoned him, and he took us in for the afternoon. We slept for a long time in the air conditioning at his house. Doug phoned his parents who agreed to drive to Artesia and bring us back to Hobbs.

      As it turned out, a huge thunderstorm rolled off the mountains that night and dumped 2” of rain on Hope. We would’ve been soaked in our sleeping bags had we spent the night there. It was one more confirmation we made the best decision.

      The call of adventure is a mighty thing. The urge to do something bigger than ourselves, to live our lives in the big story can be irresistible. Doug and I had ridden all the roads in Hobbs that summer and we needed something bigger to do. The fact we were unable to complete our trip was surely a blessing since we weren’t fit enough or equipped enough for what we were trying to do, but it is still one of my happiest memories. It was a time when my friend and I were brave and reckless and bulletproof and willing to try the impossible.

# # # # #

This article first appeared in the June 2021 issue of
Windbusters,
newsletter of the Permian Basin Bicycle Association

# # # # #

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

Writing Journals

      This is something that seldom happens in my life. The month is almost over, and I only have a handful of journal pages left, which means I can and will start a new journal on the first day of the month, June 1st. I won’t have to leave blank pages stranded and unused forever, and I won’t have to split the month between two books.

      I understand that being happy about this makes no sense to most of the people I know, or even people I don’t know who bother to read what I write. But if you spend enough time writing in a journal – in my case, I can’t claim daily (I’m not that good) but at least weekly (usually more than once a week) since 1995 – small things like finishing one at the end of a month is worthy enough to be happy about.

      The tools we use regularly matter to us. The reasons we prefer one over the others are usually so subtle they’re invisible to everyone else and make us seem peculiarly choosy about unimportant things. Whether your tool is a journal, or a chef knife, or favorite cookie cutter, yoga mat, hand saw, laptop computer, disinfectant, guitar pick, mobile phone, database software, motorcycle, saxophone, digital tablet, or shoes, the subtlest things can be huge if it’s something you use over and over.

      People give me journals all the time, and some of them are expensive and leather bound and chosen specifically for me with love and care. I feel guilty that I don’t use them regularly – I’ve tried all of them for at least a few pages, to give them a fair chance and allow my habits freedom to change – but in every case I return to my favorite. I’m sorry if you gave me one of those cool journals – there is always the possibility I’ll try it again, and who knows, maybe it will become my new favorite. If you want it back, I won’t mind. I’d rather all journals be written in than sit on a shelf.

      I started the practice of daily writing under the influence of Natalie Goldberg and Daniel Pinkwater (an unusual pairing, I’ll admit), in 1995.Through the years I’ve experimented with a variety of journals – different sizes, hardback and softback, lined paper or graph paper, thick or thin, and I have a box full of them that I’ve accumulated and tried for a week or two. Many were given as gifts by people who love me. But I settled on a Moleskine Classic, Hardcover, Large (5” x 8.25”) with squared/grid pages, black, 240 pages, in April 2005. I have used those ever since with one exception.

            In 2009 I decided to try writing on blank pages (instead of lines or grid) to shake up my graph paper world, to force improvisation and creativity into my writing, and to see if living without boundaries would open my mind to new paths of thought. I don’t know if it worked. I doubt anyone can tell a difference between what I wrote during my free-range period and my gridded days. I only tried it once because Cyndi objected.

      She said, “I like it best when you use graph paper.”

      “Really – Why would you even care?”

      “When you’re standing on the edge, with your blank pages, it makes me want to be cautious. But when you use graph paper, I feel free to be as wild as I want to be. One of us has to stay grounded. I’d rather it was you.”

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

Thoughts About Life Goals

      I recently met with a group of men for breakfast where we discussed our current project, writing a list of 100 Life Goals. We learned it from author Mark Batterson, and some of us have developed and worked on our lists for more than ten years. Others are just getting started.

      I left the breakfast meeting with three main thoughts: (1) These are incredibly smart and talented men and I’m blessed to have them as friends; (2) We heard smart, witty, and insightful lists from each guy … lists that represented their unique lives, calling, and ministry; and (3) One man’s impossible idea is something the guy sitting beside him can make happen.

      Personal change almost always happens within a community where people support each other, practice what they’re learning, and keep each other accountable. For much of my adult life I wouldn’t have thought this to be true. My assumption was I could do it by myself. But because of men like these, I’ve seen the power of community lived out.

      Not everyone likes goal setting. Some people are naturals and others aren’t. And I don’t think you need to set 100 life goals like me. But it’s a worthy endeavor, and I encourage you to give it a try.

      One reason: goal setting eliminates cynicism. Cynicism seems smart, as in knowing the real story all the head-in-the-sand optimists ignore. But it is the lazy way to live. It’s easier to be against things that it is to be in favor of things, and you’re never held accountable for being wrong. Cynicism becomes self-fulfilling prophecy, a habit that infects our work and life. Setting big scary goals helps us avoid this.

      Another reason: goal setting helps us filter the inconsequential out of our lives. Ryan Holiday wrote, “In order to think clearly, it is essential that each of us figures out how to filter out the inconsequential from the essential. It’s not enough to be inclined toward deep thought and sober analysis, a leader must create time and space for it.”

      One more reason: Goal setting changes you. Jim Rohn said, “You want to set a goal that is big enough that in the process you become someone worth becoming.”  Setting goals is less about what you do than who you become. It’s making moves now based on what you want your life to look like ten or twenty years from now.  And from Seth Godin: “If you want to get in shape, it’s not difficult. Spend an hour a day running or at the gym. Do that for six months or a year. That’s not the difficult part. The difficult part is becoming the kind of person who goes to the gym every day.” Set goals that push you toward the person you want to be.

      I hope you’ll join us in this project; and I hope you’ll share your results. Here is a link to my current list of 100 Life Goals. Feel free to appropriate any of these as your own. I should add that I’ve rewritten it several times to reflect the changes that come with age and the different seasons of life.

*   *   *   *   *

      PS: I intended to publish this last week, but I was delayed. Thursday, I traveled to Tyler, Texas, with Rabon and Craig, to play with Denver and the Mile High Orchestra (DMHO) in a concert at Green Acres Baptist Church. It’s always a tremendous rush to play with the big boys, to play big boy music, in big boy settings … and my mind will be buzzing for a week or two from pure energy.

      But here’s the thing. When I wrote my first list of life goals, in 2009, I didn’t include anything about playing with a group like DMHO. It never occurred to me that it was possible. It was completely beyond my imagination. But - and it’s a long story which I’ll gladly tell you in person - I drafted behind my friends, pulled along by their goals and dreams. If you hang around with ambitious godly men, you’ll find yourself in places and situations you never dreamed of. I cannot wait to find out where this community takes us next.

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