Journal entry 102110: Trusting God

A friend asked me if the sounds inside my brain ever settle down to quiet. I was surprised at his question since I assumed everyone’s head was constantly vibrating with voices and songs. I said, “No; does yours get quiet?”

“Yes. Sometimes when my wife asks what I’m thinking about, I’m really not thinking about anything at all.”

That’s never true for me. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have a play-by-play commentary running in my head. And there always seems to be a song playing in there, too.

One morning last week I woke up about 4:00 AM, and my head was singing, of all things, “You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off that old lone Ranger and you always give ten percent.” It was like Jim Croce singing at a church stewardship rally. I stayed in bed trying to go back to sleep, but instead, oddly enough, could do nothing but think of giving money away.

I remembered when I was a kid I’d spend several weeks every summer visiting my grandparents. My grandfather, Roy Haynes, was a Baptist pastor in some of the tiniest West Texas towns, like Gail, Ira, and Ackerly. He was careful to tithe from his meager pastor’s salary; I thought that was strange since his salary was made up entirely from the other people’s tithes. I asked, “That money has already been given to God, and He gave it to you. Isn’t one tithing iteration enough?” (However, I’m sure I didn’t use the word iteration when I was a ten-year-old.)

He said, “We give back to the one who gave us life. Always give back to God.” Brother Haynes was never much for philosophizing; he was more about simple obedience.

As a follower of Jesus Christ I believe it’s important to give my money and time back to God. That means our family gives a portion to our local church and we give other portions to a variety of ministries we know and believe in. There is some picking-and-choosing on our part, but even more, a deliberate relinquishing of control.

A friend once asked me how I could give money to our church if I didn’t believe the church was headed in the right direction. He said, “That feels to me like I’m wasting my money. It feels like I’m endorsing what I don’t believe in. I cannot do that.”

I couldn’t argue with his line of reasoning, but I couldn’t agree, either. I said, “I give to our church because it is my church. It is my family.” It’s more than an organization with goals and direction, it’s a group of people who helped me raise my kids and who traveled this spiritual journey with me for years.

I think we should be careful who we give to, we shouldn’t waste our gifts, but I also think there is an even bigger call from God than being choosy. There is a call to surrender. God doesn’t need our money so much as He wants our hearts, and we can only give our hearts by surrendering to Him. And to give money to my church and let other people decide how to spend it, that is surrender.

It is easy to justify giving money only to ministries I am personally involved with, or even giving money to my own family and make that my gift to God, but that can’t be the whole story. Giving has to be about surrender, and if I’m ultimately making all the decisions about how each dollar is spent, I’ve surrendered nothing.

Another friend, Brent, used to ask, “Are you tithing?” whenever I was fretting over money issues. He wondered why God would bless us with more if we weren’t willing to give away what we already had. The first time Brent asked me that question was years ago and we were both quite broke, living month to month, and the decision to give away was as difficult as any decision could be. I think of his question often, whenever I am trying to decide what I have to give.

Rich Mullins wrote, “Surrender don’t come natural to me. I’d rather fight you for something I don’t really want than take what you give that I need.” Giving is about the unnatural action of surrender.

And then, strangely, still unable to sleep, I wondered this: What if I took my tithe every month and bought lottery tickets and gave those tickets to the church? Then God could keep as much as he wanted. I might never know whether the tickets were all losers and my tithe disappeared, or whether they were all winners and my meager tithe funded the entire church building program.

So here’s my story (and a possible explanation why this essay is more random than usual). I woke up about 4:00 AM with all the above thoughts running through my head. Even the goofy lottery idea. I could not go back to sleep. I prayed, “God help me remember all this tomorrow morning during my regular writing time.”

What I heard back was this: “I’m giving it to you now.”

So I got up, went to the small desk in my closet, and started scribbling on yellow sticky notes (since my official journal was out in my pickup). I wrote it all out and then crawled back into bed, praying, “OK God, what was that all about? Why did you wake me up to rehash old thoughts about tithing?”

I heard, “It isn’t about tithing; it is about trusting me.”

So I got back out of bed a second time knowing I had more to write. I’ve come to realize something painful in the past few months: It is hard for me to trust God completely.

When I look back over my story I see so many occasions when I felt like I did the right thing, abstained from the bad things, kept my pants zipped up, kept my magazine shelf clean, abstained from dangerous chemical additives, followed all the rules, and lived like good boys are supposed to live, yet it seemed God didn’t come through for me. Even after I did my part of the equation it seemed God backed off on his part. I gave 100%, he returned with 75%. At least, that’s what it felt like. It’s been hard for me to totally trust God, and deep in my heart I felt He never really came through for me.

OK, that was easier to write than it was to know, and easier to know than it was to learn. I only understood it after I spent lots of journal-writing time looking back over some of my most painful memories, wondering why they still haunted me after 30 years. The message I heard was, “You don’t really trust Me.” I was surprised to hear it, but recognized the truth immediately. I was, in fact, stunned by the revelation.

So my prayer has been, “Teach me to trust You. I don’t know how to do it on my own.”

I realized at 4:40 AM, while sitting in my closet scribbling on yellow sticky notes, that giving money is really about surrender, and surrender is really about trusting God. And I recalled something written by Erwin McManus: “The more you trust Him, the more you’ll risk on His behalf.” (The Barbarian Way) Giving and surrendering and trusting often feels risky.

I’ve been wrong thinking God cannot be trusted, that He might come through in the end for the really cool people but not for me. Even though I never expressed those thoughts out loud, they have been part of my basic make-up, and they put a damper on my relationship with God for over half my life. I don’t want to live that way any longer.

So how do I become a man who trusts God totally? That has been my constant prayer, “Teach me how to trust you.”

I don’t know how I expected God to teach me. Tonight the lesson came at 4:00 AM, on yellow sticky notes. I think there may be more lessons on the way. I hope so – I have much more to learn.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com. Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org. To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal entry 101410: Lost

Last month, I was lost. It happened as I was pulling my gear together for a two-night backpacking trip into the Guadalupes with David Nobles, and I couldn’t find my hiking boots. If I’d had any suspicion they weren’t exactly where they were supposed to be I wouldn’t have waited until the night before the trip to look for them, but it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be there.

They were great boots, too – Keen Siskiyous. I bought them at REI in Dallas last winter and wore them the first time on my February solo trip to Big Bend. I also wore them to Guadalupe Peak with the Iron Men in March, and later on a backpacking trip in June with Chad, Cory, and Clark. They were so comfortable, they were so cushy, I once wore them around town the day after doing a 19-mile long run, to give my sore feet a treat.

And I would’ve bet real money that they were in my backpacking closet under the stairs in my garage, but when I went to get them Wednesday night, they weren’t there. I looked for them at my next best place, my clothes closet, but they weren’t in there, either. After that, I had nowhere to look. I was done. It was over. I knew if I didn’t find them right away I’d probably never find them at all.

Fortunately for the backpacking trip I still had my old boots, a pair of Vasques with lots of rocky miles on them. They performed well even if they stayed wet for two days due to the rain. And they didn’t cause any blisters until the day we hiked down from the mountains. But I wouldn’t have gotten any blisters at all had I worn my Keens.

I know, it is only a pair of boots, and some of you lose things all the time and you seem able to maintain a grip on reality and don’t feel compelled to write an entire essay about the experience. Good for you.

As for me, I am dependent on my routines and processes; when they fail, my life begins to make no sense at all. All my best plans start to unravel and I wonder whether the future has anything left for me. It is a personality thing, I suppose.

As for my wife Cyndi, she tends to drop her stuff on the first flat surface she comes to, having been handed that particular skill by her mom. She’s more focused than her mom, though, and she’s not messy. Cyndi has a pattern and organization to her things that are important to her, even if sometimes unrecognizable to me. Its just that she lays her things down as soon as possible because she’s ready to move on to whatever is next. She is a woman of great focus and determination, but because she is so full of energy, living in the present moment, she’s already moved past whatever she had in her arms and leaped toward the next activity. It’s all about moving on, for her.

So when Cyndi loses something, it could be, well, anywhere. There is always the chance of finding it somewhere someday. There is always hope.

Me, I tend to put my stuff in the same place every time. Not that I am organized like a master mechanic who puts his tools in their marked and labeled place; I’m not like that, but I am a creature of self-defined routine. I live my life following the processes I’ve developed over the years, and I am loath to change something if it works for me. Process demands predictability, and I am very predictable. I tend to put my stuff back where I got it, which is where it’s always been. It’s all about continuity for me.

When I lose something, it’s really lost, and the chance of finding it disappears almost immediately. Hope is lost. I get wobbly on my pegs and wonder, “What else is lost? Is my pickup still in the garage? Is my trombone in its case? Is Midland still in Texas? Does Cyndi still love me? Is there even such a thing as love?”

Well.

Regarding my boots, I had hoped I mixed them with someone else’s gear after the June backpacking trip. I usually change from my boots into my comfy Crocs for the ride home, and maybe my boots accidently went home with someone else who forgot who they belonged to and didn’t know how to return them. But, no joy there. None of my backpacking companions had them

Cory suggested, “Maybe you left them at the Pine Springs trailhead, in the men’s room, when you changed clothes for the ride home.” That is a depressing thought, but it’s the most likely scenario. It’s more probable than assuming I put them someplace new and different at home. Bummer.

What will I do now, you might ask? I will: (1) buy another pair of boots on my next trip to REI, and (2) remember that the value of my life is bigger than my routines, that it is dependent on God himself, and he is never lost.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal entry 100810: The strength in my legs

For the first two hours of the Crossroads Marathon I listened to Rich Mullins on my iPod Nano. I had it on shuffle-play, meaning I let the iPod pick the order of songs.

As the morning began, as we gathered near the starting line waiting for the race to start, I heard, “Let mercy lead, let love be the strength in your legs; and in every footprint that you leave there’ll be a drop of grace.”[i] That was a cool prayer for the morning, I thought. I needed love to be the strength in my legs since I had a long way to go, and as usual, didn’t have enough training miles behind me to justify today’s attempt.

The race started at 7:00 AM, when it was still dark, meaning the sun came up while we were running. I watched the sunrise to these words, “There’s more that rises in the morning than the sun, and more that shines in the night than just the moon. It’s more than just the fire here that keeps me warm, in a shelter that is larger than this room.”[ii] My shuffling iPod picked the perfect song for sunrise.

Rich Mullins always reminds me that there is more to this life than I imagined.

Few people have affected me more than Rich Mullins. His lyrics have shaped my theology as much as any preacher or teacher has, and his ability to see the majesty of God in the expanse of nature has impacted my writing as much as any other author. Through the 1990s, Mullins became one of the loudest and clearest voices in my life, shaping my theology and my daily walk through life as a believer.

Cyndi had to drag me to my first Rich Mullins concert, at Christian Church of Midland, on Neely Street. I wasn’t interested in going. I might’ve been the only person alive who didn’t like Mullins’ song “Awesome God.” I thought he was taking advantage of pop slang to get a huge hit. To me, saying “God is awesome” was like saying “God is groovy” or “God is the bomb” or “God is rad” (pick a decade). All true, but trite and childish, I thought.

I was wrong. He was amazing in concert. His "band" used more instruments than anybody, and it seemed each band member could play them all; they were constantly moving around to play something else. They used guitars (many different types), mandolins, bass (electric bass guitar, stand-up acoustic bass, electric stand-up bass), dulcimer, hammered dulcimer, xylophone, drum set (and congas, bongos, Celtic, and a huge assortment of percussion toys), flute, electronic keyboard, cello, etc.

His performance was more rhythmic than melodic, a sort of Celtic-Appalachian-Rock-on-the-Prairie, and it was amazing to hear and watch it live. He captured the open feeling of the prairie and linked it with the wideness of God's grace.

He sang the song I think of every time I’m on Hunter Peak, “Well the moon moved past Nebraska and spilled laughter on the cold Dakota Hills … I feel thunder in the sky, I see the sky about to rain, and I hear the prairies calling out your name.”[iii]

Rich Mullins made me want to get in my car and drive to the horizon. I wanted to experience the sky the way he did. His songs made me feel like I'd underestimated God’s presence in the southwest desert where I'd spent my entire life. His songs made me want to run outside and look at the sky and think about the love of God.

And another thing: after most concerts I left wishing I could sing. I’d watch the performer sing his heart to God and wish for a genie-in-the-bottle experience so I could choose "singing" as my wish. I never imagined stardom or riches, but I imagined singing with abandon. I was always inspired by a singer who could stand and deliver, and I wanted to do it myself.

However, when I heard Rich Mullins, I was jealous as a writer. His songs made me feel I was wasting my time doing anything but writing. Instead of making me think "Wow, what a great song," Rich made me think "I wish I'd said that."

He made me hope I was doing something with my life that inspired people; that made them want to see God in the sky, or sing along with all their heart. I hoped I was not wasting my influence.

One night in July 1997 a bunch of us went to Odessa to hear Rich Mullins in concert in a small Disciples of Christ church. As usual it was phenomenal. Mullins loved the close intimate setting and performed full-out as if for thousands of people instead of hundreds. The audience called him and his band out for several encores, and for the last one they came out without instruments, grabbed hymnals from the pews, and led us all in congregational hymn singing. It was wonderful.

Three short months after that concert, on September 19, 1997, Rich Mullins and his friend Mitch McVicker were traveling on I-39 north of Bloomington, Illinois to a benefit concert in Wichita, Kansas when his Jeep flipped over. Mullins was killed; McVicker was badly injured but survived. After all these years, I haven’t stopped grieving the loss of Mullins in my life, and I feel it every time I hear one of his songs.

What I learned from Rich Mullins was this – there is more, it’s bigger, and it’s deeper. Rich pulled back the curtain to show me a wider view of God’s love and grace than I’d imagined possible. Listening to him sing into my ears for two hours last Saturday while running the marathon reminded me of how important he was to me. Like Rich Mullins, I want to be a curtain-puller, an inspirer, a heart-giver. I want to be someone who lives the bigger picture of God. I want to be like Rich.

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

---

[i] “Let Mercy Lead,” Brother’s Keeper, 1995.

[ii] “If I Stand,” Winds of Heaven, Stuff of Earth, 1989.

[iii] “Calling Out Your Name,” The World as I Remember It, Volume One, 1991

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Journal entry 093010: Exposed

It wasn’t easy to be the man down. Having David carry my pack for me wasn’t as embarrassing as I thought it would be, since I knew I was in trouble and wouldn’t have made it to Pine Top before dark without his help, but it certainly wasn’t what I had in mind when the day began.

The climb up Tejas Trail is approximately four miles long and 3,000’ elevation gain. It is tough under any conditions, and very hard work under a heavy backpack. This trip I was carrying 62 lbs., almost half of that was water (my pack weighed only 35 lbs. coming down two days later without the water). But I have made the climb a dozen times with a similar load; this trip was nothing out of the ordinary.

David Nobles and I left the trailhead at 12:30 noon and finally made it to our camp spots at Pine Top at 6:30 PM. I typically take about four hours to make this hike, even with a fully-loaded backpack, but this time I bonked. We spent an extra two hours on the trial because of me.

I felt short-winded the entire day, even at the beginning where the trail is relatively flat. I have never had so much trouble breathing before, even in the Rocky Mountains National Park last summer. It was impossible for me to set a steady hiking pace because I was continually stopping to catch my breath. I often revert to a pattern of 200 steps & 100 breaths when I get to the steep switchbacks near the top, but this time I was using that pattern almost the entire trail. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. It was discouraging and disappointing; and irritating.

At one point I started feeling queasy in my stomach, which eventually turned into nausea.  As a precaution I moved my camera into my cargo pocket. It had been hanging from a lanyard around my neck for quick access and when I bent over at the waist it hung strait down. I moved it so I wouldn’t throw up on it if it came to that.

About three miles into the climb I found a rock and sat down and loosened my pack. David sat with me awhile until we worked out a deal. He hiked the rest of the way up to the crest, dropped his pack, then came back to help me. While he was gone I pondered my sad state of being: how did it come to this. I remembered something Erwin McManus said on a podcast, “Everything looks like failure in the middle.” Even though I knew better, this felt like failure.

Why was I so short-winded? True, I’d run 15 miles four days earlier (marathon training), but that should’ve left me sore, not breathless. I knew I wasn’t dehydrated. And I wasn’t hungry; I’d eaten a similar lunch and breakfast on all my hikes. Was the altitude affecting me? That seemed unlikely since I’d made this exact same trip with a heavy pack at least a dozen times and never experienced nausea or extreme short-windedness.

Realizing you are mortal is not pleasant. It’s hard being the one who needs help. It didn’t seem very leaderly. Of course I would’ve done the same for David had the roles been reversed, but I’m not used to the roles being reversed. I like the roles the way they usually are.

Later, back at home, Mark asked if I thought it was some form of spiritual attack. “Maybe,” I said. “It’s hard to know about those things in the moment.”

Back in 2005 when Cyndi and I walked all those miles in northeastern Uganda with John Witte, I was prepared to be the weakest link on our team. I had a bad left knee and I hadn’t yet learned how to make it stronger. My weakness was exposed by the long miles.

This time, however, on Tejas Trail, one of my strengths was exposed. I’d rather keep my strengths under wraps unless they are going to come through for me.

What about my other strengths, the ones I count on every day? Will they let me down, too? Am I about to throw up on my boots because of them, too?

As David carried my backpack up the trail I thought about something that Jesus said, as recorded in Matthew 5:41 … “If a soldier demands that you carry his gear for a mile, carry it two miles.” (KJV says “go with him twain.”) Jesus was telling us to serve each other, to give more than is asked of us. That’s what David did for me. He did more than was expected or asked, and he got me to the top. Through the years I’ve done both: I’ve carried packs for others to help them, and now I’ve watched someone carry mine. The fact is, carrying is much more satisfying than watching.

But if all we do in life is carry for others, never watch them carry for us, that really isn’t relationship. If all we do is give, never receiving, we have to wonder about our motives. Are we truly serving the needs of others, or feeding the needs of our own ego? We must be willing to receive if we expect to know the grace of God. Only empty-handed people can understand grace.

Follow Up #1: My problems didn’t linger. I was fine afterward, and hiked cheerfully the next two days. And now, back home, I’m thinking about my next trip.

Follow Up #2: I’m blessed to be surrounded by friends and family willing to hoist my pack on their own shoulders and help me up the mountain. That is good news; that is grace, indeed.

To see photos from the trip: http://www.flickr.com/photos/berrysimpson/sets/72157624917697655/

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal entry 092310: Call of adventure

I’ll admit I have dipping my toe into the cycling world lately. Even that might be an overstatement since I’ve been riding only once a week. But that small bit has brought back a lot of stories I’d filed away in the back of my memory. Bicycling used to be a big part of my life – not as competition but transportation.

A couple of weeks ago Cyndi and I enjoyed dinner at Abuelo’s with long time friend Rickey Woody, and in the course of reliving our high school days Rick reminded me of a bike trip I took. I believe what he said was, “I can’t believe you guys tried to do that.”

I said, “I can’t believe my mother let us try it.”

It happened one summer, either the summer before our sophomore year in high school (1972) or the summer before our senior year in high school (1973). I don’t remember which. We were living in Hobbs, New Mexico.

My friend Doug White and I had 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 decided to ride our bikes to Cloudcroft, 168 miles from Hobbs with a 5,000’ increase in elevation.

Looking back I realize this is the sort of over-the-top challenge that usually is the result of too much bragging mixed with too much alcohol, but there was no alcohol involved in any of this. Rather, it was just the youthful yearning for epic adventure.

I don’t remember exactly what type of bicycles we had other than they were standard-issue 10-speeds. I’m sure they were heavy, especially in today’s terms. I think my bike was a Volksycle purchased at Mack’s Sharp Shop down the street from our house. I have no idea what Doug rode.

I’m sure we wore Levi cut-offs and T-shirts, the official summer uniform in the 1970s. We certainly didn’t have any performance cycling clothing, and probably didn’t know it existed. Of course, we didn’t have helmets, either. I guess it was safe back then. I don’t remember gloves, either. I’m also sure we wore whatever tennis shoes we had for the summer, and certainly no toe clips on the pedals.

We traveled with sleeping bags, 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.

We don’t have any photos of the trip in my family’s collections. Maybe Doug’s family has one or two, but I doubt it. Before digital cameras people didn’t take as many photos. Nowadays I’d be uploading photos minute-by-minute from my phone, but not in the 1970s.

We left Hobbs early one morning just when it was getting light enough to ride. We rode to the southwest part of town and took US Highway 62/180 west toward an intersection of roads called Arkansas Junction where we joined NM Highway 529 and rode and rode and rode. We stayed on the narrow shoulder of the two lane highway, hanging on to 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. We were grateful for a place to stop for lunch. In the small café there was a chalkboard that said, “Today’s menu: Bowl of chili or Hamburger.” We had hamburgers.

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, were 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.

We rode close together all the way from Hobbs to Loco Hills, but sometime after lunch we split up. I had been pedaling along with my head down – no iPod for entertainment, no mirror to check behind me – when I discovered I was riding alone. I had no idea how far back we’d gotten separated, but I couldn’t see Doug at all. I rode my bike up to an abandoned oil field supply warehouse that had a huge open door facing east, parked my bike in the shade, and sat on the ground to wait for Doug. When he rode by I thought he might stop for a break in the shade but he looked at me and kept riding. I think he was mad at me for dropping him. I didn’t do it on purpose, and never knew when it happened, but I probably would’ve been mad at him had the roles been reversed. It isn’t fun to be left behind.

I got back on my bike and caught up to Doug and we rode together all the way into Artesia. Once we crossed into town 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.

I think it was clear to both of us by now that we were in no shape to continue our trip, but being guys we’d have kept going anyway to the point of collapse, neither 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. Maybe it was a gift for both of us. It was better to stop in a town than alongside a deserted New Mexico highway.

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 than night and dumped 2” of rain on Hope. We would’ve been soaked in our sleeping bags had we spent the night there.

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.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal entry 091610: Crick in the neck

There are things I thought I’d be better at by now, and sleeping was one of them. Yet, I woke up this morning with a painful crick in my neck, on my left side where my neck meets my left shoulder. How did that happen?

In fact, I’ve never understood how cricks happen. How is it possible to sleep in a position so out of alignment it creates a sore spot? If I were awake and I felt part of me getting stiff or cranky, I would change positions – I would do it unconsciously without thinking. Just move.

So why don’t I change positions while sleeping if my body is so uncomfortable it produces a crick? If I’m sleeping at such a bad angle as to cause a muscle cramp or stiffness, why don’t I just roll over?

After all, I toss and turn all night long anyway, and I don’t know what cause me to do that. It apparently doesn’t require conscious thought since I’m asleep when I do it, yet enough of my brain cells are still on alert to tell me to roll over. Why don’t those same vanguard brain cells notice that I’ve laid crooked too long and about to do damage and so tell my body to go ahead and roll over now?

Since I am over 50-years-old I am up and out of bed at least once every night. It seems that should be enough movement to prevent getting a crick.

Of course I’m usually stiff and soar after I go for a long run, but that only makes sense. If I use my legs and arms in repetitive motion for an hour without stopping I’ll be sore later on.

But when I’m sleep, I’m relaxed and horizontal and do not engage in any repetitive movements. So how can I build up enough stress or fatigue to cause the sourness in my neck?

I guess it could be true that I would have cricks every morning if I didn’t toss and turn, and maybe my nighttime brain cells are doing the best they can to prevent morning soreness, but they occasionally make a mistake and miss a rollover, so here I sit with a stiff neck.

I know, I know, who cares, right? Maybe I’m just proving the theory of my friend who says that all writers are whiners. Maybe he’s right. But whining or not, I have this crick in my left neck and it’s going to bug me all morning and I just thought you should know.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal entry 090910: Once more into the desert

I recently found one of my old 3x5cards with this question written on it: “Why does the desert have such a hold on me?”

One reason is because the desert is so stark and minimal, stripped of all excess. There is no pretention in the desert. What you see is what you get, and you can see a lot since none of it is hiding behind trees. And in the desert you can always see the horizon. You don’t have to worry about falling off the edge as long as you can see the horizon.

I enjoy the Guadalupe Mountains even though you have to carry all your water, making hiking and backpacking there very difficult. I love to sit up on Bush Mountain or Hunter Peak and look out across the desert expanse and imagine ancient oceans and infinite possibilities.

I’m not exclusive about the desert. I also love being around water and trees. I had a great time hiking in Tahoe and in the Rocky Mountains National Park and in the Pecos Wilderness. Maybe the real reason I like desert mountains is because those are the type of mountains closest to my home.

And I keep going back to the mountains because I need to feel dirt under my feet; because I need to live, even if only for two nights, off of whatever I can carry on my back; and because God speaks to me most often when I am moving. Dirt trails are a big part of my spiritual journey, and being on top of mountains helps keep my eyes open to the larger, wider, wilder world around me.

I think about spiritual journey a lot; most of my theology and philosophy is based on the notion of being on a journey. We’re always moving into the future – sometimes the trail goes uphill and sometimes it goes downhill. Sometimes it goes on smooth paved pathways, and sometimes on rocky unstable trails.

I was reading I Corinthians 2:13-16 (Phillips), “… you must be spiritual to see spiritual things. The spiritual man, on the other hand, has an insight into the meaning of everything …” I was intrigued that it is says the spiritual man has insights into everything. Does that mean becoming more spiritual gives us more insight into physics, into geography or art, or into marathon running and mountain climbing? Is that what it says?

I believe so. Spiritual insight changes our perspective and opens our eyes to the bigger picture of time and life. Once we know and accept that there are deep wisdoms that can’t be quantified, that there is a reality that exists apart from what we can see and hear and touch, it changes our perception of everything else. Once we know there is more than meets the eye, our insight into everything changes.

So we can go backpacking knowing because we are living in a bigger unseen spiritual world we may be changed in ways we can’t imagine or anticipate. We can read books on a wide range of topics and know God can and will speak to us through any of them because God is bigger than our choices.

Well, the reason I rediscovered the old 3x5 card (with the question on it) was because I was digging through my backpacking file looking for my gear list. I have a two-nighter at Pine Top coming up with my good friend, David Nobles (and maybe others if we can talk anyone else into joining us), and it is time to start gathering up my stuff for the journey.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal Entry 090210: What I learned from a good dog

“Do you think we get the dogs we need?” was the question writer Jon Katz asked on his Facebook page this past week. In our case, regarding Lady the Running Labrador, we got exactly who we needed. She lived with us 12-1/2 years, ran thousands of miles with us, and in her own fashion wriggled her way into the hearts of two non-dog-people in the most subtle ways. To paraphrase John Grogan: “She was one of those dogs that give dogs a good name.”

Lady is gone now. She died last Saturday afternoon, August 28, on the table at the vet’s office. But her influence on Cyndi and me will last a long time. Maybe the rest of our lives.

When Lady joined our family in 1998 she immediately fit in, partly because she was so un-demanding. She lived very lightly among us. She entertained herself and didn’t want much attention.

That was perfect, since we have never been overly-accommodating people. Not that we are stubborn or mean or always insist on our own way, but we expect everyone in the house to make their own way, pick up their own stuff, take care of their own clothes, eat what everyone else eats, carry their own stuff in from the car, and heal themselves when sick. We have been accused of being the no-mercy family, and it is true that when Cyndi and I have taken those spiritual gifts surveys mercy ends up at the bottom of both our lists, but we try not to be mean or judgmental. We just expect each person to pull up their pants and take care of their own stuff. Lady fit right in with us.

But more importantly, Lady loved running even more than we did. She never complained if we asked her to run twice in a day, or if it was raining, or cold, or if the spring wind was howling. She was always ready to go. Lady ran almost daily with one or more members of our family for 10 years; literally, thousands of miles.

My earliest documented run with her was a five-miler through Grasslands on May 13, 1998. I don’t know if Cyndi or Katie ran with her before I did (they didn’t keep detailed running logs of their own). For years I ran with her two or three times a week during the evenings. For even more years and more miles, Cyndi ran with Lady in the early mornings and on weekend long runs. In her prime it was nothing for Lady to go 10 or 12 miles with Cyndi every Saturday morning.

About three years ago Lady had aged to the point she couldn’t run more than a few blocks, however she still loved to go and she would get so excited when she knew either of us – me or Cyndi – was getting dressed to run. We felt guilty leaving her behind because she wanted to go so badly, but she was no longer capable. There were times when we would carry our running gear out into the garage to change where she couldn’t see us so we could sneak out the garage door and go running without her, guilt free.

As Lady got older she also got more and more “in the way.” She wanted to lie on the floor at our feet all the time. She wanted to sleep on the floor of our bedroom right next to one of us, right where we put our feet if we got up at night, making a big target for tripping in the middle of the night. We adjusted to her being underfoot, and in fact, we liked it. She still didn’t care much to be petted or rubbed, but she wanted to be close to us. It was sweet and tender to watch her follow us around the house.

She had a knack for camping out directly in the path of the most traffic. For example last month at our Cornfest she flopped on the floor sound asleep in the kitchen directly in the path of people who were navigating the food line and filling their plates and balancing drinks and babies. You might conclude that she did it on purpose in order to get attention from people except that she didn’t pay attention to any of us. She was happy to lie on the floor and ignore any humans in the house.

She was always independent and self-contained, and content with minimal attention from us. To pet her you had to be the one to cross the room, and you had to get your rubbing in before she got tired of the whole thing and wandered off to be by herself. It felt like she was giving us a turn instead of wanting one for herself. There were many occasions when I know she saw me drop my hands and encourage her to come over so I could rub her ears; yet I could tell she was weighing in her mind whether it was worth the walk across the room, only to decide it wasn’t worth it and she would lay down on the floor looking off in the other direction. My brother Carroll once described her during a late-night telephone conversation about our dogs, “Lady is a working dog, not a lap dog.”

She wouldn’t push herself on anyone. She wouldn’t beg for attention (although she might beg for an occasional pizza crust) or jump in your lap or expect you to play with her. Sometimes I wished she were more aggressive in seeking my affection, so I wouldn’t feel guilty about ignoring her or taking her for granted.

I remember one time during the holidays when I was at home by myself putting books on the shelves, carrying boxes from the garage, and putting stuff in my closet. Every time I changed rooms Lady would follow me and curl up on the floor. But I was moving from room to room a lot and she had to get up to follow and then curl up again, and then get up to follow again, over and over. I started feeling guilty that she was moving so often and I tried to bunch my trips more. I even tried to sneak out of the room one time. I realized what a strange situation that I was worried about inconveniencing her and all she wanted to do was hang out with me. There was a measure of grace in that.

She wanted to be in the same room but she typically laid down facing away. Her eyes might be open but she showed no interest in watching the people in the room. One day I said to Cyndi, “It’s as if she wants to be with us but she’s too cool to act like she needs us. So she lays down close and then stares the other direction. It’s like having a teenager in the house again.”

Cyndi disagreed. “No, she’s being part of our family without placing demands on us. She’s doing what she’s always done.”

And then Cyndi said, “But she’s taught us to be more accommodating and gentle around her.”

Cyndi was correct. We were more careful when we opened doors, or scooted back in our chairs, or lowered the foot rest to the recliner. Instead of getting mad that she was always in the way, we were happy for her gentleness and happy to step around her.

I can’t count how many times she laid down against the back legs of my chair so I couldn’t scoot back to go refill my drink but had to crawl out of the chair sideways, or against the shower door so Cyndi couldn’t open it to get her towel, or against the door to the garage so we bumped into her when we got home and came inside. She would lay down under the library table so there was not enough room for our feet. Maybe this was her way of interacting with us. She wouldn’t play, so she got in the way.

Lady used to lie down directly under the elevated footrest when I was sitting in my recliner, so close that I couldn’t lower the chair without mashing her. I would have to crawl over the arms of the chair to keep from disturbing her. To be honest I was surprised at my own tolerance of Lady. I guess I loved the whole package of her, good and bad, easy or inconvenient. In fact, not only did I tolerate her under my chair, I missed her if she was in the other room.

I remember one night when I woke up about 1:30 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep, so I grabbed my book and glasses and moved to the living room couch. Lady came along with me (she had been sleeping at the foot of our bed). She curled up on the floor beside the couch near my head and went back to sleep. About every 20 minutes she sat up and laid her chin on the couch and on my book to see what was going on. Maybe she was getting a closer look at me, or maybe she was checking in, or maybe she knew I had been restless and not sleeping and she was offering the best comfort she had without intruding.

By the time we moved to our current house in Woodland Park about 1-1/2 years ago, Lady was too weak to run at all. By then, she knew it, too. She didn’t press to go along. But she loved her twice-daily walks through the park. Toward the end her back legs were so weak and frail she would hobble along, often sitting to rest a couple of time before finishing the walk.

There has been some dispute regarding Lady’s actual age, as if she were a Chinese gymnast in the 2008 summer Olympics. She was a full-sized dog when we first got her in the spring of 1998. At her first visit the vet guessed her birthday to be 1993 based on her teeth; however, that means she was 17 years old when she died, or 50% older than her expected life span. A month before her death, we were at our annual vet visit, and Dr. Sheele said she was the oldest dog in his practice. He also said she had great heart and lungs.

The last time I took her on a walk was Friday morning before she died, and she was barely mobile. She looked like a loose bag of bones. I remember sitting on one of the park benches and staring into her eyes, and she seemed to be telling me she was tired and ready to quit. Enough was enough.

In his book, “Have a Little Faith,” Mitch Albom wrote about a dying friend whose declining health “was like a slow leak from a balloon.” By Friday morning the balloon that had been Lady had leaked down to skin and bones, and by Saturday it was deflated and limp.

Through the years my relationship with Lady often reminded me of my relationship with God. Like God, Lady wasn’t pushy and wasn’t aggressive even when I wanted her to be. She waited for me to make the first move, but even then she was always nearby. All she wanted to do was hang out with us and love on us in her fashion. And the longer our time together the more I valued our walks outside. I guess I just wanted to take care of her in my own fashion, as she had taken care of me all these years.

Cyndi and I have never been true dog lovers, but Lady ran her way into our lives. It is impossible to imagine the past twelve years without her, and impossible to share so many miles with anyone – dog or person – without growing affection. In her final years she taught us about grace and how important it was to make room in our hearts for each other. The inconveniences weren’t meant to be inconvenient; they were questions – do you still have room for me?

Lady was on my mind one morning when I read from my Daily Bible. Psalm 27:4 says, “One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple.” The Message says, “I’ll study at his feet.” Isn’t that sweet?

I thought of Lady, who just wanted to be in our house lying at our feet, very close. I want to live with God that same way. I want to live my life just like Lady.

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

Several months ago I wrote a whole string of stories about Lady; I guess I knew in my bones that this moment was coming and I wanted to tell the stories while I could still think clearly. If you’re interested in reading more, here they are:

http://journalentries.typepad.com/family_stories/2010/09/writing-about-lady-the-running-labrador.html

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal entry 082610: In the long run

Friday morning I ran 20 miles. In the old days I saved my long runs for Saturday morning, but lately I’ve been on childcare duty Saturday mornings so I’ve pushed them to Friday. I got up with Cyndi at 5:00 AM, and left around 5:30. Cyndi had to get up to teach Body Pump at Gold’s Gym, making it easier for me get my body out of bed. I needed to get started early so I could finish before the temperature hit 80*F.

I had been laying awake in bed for about thirty minutes going over my gear list for the run. I’ve been running now for over 32 years, more than 35,000 miles, and I have a pretty good handle on what I need to carry with me on a long run. It isn’t much: (a) Preemptive band-aids, moleskin, and Advil; (b) Interval timer; (c) Garmin 405 GPS watch; (d) iPod; (e) Camelback; (f) Sunglasses; (g) Handheld digital recorder; (h) Money; (i) ID; and (k) Shorts, shirt, socks, shoes. Anything else has to earn its way into my kit.

This time I didn’t take any energy gel blocks or GU or electrolyte chews or any of that. I did take some Jolly Ranchers, but I ended up eating those only out of obligation since I had them. I couldn’t tell if they helped in any way. So far, in my experiment of one, energy and electrolyte supplements haven’t made a noticeable difference nor have they been worth the effort. Maybe it’s because I am moving so slow? But I am open to being proved wrong about the subject, I will keep reading the articles in running magazines. I need all the help I can get.

I do, however, enjoy wearing my new Garmin 405 GPS watch on long runs. It is great fun after the run charting my route and studying the data and printing a map. My actual distance from Friday was 20.86 – how would I have known that without my cool watch? I also carry a clip-on interval timer that I bought from Jeff Galloway so I can do my run-walks. It helps keep me on pace, on task, and I don’t have to look at my watch until the run is completely over.

There is a potential vulnerability with carrying a GPS watch, however. A few weeks ago during a 10-miler, about 8.5 miles in, as I was turning north under the overpass at Loop 250 to head home, I looked at my GPS watch and it was completely blank. The battery had died. I felt empty since I had been following that watch all morning. I felt erased, blank, and non-existent. Well, only briefly, then I ran on home.

The toughest part of my run is the first mile. My legs are stiff, my shins are sore, and none of me wants to move. But I’ve learned if I keep going all of those pains will fade and I will be OK. It is sort of like hiking the Guadalupe Peak trail; if you get past the first bunch of switchbacks it actually becomes fun.

The only time I was really tempted to quit and turn around and walk back home was about 8 miles into the run when I was passing First Baptist Church. I went inside to refill my Camelback, being careful not to disturb the Friday morning men’s prayer meeting, and it took all my powers of persuasion to convince myself to keep going. But after I turned west toward the TXU hike-and-bike trail, I felt better. After that, I just kept going. I didn’t hurry or push the pace. My goal for the long run was to keep moving on my feet and not worry about pace or time.

At the 7-11 at Thomason and Loop 250 I bought a Gatorade G2, drank some and poured most of it into my Camelback to mix with my remaining water. It was a nice treat. I had $20 with me with the intention of doing exactly that, which means I drank from my Camelback more liberally than usual knowing I would refill it. Unlike previous long runs I never worried about running dry.

Afterwards, after a shower and after lying on the floor of my closet to recover, I enjoyed my traditional post-run vanilla milkshake. What a great reward. I savored it down to the last slurp because I’d earned it.

My friend and fellow marathon-runner, Chad, said that the secret doesn’t seem to be the training pace but rather how soon you can recover. I was pleased after this long run. By Monday, three days later, I was able to run 5 miles and I felt fine. That was encouraging.

My bum left knee felt fine and my right foot with goofy toes was fine and never bothered me at all. I haven’t had any problems with blisters on my toes since I started wearing Injinji socks. I may lose a toenail or two, but I am used to that.

So you may be wondering why I bother to write all this stuff down? I do it partly because running is the root of my writing. The first pieces I wrote as an adult were for a running club newsletter.

But I also write it down so you can join me on this journey. I am trying to live up to Habakkuk 2:2, Then the Lord said to me, “Write my answer plainly on tablets, so that a runner can carry the correct message to others.” I hope you have stories of your own, and I hope you’ll share them with me.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org

Journal Entry 081910: Riding together

So I spent a lot of time with my brother last weekend. Carroll lives in Buda, Texas, and we don’t see each other often enough. We talk on the phone once or twice a week, thanks to Carroll’s social nature. I tend to forget we even have telephones until they ring.

Friday, Carroll drove six hours from Buda to Midland, with his bike, picked me up along with my bike, and we both traveled another one-and-a-half hours to Hobbs to join our Dad. We got there just in time for Carroll to tune up Dad’s bike and to eat tuna fish sandwiches with Mom. On Saturday morning the three of us rode together in the 2010 Roll For The Cure 25K race.

As for our team, our combined ages were 178.22 (42.10, 54.15, 81.97), but if they had an award for oldest team we didn’t know about it. My legs were the strongest because I’ve been running on them for so long, but I only started riding distances again this summer after a 15-year layoff. I am still a little unsteady on wheels.

Carroll is the best bike hander. He has been riding since his BMX days back in elementary school. He also loves and follows the sport of cycling better than the rest of us, by a factor 10 or 20.

But of the three of us, Dad had the most miles on his bike and the most time in the saddle, of all three of us. He rides almost every day, and he regularly goes out ten miles or more.

Carroll and I almost ended up racing to the finish line but it didn’t seem prudent to risk crashing in front of all of Dad’s friends. Carroll would’ve won any last-minute sprint, but I might’ve taken him had we started to race a mile back. Dad didn’t seem very interested in racing to the finish line, though, so he wasn’t part of the position jockeying. I guess he has outgrown the need to finish first.

My Dad is happy any time Carroll and I do something together. We had nothing in common during the early years - I was 12-years-old when Carroll was born and I started college the year he started first grade. I grew up with 60s rock-and-roll, Richard Nixon, the Viet Nam War, and wore bell-bottomed Levi’s. Carroll grew up with 80s rock inspired by MTV, Ronald Reagan, and wore zippered parachute pants and Vans. We both played in our high school pep band, called Taskervitch (named after Hobbs High School’s famous basketball coach), in our respective eras.

Through the years the only thing we had in common was music. I played trombone and loved music, Carroll played drums and loved music. I have always been a utility player, able to handle my parts but never a soloist. Carroll has always been a percussion prodigy, and he is the finest drummer I’ve ever played with. I’ve been playing trombone as a sideline since I was in Junior High, and Carroll has been earning money playing drums since he was a teenager.

We really found each other as friends in our adult years while raising families and trying out various careers. Carroll works at Performance Bikes in Austin and he has sucked us all into his cycling world. He used to pitch bike ideas at me whenever I complained of sore knees. He bought a bike for my Dad a few years ago, and helped me pick out a bike a few months ago when I decided I should ride more often with Kevin. Dad and I both ride Fuji hybrid bikes.

I have made a few rides with Kevin, from home to Burger King and back; but when I put in a couple of 16-mile training rides to get ready for the 25K race, I rekindled my enjoyment of riding longer distances. I can imagine a day in the not-too-distant future when I’ll need a road bike built to handle more speed and mileage.

But the weekend was about riding with Dad; three amigos riding together for the first time ever. It was a great day. No one crashed, no one flatted, we finished together under our own power, we contributed a little bit of money to the American Cancer Society, and we found another way to enjoy each other as men. It was very good.

In fact, we have never been a demonstrative family. We love each other, we just don’t say much about it. It isn’t hard or awkward for me to say, “I love you, Dad,” and I doubt it is hard for Carroll, either. We just don’t get around to it.  Growing up I don’t remember a lot of hugging, even among grandparents and aunts and uncles. We hug more nowadays, which is the influence of daughters-in-law.

So riding 25K together was never about exercise or accomplishment or fund raising. It was saying, “I love you, you are worth the trouble.” I hope we have many more rides ahead of us.

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

To learn more about Berry’s newest book, “Running With God:” www.runningwithgodonline.com

Follow Berry on Twitter at @berrysimpson … Contact Berry directly: berry@stonefoot.org

To post a comment or subscribe to this free journal: www.journalentries.org