Is It Time For a Fresh Start?

Monday morning my laptop disavowed its own touchpad and I had to borrow a mouse from Cyndi. (It was purple, with flowers, very girly.) Next, my laptop refused to recognize either of the two wireless networks in our house. It was an unsettling trend. What might fail next? I turned the laptop over, pulled the battery out for five minutes to give the electrons time to stop spinning, reinstalled the battery, rebooted, and everything worked. All it needed was a fresh start.

And so I’ve been wondering about that myself these past weeks. Do I need a fresh start?

Several friends have commented about my recent bike crash and my perpetually bad knees, and the comments go like this: “Maybe God is telling you to take up something else. Is it time to move on from running and cycling?”

I was asking myself that same question a few years ago, in 2008 to be precise, when I ran the Austin Half-Marathon.

My training had been marginal, more walking than running, and not much of that, because my knee was still sore. Too much body mass and too little running made it hard to motivate myself to hit the roads every day. Yet, I wanted my love of running back. I wasn’t ready to put that phase of life behind me.

I knew the half-marathon would either make me hungry for more, or tell me it was time to move on to something else. Would I step in or step out? Would I say, “I’ll never do that again,” or say, “When is the next race?”

And now, five years later, I’m wondering the same thing.

I’m currently under the care of Midland Memorial Hospital’s Wound Management Specialists - a lingering effect from the bike crash on March 4^th - and they won’t let me do much of anything until I’m healed.

It’s OK. I am more than willing to stay away from running or cycling or hiking or backpacking or yard work or manual labor in order to let this wound heal, but at the same time I am ready to get back as soon as possible. I am hungry to move.

The question of fresh starts is bigger than running or cycling, wounds or arthritis. I don’t want to squander my life holding on too long to something I should leave behind. How do we know if we’re bravely hanging on or merely being delusional? It isn’t always easy to know the difference.

So one morning this week I read this from Psalm 20, “May He give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.” (Ps 20:4 NIV)

I saw in the margin of my Bible where each year I had written the desires of my heart in response to this promise. However, I also noticed my desires kept changing. I held on to some, let go of others. How could God give me my desires and make my plans succeed if I kept starting over again and again?

But my core desire stayed constant: I want to impact the lives of people. My heart hadn’t actually changed; it just takes a life time of digging to uncover desires from all the debris thrown up by daily life.

Later that same day, after reading Psalm 20 and praying for insight into fresh starts, I received two clues about the true desire of my heart:

I was listening to an audio book by Rich Roll, titled Finding Ultra, about how he turned around his life after discovering ultra-endurance sports. He described an epic endurance event in which he and a friend decided to do five Iron Men-length events in five days, each on a different Hawaiian Island. His description of the effort was brutal, but the more he talked about his suffering, the more I wished I could do it, too. I realized that was an indicator of my own heart, that it has many more miles in it. Rather than think Roll was crazy, my heart wanted to be with him.

And then I saw some photos of another local cyclist who crashed while riding in the Texas Hill Country, and his injuries looked significantly worse than mine. Again, rather than scaring me away from cycling, I couldn’t wait to get back on the saddle.

I suppose I have a life-time of fresh starts still ahead of me, but for now the one I’m most looking forward to is moving down the road again. I can hardly wait to get started. In fact, I’ve already started planning future races.

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

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Waiting For Change

Saturday morning I sat at one of my favorite writing tables, happy for the opportunity, but a little disappointed. I was supposed to be leading a group of men up Guadalupe Peak that day, and let me say that I use the word “lead” very loosely since every one of the guys can hike the trail faster than me. Still, it was our annual Iron Men Spring Adventure and I didn’t go, my first time to miss since we started this, in 2004. I’m a bit surprised that the guys want to go up the same trail again - same mountain, same hike, year after year. But of course, we don’t really do it for the actual hiking; we do it for the time together on the trail. As William Blake wrote, “Great things are done when men and mountains meet; this is not done by jostling in the street.”

To be honest, I was worried all week about how far I could make it up the trail this year. In fact, I’d already decided my secret goal for the day would be the wooden bridge. I’ve been to the top of Guadalupe Peak at least sixteen times so I told myself a partial would be acceptable.

Here is what happened, and why I didn’t go hiking.

Friday morning after working out at Gold’s Gym in Cyndi’s Body Pump class, after we got home, I realized my six-week-old bicycle-crash hip injury had taken a turn to the worse. It went from being a slowly-healing surface wound to a quarter-sized hole in my skin that appeared to be about five inches deep … or maybe twelve inches deep. It looked like a superhighway for infection. It was kind of scary.

Cyndi made me go to the doctor, right away, that same morning, knowing I would try to walk it off in typical guy fashion and treat it myself. Thanks to her, I was in the doctor’s office by 9:00 am.

Doctor Willingham, my primary care physician for the past twenty years, took one look (It was his second time to see this particular injury because I went to his office two-weeks after the March 4^th crash. He asked why I didn’t come in immediately after the accident, and I said, “Because I was afraid you’d tell me not to go to our vacation in Hawaii and I knew I’d have to disobey.”) and said, “This is what I was afraid would happen.”

He left the room and set an appointment for me to see the Wound Management specialists at Midland Memorial Hospital, Monday morning. Then he looked me in the eye and said, “Berry, no running, no cycling, no working out, no sweating.” He would have added, “No hiking,” had he known I had a big trip planned for the very next day. He didn’t know, so he didn’t say it, but it was clearly implied.

As I walked down the hall to pay for my visit the doctor followed me and reiterated, “No running, no cycling, no working out,” as if I were the sort of guy who would go out and do any of those things in spite of his admonition, as if I were the sort of person who would disobey his doctor and feel OK about it.

It isn’t so bad. I’ve had no pain from this injury, only messy inconvenience. But I’m disappointed that it has gone on and on. Healing has taken longer than I’d scheduled.

I always expect improvement to come more quickly than it does. I want to lose weight right away. I want to learn to speak another language right away. I want to get faster right away. I want to run further right away. I want to learn to draw right away. I want to heal right away.

I’ve lived most of my adult life under the assumption that if I’m disciplined and dependable, if I’m a good student of best practices, and if I carry through with what I learn, improvements should come quickly for me.

Yet, they seldom do, and I’m always surprised when they don’t. Apparently I’m not as good a student as I claim to be. At least, not a good student of my own past.

Does anything with lasting value happen right away? Not in my experience. Finding joy in cycling took many months of riding. Understanding the brotherhood created by men sharing a mountain trail took miles and miles. Learning to offer grace instead of judgment took years. Cherishing my one-on-one time with God has taken, well, my entire life.

Rick Warren said, “We overestimate what we can do in one year and underestimate what we can do in ten. Set larger goals and take longer to reach them.”

I suppose healing this physical wound will take longer than I want. Waiting patiently seems to be the grown-up response, and so that’s what I’ll do. But I’m ready to get back on the trail and back on my bike. Maybe next week?

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

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Transforming Moments

So Monday morning I watched the live internet feed from the Boston Marathon on my computer. It was fun. I could feel myself swaying in my chair, trying to run with the leaders. In my head I was running the Newton Hills smoothly and quickly just like those tiny Kenyans. It was amazing. More than that, it was inspiring. I wanted to change into my New Balances right then and hit the road.

So I went home for lunch pumped full of adrenaline. I didn’t have time to run, but squeezed in a 13-bike ride. It was windy of course, especially riding west on Mockingbird, but fighting the headwind felt like solidarity with those runners on Heartbreak Hill. Even on my bike I was one of us.

It wasn’t until after lunch that people in my office started asking me about the bombs. I had no idea. I had to catch up on the news. And then, staring at the videos on my computer, I sat stunned, awash in my own vulnerability. These were my people. They were where I wished I were. They were winning their day. They were finishing a year-long, life-long goal. They could have been me. If my knees didn’t hurt, if I could run faster, they would have been me. I could hardly breathe.

Over the course of the afternoon, I was surprised how many phone calls, texts, and emails I received about the marathon tragedy. Friends wanted to know if I’d heard about it, if I knew anyone running, and even if Cyndi and I were running the race this year. The entire incident felt more personal than I’d expected. It felt like my own tribe was under attack.

I wasn’t alone in feeling that way. Blogger Peter Larson wrote, “In talking with other runners over the past 24 hours, the common thing we all feel is that our family has been attacked. It’s a family that includes not only those of us who run, but also those who gather to watch us achieve our goals.”

My daughter, Katie, texted: “It’s a sad day when the most passive athletes are targeted.”

She got that exactly right. Marathon runners don’t hit people, they don’t try to knock the ball out of your hands or steal it from you, and they don’t yell at line judges or referees. They’re self-contained, often introverted people willing to put in long training hours on the road. The only person they hurt is themselves.

I’ve been around a lot of marathon finish lines, either because I was running myself or because I was waiting for someone I love to finish. My first finish was in 1983 at the Golden Yucca Marathon in Hobbs, NM. It was raining when I crossed the finish line, and the entire area was deserted. A man and woman jumped out of their Airstream trailer, scribbled my name and race number and finish time on their clipboard, scrambled back inside out of the rain, leaving me standing alone in the rain, so proud of myself I couldn’t stop crying. I would have pounded my chest and howled at the sky but I was too exhausted to lift my arms.

I knew I was a different man from that moment forward. I was transformed into a marathon runner, and I could claim that privilege for the rest of my life. I knew my future would be different than predicted. I knew I was amazing.

All marathon finishes are like that. Even crossing my most recent finish line at the Crossroads Marathon, October 2010, was transformational. Once again, it changed my image of what was possible. It opened my heart and expanded my vision. Even exhausted, I knew I could do anything. I was indestructible. I was a mighty warrior who could not be stopped.

That is what marathon finish lines are like. They are joyful. They are emotional thin places. They are transformational. They are magic.

But Monday, in Boston, the finish line turned tragic.

The first thing I wanted to do after seeing the bombing video was to find Cyndi and hold on to her. I was soft and hungry for her touch all afternoon. I needed physical confirmation that we were OK.

John Bingham posted on Tuesday: “What we learned from the New York City Marathon is that runners are not immune to the power of the universe. Hurricanes don’t care how long you’ve trained. They don’t care that running a marathon is a life-list dream. They don’t care that you are a runner.

Yesterday we learned that we, elite runners, charity runners, young, old, male, female, runners are not protected from the dangers, the horrors, and the hatred that are in the world. We aren’t. If we thought we were yesterday morning, THIS morning we know we’re not.”

Through the years, Cyndi and I have run so many races together, running and love and longevity have intertwined through the years. It was my love for Cyndi and my desire to snatch her back from her track & field boyfriend that started me running back in 1978. But Monday morning my favorite sport reminded me that even something as benign as running comes with risk to the one I love most.

You can’t love someone without accepting the risk of losing them. Sometimes the threat of loss is only tangential, as in my fear of losing Cyndi because of Boston. We were both in Midland and far from danger.

But it felt more real than that. It was a reminder that the commitment to love someone is risky and can end badly. Tragedy can strike anytime, even in the middle of life’s best moments.

But to be transformed by love, you have to accept the risk and love deeply anyway. You have to cannonball in with all you have. You have to love with all of you, all day, all the time, right now.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Running to Forgive

When was the last time you went searching for someone to show kindness? For me - too long. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever searched very hard. I was reading 2 Samuel 9:1, where David asked, “Is there anyone still left of the house of Saul to whom I can show kindness for Jonathan’s sake?”

This is the prelude to a great Bible story, when David sought out Mephibosheth, son of his best friend Jonathan, to shower with grace and blessing. Not only is it one of my favorite stories, it is one of the first Bible stories I learned as a very young boy.

I used to fall asleep at night listening to Bible stories from a set of records my mom and dad bought for me. I learned all those stories by heart through nightly repetition, and my brain still plays the organ music and narration whenever I read one of the stories in my Bible, even after 50 years. Not only that, I remember how proud I was that I could pronounce Mephibosheth. None of my peers could.

This story describes one of David’s first acts after becoming king. His journey to the throne, promised to him by God, was long and difficult, and for the most of it, he was running for his life from Saul. So when he finally received what God had promised so many years before, you might think he would take revenge on all those who had been chasing him. What David does, however, is ask if there is anyone left from the previous king’s family he can show kindness to. That is a great way to live; a great way to wear power.

I recently finished Mike Foster’s book, titled Gracenomics, and in it he encourages his readers to “be first in line to forgive, to race to release grudges, make room for those on life’s margins, raise our voice for the vulnerable, and accept the unacceptable.”

Again, what a way to live. Running to the front of the line to show grace and forgiveness is a great way to wear power and influence.

Running ahead instead of holding back to see if they really deserve forgiveness, instead of waiting to see if our grace is warranted, instead of wondering if they have made genuine change in their attitude and behavior. Not stopping to analyze or evaluate, but running to forgive.

So why aren’t we always the first in line to forgive? Why aren’t we the first to forgive family debts or slights? Why aren’t we the first in line to forgive political enemies? Why aren’t we first in line to forgive bosses who left us stranded when we needed their protection most? Why aren’t we first to forgive friends who hurt and betrayed us?

Is it because we are afraid of making a mistake? Or because we are afraid of looking foolish? Or is it because we are afraid if we forgive too soon it will only encourage them to do it again? Is it because it is more fun to post diatribes and judgments rather than offer forgiveness and grace?

In fact, it feels smarter, more discerning, maybe even deeper, to sit back and watch for real change before offering forgiveness. Running to forgive sounds too impulsive and naïve for those as spiritually sophisticated as we are.

But David didn’t hold back. In fact, he went searching for the very ones who had the most to fear from him. He sought out Mephibosheth, a man who was hiding in fear of his life. David went looking for someone to show grace to.

Jesus didn’t hold back, either. When Peter came to him for forgiveness, after denying three times, Jesus didn’t hold back saying, “I told you this would happen,” or “I’ll forgive you once I can see you’ve really changed.” He didn’t even wait until his own emotional pain had subsided. Jesus forgave Peter immediately and completely.

I also believe that if Judas had run back to Jesus instead of hanging himself, he would have received the same love and acceptance and forgiveness as Peter. Judas simply didn’t believe in the goodness of Jesus’ heart, so he didn’t risk asking forgiveness. What a shame.

Maybe the reason we are slow to forgive is that we don’t really trust Jesus’ heart, either.

I wonder if I can live Mike Foster’s challenge, running to the front of the line to be the first to forgive, first to offer grace and help.

How about you?

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Practicing

For the past evenings I’ve been reading Natalie Goldberg, and she always starts me thinking about how I spend my days. I’m especially drawn to her use of the word “practice;” how her life centers on writing practice and spiritual practice. Her daily practices influence everything she does and writes. I’m talking about practice in the sense of daily regular activities done for the purpose of doing them. Not out of rote or mechanical repetition, but knowing there is benefit. For example, maybe you start off practicing piano every day to become a better player, but eventually it becomes part of your identity. You keep practicing because it is who you are.

This makes me ask, “What are my own practices?”

My longest running practice (sorry about the pun) is running.

Friends often ask why I’m determined to keep running on sore knees when there are other exercise choices. I don’t usually have a good answer. It feels pretentious to say running has become a spiritual practice for me, so I keep that answer to myself. Still, it’s true.

I don’t expect other people to get the same benefit from running that I get, and I don’t think badly about them if they don’t become life-long runners. We’re each drawn to different activities, and I don’t expect anyone to be drawn to mine.

Still, I’ve had people tell me they were inspired to run after reading something I wrote. But then they tried it for a while and gave up because it was too hard. I can’t blame them. It is hard.

I started running in June 1978 in order to win the heart of a girl, to lose weight, and get fitter. It was hard work all summer long. In fact, I ran miles and miles, maybe a year to two, before I found any benefit. Certainly before it became fun. I had to push through discomfort and stress in order to find mental release on the other side. It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.

My second-longest practice is reading from my Daily Bible.

I have read through the same copy of The Daily Bible in Chronological Order year after year, almost every day, since 1993. I started because, as a Bible teacher, I wanted to learn more things about God. However, after I few passes through the book my motives evolved - I wanted to change who I was and how I lived so I could love God more.

It became a daily practice for me, a spiritual thin place. It grounds me, brings me back home to my base relationship with God, settles my wandering mind, and keeps me from rambling too far from truth. Just the physical act of doing it is peaceful. In fact, a day feels strange and empty until I have my reading.

The thing about spiritual practices is they’re not easy or fun every single time you do them. Some days are hard and cranky and I have to remind myself there is real value in continuing.

Last week I posted, “Is a hard cranky run when I’m struggling with every step better than no run at all?”

Yes, it is, but it isn’t obvious. Even a bad run slows down my day and anchors me to the present. Nothing settles my brain floaters better.

Practice means going out anyway, whether hot or rainy or cold or snowy or early or late. The regular repetition is as important as each actual mile.

Practice means digging my Daily Bible out of my backpack and squeezing today’s reading into a busy day even when the passage is nothing but a long genealogical list of unpronounceable names. Putting my attention to God’s Word centers me.

So why bother? Surely we have enough on or schedule already without adding more things to do.

Because our heart, soul, and mind are influenced by what we hear, read, and do. If we don’t have daily practices that intentionally bring us toward God, the Enemy will pull us away from God. Over the course of our lifetime, it is our practices that make us who we are.

What are your practices? Sharing them may help someone else who needs grounding in their own spiritual life.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Four Leadership Lessons From The Desert

I found four lessons about leadership while reading from Numbers 13 and 14 in my Daily Bible. Realizing how much I needed to learn them myself, I wrote them out so I could let them soak in. They come from a time in Bible history when the wandering nation of Israel, recently freed from Egypt, was poised to move into Canaan and seize the land God had promised. Unfortunately, they chickened out, failed God, and the entire nation suffered for the next forty years.

Lesson #1: Think about what you say

Moses sent twelve spies into Canaan to scope out the best way to conquer the land, but instead of coming back with a battle plan, the spies lost their nerve and convinced the people they couldn’t win against the current inhabitants.

They said, “We can’t attack those people; they are stronger than we are.” And they spread among the Israelites a bad report about the land they had explored. (13:30-33)

They spread more than information; they spread fear. They infected the entire nation with terror and faithlessness. Shame on them. Don’t ever be someone who spreads fear.

The result? Because the people refused to follow Moses into Canaan, God was ready to strike them all down and start over. But Moses pleaded for mercy. God answered Moses’ prayer, but declared that the people would have to wander in the wilderness for forty more years, until the entire fearful generation was dead and buried in the desert. That works out to be at least ten funerals per day, every day, for forty years. (14:1-18)

It matters how we live. Don’t go through life spreading fear. Think about what you say (and post).

Lesson #2: Take your failures to God

After the people refused to confront the Canaanites, and they heard the terms of their punishment, they tried to correct the situation on their own. They ran toward the border to invade the land. But they went without Moses and without God, and they were quickly defeated and turned back. (14:39-45)

I think this part of the story would’ve turned out differently if the people had humbled themselves and appealed to God for a second chance instead of charging up the hill. It would have changed everything. God gave second chances repeatedly, but only when they had a possibility of restoring the relationship.

In this case, when the people charged into battle, it had nothing to do with returning to God, but it had everything to do with proving their own strength.

Don’t try to repair spiritual failures using the strength of your own will. God wants you back. Ask him for another chance.

Lesson #3: Take care of the people God has entrusted to you

I often wonder how many times Moses met with God during the next forty years to complain about sending those spies. Moses could have been the hero, leading God’s people into the Promised Land. Instead, he was stuck babysitting a bunch of whiners, in the desert, for forty years. All because of those spies.

No one who answers God’s call to leadership considers they might end up circling aimlessly in the desert for the rest of their life. As the years ticked slowly along, funeral after funeral, Moses must have hurt over what seemed to be a lost opportunity.

I wonder if Moses ever complained to God, “Darn your scaredy-cat spies,” only to hear God reply, “Hey, you picked them out - they were your spies.”

Yet, Moses stayed on task, guiding the people toward God. God entrusted these people to Moses, and he gave his life to them.

Take care of the people God entrusts to you, regardless of the assignment.

Lesson #4: Don’t research your courage away

One more thought. I think it’s possible to do so much research we can talk ourselves out of doing God’s will. And I say this as someone who likes to research every important decision. Moses knew it was God’s will to invade Canaan, so why send those spies? This story might have been very different if he hadn’t.

I saw this very thing happen many times when I served in city government … a fellow member of the city council would ask for input about a controversial issue, and keep asking and asking, until they eventually heard the safest choice. As a result, they lost their nerve, allowing the fear-spreaders to shape their decision. Instead of voting with the conviction God placed in their heart they allowed fearful opinions to scare them away.

When God speaks, we can and should ask opinions of people we trust, but we should be prepared to move forward on the word of God, even if we move alone. Don’t let too much research steal your courage.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Playing it Safe?

So Monday about two-and-a-half weeks ago, I went cycling on my quick, noontime twelve-mile route.On the second half of the ride I was enjoying a mighty tailwind, riding east on Mockingbird, approaching the hard right-hand turn at the end of Mockingbird and Garfield, when I felt my back tire go flat just before the turn. I kept riding since I was going fast, and the corner was not a good place to linger because too many cars cut the tangent, and because I was full of myself and thought I was smart.

But as I leaned into the turn, my now-flat back tire rolled out front under me.

It happened so quickly I didn’t know I was in trouble until my right hip bounced hard on the pavement. I apparently rolled over on my back, too, since the whole back of my jersey was covered in road grime.

I stayed still for a few seconds, lying in the road. The fall knocked the wind out of me. But I knew I couldn’t stay there. It was too dangerous to lie there where cars turning the corner wouldn’t see me.

I stood up, slowly and carefully, making sure nothing was broken or bleeding. A quick inventory revealed no broken bones, no road rash, and I didn’t even rip my Lycra shorts.

However, my whole body was shaking and my ribs were sore. I didn’t have the energy or concentration to fix the flat. I had my phone with me and considered phoning Cyndi to come get me, but since my bike still worked and I could walk, I decided to try riding home. I was afraid if I sat too much too soon I would stiffen up and be done for the day.

I crept home on my bike, a little over three miles, riding on a sore hip and a flat tire.

By the time I went to bed Monday night my entire right hip was indigo, and it was swollen up with fluid. It felt hard, like a melon, and it restricted my movement.

When I got up Tuesday morning to go to work, I felt dizzy and nauseous.

I wondered if I had sustained a concussion when I fell, but I checked my cycling helmet for any road damage and there weren’t any scratches on it anywhere.

Cyndi suggested I check my blood pressure. It was 30 points lower than usual. That explained why I was dizzy. All my blood was in my swelling hip.

I thought, "I'm 56 years old, I shouldn't be doing this to myself;" but I also thought, "I'm grateful I can still go hard enough to get hurt." It’s possible to live your entire adult life doing nothing but risk management. Playing it safe. Avoiding crashes. Staying home on the couch. I knew I didn’t want to live like that.

I felt like I could manage my wounds with simple first aid, but I was worried that we were flying all the way to San Jose on Friday and Hawaii on Saturday, and how would I make the trip sitting on my sore self.

As it turned out, the flights weren’t unbearably uncomfortable. And in Hawaii I even went for several two-mile runs.

I read in my Daily Bible from Joshua 1, and the story got me thinking about how quickly our lives can change. Maybe because I was sitting crooked, leaning to my left side because of my swollen right hip, all because of my own sudden change.

God said to Joshua, “Moses my servant is dead. Now then you …”

As in, “The king is dead, long live the king.”

Moses is gone. Now then you

Just like that.

Even though Joshua had lots of time to prepare for this transition, knowing God had appointed him to be next in line, the suddenness of the promotion must have shocked him.

The discomfort of transitions can surprise all of us. The speed of the actual moment too fast to comprehend. And so, too often we avoid scary transitions by fighting change.

Well, later that night at Starbuck’s in Poipu, with our friends, David and Brenda, I mentioned what Erwin McManus said about drinking coffee with the lid on. We leave the lid on the cup to minimize spilling and protect ourselves from getting burned, but in doing so we also eliminate most of the fragrance. And odor makes up half the taste of good coffee.

And so in life, too often we are so afraid of getting burned we take the safe route (avoid hard relationship questions, never try anything new, refuse to change our habits or preferences, hunker down during times of transition and wait until we feel ready), and in the end, we miss half the experience. We miss the fragrance of living.

We have to go without the lid, cannonball into the moment, and be strong and courageous. Take the lid off, even though it’s scary (getting burned with hot coffee is a real risk and can cause permanent damage to skin and stain your clothes (and so can bike crashes)).

Well, I took my bike to Peyton’s for a onceover to check for cracks in the frame or bent derailleurs. It is now hanging from my garage ceiling, looking clean and sleek and fast, and calling out my name every time I hobble past. I can’t wait to get back on it.

I have no desire to crash again; I don’t know how many times I can recover from this sort of thing. But I’m not ready to stop moving, either. Living a completely safe life with the lid on, sounds even worse. I have to keep moving to feed my heart and soul, even if the risk is an occasional crash.

However, I’ve learned a couple of things that should help. I’ll stop sooner when I have my next flat, and I’m sure I’ll take that one corner slower from now on, even on two good tires.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Knowing the Answer

Why do I always want to know the right answer, right away? Maybe the engineer side of me wants to fix the problem and prevent further trouble, minimizing the damage. Or the writer side of me assumes I can see the big picture and describe the full meaning.

I used to believe conflict occurred because God wanted to teach me something specific, and the sooner I learned the lesson the quicker the conflict would end. I saw that as a spiritual principle, whether about school work, or relationship troubles, or sickness, or whatever. I don’t know whether I was taught that, or if I made it up myself.

I don’t believe it now, at least not in the same way. Conflict, and the lessons I learn, are usually months if not decades apart. This became clear to me as I worked on my personal timeline in preparation for the Storyline Conference. I realized I’m only just now finding meaning in events that happened twenty or thirty years ago.

So the night before I left for the conference, I finished reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. It’s an account of her solo hike on a large portion of the Pacific Crest Trail.

She began the hike mourning for her mother who died at 47, her own failed marriage, and her descent into serial sex and drug use. But like most long-distance hikers, her reasons for hiking changed the further she went. Finally, the movement itself is what changed her; the daily monotony of covering the miles spoke to her heart.

She was a newby when she started. She had never been hiking or backpacking and knew nothing about gear or survival in the wild. (At least she was aware of her ignorance. Worse would be a beginner who thought they knew how to do it.) She wrote, “Every part of my body hurt. Except my heart.”

One thing about the book that personally spoke to me was how she accepted her inability to articulate the meaning of her trip. Making a mental flash forward to four years (married) and nine years (kids) after finishing her hike, she wrote, “I couldn’t yet know … how it would be only then that the meaning of my hike would unfold inside of me, the secret I’d always told myself revealed.”

“It was all unknown to me then, as I sat on that white bench on the day I finished my hike. Everything except the fact that I didn’t have to know. That it was enough to trust that what I’d done was true. To understand its meaning without yet being able to say precisely what it was.”

Cheryl Strayed addressed one of the lessons I’m trying absorb nowadays: to wait for the answer. Often, that means to wait for a long time. I’m learning to slow down and don’t get in such a hurry to solve the puzzle or know the answer. For lasting change, I believe we have to linger in the moment.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe God wants us to know him and know his purpose in our life, but it was arrogant of me to think I could quickly figure out God’s purpose in the middle of my conflicts. More often, I was lucky to survive, much less be spiritually insightful.

So I need to slow down, and stop being in such a hurry to understand my story. I’m learning to linger in the moment, accept the changes without knowing why they happened, and trust that God will show me the answer when he is ready. Or when I’m ready, or old enough, or wise enough, to handle the answer. This cannot be passive lingering, however, but constant conversation with God.

Well, speaking of conflict and trouble, last Monday I crashed while riding my bike. Specifically, I was turning a fast right-hand corner when my back tire went flat, causing my wheel to skid out from under me. It happened so fast I didn’t even know I was in trouble until my right hip bounced off the pavement. Instantly, I was down. I hit the asphalt hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs and make my ribs sore.

My first comment to myself was, “I’m 56 years old; I shouldn’t be doing this to myself.”

But now that its three days later and I can move round and sit up without getting dizzy, I tell myself, “I’m grateful I can still go hard enough at 56 to hurt myself. It means I haven’t given up.”

Yet, I can’t help but wonder: what should I learn from that crash (other than to stop immediately upon getting a flat)?

I don’t know, yet. And I’m comfortable with that sort of conclusion. My engineer self, and my writer self, wants to find meaning right away, but I’ll just have to linger a bit longer and listen to God.

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

Find me at http://berrysimpson.com and learn more about my books. Or find me at  http://twitter.com/berrysimpson and at http://www.facebook.com/BerrySimpsonAuthor

Ash Wednesday

The service opened with the lyrics, “You alone are my heart’s desire, and I long to worship you,” and I knew I was in trouble. Certain songs are permanently linked to soft times in my life, and singing those songs opens me up, like a chink in my dragon scales, leaving a clear path to my heart. And so, that’s how my first ever Ash Wednesday service began.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the 40-day period of prayer and abstinence known as Lent. The name comes from the practice of placing ashes on the foreheads of worshipers as a reminder and celebration of human mortality, and as a sign of mourning and repentance to God.

Through the years, I’ve seen people walking around with an ashen cross on their forehead, and I knew what it meant, but I’d never participated. We always had something else to do at our own church.

But this year, First Presbyterian Church in Midland invited my church, First Baptist Church, to join them for Ash Wednesday. It was another one of those serendipitous relationships that have grown out of an unfortunate fire in our building. A surprising bit of grace.

The Presbyterians made us feel very welcome. In fact, sitting side-by-side in our church clothes, we all looked alike. Both churches are too large to know everyone, so there was a bit of uncertainty whether the new person sitting next to you was one of us, or one of them. As it should be.

After the service, I went to our friends’ house for a five-family potluck. Twice, someone came and sat next to me and looked at the smudge of ash on my forehead and asked, “Don’t you go to First Baptist?” The Baptists they knew didn’t usually go for Ash Wednesday, or Lent, or Maundy Thursday, or anything like that.

And my mark, originally a cross, was now more of a smudge. Of course, it could have been that way all along. I have no idea since I was the only person who couldn’t see it. And besides, it was painted on my forehead by the least experienced of the available ministers. Who knows if he used the best technique.

Well, I’ve spent my entire life in Baptist churches, and Baptists don’t do liturgy. In fact, we run away from it as fast as we can. We don’t even like someone reading a printed prayer; if it isn’t straight from your heart, if it isn’t improvised on the spot, we aren’t sure God actually pays attention.

So because it is so different from my upbringing, a liturgical service always catches me off balance. Liturgy is not magic. It can become stale and repetitious just like any form of worship. But being surprised by God is magic, however it happens.

I suppose I was more susceptible to surprise than I normally would’ve been because I’d already spent a large portion of the day thinking about surrender. It was the topic of discussion for a lesson I was to teach early Thursday morning; surrender was firmly on my mind.

As I read along with everyone else: “Open our eyes that we may see ourselves with clarity and truthfulness, that we may have eyes to see all that is within us that is not pleasing to you,” I understood something. There is an element of surrender in reading a liturgy aloud. You end up saying things you aren’t brave enough to say on your own initiative.

The thing is, I tend to be good at surrendering easy stuff, the stuff I don’t mind giving up, the parts of my life I have no control over anyway.

But I don’t like surrendering my favorites, like freedom, for example. I don’t like giving my schedule and time-management to someone else. I don’t like giving away my weekends, or weeknights, or days, or hours, or even minutes. I don’t like surrendering my attention span or projects or goals.

I left the Ash Wednesday service quickly and quietly, working my way silently through the crowd and out the back door. I was too soft to talk to anyone, and I wanted to linger in the moment a bit longer.

As I was crossing the street to the parking lot, I heard another song in my head. This one by Rich Mullins: “Surrender don't come natural to me; I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want than to take what You give that I need.”

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

Find me at http://berrysimpson.com and learn more about my books. Or find me at  http://twitter.com/berrysimpson and at http://www.facebook.com/BerrySimpsonAuthor

How Much Can You See?

Does God intentionally hide himself from us? Sometimes it feels that way, doesn’t it?

I was reading a cool story in my Daily Bible, from Exodus 33:17-23, when Moses said to God, “Show me your glory.”

God said, “I will cause my goodness to pass in front of you … but you cannot see my face … I will remove my hand and you will see my back.”

So Moses asked to see God’s glory, but he got God’s goodness instead. He couldn’t see God’s face, but he was allowed to see God’s back.

I doubt there is a big theological difference between glory and goodness, or face and back. I think God wanted to reveal himself to a much-loved and trusted friend, and showed as much of himself as he could.

Maybe Moses would have melted down if he saw all of God. Or maybe he would have seen nothing since God is so huge. Maybe he needed small details to focus on since the full nature of God was too much to take in.

I don’t know; I am guessing. But I don’t believe God was being coy, or contrary, or even hard-to-get. He doesn’t tell Moses - “If you handle this wilderness adventure like a big boy, I will show you some more.” No, I believe God was being generous with himself. He showed as much as Moses could take. Too much too soon wouldn’t help him see more clearly.

Here is an example: My ten-year-old nephew, Kevin, asked me, “So what are the Lord of the Ring movies about?” He has trouble seeing past the image of Gollum, having been creeped out by seeing one of the movies when he was too young. And in fact, I hardly know how to answer him. To describe the story behind the LOTR movies is complex even for people who’ve spent their life reading the books and watching the movies. I told him, “Frodo has to destroy a magic ring so the rightful king could be restored to his thrown.”

That hardly does justice to ten-hours’ worth of movies, but to explain further wouldn’t have helped Kevin understand. More details would only have confused him further.

I think there was an element of that between God and Moses. Showing more wouldn’t have helped Moses understand. It would have confused him further.

Another example: If you meet someone on an airplane - one of the few places where we sit close to strangers and have plenty of time to talk - and they ask, “Tell me about yourself,” what do you say?

Do you dive into childhood stories, life victories, and emotional wounds, telling about your goals and dreams, listing off New Year’s resolutions, spilling the content of your heart? I don’t. I doubt even my most extroverted friends tell their whole story to strangers.

Why is that? Without the context of a deeper relationship and shared history, most of what you tell won’t make sense anyway. Too much too soon does not become deeper understanding.

But then there is another question from Exodus 33: Why did God show himself at all? Why not tell Moses it couldn’t be done? And even more, why did Moses think he had the right to ask it of God?

I think part of the answer lies with the traumatic moment they shared. They had just discovered the entire nation worshipping a golden calf in full Egyptian fashion, and it broke both their hearts - God’s and Moses’s. God was so angry he was ready to destroy the people and start over with Moses, and Moses threw himself in front of that anger to plead for mercy and grace.

When we go through something traumatic together, it pulls us closer. We become combat buddies, of sorts. And mutual survival of a struggle earns us the right to share more of ourselves. We learn to trust each other through shared hardship.

I have hiked Guadalupe Peak at least a dozen times with the Iron Men group, in addition to multiple trips up Tejas Trail and Permian Reef Trail. And something happens to conversations as the miles on the trail pile up. Guys start sharing more about themselves and opening their hearts in a way that could never happen back home in a classroom. Not every guy; not every trip; but guys have told deep secrets they’ve held close for years. Why? Because we earn trust through the shared struggle of the hike.

And so, the more of life we experience alongside God, the more we’ll learn to trust him, and the more of himself he can reveal to us. We have to grow further up and further in to before we can see God more clearly.

Maybe God allows us to travel extremely difficult trails because that is the only way we’ll know him better. Maybe living through those moments when God seems to be hiding are the very times we learn to trust him so we can see him more clearly.

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

Find me at http://berrysimpson.com and learn more about my books. Or find me at  http://twitter.com/berrysimpson and at http://www.facebook.com/BerrySimpsonAuthor