Journal entry 011212: Known

Maybe you haven’t noticed this about me, but I keep most things to myself. I realize I often write more detail about life than I should, and maybe I include people in my stories that would rather not be in print, but for everything I reveal I hold more back. I don’t relish being closely examined, but keep the biggest portion of my heart (my hopes and dreams and hurts and pains) to myself.

I thought about those tendencies during the December holidays while reading the last book in the Bible: Revelation. Since I read through a chronologically-arranged version every year, Revelation always occupies my holidays.

This year I took special notice of a phrase used repeatedly during the early section of the book comprised of letters written to seven 1^st-Century churches.

To the church in Ephesus, “I know your deeds …: (2:1-7)

To the church in Smyrna, “I know your afflictions …” (2:8-11)

To the church in Pergamum, “I know where you live …” (2:12-17)

To the church in Thyatira, “I know your deeds …” (2:18-29)

To the church in Sardis, “I know your deeds …” (3:1-6)

To the church in Philadelphia, “I know your deeds …” (3:7-13)

To the church in Laodicea, “I know your deeds …” (3:14-22)

I wondered, was it good news or bad news when God looks you in the eye and says, “I know your deeds; I know all about you; I know how you are living?” I suppose it depends on how you think of God, whether as a heavy-handed rule-enforcer, or as a timely rescuer.

The phrase in Revelation reminded me of another great passage in the Bible, Psalm 139:1, which says, “You have examined my heart and know everything about me.” That is a good word, “examined.” The Amplified Bible says, “You have searched me thoroughly,” which is also good. Neither “examined” nor “searched” sounds casual. They both sound intentional and detailed.

Think about what the Psalmist did NOT say: “You have lightly considered me,” “You have given me a casual glance,” or “You thought about me once while passing.” No, God said we have been searched and examined, and known.

I must admit there were times in my life when I struggled to believe that verse, especially during a particularly long spell of living week after week on a financial knife-edge. Surely, a God who had His eye on me would have intervened and saved me. How could I believe God knew where I was? If He did, how did He let me get into this mess?

I prayed, “Lord, don’t You see how close we’ve come to disaster? Are You paying attention? Am I interrupting You when I pray? Have You noticed?” Whining like that made me feel guilty until I read Psalms, and realized I was not the first man to feel alone and abandoned.

I learned two things: (1) God always knows where we are and always knows our predicaments, and (2) God speaks softly and patiently and does not force His guidance upon us.

When we pray, we’re praying to a God that has examined our hearts and knows everything about us. He has searched us thoroughly, and according to the Bible, He helps us to pray for the things that we ought to pray for. That’s good, because I don’t know myself well enough to know how to pray. I need the help from an examiner.

During the past two years, God has led me along a deep personal journey to understand what it means to trust Him fully, to know He won’t let me down when I need Him most, and to stop worrying that He’ll be looking the other way when I call on Him. Even though I just wrote that sentence in a few seconds, it’s taken me months to understand the truth of it. And to be honest, I haven’t yet found the language to write the entire story. However, in the process of working out this personal revelation, God has gently reminded me of time after time when He knew exactly where I was and what I was doing and how bad it felt and how I thought I was all alone. He knew my deeds, and I am grateful. I am closer to Him because of it.

O Lord, You have examined my heart and know everything about me. Thank you for knowing my deeds.

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

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

Journal entry 010512: It’s a new year

Ok, I’ll go ahead and admit it now, right out loud (or rather, write out loud); when my friend Daryl asked if I had a list of New Year’s Resolutions for 2012 and I admitted I’d been too distracted to make a list yet, I was embarrassed. Since I tend to make a big deal about New Year’s Resolutions and encourage people to make their own, it was unsettling to know I had let the practice slide. Of course, I had thoughts in my head, but not on paper, and until they end up on paper they don’t exist in the real world, and unless they exist in the real world nothing will happen and nothing will change. So once Daryl called me out, I went to work.

Some think of Resolutions like repentance – turning from your wicked ways and changing directions. Because there is an implied “I was living the wrong way” undercurrent, New Year’s Resolutions are often accompanied by guilt. That’s too bad. I don’t think of Resolutions as a judgment of last-year’s life; I see them as goals, enhancements, or recalculating my route from where I am today. A New Year’s Resolution gives me a direction to lean. (I don’t want to spend a whole year leaning the wrong way!)

A few of my goals have been on my list for so long they aren’t really resolutions, but minimal expectations … such as reading, writing, running, riding, loving, teaching, etc. I don’t usually include those on my annual list.

Here is my list for 2012:

Continue setting 30-day challenges each month. I hope to commit to real challenges that cost me something make me brave. (I’m sure if I have an entire year of ideas, but I’ll try.)

Run at least one marathon or ultra.

Take 10 men through the Journey Partner Group exercise.

Publish my next book.

Go backpacking: two solo trips, two group trips

Sell the Hobbs house and finalize that chapter.

Scan the boxes (and boxes and more boxes) of photos I’ve discovered while unpacking.

Print a photo album for my family. (Astute readers will know this has been on my list for the past couple of years. Sorry. I haven’t made even one album yet. I keep finding more photos to scan, and I hate completing a project when I suspect there might be more data points to include. However, I expect the photos I process from my parent’s house in Hobbs, which include several boxes from my grandmother, should be enough. I love the stories behind the photos, and I wish I could write a book for each one. God has richly blessed our family and these photos are valuable reminders.)

Run 700 miles. That’s only 60 per month, not a lot, but more than I’ve been doing. I haven’t put in many miles lately because of my sore arthritic knees, but really, that has become a lame excuse. It’s time to move on.

Ride 2400 miles on my bike. Again, not a lot, only 200 per month, but I need consistent time in the saddle in order to improve

Sell 1000 books.

I prefer to set goals that I have a decent chance to achieve, and resolutions that I can measure. However, I often set squishy goals as well. Sometimes it takes me a while, even a year or two, to understand the best way to make it happen. I know that sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is, but I like to think about things, and thinking takes time and research.

As I look back over my lists of New Year’s Resolutions from previous years I would say I’ve had a completion success rate of, maybe, 30%. If I were doing this for class credit 30% would be a failing grade. But what I also see as I look back over previous lists is how my unachieved goals and unrealized resolutions have moved me into projects and habits and character improvements that never would’ve happened otherwise, so even 30%, poor as it is, has made me a better man.

How about you? Do you have a list? Sharing Resolution and goals with each other is about more than accountability, it is about helping each other succeed. If you don’t have a list, consider making one. And send it to me. Maybe I know a secret or two to help you get your own 30%.

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

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

Journal entry 122911: Recalculating hope

It was Thursday morning, December 1^st when I programmed my destination for the day – Buena Vista, Colorado - before leaving Denver International Airport’s Budget Rental Car Lot in my 4WD Jeep (alas, it was orange). My GPS started giving polite directions immediately and I felt safe and cared for, especially since it was snowing heavily and I wanted to concentrate on the road and not on my map.

But I knew something my GPS didn’t know: I was going to venture off I-70 to Prospect Park in Wheat Ridge and go for a run. Therefore I was prepared to hear “Recalculating” as soon as I took the exit for Kipling Street. I also got a whole new set of instructions.

But of course, I didn’t follow them; instead, I kept driving my route to the park. At every turn I heard the same sequence, “Recalculating” and another set of instructions to help me recover from my errors. Errors which, in the “mind” of my GPS, were beginning to pile up.

Being corrected over and over soon became irritating. I looked for a manual override button that would tell the GPS I had made the exit ON PURPOSE and to leave me alone about it and that I was a big boy and knew what I was doing, but there was no button. My unit didn’t have that feature.

But the GPS was having none of my rebellion. It didn’t give up. It still kept trying to steer me back to the Interstate.

It was, however, remarkably patient. It did NOT scream, "you dufus-head, can't you even follow basic directions."  No, it simply said, "Recalculating," and patiently gave me new directions toward my destination. Every time, over and over.

Some people consider the “Recalculating” message a patronizing, whiney, unwanted reminder of past mistakes. But it could be worse. It could say, “You missed your turn AGAIN, and now you are done for. There is no recovery. Pull to the side of the road, unload your car, drop a match in the gas tank, and signal a passing motorist for help. You are hopeless.”

I suppose you could say my GPS finally found satisfaction after I finished running and followed its persistent directions back to my route and obediently followed for the next 120 snowy miles to Buena Vista. We even shared long bouts of meditative silence once the GPS trusted me to stay the course.

Well, the point of my trip was to attend a men’s retreat, and in the Friday session one of the speakers, Sam Williamson, made the comment that the two best words in the English language were: “recalculating route.” He said, “They are good words because they represent hope.”

It was one of those rare times when I understood the weight of his statement the minute I heard it. Just a few hours before, when my own GPS said “Recalculating,” it wasn’t reminding me that I’d made a mistake. It was saying, “Berry, you aren’t lost forever. I can get you where you want to go, and I can do it from right here. You don’t have to go back to the point where you deviated from the original route. And you aren’t done for. Your turn isn’t over. Just give me a couple of seconds to recalculate. It might not be the route that locals would favor. But it will get you there. Just trust me.”

Williamson’s point was how wonderful it is to know God treats us the same way. God says, “It’s OK. Your wrong turn wasn’t fatal. You aren’t done for. Unlike Inigo Montoya, you don’t have to go back to the beginning. I can get you where you need to go, starting from here.”

Even when I veer off the optimum route on purpose to squeeze in a run or buy a giant Diet Coke, or even if I simply think I know better, God still speaks gently. He never says, “You did that on purpose. If you want My help, get your own self back on the right road. And do it now.”

No, He calmly reassures me by reminding me that He can get me where I need to go, I don’t have to backtrack, He can recalculate the route from …

I took the wrong engineering job? “Recalculating.”

I have to start over and go back to school long after I’d assumed I’d be done? “Recalculating.”

We got pregnant five years earlier than we wanted? “Recalculating.”

I didn’t get that promotion that seemed to be in-the-bag and now my career is in shambles? “Recalculating.”

Our delightful empty-nest years are suddenly more crowded than I ever expected? “Recalculating.”

I have arthritis in my knees when I have so many more miles to run and I finally have enough free time to do it? “Recalculating”

I can’t get a publisher or agent to even look at one of my books, even after I was certain this was my calling and purpose? “Recalculating.”

Are you kidding me? Retirement will take ANOTHER WHOLE YEAR? “Recalculating”

I lost a city-wide election after giving my life away for twelve years? “Recalculating.”

OK, so maybe the story of life doesn’t follow the simple route that locals would favor, and maybe most of the detours came from our own presumptions or miscalculations, but we aren’t done for. There is hope: “Recalculating.”

I’m writing this as we acknowledge the end of 2011 and stare at the beginning of 2012. Often the end of a year is frustrating as we dwell on all our wrong turns and rebellious detours and blown resolutions. But the New Year is an opportunity to start over, not from where you thought you’d be, but from where you are now. Recalculate now. New Years is a season of hope, knowing that God hasn’t forgotten about you, and He can get you where you need to go. Just trust Him.

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

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

Journal entry 122211: A season of stories

We spent last week in Hobbs packing boxes. My parents moved to Midland in order to keep a closer eye on us, and somehow they also convinced us to pack about 1,000 boxes. It may’ve been one of those Tom-Sawyer-painting-the-fence moments.

Cyndi and Tanya and Patti, a packing swat team if ever, went over and packed kitchen gear on Wednesday, and I went over Friday and Saturday to pack and make two U-Haul runs to Midland. By Saturday night Mom & Dad were in their new house, and before you knew it they were happily watching The Glen Miller Story on DVD in their new living room.

Our family hasn’t moved a lot compared to some. Well, my brother reminds me he’s moved every couple of years for the last thirty years, but that is the way of younger brothers. The rest of us, we tend to stay in one place too long. And I say too long because unless you move occasionally you never filter your possessions and they accumulate beyond imagination. Cyndi and I discovered that three years ago when we moved from a house where we’d lived for 26 years. Mom and Dad’s move is about the same sort of thing except with the added benefit of 56 years of marriage. And, unlike us, they moved into less space, not more. Some major filtering had to take place.

Of course, moving is more than boxing belongings. It is about moving lives, about moving connections (some of them decades old), and maybe most of all, it is about moving stories. The stories we tell over and over, the stories we keep in our heart, the stories we cherish to remember people we love, and the stories that define us. All of those stories are permanently linked to the artifacts we keep around us in our home. So when it comes time to move, it is a process of editing and filtering stories, not just thinning the load. It is never a small thing. As we used to say in math class, it is a nontrivial process.

And what I learned while packing boxes was that many of those artifacts hold my own stories. For example, I brought back a 5” plaster cast of my own handprint, made when I was four years old. I don’t remember many stories from when I was four, but I remember making those plaster handprints every summer when I visited my grandparents. I have memories of them hanging on the walls of several houses I grew up in, a tangible marker of a young boy growing up with larger and larger hands.

I also found three slender glasses from my college days, each bearing the inscription “Pride of Oklahoma.” They were mementoes from the annual banquet of the OU marching band, where I played trombone. One of them had a tuft of turf grass I pulled from the field at the Orange Bowl back in 1977 (which OU lost to Arkansas, of all things). Just seeing those glasses and that piece of dried up grass sent me down a long path of storytelling from a deeply formative, enriching, time in my life.

And those were just my stories. All the boxes now stacked in my garage (since the new house didn’t have room for everything) hold stories that belong to my parents. Deciding how to handle them is not a small task. I will take my time going through them, even if it means I’ll be parking my pickup out front a little longer.

One day this week at lunch, while eating chicken fajitas and reading from my Daily Bible, I was reminded how the pages in my bible are one of my story repositories. I write in the margin whenever a significant event occurs, which means I get reminded of the stories and people every year when I read that entry again. If George Smiley ever decided to investigate my life he could piece together a very good timeline just from the margin notes in that Bible.

Sunday morning in our adult Bible study class we discussed the Christmas story, and the many methods we use to tell it. We sing it, paint it, dramatize it, portray it in live nativities, read it, complain about it when someone uses phraseology we don’t like, light up our houses for it. We go to great lengths to tell the story of Jesus using as many media as possible. Why? Because we hope those who’ve never heard the story will open their heart to hear it this year. And we hope those of us who’ve heard the story so often we hardly listen will open our hearts again as if to hear it for the first time.

And now that I am a grandfather with plans to spend the majority of my Christmas weekend in the company of my stunning little granddaughter, the notion of passing along stories seems even more important.

Our lives are stories, and passing along those important stories give our lives value and depth. May this Christmas be a rich storytelling session for you and your family. May it remind you who you really are, and whose you really are.

Merry Christmas. Tell the story.

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

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

Journal entry 121511: Trusting on the run

Sunday, December 4^th, was an exciting day for me. And I learned something; again. It actually began about midnight Saturday when I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep worrying about how I’d make my flight home Sunday afternoon. I was at Young Life’s Trail West Family Camp in Buena Vista, Colorado, attending the Exploration (Calling Intensive) men’s retreat, and my last opportunity to get home to Midland from Denver was the 4:00 flight to Albuquerque. Otherwise I’d have to spend the night and wait until Monday.

I knew Sunday would be busy. But even more, I knew it would be important. My part in the retreat was to facilitate a group of men as we shared our life stories, dreams, desires, and goals. Sunday afternoon was the climactic session when we would give each other feedback on all we’d learned over the course of the retreat. It promised to be a deep moment, the time when God speaks into a man’s heart through the voices of other men. I knew I would rather miss my flight than shortchange that moment with the guys.

However, I also knew Cyndi was at home on Kevin-duty all by herself all weekend, which included, in addition to her busy schedule, taking 50 elementary school kids to run a 5K (she’d been training them for weeks); and then later, taking many of the same kids to the Midland Community Theater to see the Sound of Music on stage. On Sunday, she had a long church orchestra rehearsal and performance (she is the percussionist). I wanted to get home to stand beside her so she wouldn’t have to keep standing alone. And, to be honest, I wanted to get home to lie beside her because I was tired of sleeping alone. And on top of all that, I was full of new ideas and new stories and I couldn’t wait to tell them to Cyndi.

So I tossed and turned in my bed at Trail West for over an hour, worrying about the situation, until I remembered prayer. Who knew I could pray for peace and for solutions, even in the middle of the night?

So I began to pray: “Lord I need Your peace, and I need Your insight to know how to do tomorrow, and I need Your help getting back to sleep so I can be effective on Sunday.” I settled almost immediately. I didn’t have any new ideas or revelations, but a calm peace that if I missed my flight Sunday night I would simply spend another night in Denver and use the solitude to rehash and record and confirm all I’d been learning at the retreat. There was value in that. And if I miraculously made my flight, well, all the better.

Sunday morning I mentioned my dilemma to my guys and they stepped up to help. We completed our feedback sessions, working straight through the breaks, not rushing the moment or shortchanging any discussions … but no lollygagging, either. We took some time for brunch, then finished up so that I was able to leave at noon. They are great guys and I am blessed to know them. All four of us left the camp with affirmations of God’s call on our life, as well as challenges for moving forward into the next adventures. I drove away knowing it had been a successful weekend.

But, I drove quickly. While I was at peace in my heart either way, whether I’d make the flight or miss the flight, I wanted to get home. I prayed: “God, help me make this happen.” And I hurried as much possible. I wanted to do my bit and give God a decent chance to get me on the plane. I considered praying for a flight delay to give more cushion, but I decided that was a selfish prayer since everyone else on the plane had somewhere important to go. (I still don’t know what to think about prayers like that; is it OK to pray that someone else will be delayed so I can make a connection?)

I drove up Highway 285 toward Denver slightly over the speed limit, yet slow enough for this Texas boy to feel safe in the snowy mountains. I passed car after car with freshly-cut Christmas trees strapped to the top. And I listened to Rob Bell preach about peace on my iPod. It was a beautiful and glorious drive.

I drove straight without stopping until I got to the airport gas station, where I topped out my rental Jeep. I turned it in at 3:10 PM. There was no time to spare. I rode the shuttle bus (which drove way too slow and took way too many stops), raced up to the Southwest counter and checked my bag and printed my boarding pass at 3:30 PM.

I pushed through airport security, taking the shortest line I saw, which was shortest because it led to the full-body scan machine. I was in a hurry, had nothing to hide, so scan away. Curiously the scan hit on a suspicious blotch on my back, so the TSA gentleman asked if he could pat down my back. Sure. He was sorry. The machine had tagged a big wet sweaty spot between my shoulder blades, the result of running through the airport with my coat on.

I trotted up to the train that links the main terminal with the flight gates, and of course it took forever to arrive, but I was surprisingly calm. (I realize that from the outside I always appear to be calm, but trust me, on the inside of my skin, where I live, I’m often wound up tight, continually analyzing the situation. Not this time. My midnight prayers were still working.)

I rode the train and hit Concourse C at a fast trot. Of course the people-mover sidewalk was out of order, but I ran down it anyway because who knew that God wouldn’t suddenly start it back up. As my gate came into view I heard over the public address system, “Paging Southwest passenger Berry Simpson, this is your last call.” Good thing I had been attending A CALLING RETREAT; I was ready for my last call! I did a face-first slide into the gate while holding my boarding pass aloft and made it just in time. My baseball-playing son-in-law would have been proud.

And the next thing I knew, I was in my seat texting Cyndi: “I made my plane.”

I was glad I made it, but even happier at the lesson of the day – there is no use fretting over what I cannot change.

In this busy holiday season we always have too much to do, and are often delayed or stopped, missing important connections. But if the peace of God is real, we have to learn to settle in to it and trust Him to get us to the most important things. And trust what happens next.

Of course, being in God’s peace does not mean we should saunter down the jet way. Running is still allowed.

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

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

Journal entry 120111: Prospect Park

I remember one day in 1999 when I was driving back to Midland from a drilling rig visit, I stopped in Brownfield and changed clothes in a fast food restaurant parking lot (in the privacy of my car, that is) to run down Highway 137, one of my first “adult” routes from back in 1980. It was while running down this road that the immense responsibility of being a brand new father washed over me all at once, and I made a commitment to step into the role. I returned 19 years later because I wanted to smell the dirt and remember the texture of a road that played an important part in my new life as a husband and father.

I’ve repeated this drill many times: detour from my travel route, change clothes in the car, go for a run, change back, rejoin the journey. Not because running is so important I can’t wait another minute before heading out, but more likely because I want to experience again some familiar trail. I often go to a lot of trouble to recreate an experience.

Once back in the 1980s (March 21, 1987, actually), while Cyndi was taking a test for fitness instructor national certification in Denver, I kept myself busy by running a couple of loops through Washington Park. It was a great run, and an even better memory renewal. Washington Park was the first place I saw how a well-designed park could add energy and life to a community. It was a big reason I joined the Parks and Recreation Commission a few years later, which that led to a 12-years stint on the Midland City Council. Washington Park had a big impact on me.

My most current adventure also took place in Denver, and it was just last week. I was in Colorado to attend the Exploration Men’s Retreat and my flight arrived very early so I had lots of time to fill before reporting in at the Trail West Camp in Buena Vista. I drove I-70 to Kipling and took the exit to find my way to Prospect Park. I was actually in Wheat Ridge, but it still looked like Denver to me. It was 28* and snowing heavily. I drove through deep snow into the parking lot and found a suitable space to camp near an outdoor pavilion and, more importantly, public restrooms. I crawled into the back seat of the Jeep where I could reach my suitcase and dug out my cold-weather running gear and changed clothes.

I ran on the concrete trail for about an hour. I almost always prefer to run on dirt, but with all the snow it was nice to know exactly where the path was and to know I wouldn’t fall into any mud holes. I quickly realized I had packed the wrong gloves. My hands got painfully cold, so an hour was plenty long to be out.

When I got back to the Jeep, I took advantage of the restroom, paused to catch my breath, then changed back into grown-up street clothes. I was hoping to find a place to eat lunch along I-70 before leaving the Denver area so I could set up in a booth and do some writing and reading. I had almost 6 hours before I had to be in Buena Vista and I wanted to burn some of it off over lunch. But once I got back on I-70 I was out of luck. Apparently I’d already passed any lunch possibility, and in fact, there wasn’t really any place to stop all the way down Highway 285. I finally wrote this Journal while eating a hamburger at Punky’s Diner in Buena Vista.

My usual purpose for squeezing a run into a busy travel day is to reinforce an old memory. Memory is so fragile, and it changes over time in ways we aren’t aware, so I like to retrace old routes to reestablish the details. And, I’ll go ahead and admit, I also do it to find a new story. New stories are basic currency for a writer and I can’t get enough of them.

However, this time was different. I’d never been to Prospect Park before so I had no personal memories to reinforce. I went there because this park is an important part of a friend’s story and I wanted to know more about it. Mark used to walk in this park daily, and it was on these trails that God found him, reconnected with him, rescued his heart, and emboldened him for his next adventure. It was a mid-course correction for Mark, and he always mentions it when describing God’s work in his life. Mark wrote to me, “God will speak plainly to you there if you ask.”

If fact, I didn’t expect any grand revelations from God in the same way Mark received. I don’t know how to reproduce my own encounters with God when returning to old sacred ground, so I certainly didn’t expect it to happen on someone else’s. And besides, God never lived in Prospect Park, He lived inside of Mark. God simply used the park to get Mark’s attention and open his eyes and ears.

So I didn’t have any big expectations; I was more interested in staying warm.

But still, it wasn’t just a routine run in a park. I knew there was deep magic here. I came to this park so I could understand my friend’s story better, understand him better, and we’d have one more thing in common. And I don’t know how to experience a park sitting in my car with the windows rolled up. I have to put my feet on the ground if I want to incorporate a place into my own story.

Mark has been instrumental in my life as a teacher, in my return to cycling, in helping heal ancient wounds, and in my daily walk with God. I loved running in his park and feeling the spirit in the air. I hope to do it again soon, maybe on a warmer day.

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

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

Journal entry 113011: Making the list

The first question of the morning was this: Who has influenced you? Who has made an impact on how you live today?

For me, one of my answers was a former pastor, Jim Denison. He taught me the value of being a life-long student, to never stop learning and growing. I once asked him for a reading list and he gave me two: ten books about theology, and ten books about church history. They weren’t simple books, either, but from somewhere deep inside his graduate school catalogue. For me it was a big deal that he took my request seriously and expected I would be able to understand deep reading. I diligently hunted them down and read all twenty. I wanted to be like Jim.

Another influence is a man I’ve met briefly but can’t claim to know, Erwin McManus. I listen to his podcasted sermons frequently, and I’ve read all of his books. He has a way of explaining complex issues that is theologically accurate and intellectually honest while remaining non-threatening. He speaks the truth without picking fights. His sermons have inspired me to live my life in the bigger story. He has encouraged me to open my eyes wide to the possibilities of a deep personal life with Jesus, and to open my arms wide to gather in everyone God has brought my way. I want to be like Erwin.

We were talking about our influences as part of a wrap-up of our three-month study of Romans, looking at the long list of names contained in chapter 16. Paul, the author of Romans, spent line after line after line listing the friends who had served with him and influenced him. For someone who had never been to Rome, he loved a lot of people there.

Many were people he had spent a lot of time with, like Phoebe (a woman who was most likely a deacon in the church), and Priscilla and Aquila, soldiers of the faith who left a large wake behind them in at least three cities (Corinth, Ephesus, and Rome). They also seemed destined to marry each other, having rhyming names and all.

Paul also mentioned Andronicus and Junias (probably a husband and wife team), who had spent time in prison with Paul, a hint that Paul was in jail more times than the New Testament describes.

The list goes on and on, listing dozens of people who were important to Paul. This list feels personal. I can picture Paul dictating the first 15 chapters of Romans to Tertius while pacing the floor and waving his arms and pumping his fist as he made those critical points about living life with Jesus. But chapter 16 feels softer, as if Paul sat down and leaned back in his chair and started ruminating over good memories of solid friends who had influenced his life.

And the coolest thing is, they’ve all influenced our lives as well. Their influence on Paul came through his writings which we continue to study. You don’t have to be a capital “A” Apostle to leave a lasting impact.

The last question of the morning, the most valuable question, was this: How do we end up on someone else’s list? How do we ourselves become people of influence?

One way is to make sure we are always growing and changing. People who camp out on past success are seldom long-term influences. To be an influence of significance we have to grow stronger in God every day, and pursue His wisdom and insight with open eyes and open arms.

Another criterion for a person of influence is to let people in close. For Paul, that meant preaching in the synagogue or suffering in prison together. For us it might mean spending miles on the trail or repairing a house together, living close enough to know each other’s stories. It isn’t enough to share information – even if it is very good – people of influence have to be generous with their own lives as well. (1 Thes. 2:8)

PS: Who has influenced you? I’d love to know your story.

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

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

Journal entry 112411: Long time together

Thursday morning, fellow Midlander Kelly Cooke saw Cyndi in the finish area of the Ft. Worth Turkey Trot, mingling with 10,000-or-so other runners, and asked, “Where’s Berry.” He knew we had both run the race.

“He’s over there in front of the band. He loves it when old guys can still play.”

She was correct. I love it when the old guys still play, and I there I was standing about twenty feet in front of the speakers listening to three old guys, over-sixty-years-old (maybe younger - hard to take into account the effect  of a rock-and-roll life), playing Voodoo Baby. I wish I had caught the name of the band, but it usually takes my brain a bit to start remembering new data after running a race. Even if only a 5K.

But it wasn’t just the fact that they were older than me and could still play that got me excited. It was watching how seamlessly they did it. It was pure economy of movement; no wasted motions. As I stood and listened to them play a long blues break I noticed the guitar player dash his eyes toward the bass player, then the bass player nodded ever-so-slightly - just tipping the brim of his hat toward the drummer. The drummer smiled and they all changed tempo, just like that. It was phenomenal to see how much they communicated even while barely communicating.

So Cyndi and walked over to the side of the parking lot to eat our complimentary post-race yogurt, and I heard them start up Stevie Ray Vaughn’s Pride & Joy. Again, amazing. I would have camped out in front of them even longer if we didn’t have a full day ahead of us.

Cyndi and I stood talking a bit until she went back to bag another yogurt. When she came back she said, “I knew you’d be standing over here smiling.”

“Why did you know that?”

“Because the band is playing Bo Diddley. I knew it would make you happy.” Again, what a woman. She knows me very well.

She even listened patiently while I ran through all my observations about economy of motion and subtle communication.

Then I said, “You know, some long-term marriages are just the same way. A nod of the head here, and casual smile there, and volumes of data are communicated.”

I added, “Of course, not all marriages end up like that; just the ones where they spend years leaning in toward one another. The kind of marriage I want to have with you.”

So we got in our car and drove back to Katie & Drew’s house in Mansfield where we would clean up and then tackle the Thanksgiving Day events.

Later, when I was in the shower, I realized the way the band communicated is also how I want my relationship with God to be. When He just tips his head, I want to know what to do and spring into action. When he whispers in my ear, I was to be ready to change tempo.

Well, the reason the band was so good at communicating wasn’t because they were old, but because they had grown old together playing together. It takes more than years, it takes shared mileage on the trial … whether the trail of rock-and-roll, or the trail of marriage, or the trail following God. That close relationship is the reward for a long time together of leaning in.

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

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

Journal entry 111711: Flying with the wind

Last Sunday I took my 9-year-old nephew, Kevin, bike riding with me at the Bikes & Barbecue Livestrong Ride 10-miler. There was also a 22 and 34 mile ride for cyclists older than 9. When I first floated the idea past Kevin the weekend before I said, “Ten miles won’t be a problem for you since we already ride eight miles when we go to Burger King.”

“But we take a long break in the middle, and eat lunch.”

“Sure. See what I mean? You won’t have trouble at all.”

I could tell he was skeptical of my reasoning, but he is surprisingly game for most of my wacky ideas. He agreed to give it a try. “Can we take breaks if I get tired?”

As the time drew closer, the weather forecast looked exceedingly windy and I told Kevin we wouldn’t ride if the wind was too bad. Sunday morning when we went to early church where I play in the orchestra, we both agreed the slight breeze was manageable and gave each other the Gentlemen’s Head Nod of Commitment. We were in.

By the time we’d loaded the bikes on my pickup, dressed for the ride, aired up our tires, and driven out to the Scharbauer Sports Complex, the wind had picked up a bit. After paying the fees and grabbing our packets, we walked back to unload the bikes and noticed the wind had now increased significantly. Still, Kevin was game for riding. He wasn’t really worried about the wind as much as interested in the free bottles of energy drink and hand sanitizer. I’ve never understood why kids who get everything they have for free are so captured by giveaways.

When the ride started, Kevin bolted to the front on his 20” Mongoose bike, very happy to be passing so many other riders. In fact, I didn’t catch up to him until after the 158 underpass where the course turned west down Highway 191, directly into the howling wind, exactly the sort of wind I had been hoping to avoid. Kevin got quite frustrated that so many cyclists were passing us. “Kevin, they are grownups. They have stronger legs that you do, and bigger hearts and lungs, and faster bikes.” It didn’t help much until I pointed out that no other 9-year-old had passed us yet. “I think you are the First Kid.”

It was brutal. I’ve ridden on Highway 191 many times on very windy days, but this was worse. Of course I could gear my bike way down so that it wasn’t much effort at all, but Kevin’s little single-speed bike couldn’t compensate. WeatherBug said the wind was 10 mph with gusts up to 36 mph, but on 191 we weren’t getting any of the 10 mph stuff. All we had were the gusts. We were constantly battling 20-30 mph headwinds. It was worse than I could possibly have anticipated when we made the commitment to ride. In fact, it was worse than all my worst-case scenarios I’d fretted about the preceding week. I didn’t want the day to be so bad he would never ride with me again.

But, there we were, on the road, in the wind. Kevin kept fighting it, so we set up a pattern of riding to the next billboard and stopping for rest and water. At every break Kevin would look behind us to make sure we weren’t in last place. For some reason that was very important to him.

Eventually we’d ridden far enough down the road that Kevin could recognize the big brown Mid-Cities Church building, our turnaround marker. I was worried that he might think it was too far away and get discouraged, but instead it made him happy  to know the turnaround really existed and wasn’t another one of my ploys to get him to ride further. “Kevin, you only have to suffer as far as that big brown church. Then you’ll get to fly.”

It took us a long time. Riding no more than 5-7 mph between breaks. Kevin could barely ride a straight line. But we made it, finally.

As we rode through the underpass at Mid-Cities, I was planning to give Kevin another break so he could catch his breath, but once he caught the tailwind, he was off. We rode all the way back, all five miles, without a break. (Actually, we stopped once so he could remove his cap (he wore it under his helmet, for some reason), but he said, “Uncle Berry, I don’t think that should count as a break.”

And we were flying. I looked down to notice we were riding 17 mph, a decent cruising speed for me, but a scary risky speed for a 9-year-old on a Mongoose. I’ll admit I felt a little irresponsible for letting him go so fast, and hoped I wouldn’t have to explain to his mother why he was busted up from crashing on the highway, but I figured he’d earned it. After all his suffering he had a right to know what it feels like to fly.

At one point on the easterly stretch of Deauville Boulevard, very near the finish, where the road was smooth and flat and gravel-free, I encouraged him to pick it up and see what he could do. We topped out at 19 mph, his legs pumping like a sewing machine. He said, “That’s a new high score for me.”

It was a successful day. Together we rode straight down the XFD column. Kevin did something completely over his head and did not quit. It was a chest-pounding moon-howling moment … one of those times when all the manly boys step to the front of the line. From now on we’ll stand a tip-toe when this day is named.

Afterward, as we racked our bikes, it occurred to me that we all have people we want to live up to, someone who’s approval matters most. Someone for whom we’ll push beyond our limits, and maybe even risk crashing, to hear a “well done.”

I remember when I first started teaching adult Bible study class at my church, Helen Spinks would stop her wheelchair in the hallway outside our room blocking my path. She’d look me in the eye and say, “Berry, I have heard great things about your class; I am so proud of you.” Another teaching mentor, Gerry, said, “I was so proud of you I almost busted the buttons off my shirt.”

Both of those comments were made over twenty years ago, but both keep me teaching even today. The people I wanted most to live up to were proud of me, and I have never forgotten it. I hope Kevin never forgets flying down Highway 191.

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

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

Journal entry 111011: In the dark

Monday night I hurried home from work so I could squeeze in a run before it got too dark. It was my first run after Time-Change Sunday, and I just made it, arriving back among the houses as the sun went down. My favorite dirt roads are not lighted at all, and I’ll soon have to abandon them until next spring.

However, I actually enjoy running in the dark. Cyndi says I would feel differently about running in the dark if I were a woman, and all I can do is take her word for that, but being who I am, I like it.

I may be the only person I know who actually enjoys - looks forward to - the fall time change. I like early sundown, in spite of the fact I’ll lose my dirt trails.

Running in the dark feels quieter, and more personal. The city noises are dampened; like when you run in the snow. Running in the dark is more private than running in the daylight. People can’t see you and can’t easily recognize you if they do see you. I think a lot of people who avoid running outside because they don’t want to be seen, either because they run too slow or because they think they are too large, should take advantage of earlier sundowns and run in the dark.

And another thing. When I get home in the evening in the summer and it doesn’t get dark until 9:30, I never really relax. It doesn’t feel like I am inside to stay when it is light out. As long as the sun is up I may have to go back outside and do chores is what I keep thinking.

But after the time change, when it gets dark by 6:00 (like Monday), when I get home, I’m home to stay. No chores; too dark. As soon as possible I change into my flannel pants and Crocs and I am inside and down for the evening. I can nestle in my big brown chair with a book or Sudoku, or type essays on my laptop at our library table. It makes me happy. It feels like home.

I also like the cooler weather that usually accompanies the time change. I enjoy running when it’s cold. Of course, the main reason I like cold weather running (and I’m talking about Texas cold, not Michigan cold) is I get sick of running in the summer heat by mid-July, but following a close second to that is the anonymity. Once I am bundled up in a fleece or rain jacket, knit hat, long pants, gloves, I am hidden to everyone but myself. It feels like a safe refuge, a cocoon.

Cyndi and I were I Denver last week for a Society of Petroleum Engineers Awards Banquet, and Wednesday morning we got to run in the snow.

I’ll admit, when we first got out of bed about 8:30 AM and we looked out our 12^th-floor window, we saw the flags whipping in the wind and decided not to go run. (I think either of us might have gone anyway had we been alone, but we’re more cautious and deferential when together). So we dressed and went down to the l Starbucks on the first floor. Since we were staying in a fancy high-priced hotel, we had to pay for everything we usually get for free when staying at the Courtyard. Like breakfast.

While enjoying our coffee and tea and scones we noticed that it was still snowing outside, but the flakes were tumbling down and were not driven by the wind, so maybe the wind wasn’t as bad as we’d thought. We hurried back up to our room, changed into winter gear, and left for a 30-minute run, 15 minutes out-and-back. We’d burned up too much of the morning to stay out any longer.

Well, of course, it turned out to be glorious. Not too cold, but fun in the snow. We both got back to the hotel about the same time, both very glad we went. It was some of the best 30 minutes of the trip.

One thing I have to mention: The disadvantage to earlier sundowns and cooler weather concerns my recently rediscovered activity: cycling. I am not yet brave enough to bike in the dark, and don’t own enough gear to bike in the cold. Maybe that will come soon. I hope so.

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

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