Journal entry 120210: Identity

I suffered an identity crises. Or worse, I lost my identity. My laptop, where I spend more time in front of than anywhere else except for in front of Cyndi, decided to throw our three-year friendship over the side and refused to acknowledge my presence. It looked me in the face and asked, “Who are you?” Like a lifelong best friend who suddenly and without explanation stopped talking to you and never gave a reason, my laptop simply stopped recognizing me as its owner and assigned a temporary identity to me. It was discouraging, to say the least.

The sad tale actually started about two weeks ago when the internet connection at our house started misbehaving. It would work for a while, then shut off for an hour, then work for several hours, and then shut down for two days. It was a big deal because we have three adult internet users in our house. Tanya uses it to schedule her flights with Southwest Airlines and Cyndi uses it as a fifth-grade teacher and to run her yoga studio. I use it work on websites and publish books and goof around on Facebook. We were lost without our internet connection. We thought about asking our next-door neighbors if we could temporarily jump on their home network but we were afraid that was too much to ask for, nice people though they are.

But Saturday afternoon the AT&T man came to our house with his tool kit, and after some poking and tuning and typing, he discovered the power supply to our 2-Wire router was bad. He replaced it and we were back online. Our global access to information came back and we were happy.

That is, one of us was happy. Cyndi immediately got online and, as you might imagine, she jumped up-and-down with glee. She would’ve hugged the AT&T man except she went right to work on the projects she’d been waiting to finish. Alas, I couldn’t join her. It was at that very moment of victory that my laptop crossed its arms, pouted its silver metallic lips, and refused to acknowledge my existence.

For an introspective like me, personal identity is always a moving target, more of a guideline than a specific definition, but I never expected to be rejected by my computer. It reminded me of a recent long run when the charge in my GPS watch ran out before I was finished running and the watch display went blank. When I looked at it to check my pace and mileage and saw nothing but a white screen, I got wobbly – uncertain - vertigo, which was silly since I knew where I was and knew I was only 1-1/2 miles from home. But for an instant it felt like my entire morning had been pointless, and the 9 miles I’d already run had been for naught. Eventually, after walking through my haze of existential angst, I realized it was silly to think the miles existed in my watch instead of in my legs. The real value of the run hadn’t changed at all, and after I talked myself into feeling better, I limped on home.

So the good news about my pouty computer was that I was pretty sure I hadn’t lost anything creative. I still had files of practice writing, and still had all my essays and journals, and still had my books and all my clever witty insights. I wasn’t sure whether I could recover my emails and contacts, however.

It took me a day, but eventually I caught my breath and realized my life would be all right. Maybe this was even something of a sideways blessing, an opportunity to start anew. I’ve always touted the value of fresh starts, maybe this was my opportunity to bury past emails from the Nigerian National Bank and stale contact information from 1998, and limp on in to the future. Maybe it would turn out to be my time of Jubilee.

But it worked out better than that. My friend-on-a-white-horse, Frank, helped me reestablish my identity and find my data (or, should I say, rebuilt my life). In fact, my computer now works just fine. We aren’t best friends again, yet, but we’re at least good acquaintances. However, Frank warned me that the problems I had experienced were warning shots. My hard disk was doomed to failure, and it probably wouldn’t be long. I restored my profile just enough to do work, but I’ll only go so far with a computer that won’t last. I’ll only show just so much of myself to a short-timer. A computer has to promise to stick with me before learning my full identity.

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

To learn about Berry’s 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 112510: A Thanksgiving tradition

Hunting for Christmas trees at the Tramperos Ranch in northeast New Mexico is a Thanksgiving tradition we’ve left behind, and I miss it – even though there were some years when Christmas tree hunting was a wild adventure.

I remember the time it was 36 degrees with a 40-mph wind and we made record time. From the moment we first started talking about leaving the warm basement to actually driving down the road took only twenty minutes. Our previous record was one-and-a-half hours. The secret that year may have been the cold wind, or it may have been that we were only taking eleven people instead of the usual of twenty or more.

It was a tradition within the Atchley clan (my in-laws, their children, and spouses) to gather Christmas trees on Friday after Thanksgiving. We usually spent most of the day deciding whether to go before or after naptime, and how many pick-up trucks we’d need. This was not trivial since the family proved to be prolific breeders through the years and it took several pick-ups to haul all the cousins and aunts and uncles. It also took a long time to round up coats, gloves, hats, axes, and saws.

During most of our tree-hunting years, the ranch was owned and operated by Cyndi’s grandfather, Forrest Atchley. My small, four-member family went there for Thanksgiving every odd-numbered year, and whenever we went we brought home a Christmas tree or two. One year we brought home four: one for our home, two for Greathouse Elementary School, and one for the Lee Freshman High School Band hall.

Christmas tree hunting was not easy. The best trees were located far from the road and were surrounded by rocks and cactus and were hard to get to. The very best trees were always on the next hill over from the one where we were standing. In fact, there was no sense in even looking at trees until we’d hiked over the hill and the pickups were out of sight.

Hunting the perfect tree was also not haphazard. In a family steeped in tradition, as this one is, there is a correct sequence, a specific protocol, required to get the most from every experience.

First, we climbed all over the rocky mesa and steep canyons to find the absolutely perfect tree. We usually had to identify two or three perfect trees before deciding which one was good enough, and everyone in the family must agree on which tree was the most perfect. Up on the mesa, it took a lot of negotiating among husbands and wives and brothers and sisters to broker an agreement.

Sometimes the best trees had one flat side to put against the wall. Occasionally they had two flat sides, to fit in the corner. The best trees had only one main trunk, but a double-trunk tree would work as long as the sawyer could cut low enough to get both. The best trees often had pine cones on the branches. Also, the best trees were small enough to strap on top of an Astro Minivan, later a Ford Explorer, for the long ride home to Midland.

Every family had their own idea of perfection – some liked squatty fat trees, some liked flat-sided open-branched trees, some liked short Charlie Brown trees, and some, like Cyndi and I, cut only the very best symmetrical trees, perfect in every way. We never settled for those bushes the other cousins and aunts and uncles thought were adequate. Of course, they all thought their standards were higher than ours. However, regardless of specifications and selection, once a tree was cut, it became perfect. It was bad form to criticize each other’s selections; we were all expected to praise the choice of each family. We didn’t cut a tree and then throw it down to find another, oh no; once a tree was cut it was guaranteed a home.

One year Cyndi and I saw a particularly well-shaped small table-top sized tree up the hill among a pile of rocks. I climbed up only to discover it was actually a series of small trunks surrounding a 2-inch sawed-off stump. What looked like a perfect tree from a distance was the last desperate attempt of a root system whose main trunk had been cut years before. Not only was that particular tree showing tenacity and determination, it did so with style and humor. It was a survivor and it was beautiful. We saluted it, and moved on

The second step in the tree hunting protocol was that all the other families had to relinquish any claims to that particular tree even if they thought they saw it first. Sometimes that took a while, and may have included a promise to cook someone’s favorite dessert.

Step three: the oldest male in the family, or the closest male holding a saw in his hand, got to lie down on the cold rocky ground to cut the tree trunk with a bow saw, while one of the strong females pulled the tree over to one side to make the cutting easier.

Norman Rockwell paintings always show Christmas tree hunters carrying an ax, but don’t believe them. We used bow saws, which weren’t as fulfilling or as manly as using an ax, but much more practical. The trees on the mesas grew nestled among rocks and cactus and it was too hard to get a clean blow with an ax. I’ve heard of people who use a chainsaw to cut their Christmas tree, but they are probably the same people who spell Christmas, X-mas. We weren’t those people.

The last step in the process was to load all the trees and all the cousins and kids onto the pickup trucks and drive back to the houses. In the case of our family, we added another step, the ritual of tying our trees onto the top of our Ford Explorer. It wasn’t easy in the cold wind, and we usually had several trees to tie down. Cyndi often got so fretful about the gigantic pile of evergreen on top of her car that we sent her inside to make hot chocolate for everyone. After all, what could go wrong with an engineer and an Eagle Scout and two fifty-foot ropes?

As our own family grew up and changed, and as the larger family expanded and separated, we haven’t kept up this tree hunting ritual. Cyndi and I haven’t participated in the last six or seven years. However, we will always have great memories of hand-picking the most perfect Christmas tree from those New Mexico mesas, cutting them ourselves, tying them onto our Explorer, and singing carols all the way home to Midland. It’s one of our best family memories ever.

 

The Simpson family showing off our perfect tree for 1993

A load of cousins and trees, a successful huntung trip

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

To learn about Berry’s 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 111810: Not yet

There was a moment when I could’ve said “No.” Maybe last February when Chad first suggested we should run the Rockledge Rumble 50K in Grapevine, Texas, on November 13th.

I was a bit nervous about running 31 miles, since I’d never run past the 26-mile marathon distance, but I was also convinced I could go any distance given enough time. I’d also never run a trail race before. Chad proved to be a good friend who not only talked me into attempting this challenging race, he reminded me I had always wanted to run an ultramarathon, but even more, he agreed to wait for me at the finish line. That was not a small commitment on his part since he runs much faster than I do and he knew he might have to wait hours for me to finish.

What Chad did was tap into a long-standing dream I’ve had since I started reading Runner’s World Magazine and books by George Sheehan, back about 1980. I’ve always wanted to run long on dirt trails; there is something about having my feet on dirt that makes my heart happy. It seems ironic that God would put that love in my heart yet plant my life in West Texas where there are few opportunities for trail running.

The start of the Rockledge Rumble was very casual. The race director told us all to raise our right hands to take the Rumble oath: We swore to have fun; pick up our feet; do no littering: if the runner in front falls down, jump over him (no stepping on his back); if we fall down, know it’s our own fault and don’t whine. We stood in a group in the parking lot talking and joking, and then we took off. There was no toeing the line or sprinting away at the gun.

The aid stations were casual, too. There were no expectations that someone would grab water and keep going like in a road race. They were set up with expectations we would linger a while. They were stocked with a variety of snacks and drinks and smiling, serving faces.

However, there was nothing casual about the trail. It was narrow and confined the entire way. There was never room to run beside someone and it took deliberate squeezing to one side or the other to pass. And we could seldom see more than 100 feet ahead down the trail. It was great – just what I’d hoped it would be like.

However, I had absolutely no feel for my pace. I thought I was running my regular marathon pace but I was surprised to learn I was much slower. I’d left my GPS watch at home because I knew the charge would run out before I could finish, but I should have brought it to keep track of my distance and pace. Especially since there were no mile markers in the woods.

The course was basically a 30K out-and-back, then a 20K out-and-back. Curiously, I could tell when I was approaching the 30K turnaround because I smelled peanut butter in the air as returning runners passed by. Apparently they were serving PB&J sandwiches at the turnaround aid station, and they must’ve been good, since all the runners had peanut butter on their breath.

After the turnaround I was surprised to notice how many runners were behind me. I thought I was in last place. And then I ran for almost 1-1/2 hours without seeing one single person, runner or volunteer or tourist. It was just me and the woods. I was happy they’d gone to great lengths to mark the trail so I wouldn’t get lost.

There was an element of sensory deprivation (from watching nothing but the ground in front of me) but also sensory overload (from concentrating on every step and rock and root). It was surprisingly soothing to be so focused. In a road race I am usually disengaged from the actual surface I am running on.

I finished the first 30K out-and-back and was moving through the aid station and in the process of leaving for the next 20K when the race director quietly told me he didn’t think I would finish under the time limit. He gave me the choice to keep going but kindly reminded me that the race officials would have to pull me off the course at the next aid station, 6 miles away, if I didn’t get there in less than 30 minutes. I wanted to keep running, but he was correct. If I had been capable of running 6 miles in 30 minutes I would’ve finished the entire race long before. It was time to call it a day. I told myself I didn’t run out of running, I just ran out of time.

Later, after I was back home, it occurred to me that it took me as long to finish the 30K (18.6 miles) as it took me to finish a marathon (26.2 miles) a month ago. I guess it was the effect of running on the winding trail. If the race director had let me go out for another 20K, it would’ve taken me another 4 hours to finish, in the dark. He did the right thing, and I did the right thing. If I’d forced the day and pushed on to the full 50K I might’ve had a bad experience or injury that set me back for years. Instead, I am ready to try again as soon as possible.

Saturday afternoon as we drove away from the finish area in Chad’s pickup we were already tossing around ideas for our next attempt on the trails. And later at dinner when my daughter Katie asked, “What do you think about Cowtown?” I didn’t flinch. I had already started mentally counting the weeks.

My post-race damage assessment: no blisters (thanks to toe socks); no black toenails; no bloody knees since I never fell all the way down to the ground (in spite of multiple stumbles over the rocks and roots - and some spectacular saves); the only scratches I brought home were on the outside of my right leg, which I suppose I got when I moved over to let other runners pass. Sunday morning my quads and hips were tight and sore and quite cranky. And strangely, my ribs were sore (where did that come from). On Monday, it was my hamstrings that wouldn’t move; Tuesday it was my shins and hips. That was all fine with me. As long as the pains kept moving around I knew I didn’t have any permanent injuries.

Since February, when Chad’s suggestion to run the Rockledge Rumble found a home in my brain, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I would never be younger, and odds were I would never be much fitter, so what was I waiting for? Why was I waiting year after year to fulfill this dream? I suppose I was waiting for a good friend who’d drag me into it and wait for me to finish.

I find myself using the phrase “not yet” with my 8-year-old nephew Kevin a lot these days. Not in the way I would’ve thought I would use it, as in: “Uncle Berry, can I go outside?” (Not yet). Rather, I used it when he says, “I can’t whistle” (Not yet), or “I can’t ride my bike as fast as you do” (Not yet), or “Uncle Berry can you run as fast as Aunt Cyndi?” (Not yet). I use the phrase to hint there are better days ahead.

I’ll admit I was slow to adopt this philosophy of “not yet.” It’s the biggest lesson I’ve learned so far in my 50s: don’t wait for perfect conditions. I can’t always wait until I am ready before starting something new. I can’t wait until I am good enough or trained enough or equipped enough to get started. I have to start now and get ready along the way. It’s like something Bill Bryson wrote in A Walk in the Woods, when a friend asked him how he was training to through-hike the Appalachian Trail, said: You can’t train for something like that; you just have to let the trail itself do the training.

I don’t mean to be naïve or stupid. I would not encourage anyone to do something like run a 50K without preparation and training. But I will suggest they stop waiting for perfect alignment and start today. I remember my friend Norm who wanted to run a marathon but vowed to wait until he was fit enough to run a sub-4:00, then died of bone cancer before trying. Don’t let that happen. Start today, and train on-the-fly.

As I wrote in the beginning of this piece, there were many times in this process when I could’ve said “No.” When Chad first mentioned it last February, or when I registered for the race in October, or even when I worked up my 2010 goals last December (that included running an ultra). However, I’m happy I never said “No.”

I’ve learned a few things in 32 years of running, and one of them is this: just because I didn’t doesn’t mean I won’t. I have a lot of “not yets” still to come.

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

To learn about Berry’s 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 111110: Valiant men

The Permian Reef Trail in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park is one of the easier trials that we take, yet still it’s rated “strenuous.” It climbs about 2,200’ to an elevation of 7,000’, an 8-1/2-mile round trip. This year our group consisted of ten guys from Midland, mostly members of the Iron Men group, and we spent about six hours on the trail including an hour on top for lunch.

It was a beautiful day, maybe the best weather we’ve ever had in a dozen Iron Men hiking trips. The sky was bright blue and cloudless and the air surprisingly free of haze. We were all amazed how far we could see from up on top of the ridge. Someone suggested we should cancel all future trips since we would never see weather this good again.

But in spite of perfect weather it was still hard work. We came down off the trail and collapsed into our seats on the bus, opened the windows to bleed off our locker-room stench, changed into comfortable shoes, gulped water and scarfed down Advil, and immediately started telling our stories from the day and congratulating each other. It all made me happy. Once again I was reminded how blessed I am to be surrounded by so many good men. The world is full of men who live their entire lives with no real friends who will hike to the top of the mountains with them, yet I have a bus full of guys like that.

The scene reminded me of a Bible story about a young man named Saul who lived a small life tending the family flocks until God called him out to be the first king of Israel. I Samuel 10:26 says, “Saul went to his house in Gibeah, accompanied by valiant men whose hearts God had touched.” Before he became the king Saul was all alone; afterward, he was surrounded by valiant men. He had guys. Coming off the mountain, I realized I was surrounded by valiant men whose hearts God had touched.

I remembered six-years-back how reluctant I was to be part of a men’s ministry because I never considered myself a man’s man. I was not an athlete, didn’t play golf, only followed sports sporadically, would rather be by myself reading or writing than hanging with the men spitting and whittling, didn’t hunt or even own a gun, rarely went fishing, had never been to drag races, and I was totally indifferent about NASCAR. Yet, here we are, all of us together, bragging about our day. I had been alone, but now God had given me guys, and today we were all men’s men.

And then, the very next morning, Sunday morning, I helped with the Lord’s Supper at my church, First Baptist in Midland. That means I had to wear grown-up clothes (a coat and tie), which means I had to dig them out from the back corner of my closet. Since I left city government three years ago I don’t have to dress up as often as I used to.

In addition to being on the roster for Lord’s Supper team I was playing trombone in the church orchestra, and since I was already sitting very near the front of the worship center (Sanctuary? Auditorium? Big Church?) I was assigned the duty to help serve the choir. It was a rich experience as always, but even more because I could turn back and watch all the other men serving up and down the aisles. I enjoyed watching their measured actions and the reverence they showed for the service. But even more, I was blessed to realize I knew all of them by name, I had served with most of them on committees, and they had all influenced me through the strength of their lives.

Once again, I was blessed to know so many fine men; men who have impacted who I am and how I live; men I want to be like when I grow up; valiant men whose hearts have been touched by God.

The name of our group, Iron Men, comes from Proverbs 27:17 that says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” But sharpening each other isn’t all we do. We also smooth each other. We’re like old wooden-handled tools that show the wear of constant use, the smoothed portions worn smooth by the hands that used them. Our constant man-to-man contact wearing away the rough spots has left us with the pattern of our fellow valiant men. The older I get the more I look forward to being worn smooth by these men. I have a blessed life.

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

To learn about Berry’s 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 110410: Imitating

I asked, “Who did you imitate when you were young?” Some of the responses I received: Evil Knievel and Buddy Rich; Incredible Hulk; Batman, the Beach Boys, and Indiana Jones; my dad and grandfather, and Indiana Jones. You can probably guess that all the replies came from guys.

Who did I imitate? Well, I remember reading a grade-school version of the novel, Ivanhoe, and for weeks I ran around with a wooden sword and shield looking for a battle to fight. I also tried to talk my friends into jousting on bicycles but none of them read the same books as I did.

Also, I had a friend who built the coolest model airplanes, well-constructed, detailed, perfectly painted with an air brush. I wanted to build model airplanes just like him.

Cyndi and I were both first-born children, and we were the oldest of all our cousins, so we didn’t have any siblings to imitate. However, Cyndi remembers trying to get her hair to flip up like Patty Duke. If you know Cyndi, you know her hair wasn’t like that. When I was young I had my hair cut in a burr (as we called it in the 1960s) and I don’t know if it flipped.

I did try to imitate my Dad’s sense of humor when I was young. Well, he and I actually have quite different taste in humor, and we tell different types of jokes and laugh at different things, but what I learned from him was how it can be funnier to be the target of a joke, how it was often better to get caught in the middle of a prank than get clean away with it, and that sometimes it is best to sit down and keep your mouth shut.

Now, as a grown-up, one person I try to imitate is writer Natalie Goldberg. I like the way she weaves her spirituality (in her case, Zen Buddhism) among her stories so it all flows together and is very contagious. I want to write like her. I want to weave my spirituality (Jesus Christ) through my stories so that it feels natural and contagious.

What got me started on this question was reading Ephesians 5:1, “Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children” (NIV). I liked the deliberate nature of imitating. It seemed more purposeful than, say, absorbing or inheriting the ways of God. The Message translation says it like this: “Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents”

One of our family markers is hooting. Cyndi and I hoot to get each other’s attention, and we used to do it to call the kids back from the playground. It started on the ski slopes when we needed to call to each other across a noisy place and none of us could whistle very well. And we still use it without even thinking about it to get each other’s attention. Those of you who’ve been with us at Taco Tuesday have seen how my head or Cyndi’s head snaps around searching the room whenever one of us hoots, even among that noisy crush of people.

Our niece Mier used to spend weekends with us when she was a pre-schooler, and she would walk down the hallway of our house searching for Cyndi, saying, “Hoot, hoot, Aunt Cyndi; hoot, hoot, Aunt Cyndi.” And now Kevin, our eight-year-old nephew who lives with us, has picked it up as well.

 When our own kids were young they hooted to get our attention, but as they turned into teenagers it became an embarrassment and they decided they didn’t like it so much and tried to leave it behind. We’ll see what happens when they call their own kids. They may not hoot intentionally, but I’ll bet it will come out when they’re not thinking. It’ll come out of their subconscious.

Sometimes we deliberately imitate God as a conscious choice. Other times, imitation comes more from our subconscious. If we spend time with God reading His words, studying His ways, and learning His stories, we may absorb His character and behavior and end up imitating Him in our speech and actions. We live in grace and love instead of judgment and condemnation.

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

To learn 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 102810: What to keep

I was cocooned in my tent at the Pine Top campground in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park, reading a story from the Bible book of Ezra (1:7-11) about a time when the Jewish people began to leave Babylon after some 40 years of exile. 42,000 of them left to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem and reestablish the nation of Israel. The Bible story listed some of what the people took back with them. It says: “King Cyrus brought out the articles belonging to the temple of the Lord, which Nebuchadnezzar had carried away from Jerusalem and had placed in the temple of his god.”

Then it gives an inventory – surprisingly not the altar or ark or candlesticks or pieces we would associate with Hebrew worship, but lots of gold and silver bowls and dishes: 3,400 pieces in total.

I guess they had been kept in the Babylonian temple as trophies? Maybe they had a special museum wing in their temple with collections from all the nations they had conquered. Or maybe they kept them as items of respect, one temple to another. It doesn’t appear they were being used in the Babylonian temple, and obviously they weren’t melted down to make Babylonian stuff. Apparently they sat on the shelf all those years. But even Cyrus knew they should go back home. It’s not a small thing to know what to take and what to leave.

I read the story while on a backpacking trip with David Nobles; maybe one reason the story caught my attention was because backpacking is all about knowing what to carry and what to leave behind. Backpacking in the Guadalupes means everything has to be hauled up a trail that climbs 3,000’ in elevation, and no one wants to haul something unnecessary. Everything has to earn its way into the pack.

In fact, after every backpacking trip, I go back over my gear list in detail, noting what I used and what I didn’t use, what I should take next time and what I should leave behind. There are some things I seldom use but take with me anyway, like my first aid kit.

In the context of backpacking, I am becoming more and more aggressive about what I leave behind. I know I’ll only have to suffer a couple of days if I end up needing something I left at home. But thinking about the people mentioned in Ezra, traveling from Babylon to Jerusalem, they didn’t have the luxury of “only a couple of days.” They weren’t going back to Babylon. They had to pack the most important stuff knowing they were leaving on a one-way trip.

Yet they found room for 3,400 pieces of gold and silver. And none of those were necessary for daily life; they were only for worshiping in a temple that didn’t yet exist. 3,400 gold and silver bowls and dishes must’ve required several camel loads. I wonder if there was a debate whether to carry all those dishes and bowls. Did those items have to earn their way into the baggage list, or was their inclusion a given, accepted immediately by everyone.

I remember having to make a similar decision about what to take and what to leave when I went to Europe with the Continental Singers (1974 and 1975). Our tour consisted of 2-1/2 months traveling around the USA, performing in a different town every night. In the middle of the summer we left for Europe for about three weeks. Packing for the European portion of the tour was a big ordeal. We would consider the luggage allotment per passenger (I think it was 40 lbs.) and multiply that by the total number of people. From that total we’d subtract the weight of sound equipment and musical instruments, then divide the remaining pounds by the number of people in the group, and learn how much we actually got to carry. My memory says we got about 15 lbs. each, including our 1970s-era suitcases.

Of course we had to take our clothes for performing, which left room for only 2 or 3 changes of clothes for a 3-week European tour. I think I ended up sharing a suitcase with another guy so we could include a few more pounds of underwear and socks. It was no small decision – what do I keep and what do I leave behind.

There are a couple of things with spiritual significance that I’ve kept my entire adult life. Maybe they’re my gold and silver bowls?

I still have my Thompson Chain-Reference KJV Bible on my shelf, but I haven’t opened it in years. Nowadays I prefer a translation more recent than the 17^th-Century. I remember asking for this Bible one year at Christmas because my girlfriend, Carol, used one. A Thompson felt very grownup and serious, and having one seemed a step toward deeper spirituality. I don’t read it now, or even open in, but I still have it on my shelf.

I also have a tattered copy of the New American Standard translation with a black padded cover that I bought in the bookstore at Azusa Pacific College in June 1975. It was the first Bible I bought with my own money. I was at APC for Continental Singers rehearsal camp, and for me, buying that Bible was a big commitment toward a personal faith of my own (not my parents) and a personal promise to read it daily in a modern translation. Like my Thompson, I seldom open it nowadays, but it sits in a place of honor on my shelf.

Sometimes it’s hard to know what to keep and what to throw away, what to cherish and what to discard, what has emotional value and what is clutter. I know my Bibles don’t have the same significance as those dishes and bowls had for the Jewish people, but I’ve kept them with me anyway. I come from a long family line of Baptists who shy away from placing value on tangible artifacts of worship, so my collection is small. Yet, I have faithfully carried them with me, house to house, office to office, shelf to shelf, because of their provenance.

“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 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

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[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

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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

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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