Four Milestones

      How do you celebrate personal anniversaries? Do you include everyone for a giant blowout, or do you prefer quiet personal affairs?

      I was out walking one morning a couple of weeks ago when I reminded myself of four looming milestones arriving in my life. I named them “10-20-40-70” so I would remember them when I got home. I wanted to celebrate them all. I hoped they were lead-ins to more and greater milestones in my future.

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      I’ve been reading a book by Robert Wolgemuth titled Gun Lap, about how we should live the last lap of our life.

      The gun lap, the final sprint of a track race, is often signaled by firing a starter’s pistol as the race leader begins the lap. It’s easy for distance runners to lose track of how many laps they’ve run, so the sound of the gun reminds them the race is almost over and it’s time to speed up and finish well.

      The author quoted J. I. Packer, who wrote: “My contention is that … we should aim to be found running the last lap of the race of our Christian life, as we should say, flat out. The final sprint, so I urge, should be a sprint indeed.”

      Our final lap doesn’t have to mean life is almost over. My first marathon, the Golden Yucca, was three 8.7-mile loops, so the last loop, the gun lap, was 8.7 miles long, or 1/3 of the total distance. I don’t know if the race director fired a gun when the leader passed since I was at least an hour behind him, but extrapolating that extra-long lap to my remaining years, if I plan to live to 100, 1/3 will be 33 years. I started my gun lap last year when I turned 67.

      Robert Wolgemuth said one of the questions that haunts men and women entering their gun laps is, “Are there goals still to be attained?” I wrote in the margin of my book: I hope so. I hope I’m still setting new goals every year.

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      Here are some thoughts from my morning walk about those milestones. I’d love here your ideas.

      Ten: Next year will be my 10th year anniversary with after-market knees. I’ve hiked twice on them above 12,000’, skied on them, cycled with them, and walked hundreds of miles with them (including 100K in six days on the Camino in Spain). They’ve served me well, and I want to celebrate them. What if I took a hike on Truches or Wheeler or go on a weeklong backpacking trip? I feel like it should be something physical since these knees gave me a second life.

      Twenty: 2024 is our 20th year of Iron Men. How should we celebrate? How should we reinforce the friendships we’ve made and lessons we’ve learned together?

      Forty: Sometime in late summer or fall of 2025 I should cross the 40,000-mile threshold of total miles run (or walked) since I started in June 1978. How should I celebrate? Should I enter a big race – a half-marathon or a marathon? Or take a personal approach and ask people to join me as I walk the 40,000th mile around the ponds in my neighborhood. Since 95% of my miles have been travelled alone, it might be time to ask for company. We could go eat pizza afterward like the old days in the Permian Basin Road Runners Club.

      Seventy: In June 2026 I’ll turn seventy years old. I have more time to think about this milestone, but the basic question is the same – how should I celebrate? Is there a traditional celebration for turning seventy? Do I really care about something traditional?

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      My list of 100 Life Goals still has plenty that remain unaccomplished. Maybe I should take advantage of these milestones to cross a few off my list. Many of them are long-term goals, and others involve travel and family, but I have a few physical goals remaining, such as: weigh 175 lbs.; bench press 250 lbs.; and do my age in sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups. Should I work these into my 10-20-40-70 adventure? Are they even doable at my age?

      I suppose I will have a shot at 175 lbs. if I simply stop eating, but it hasn’t worked for me so far. I haven’t weighted as little as 175 since junior high. It isn’t so easy or I’d’ve already accomplished it.

      I doubt I’m willing to put in the effort to bench 250 lbs., assuming it would even be possible. I would probably need to hire a coach or a trainer to bag this one.

      And while I can do my age in sit-ups today, it’s been years since I could do my age in push-ups. Even worse, I’ve never been able to do my age in pull-ups - it's hard to imagine doing that now.

      However, to quote Seth Godin, “So far and not yet are the foundation of every successful journey.” Maybe it’s too soon to start ruling out Life Goals without first giving them a serious try.

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      There’s a saying that a man walking through a cotton field doesn’t come out wearing a suit of clothes. Few significant things happen on their own.

      In my life, good things are more likely to happen if I plan ahead, so I’m working through options to celebrate each one of these milestones. I welcome any suggestions you may have for me. What do you think I should do?

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

Worship in any Language

I didn’t expect Sunday morning to be so emotional for me. I was especially surprised by the giant tears rolling down my cheeks before the worship service even began. Three women were singing to a backing track to Jesus Messiah, by Chris Tomlin. They were warming up for the service, which would begin in about thirty minutes. Our band had already set up, and warmed up, and we were sitting in our designated seats in the first two rows, patiently waiting. That’s when I was ambushed by the music.

I’ve heard this song many times, and played the orchestra part, so it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. But hearing these women sing it in Italian caught me off guard.

Not because Italian is such an expressive and romantic language, which it is, but because it wasn’t English. It wasn’t the language I’m used to.

I get so lost in my own teaching and my own writing and my own reading and study, I forget God does Italian, too. And Hungarian. And Spanish. And Hebrew.

Later, during the actual worship service, the power of those Italian praise songs (that I assumed were English-only praise songs) hit me again. It was a straight shot to my heart. They sang “Che nome potent el” (What a Beautiful Name, by Ben Fielding and Brooke Ligertwood).

Once again, God have me a peek into how big He is, how unhindered by language He is. How geographically unbound He is.

God is so much more. So much bigger

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Cyndi and I are in Casoria, Italy, very near Naples. We are here with the Global Missions Project’s Metro Big Band, where we’ll play in several churches and a couple of bars. This is our fourth trip with this group; it’s a ministry we love, and we love to be part of. And one of the reasons we like doing this is because we’ve seen God use music in mighty ways to pierce hearts and open minds.

I just didn’t expect the pierced heart and opened mind to belong to me.

On The Road Again

      When people learn I’m a cyclist their first question usually is: “Do you feel safe riding in Midland traffic?”

      My usual answer is: “Safe enough. I’m careful when choosing my routes. And besides, every crash I’ve had has been my own fault. I can’t blame any of them on traffic.”

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      So, Tuesday, September 17th, I had a bike crash while turning north from Valley Quail Road onto Scaled Quail Road, in the new neighborhood north of Midland Classical Academy. Even though I saw a very small bit of standing water in the intersection and slowed down accordingly, my back wheel slid out and I hit the pavement. Straight down, no sliding, no road rash. It was a turn I’ve made hundreds of times, always carefully, because there is often standing water.

      After I untangled from my bike and stood up, I noticed immediately I had chipped at least one tooth (it turned out to be two). Since my bike still worked and I felt OK, I decided to ride back home. Until I looked down at my right knee. It had a large and deep gash running crossways across my kneecap. I knew I shouldn’t try to ride home on that. Even though it didn’t hurt, pedaling with it might worsen the situation, and the blood running down my leg would freak out the carpool drivers lined up in front of MCA.

      I reached for my cell phone to call Cyndi while pushing my bike to a nearby intersection, at Fairfield and Mayfield, where I thought it would be easier for her to find me. As I made my phone call, a young boy walking home from school was standing in the street staring at my knee. His friends, probably both older sisters, yelled for him to get on home, but he stood staring. Finally he took off running down the street.

      Cyndi pulled up and we loaded my bike into the back of her car. As I walked around to get in the passenger seat, I noticed the boy was back, with the two girls. They were all standing in the middle of the street staring open-mouthed at my gashed and bleeding knee.

      “Is he going to be alright?”

      Cyndi said, “We’re going to take care of him right now.” And of course, she did. On the way to Vital Care clinic, Cyndi phoned our dentist and made an appointment to have my chipped teeth repaired.

      At the clinic, several PAs examined my knee. “How fast were you going?”

      “I don’t remember. Does it really matter?”

      “If you were going faster than 25 mph, it would change the treatment protocol.”

      “Only in my dreams. I’m sure I was turning the corner at less than 10.”

      “I can stitch that up for you, but since you have an artificial knee, you should go to an emergency clinic. They can do more to prevent infection.”

      Cyndi drove me to SignatureCare Emergency Clinic. They took me back to an examining room where a nurse cleaned my leg. “What is your pain level on a scale of one to ten?”

      “At most, two.”

      Dr. Marks squirted something called numbing agent into the wound. It was intense. It turned out to be the only actual pain I had during the entire event. “Sorry, it usually stings a bit before it starts numbing.”

      “No kidding,” I said while gripping the sides of the examining bed and clenching my chipped teeth.

      They took a CT Scan of my head to see if I had a concussion. I had several scrapes on my face which worried them more than they worried me. Of course, I couldn’t see the scrapes. Fortunately, the scan didn’t show any damage. Still, it’s always risky having your head examined. Who knows what they might find.

      Then they X-rayed my knee to see if anything was broken or out of place, but they didn’t find anything.

      Back in the examining room they irrigated the gash and Dr. Marks stitched it up while I watched. She did a great job, and I felt no pain at all.

      And now, five days later, I’ve had my teeth repaired (sooner than expected) and I’ve had no swelling or stiffness or pain. The emergency clinic staff expected my face and my knee to be sore and swollen, but they aren’t. Neither one. I can walk on my leg, even around the park across the street. My right knee feels a little stiff, but mostly from the bandage rather than from the stitches.

      Cyndi took care of me, of course. She’s been very patient with my recovery and my talk of riding again. I’m lucky to have her on my side. In fact, Cyndi did more than simply rescue me and drive me around town. She helped me make expensive decisions at the emergency clinic and the dentist’s office when I clearly wasn’t at my best. Not only that, but she patiently smiles when I tell my crash story over and over. 

      My plan is to take my bike into the shop for a check-up to make sure it’s OK, and replace my helmet since I clearly collided with the ground. I won’t ride again until my stitches are removed, but after that I’ll be back training for the RIDE TO END ALZ fundraiser in Wimberly in November with my brother, Carroll. I don’t want to miss that.

      If you would like to know more about the RIDE TO END ALZ or make a contribution to either my ride or Carroll’s ride, just follow these links. We’ll be grateful for your participation. We lost our mother to Alzheimer’s, and we’re proud to ride in her honor.

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

Money For Nothing?

      Yesterday I heard a radio story on BBC about Strava Mules. (Strava is a phone app that tracks your running and cycling with GPS, and allows you to share with, compete with, and track (audit) your friends.) According to the BBC, a Strava Mule is someone who carries a phone belonging to another person so they can record a run or ride and the phone’s owner gets credit. It's a way to get bragging rights without having to put out the effort.

      I could loan my phone to some young flatbelly cyclist and send the data to my brother and tell him it was me, but I doubt he would be impressed. He’s too smart. He’d know right away it was too fast to be me.

      Why would someone do that, I wondered. Not – why would they carry someone else’s phone – but – why would they want someone else to run for them? What’s the point of being a runner or cyclist if you don’t do your own miles?

      Is this so they can convince their friends they’re much faster than they really are? As in, did you notice my blistering pace last week?

      Are they motivated the same as people who buy likes on social media, going for image over substance?

      Are they looking for an alibi? As in – “I couldn’t have robbed the bank,” or “cheated on my spouse” – I was running, and here is data to prove it. Their Strava Mule could send texts and take photos during the run for even more evidence.

      The BBC said Mules in London charge forty pence per mile to complete a marathon. That would be about fifty cents per mile in the USA, or $13 for an entire marathon. I can’t imagine someone running an entire marathon just to earn $13, but if they’d planned to run the marathon anyway, why not earn back some of their entry fee? They could carry a dozen phones in their fanny pack to not only cover their own entry fee but make a profit.

      I mentioned my new discovery to Cyndi, telling her I finally discovered a way to monetize my daily runs.

      “Are you still running?”

      “Well, no. Nowadays I walk.”

      “And do you go out walking daily?”

      “Not exactly. Mostly. But that’s not my point. Had I been a Strava Mule from the very beginning of my running career, I could have earned as much as $19,000 by now. Assuming both Strava and cell phones existed in 1978 when I started. And that doesn’t include the money I could’ve earned from cycling miles.”

      At that point, one of us might have mentioned that all of my miles since 1978 have been too slow for anyone to want recorded on their Strava database. But then it occurred to me that endurance athletes are supposed to take rest days, or at least low intensity days, to let their body recover from all those workouts. Most don’t want to take days off and most don’t. It feels counterproductive even when we know it helps, even when a coach insists that we do it.

      So maybe I could be their Strava Mule for those rest days and they could show the data to their coach, “Here, see how slow I was going, very low intensity.” Then they’d get credit for following the coach’s orders all while really running another speed workout on the sly.

      I realize recording slow data is a niche market, at best, but if anyone out there who might be reading this is interested, let me know. I’m available to record some low intensity miles for you. Fifty cents per mile, one dollar minimum.

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

Stronger Every Day

      Last Friday night, Cyndi and I (and our daughter, Katie, and great friends the Bewleys and the Freemans) went to a concert at Dickie’s Arena in Ft. Worth, to see Chicago with Earth Wind & Fire. Two of the best horn bands ever; together they have sold a combined 190 million albums.

      The entire coliseum was full of people that looked like us – Baby Boomers in our 60s. Which means, we tended to stay seated the entire time. That is, until EW&F started playing Boogie Wonderland. AT that point the entire coliseum became a giant disco and all across the arena people leaped to their feet and threw their arms in the air and danced.

      My favorite Chicago songs are the complex horn features from the 1960s and 1970s. These are the songs that pulled me into the fold in 1971 and have kept me there ever since then. But I have to admit, I loved hearing the entire arena singing along to the 1980s power ballads (the ones I usually dismiss) as in, Hard to Say I’m Sorry, and If You Leave Me Now.

      To my surprise they waited until the concert was almost over before performing one of the most significant songs in my life, Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is. A song they usually play early in the evening, this time they held it until the third set when both bands were on stage together playing with full joy and energy. I was already standing at that point (not a simple decision since our seats were so high and rows so precipitously steep) and I finished the song with both arms raised high in praise.

      Why would I do that?

      I’ll tell you why.

      I love that song. Not because of the lyrics or the melody are so important, but the circumstances.

      I first heard it on the radio in the summer of 1971, long before I owned any Chicago albums, and it was because of what I heard that afternoon that I decided to keep playing my trombone and stay in high school band.

      And because I stayed in band, I met Cyndi Richardson in the band hall two years later, in August 1973. And because I kept playing my horn I went to a jazz concert in Denton in the fall of 1976 where Cyndi and I rediscovered each other.

      We got married in July 1979; we recently celebrated our 45th anniversary. I don’t believe in fate, as in, Cyndi and I were destined to be together. I do believe strongly that God has a plan for all of us, but I also see a lot of randomness and happenstance when I look back through our timeline. Using my best imagination I can’t think of how we would have met, or be together today, had it not been for that song.

      Cyndi played percussion when we met in that band hall, and since then we’ve played together in church orchestras and jazz bands our entire adult lives. It’s one of our deepest common elements and inhabits most of our conversations. Playing music together is a deep root that binds us together. Not only that, but all those years of playing have given us some of our closest friends. We’ve been blessed to be surrounded by fellow musicians; it makes us happy.

      Well, when the concert ended, after 3-1/2 hours of high-energy music, there was no encore. Everyone was exhausted. Even the crowd knew both bands had played their hearts out serving us the best of their songs. I was loving every minute, but I was also ready to go. My right arm was tired from playing air trombone for so long.

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      Here’s the thing: I’m not really writing about Chicago; I’m writing about the power of music. I’m writing about how some things latch on to your soul so that you wallow in it for decades. Maybe for you it was soccer, or dance, or math, or mountains, or the beach. For me it was music, and Chicago made it happen.

      I typically write about God, running, cycling, backpacking, spiritual growth, family, music, and loving Cyndi. And the truth is, I can’t separate those topics. They are woven together, and I don’t care to cut them apart.

      I went to the Friday concert, not just to hear the same songs I can listen to any time I want, but to reinforce a 53-year-old life-changing experience that still influences me every day. Music is one of our tightest family ties. Music is one of my deepest spiritual truths. I don’t want to let that slip away.

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

An Unambiguous Statement

       Have I ever made a definitive statement with my actions, something that was possibly unexpected yet unambiguous? I don’t think so.

       I just read in Acts 9 about the time the Apostle Paul was baptized, following his encounter with God on the road to Damascus. It was a definitive statement declaring, “What I was in the past, I’m not that now, and not that going forward. My life has permanently changed.” (I was seven years old when I was baptized. I didn’t have a lot of past to put behind.)

       Cyndi and I spent the past two weeks watching the Paris Olympics, which is a year’s worth of TV for us. So far we’ve watched dozens of sports, most of them we see only every four years. And much to my surprise, one of the scenes I found most moving happened in wrestling.

       Cuban athlete, Mijaín López, 41 years old with five Olympic gold medals in Greco-Roman Wrestling, followed up his gold-medal match by taking off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the mat, telling the world he was retired from competition.

       López might be the most dominant Olympian of all time. He is a giant of a man, 6-foot-5, 290 pounds, and has dedicated his life to overpowering some of the strongest men on the planet.

       Mijaín López became the first person ever to win gold in the same individual Olympic event five times (2008 Beijing, 2012 London, 2016 Rio de Janeiro, 2020 Tokyo, and 2024 Paris). The remarkable streak of medals is just the beginning of his legend. Forget losing a match or settling for silver—entering the Paris Games, it had been more than a decade since he’d so much as given up a single point at the Olympics.

       “It’s like wrestling with a rock,” said retired Lithuanian wrestler Mindaugas Mizgaitis, “who is moving.”

       After clinching his historic fifth gold, López celebrated by running back-and-forth across the arena, hoisted his coaches in the air, and pumped his fists in the air. Then he walked by himself onto the mat, removed his shoes and left them in the middle of the mat, the international symbol of a wrestler’s retirement. He left them on the mat, and walked away.

       Mijaín López’s five gold medals were definitive enough, but announcing his retirement - which I’m sure came as a relief to other wrestlers – with no speeches or press releases, by leaving his shoes, was bigger than life.

       It's way too late in life for me to take up wrestling, but I long for definitive moments like this. I dream of an unambiguous life.

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

You Send Me

      Cyndi and I married on July 28, 1979, so this summer is our 45th anniversary. A few years ago I realized one way to celebrate was to spread love around, give love away. We feel fortunate and blessed to have each other, and we want to share that with people close to us.

      Falling in love often feels like an accident, but staying in love is a learned response, maybe even a spiritual practice. Staying in love is an act of will, intentional and specific. We all must find our own methods and practices to keep love fresh and alive.

      One of my practices is listening to love songs. I’m drawn to love songs on the assumption that they were all written about Cyndi and me. I don’t always agree with every lyric, motivation, or lifestyle of the composer or performer; I just want to enjoy the song and appreciate the fact they wrote it just for us.

      Music is a deep root for Cyndi and me. We first met in a high school band hall in 1973 in Hobbs, NM – I played trombone, Cyndi played percussion. We rediscovered each other and started falling in love at a North Texas State University One O’clock Jazz Band concert featuring Bill Watrous, in Denton, TX, in 1976. We’ve been playing music together ever since – in our church orchestra, in the Midland College Jazz Band, and on several mission trips with Global Missions Project. It’s impossible for us to separate love from music.

      The Bible says we have eternity in our hearts. I believe that refers to our capacity and longing for transcendence; our need to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Surely music is part of that … as if God said, "Here take this, you’ll like it, it’s some of my best stuff.”

      In 2007, as a project for Iron Men, I collected my favorite love songs into playlists and gave them away. This is my 18th list. I initially made CDs and gave them away, but starting in 2020 I just created playlists. Mostly because, it was pointed out to me, few people had CD players anymore. (I can and will burn a physical CD for anyone who wants one. It’s more satisfying to give away something tangible.)

      To find my playlists (I have them all, back to 2007), follow this link to Spotify, or this link to my webpage. It will make me happy if you listen to them and let me know which are your favorites. I hope at least one of them will soften your heart and push you toward your own true love.

      Also, I need your suggestions and recommendations for next year’s list. My ears are always open for love songs.

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Got To Get You Into My Life, Blood Sweat & Tears, 1975 … I used the Earth Wind and Fire version in my 2016 edition. Both versions are better than the Beatles’ original.

Know That I Know, Lake Street Dive, 2021 … How can I NOT use lyrics like these: We're like baseball and hotdogs; You're Ferris Bueller, and I'm your day off; The E Street Band and the Boss; You know you're my happy clouds, and I'm Bob Ross.

Slow Dance, The Lighter Side & Cody Carnes, 2012 … to be honest, I couldn’t find anything about The Lighter Side. However, Cody Carnes is married to Kari Jobe, and writes songs for almost everyone in CCM.

Just Remember I Love You, Firefall, 1977 … With my 50th high school reunion approaching I’ve been channeling the 1970s. And besides, we too often forget how powerful it is to know, Just remember, I love you, and it’ll be alright.

Night And Day, Diana Krall, 2017 …I like the lyric, under the hide of me, similar to another song, I‘ve got you under my skin.

How Would You Feel, Ed Sheeran, 2017 … The song asks, How would you feel; If I told you I loved you? The first time I told Cyndi I loved her, we were sitting on the grass at the Lea County Park in Lovington, NM, probably in August 1978. I should have told her months sooner.

Anchin Kfu Ayinkash, Hailu Mergia & Dahlak Band, 2016 … This song makes me smile. It was originally released in Ethiopia on cassette in 1977, and rereleased digitally in 2016. The title, Anchin Kfu Ayinkash, loosely translates to: 'may the lord keep you from harm'. In 1977, during the military dictatorship in Ethiopia, if you had words in your music, they had to praise the government; instrumental music was a subtle act of protest.

Let’s Dance, Chris Rea, 2007 … One of the biggest surprises of my adult life is that, because of Cyndi, I enjoy dancing. And Cyndi always wants to dance with me in spite of the fact I can’t dance without overthinking and counting beats.

Made My Heart A Home, High Dive Heart, 2024 … People often ask, “Where is your home?” and my standard answer is, “Wherever Cyndi is.” For me, home is relationship rather than geography.

You Brought A New Kind Of Love To Me, Frank Sinatra, 1956 … I like the fact that what was once new is now normal life.

Love at First Site, Jordan Mackampa, 2020 … Didn't know that I was looking; It took me by surprise. I had no idea what was coming when I went to the NTSU jazz concert.

Maybe So Maybe No, Mayer Hawthorne, 2009 … Could it be that your love was meant for me?
Maybe so, maybe no. Cyndi and I have wondered whether falling in love was destiny, but we no longer really care. Here we are, and I am a happy man.

Then Came You, The Spinners & Dionne Warwick, 1974 … Once again, channeling my high school days. I never knew love before, then came you.

Quite the View, Luca, 2018 … You make me smile it's what you do; I'm looking in your eyes, it's quite the view. That’s a nice lyric. Brilliant.

Three, Cameron Ernst, 2013 … 'Cause when it's a trio, you can't defeat 'em; One, two, three, you and me and some L-O-V-E; Together we could be the true story of how all good things come in threes.

You Send Me, Sam Cooke, 1957… This song makes Cyndi come looking for me, to dance.

You Are My Person, Kyle Andrews, 2021 … Hey, let's go, walking on the sidewalk; I'll listen to you talk whenever you want. One of my favorite times nowadays are our morning walks around the neighborhood pond.

I Am Always Gonna Love You, Jon McLaughlin, 2015 … I'm never gonna go away.

Give Me That Feeling, L.A.B., 2024 (a New Zealand reggae band formed in 2016.) … Without you here, I just can't carry it all.

Extraordinary Magic, Ben Rector, 2018 … Out of thin air, you appeared in my life; Like a burst of Technicolor in a world of black and white. Cyndi may have had a plan to put us together back in 1976, she was always ahead of me, so you’ll have to ask her, but falling in love was a big surprise to me.

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

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Rituals of Love

How about you? What rituals make up your life?

This morning, Cyndi and I woke up together after two snoozes on the alarm, and we immediately made the bed. It’s something we seldom fail to do no matter how busy our morning is. I think we’ve made the bed every morning since we first got married. We even make the bed when we know our housekeeper will come and change the sheets later in the day. We’ve been known to do it when staying in a hotel room. It seems important to maintain the practice.

Occasionally, like last Friday when we get up at the same time, we make the bed together, one on each side of the bed. That is the exception, however. Mostly one of us does it by ourselves, whoever gets out of bed last.

I doubt I ever made my bed when I was a young boy. I don’t remember even noticing, much less caring about it. It became a habit for me, and also for Cyndi, when we lived in our dorm rooms in college. All of life happened inside that small, cramped space, and a messed-up bed made the space seem even smaller.

The practical reason we make the bed every morning is because it’s so much more pleasant crawling into a made bed at the end of the day than crawling into a mess of sheets and bedspread.

What are the spiritual reasons for making the bed? It’s a small move toward consciously being present, noticing and settling our surroundings. It’s one way to take ourselves seriously and an attempt to shape the day by starting it off with structure and aesthetic.

Lately Cyndi and I have adopted a new wrinkle, so to speak, in our habit of bed maintenance. Whichever one of us goes to bed first, before we climb in, we remove the show pillows and turn down the sheets on the other side to make it easier for the other person. It’s a welcoming gesture. And if Cyndi crawls into bed first, she usually also turns on my reading light.

In his book Soul Salsa, Leonard Sweet wrote about the rituals of our lives that help us “grow our own souls by modulating the mundane into the eternal.”

I showed that quote to Cyndi and asked if she thought we had any rituals. Making the bed was the first thing that occurred to her. We probably had more rituals back when Byron and Katie were younger and lived at home with us. We certainly had a more predictable routine. Nowadays our rituals are mostly about taking care of each other.

Besides making the bed, we thought about this: when either of us leaves the house, we don’t just yell goodbye or leave and expect the other person to know. We find each other and kiss goodbye, even if only making a quick errand run to the grocery store. Maybe one reason is because we are fully aware of the dangers in our world and how something sudden and fatal could happen to either of us, so we want to at least have a last kiss. But I doubt this is the main reason; we aren’t that fearful or fatalistic. I think it has more to do with acknowledging the importance of each of us in the other’s life, of recognizing existence, of saying, “Yes, I see you.”

Or it could be we just like kissing.

I don’t know if the following is a ritual, but I’m crediting it as one: I won’t—that is to say, I can’t—walk past Cyndi, whether in a crowded hallway or an open room, at home or at Rosa’s or at church, without brushing against her, dragging my hand across her back or her bottom. I try to be subtle, and I doubt many outsiders notice it, but I do it every time. Why? I’m touching base, tagging up, reminding her I’m close and, even more, that I notice her. I’m saying: I see you, and I’m drawn to you, and I’m still hot for you.

Here’s another: we eat at least 99 percent of our home meals in the kitchen, with no distracting TV, even if we’re just eating a quick sandwich. Only occasionally will we eat in front of a movie, or a ballgame, or our laptops; a dozen times a year at most. I’ll admit that some of you who know us are shaking your head and wondering: When are you at home and not eating at Rosa’s or Jason’s. That would be an accurate observation. I don’t think we have any rituals for restaurants.

However, I would add that Cyndi and I pray before meals, whether in public or at home, a practice both of us learned from our families, and it is definitely a sacred ritual. It’s a pause to recognize God as Lord of our lives and giver of all things, and to acknowledge we have been blessed.

Sometimes when we are eating with other people who don’t have the same praying ritual, we will look at each other and let it pass. It isn’t our desire to make our companions feel awkward or uncomfortable. But just last week we were having dinner with a friend in San Angelo, and she wouldn’t let us pass. She said, “Oh, you two always like to ask a blessing for food, don’t you,” as she grabbed our hands.

Sweet wrote, “The challenge of discipleship is to make one’s own life a sacrament, a sign of love and grace, a sacred gesture inserted in a world flaunting other gestures.” I believe our small gestures are indeed spiritual practices, disciplines we stick to so our hearts stay soft toward each other and toward God.

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This is an excerpt from my book, Practicing Faith, published in 2020. Cyndi and I will celebrate our 45th anniversary this July 28th.

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

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Independence Day Again

(I first published this in 2009. This morning, when I once again read the passage about Hezekiah, I knew I had to run it again.)

      Cyndi and I once spent Independence Day in Estes Park Colorado with the Ross family at their vacation home. We almost always stay home on July 4th, but that year we escaped.

      We started the day early, following Paul up his regular morning hike to the top of the tramway on Prospect Mountain. It was mostly bushwhacking and boulder-scrambling up an invisible path that Paul has followed since he was eight years old.

      After breakfast, we drove downtown and joined the hundreds of other holiday visitors in touristy shopping for a couple of hours; then we set up the grill and cooked delicious Independence Day hamburgers and hot dogs.

      Later that evening we followed the stream of pilgrims slowly moving down the walkway beside the river, chair bags slung over their shoulders, baby strollers loaded with babies, to watch the city-sponsored fireworks display. In general, I like fireworks, but not as much as Cyndi does. It usually doesn’t occur to me to make the effort to find a fireworks show, but Cyndi loves it and I love going with her. This particular fireworks show turned out to be the best ever. It was amazing. It was all over the sky. It was creative and original. It was substantial. It was great!

      At one point during the afternoon between hamburgers and fireworks, I managed to squeeze in fifteen minutes in a creaking rocking chair on the front porch to read from my Daily Bible. The passage for July 4th is from II Chronicles 29, and it’s about King Hezekiah and his national movement of reform. During a previous year’s reading I had written in the margin of my Bible: “A great passage for the 4th.”

      Hezekiah’s first move was to open the doors to the temple and repair them. He could have blamed organized religion for the sorry state of his kingdom, but he didn’t. It is always easy to blame religion for the evil in the world. Nowadays it’s very hip to say such things about religion, and it makes us feel clever and original, but actually there is nothing new about it.

      We followers of God are too quick to blame ourselves; I expect Hezekiah would’ve thought so, too. The first reform he put into place was to repair the doors to the temple so that organized religion could get back to work. Maybe we need to put our doors back in place and stop complaining.

      Later in the chapter it says that when the priests and Levites were ready to start work in the service of God, they assembled and consecrated themselves before going in to purify the temple. I had written in the margin: “How should I do this to myself before a spiritual encounter?” I think I’ve bought into the idea so deeply that God, through his grace, accepts me and loves me the way I am, I forget to get myself ready to meet him.

      Just because God loves me unconditionally is no reason to take him for granted, any more than knowing Cyndi loves me is reason to take her for granted. In both cases my action (or inaction) may not change the love from God or from Cyndi, but taking either of them for granted will do damage to me. It will harden my heart. I believe whatever those priests and Levites did to consecrate themselves had less to do with pleasing God than with preparing their own hearts. I’m pretty sure I need to do more of that.

      The story of Hezekiah ended in Chapter 32 with this statement: “This is what Hezekiah did throughout Judah, doing what was good and right and faithful before the Lord his God. In everything he undertook in the service of God’s temple and in obedience to the law and the commands, he sought his God and worked wholeheartedly. And so he prospered.”

      The story of Hezekiah is exactly what I need on Independence Day. I have a tendency to be too independent, and I need a reminder of where the strength of my life comes from.

      One of the reasons I like reading through this same copy of the Bible year after year is that the lessons I learn come at me again, year after year. I tend to cross my arms and think, “There, learned that one,” but in reality, I never learn anything that well. It’s good to rediscover important truths each year, over and over. For all my thoughts about Independence Day and Hezekiah, I know that next July 4th, whatever adventures we’re taking, wherever we’re staying, I’ll be reading this again and learning more. I hope it never ends.

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

You Have Arrived

      We just spent three days in Austin, where Cyndi attended a workshop and I entertained myself navigating freeways. I should add, while I’m good at entertaining myself, it’s easier when the weather isn’t so hot. I packed clothes for walking around Town Lake, but 90* and 90% was too much for me to handle. I mostly entertained myself under air conditioners.

      Driving in an unfamiliar city is easier than it used to be. All I had to do in Austin was punch my destination into my phone and the nice GPS lady told me turn-by-turn how to get there. And she didn’t scold me like my old GPS helper, who would snidely say, “Recalculating Route,” to remind me I missed a turn and messed up her perfect plan for my life.

      I posted on Facebook: “There aren’t many more satisfying statements than, “You have arrived,” as stated by my GPS when driving around an unfamiliar city.”

      Like when we finally find the restaurant we’ve been circling around, to hear, “You have arrived.” That feels good.

      Or when I wind my way into the parking lot at the Veloway in pre-dawn darkness to meet my brother for a bike ride, to hear, “You have arrived.”

      Or when we pull up in front of our hotel after missing not one, not two, but three exits trying to get there, to hear, “You have arrived.” After being lost, it was encouraging to know we finally had a place to sleep.

      I wish I heard that sort of encouragement more often during my everyday walkabout life.

      Like, for example, when I’ve spent a week or two editing a piece of personal writing but I’m afraid to stop before it’s perfect, how great it would be to hear, “Put your red pen down, you have arrived.”

      Or, after working on a trombone solo so long I’m getting diminishing returns, to hear, “Put you horn in the case, you have arrived.”

      Or after doing ab workouts in the gym, to hear, “Go take a shower, 200 crunches are enough, you have arrived.”

      Or on Thursday when I can’t stop tweaking my Sunday School lesson, to hear, “You already have what you need to say, print it on yellow paper, you have arrived.”

      But on the other side of that desire to know I’ve arrived is … well, sometimes I hope I’ll never arrive. As in, “Hang up your bike, put away your walking shoes, you’ve gone far enough for one lifetime, you have arrived.”

      I don’t want to hear that. How would I learn anything new? Moving long distances has been so foundational to my learning and deepening and persevering, why would I want to ever arrive at the end? I have miles to go before I sleep.

      Or what if I heard, “Take a seat weary pilgrim, you’ve journeyed far enough. You’ve learned enough, read enough, been through your Daily Bible enough, discussed lessons enough, told stories enough, traveled enough long journeys in search of deeper convictions and a changed heart. You have arrived.” Today, a few days before my 68th birthday, I hope my pilgrim days never end.

      I used to dream of the day when I would know for certain God’s ultimate will for my life, when my career would be settled and successful, when I would reach my marathon running goals (one more), when I would have my life with Cyndi figured out, when I would finally arrive. But … what a boring life that would be.

      One last thing about arriving.

      Following our weekend in Austin, we spent four days in Indianapolis. On our trip home, as our first flight approached Denver, the flight attendants asked us to clean up the area around our seats. About a dozen times. Each attendant took a turn. They repeated it so many times it was irritating, and then it was funny.

      About three hours later, when our second flight landed in Midland, I gathered up my stuff only to realize I was missing my blue file folder. The folder I’ve used to keep my notes for Sunday morning for at least twenty-five years.

      It turned out, all those repeated requests on the first flight to clean up our area were aimed directly at me and my blue folder. And I failed the challenge.

      It was discouraging. I had years of thought and energy in that folder. Not to mention the notes I had been working on for a week.

      Why am I telling you that story?

      Because it was obvious to me that I’m still a long way from arriving. Bummer.

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

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