The Comeback Kid

This past weekend I road my bike 150 miles for the very first time, in the Cactus and Crude MS150, 75 miles on Saturday, and 75 miles on Sunday. It was a transformational experience. I’m not the same guy I was last Friday before the ride. More than 200 cyclists rolled out of the Apache parking lot in Midland at 7:15 AM Saturday morning under cloudy skies and cool breezes. I began in the middle of a huge group of riders, but by the time I crossed the overpass at I-20, I was alone. That wasn’t my intent, and I would’ve had a better day in a group, but I rode by myself for the rest of both days.

The morning miles felt surprising good, until the halfway point when I started feeling nauseous and lightheaded. It was weird, not what I expected. I thought my back and neck would be the first to go, not my stomach and brain. I blamed it on the cold I’d been fighting all week. Maybe it drained more energy than I thought. Maybe I still hadn’t recovered from last year’s cycling crash. Whatever it was, within the next few miles I fell apart.

I felt so bad during the last 30 miles I considered flagging down one of the sag wagons and riding with them to the finish. Emotionally bottomed-out, I was convinced I’d never ride long distance again. I felt my cycling future slipping away. I was a poor excuse for a man, I couldn’t ride, I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hike, I couldn’t love, I couldn’t live. I should sign up for interpretive dance and be done with it.

At least a dozen times I had to pull my bike over to the side of the road to catch my breath and settle my stomach. I would’ve felt better had I rebooted my gut by throwing up, but I couldn’t even make that happen.

The thing is I’m no stranger to suffering in a race. I’ve finished nine marathons so I know I can suffer and keep moving. But this was my first time to fall into an emotional pit this deep.

However, I’ve learned you can’t let bad patches define you. You have to keep moving. Pushing past suffering is a learned skill, and I knew from experience this would not last forever. I also knew I would have the best chance for emotional recovery if I finished the event on my bike instead of in a pickup. So I kept riding.

I finally arrived at the finish in Big Spring at 2:30 PM. I was out for 7-1/2 hours. My rolling time was 5:34, which means I spent a total of two hours either sitting at rest stops or beside the road gasping for breath. The good news was my legs, the one part of me that didn’t fall apart, felt strong and ready for another day.

I finished, showered, put on fresh clothes, and took a nap. My future was clearing. I was nervous about what would happen the next day, but excited to find out. I was coming alive.

My friend, Jeff, suggested that I bonked so completely because I wasn’t taking in enough salt at the rest stops. I think he was correct.

Sunday morning, Day Two, I was anxious about putting my bum on a bike saddle again, but it wasn’t bad as I expected. That was a good start.

We rode north all day, meaning we had a tail wind, meaning I had a serious chance at a better day. And it was significantly better. I was never nauseous and never lightheaded. I was always in control. I was never desperate, even on the extended climbs.

At every rest stop I ate the saltiest snack they had – mostly trail mix, and it was perfect. I tried pickle juice, but decided I’d rather get sick again than drink any more of that.

The volunteers at every rest stop were fun and energetic and helpful. However, I did notice they called me “Sir.” As in, “Can I help you with your bike, sir?” “Would you like to sit in the shade and recover, sir?” “Are you feeling OK, sir?” I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with my aura of authority, but my gray beard and hair.

The last climb of the day wasn’t as difficult as I anticipated. I’d heard stories about the big hill into the town of Post and dreaded it all morning, but I rode right up the hill like a manly cyclist. Even better, after I made the climb, and during the flat portion before the descent into town, I passed a young flatbelly. I blew right past him. It was an excellent moment in my riding career. I was The Comeback Kid.

I finished Day Two at 12:30 PM, a full two hours faster than Day One. My actual rolling time was 4:32, so I took an hour off my cycling time and an hour off my rest-stop time. Part of that was due to a consistent tail wind, but the rolling hills canceled some of that. Mostly I just felt better and rode better.

This was a big weekend for me; a stronger move into cycling. Not only was it my first MS150, but my first ride beyond fifty miles. And in spite of my struggle, I finished hungry for more, with confidence I can do better next time. Every step forward resets your horizon, and I knew I had even better days ahead.

The participants in the Cactus and Crude MS150 raised over $200,000, and I was happy to be a small part of that. It is a gift from God to know that we can change the world doing something we love. Thanks for giving me another turn.

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

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Ruined by Reading

The first book I remember reading all by myself was the classic, Go Dog Go, by P. D. Eastman. I wish I still had my copy of the book, but it disappeared in some garage sale after I finished reading it. Recently, when our daughter, Katie, and her family, were visiting, I told my first-book story. Katie smiled and pulled out a new copy of that very same book, Go Dog Go, belonging to my granddaughter, Madden. It made me happy.

I have always been a reader.

During my elementary school years I used to sign up for the summer reading program at the Winkler County Public Library. My mom let me walk from the church, where she was working as part-time secretary, to the library. I would load up on books, carry them back, and read them lying on the floor of her office while she worked on Sunday School attendance records and the weekly church bulletin.

I learned about Civil War battles, WWII aircraft, the Alamo and San Jacinto and how to be a Texan, Boy Scout merit badge skills, and how to build my own rockets and make my own rocket fuel. Cyndi was surprised a library let boys check out books about building homemade rockets, but it was the 1960s. Apparently it was considered safe back then.)

Once, in the 5th grade, I checked a book from the school library titled Man of War, naturally assuming it was about giant British warships from the 17th and 18th centuries. I was so disappointed  when I started reading a book about a race horse. Who wants to read about horses?

I read so many books about war my teacher told me to pick something else. She was afraid I would turn violent. But she did me a favor. I moved to another section in the library and discovered books about spies and espionage. Perfect.

The first time I spent my own money on a book was to buy paperback copies of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, for $1.25 apiece. I still have them on my shelf.

When I was a student at the University of Oklahoma I discovered the Baptist Student Union bookstore, and many of the books I bought and read shaped the rest of my life.

As an adult, the first non-text-book I asked for was American Caesar, about General Douglas MacArthur, by William Manchester. Cyndi gave it to me our first Christmas as a married couple.

Unfortunately, my early adult reading practice was sporadic and weak for too long. That is, until I heard a motivational talk by Jim Rohn encouraging me to be intentional and systematic about learning and growing and living. He told me to keep a list of the books I’ve read. Following his advice, I started my list in 1986.

Not long ago I rediscovered a book by Lynne Sharon Schwartz titled Ruined by Reading. She wrote, “Reading was the stable backdrop against which my life was played.”

That is certainly true for me. I am defined by years of reading. If you hear me say something clever, or read some brilliant piece of my writing, know that it comes from my lifetime of reading.

I love having books around me, especially if they’re books I’ve read. Sometimes I wonder if my drive to write comes from the desire to do my part to add to the books on the shelves.

Well, you can tell a lot about people by the practices they maintain throughout their life. To know me, you have to understand my life with Cyndi. But I’ve been a runner even longer than I’ve been married. And I’ve been a musician longer than I’ve been running. And I’ve been a dedicated reader longer than all those, longer than anything but eating and sleeping.

How about you? What is the longest thread running through your life? What is your deepest practice?

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

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A Week With The Girls

Cyndi and I met our daughter Katie in Abilene last Saturday, where Katie handed off her own two daughters, Madden (age 4.3) and Landry (age 0.9), and 300 pounds of baby gear, so the girls could spend a week with their Gran and Pops. And honestly, it’s taken all week to remember how we used to leverage little kids into our full lives. Of course, Cyndi spent the most time with the girls. She took them to play with Pattie’s two grandsons, took them to swimming lessons, to the Children’s Museum, to the water park in Andrews, and everywhere else. I’m sure she has more stories and insights than me, but she’ll have to write her own blog.

I had the girls to myself each evening while Cyndi taught her classes. It went like this …

“Look girls, Grand made us Neelix Rolls, a family favorite” “Pops, can I have another one?” “What would our mom say?” “Well, what do YOU say?” “Sure. Here you go.”

“Pops, do you know how to skip?” “Not anymore.”

“Pops, can you read this book to me?” while holding a copy of Confessions, by St. Augustine. “Sure, Madden, come back in twenty years.”

“Here is another sticker for your shirt. It’s a sparkle star.” “It looks great on my black polo.”

“Cyndi, do you think it would be OK if I took the girls on a bike ride if they sit in the trailer?” “No, Landry is too small; she’ll tumble over on her head.”

“Pops, will you fix my hair?” as we walked into church. And then  when it became clear I had no idea how to do it, “Call Gran on your phone so she can come fix my hair.”

“Hey Pops, what does a Monarch Butterfly say?” “African or European?”

“Do you have Hello Kitty on your phone?” “Not since Gran made me take it off.”

"When will this race ever be done, Pops?"  while sitting my lap watching the Tour de France. “In three weeks.” “That’s too long.”

At Chic-fil-A … “Hey Madden, are you big enough get me a refill?” “Yes.” “Do you know where to go?” “To the counter.” “Do you know what I want?” “Diet Coke.” “Good girl.”

Some of my deepest spiritual roots come from the summers I spent with my grandparents. They invested their lives and faith in me, and I benefit from that still, fifty years later.

Spending a week with Madden and Landry is a call to action. I’m already looking forward to next time.

  “I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32 Read and subscribe to my weekly blog, read daily writing on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Follow Me

The nurse asked if I had a Medical Power of Attorney from my dad, and I nodded my head. “In fact, I’m using it. We’ve already started selling his stuff.”

She couldn’t stop laughing, even though we were in the emergency room, and even though my dad was lying between us on a stretcher with various hospital machines attached to him. He had been cracking jokes at the expense of the nurse since arriving and I just added to the mix.

I give my dad full credit for showing me how to find the joke in any situation, to be funny without hurting other people, and to let the other guys get the punch lines and the big laugh. It’s one of the most important things he gave me.

Dad came home from the hospital that very same day with a diagnosis for vertigo. One of his best friends says, “We’ve all had that one. It’s really a diagnosis of being old.” Everyone has a joke.

In all our years together, I don’t know if my dad gave much thought to passing along the good things he learned. What I mean is, I’m sure it was important to him, but he’s not from a generation or personality as introspective as mine, so it wasn’t something he talked about.

Me, I think about it all the time. I seldom have a thought that doesn’t run home to the idea of how do I share what I’ve learned. How do I speak to the hearts of the young couples, and the young men, God has placed in front of me? How do I give away, in the 21^st century, what was invested in me in the 1970s?

The Apostle Paul was concerned about the same thing when he wrote to his young protégé, Timothy: “What you heard from me, keep as the pattern of sound teaching, with faith and love in Christ Jesus. Guard the good deposit that was entrusted to you - guard it with the help of the Holy Spirit who lives in us.” (2 Timothy 1:13-14)

In the margin of my Daily Bible I have a succession of notes scribbled on different years that show my growing relationship with these verses:

(1998) “It’s scary to say: Do what I do.”

(2001) “The longer I teach, the more comfortable I am to say this (do what I do).”

(2005) “In fact, this has become the heart of my ministry as a teacher and writer.”

(2011) “I should not teach anything unless I believe this.”

(2013) “Teaching isn’t about providing information, but about sharing life.”

There is a progressive deepening of ownership on this. First, we hear something. Then, because what we heard is important, we decide to keep it. At some point, keeping it isn’t enough, but we need to guard it, and make sure to follow it. Finally, once we realize the information came to us not because we were lucky or fortunate, but because it was entrusted to us, we are obligated to give it away.

Back in 2008 I took my dad hiking on Guadalupe Peak in celebration of his 80^th birthday. It was not an easy day. The National Park Service website describes this trail as strenuous, and very steep, with exposed cliff edges.

But we had a great time. The day was clear and sunny and never hot – a perfect day for hiking in Texas. We had fun on the trail, telling jokes and wisecracks.

It took us about two hours to hike up to Lookout Point. My first goal of the day was to get past this point so Dad could experience the tall pine trees and oaks and junipers. I wanted him to know there was more to this hike than the harsh rocky switchbacks you see from the parking lot.

We hiked another one-and-a-half hours before stopping for lunch, just around the bend from the wooden bridge. Dad said, “This is it for me today. I think we should go back down.”

I said, “You’re right. It would be the wise thing to do.”

“I’m having a great day, and I would love to make it to the top and phone my friends from the summit, but I don’t want to be foolish about this.”

Even though I was the trail guide that day, my dad was still teaching me. You don’t have to fight all the way to the end to have a good day.

There are so many things I give my Dad credit for – things that have turned out to be fundamental characteristics of my life.

Besides humor, there was music. My Dad was a church worship leader (back then we called them choir directors, later music ministers) as far back as I can remember. Not only did I learn to love and play church music, but I also learned from his example that music was something men could do. It was a manly activity, as much as hunting or carpentry. I don’t know if I would’ve picked that up from anyone else.

Another thing I learned from my Dad was that being a consistent man of faith for an entire lifetime is a noble, worthy, and courageous way to live.

Back in my university days, in the late 1970s, I remember hearing one of my spiritual leaders, Chuck Madden, describe how he was mentored by Leroy Eims, of the Navigators. He said they lifted weights together every morning, went running, worked on writing books, and like that. There was no structure or step-by-step plan, just the rubbing off of personality and spiritual depth from constant exposure. That’s how I learned from my dad. He rubbed off on me.

And so, as I work on my next book, exploring how to give away what was invested in me, I ask you to come sit beside me and absorb what God has given me.

It’s hard to say “Follow me” without feeling arrogant, but we have to get over that if we want to change the world. We’re not in positions of influence because we reached some superior level of spirituality, but because God, in His grace, put us there. How dare we waste what God has entrusted to us.

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

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On The Vulnerable Edge

Friday morning I rented a mountain bike from Mellow Velo in downtown Santa Fe, and rode about twelve miles on the Dale Ball Trails. They were great single-tracks, and as difficult as anything I should ever ride. There were lots of narrow tracks between trees and cactus, rock gardens that required bouncing over or maneuvering around and, of course, steep uphills and downhills.

It was great fun, but I didn’t survive unmarked. I returned with scrapes and bruises on both arms and legs. I have often said, “If you don’t have a scar, you don’t have a story; and if you don’t have a story, you didn’t really leave home.” I tested my own theory on this trip.

The good news: I didn’t have any frightening high-speed crashes. All my falls were slow topples that happened when I was tentative and hesitant. When approaching a hairpin, I’d wait too long to decide whether to dismount and walk around or speed up and try to blast through. In my hesitation I lost velocity and fell over; usually falling downhill with my bike landing on top of me. I was a pathetic sight and I was glad to be alone.

Later, on the easy bike ride back downtown, I realized I had been singing the Fleetwood Mac song, “Over My Head,” all of the morning.

The previous evening I went with Cyndi and Wes and Roni to a yoga class taught by Dean and Rebecca Lerner, two of America’s premier Iyengar instructors. It was advertised as a “mixed level” class, but the mix was all better than me. I brought down the average.

I couldn’t do anything the rest of the class did, because of my limited yoga skill and my tight inflexible body. But I’m used to making adjustments and using props. A couple of times our instructor gave an alternative move for the “stiffer men,” and I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Rebecca Lerner taught the class while Dean walked around helping people. Which means, he spent more time helping me more than anyone else in the room.

Dean was constantly correcting me and adjusting me and bringing me props, which, to be honest, pushed me further out on the vulnerability edge than I was prepared for. Allowing someone to continually correct and adjust me in a public setting where, not only is it happening in front of other people who are much more skilled, but is happening to almost no one else, without me getting embarrassed or frustrated or angry, is a big change for me. No one likes to feel like a beginner in front of the cool kids. I don’t actually mind if my skill levels aren’t up to everyone else’s, because that is a function of more practice, but I quickly bow up if I think someone is patronizing me.

However, I never felt that way when Dean was helping me. I was happy every time he fixed my pose. It never felt like a put-down, but rather like, “Here, you’ll like it better this way.”

However, I was happiest whenever he walked past me to work on someone else. At least I wasn’t the only one who needed help.

While were in Santa Fe I listened to a Ted Talk by Sarah Lewis titled Embrace the Near Win, and she said, “We thrive when we stay at our own leading edge.” Of course, I wouldn’t classify either yoga or mountain biking as my leading edges. It would be more accurate to call them my vulnerability edges. Both are way out beyond the point where I know what I’m doing

Part of my recent growing up has been learning to embrace vulnerable moments, to let God speak to me through them, and let my own heart speak to others. Brene Brown wrote, “If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.” (The Gift of Imperfection)

We have the greatest opportunity to change the world when we are willing to be open and vulnerable. Like Peter walking on water to Jesus, willing to fail in front of his peers.

But there is also this. While I intend to embrace vulnerability, I hope to improve as a yogi and as a mountain biker. It’s nice to know I have so much room for improvement.

Erwin McManus wrote in The Artisan Soul, “It’s been a wonderful realization after fifty years of life that if we work hard enough, hard work will eventually be mistaken for talent. And if we refuse to give up, perseverance will eventually be mistaken for greatness.”

How about you. Where are you pushing your vulnerability edges?

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

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Another Birthday

I have some news to announce as it is nearly my birthday. This may not actually be “news” in the strictest sense of the word since most of you have probably heard this already, but according to my sources, and I’m happy to mention this since I am turning 58, I’ve heard that 58 is the new 57. That’s right. 57.

That explains why I don’t feel any older than I did a year ago … except that last year I was halfway recovered from a cycling crash that grounded me for 150 days, and I was stiffer and heavier, even though the difference maybe not be obvious to most observers since I seem plenty stiff and heavy this year, too.

But besides all that, I can’t let a birthday go by without some discussion. I believe life brings us certain Evaluation Seasons every year, opportunities to evaluate our current position and ponder our future. One of those is January 1, which begs for New Year’s Goals. Another is September, the beginning of the school year, which has the feel of a new beginning even if we’ve been away from school for decades.

And then, of course, there is your birthday. It is the most personal time for evaluation.

It has been my goal as I’ve gotten older to live bigger, not smaller; more open, less closed; open-minded, not opinionated; active, not sedentary, investing, not hoarding, giving, not taking. It is my intent to NOT become narrow and exclusive. I don’t want to be one of those old men who are stubbornly set in their ways, but rather I want to live expecting and reaching out.

Jon Katz has described one of the dangers of growing older as “spiritual grumpiness: a jaded, irritable, dour view of the world, about change, the young, and the world's prospects.” (Bedlam Farm Journal, August 13, 2013) It's easy to become a skeptic and cynic. It makes you sound smart even when you’ve done very little thinking on your own. It’s a sad and unproductive way to live.

In his book, The Well-Played Life, Leonard Sweet wrote, “The older I get, the more complex my theology becomes, but the more simple my faith is.” That describes my journey as well. Although I’m not sure “complex” is the best word to describe my theology. I would use “broader” or even “softer.”

I am a hardliner on way fewer topics than I was ten years ago, and I’m not as afraid to be wrong or uninformed.

Don’t misunderstand me – I’m convinced in what I believe about God and Jesus and Grace and Hope, but I’m no longer afraid to listen to (and maybe learn from)  Atheists, or Buddhists, or dare I say it, Democrats. And I don’t feel compelled to argue with people I disagree with, even in my own head.

I realize I’m not bullet-proof; a well-phrased pitch can certainly lead me astray. And I’m not as smart as I let on. But I’m not afraid of doubt or uncertainty because they only take me in deeper. New insights open my world rather than frighten me. They make me stronger.

The older I get the more I believe and depend on the power of spiritual disciplines, of the “practice of Christianity.” Practices like reading the Bible every day, memorizing verses, teaching and writing, worshiping with my church, praying and meditating. It is the practice itself that has made me who I am today.

I believe grace leaves us a broader and more welcoming path than we can imagine. In that sense my faith gets simpler each year.

As so, as I approach my 58th birthday, the new 57th, which is only 14 Celsius (even less when you consider wind chill), I am searching for my next influences. For clever ideas, new writers, crooked trails, and amazing views. And I’m always begging for suggestions.

Who have you read that I should read? Where have you gone that I should visit? Where have you run, biked, hiked, that I should experience?

Because I’ll be 60 soon, and I need your help more than ever.

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

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Still Learning to Trust

I’ll be honest. I’m surprised it’s taking me so long to learn how to trust God. I expected to be better at it by now after fifty-plus years. Recently, Cyndi and I were in the Dallas area; Cyndi had a workshop and I was hanging out. But she was sick all weekend and didn’t enjoy her classes as much as she should have.

She’d had a headache for a week, and I suppose other symptoms she wouldn’t mention. Neither of us is good at describing our aches and pains to each other, much less our fears or concerns. We are too afraid to sound whiney.

I wonder how many times I get worried about the future (Is there anything else to worry about?) but don’t tell Cyndi, either because I am embarrassed to be scared over such a small thing, or don’t know how to talk about it, or I don’t want to be a complainer. After thirty-five years of marriage I still want to show only my best side to her. We still have much to learn about trusting each other with our fears as much as with our dreams.

Cyndi slept all through each of our morning commutes between Mansfield and Dallas. We went shopping on Saturday after her workshop - she had energy for shopping - but she collapsed once we started driving. She woke up occasionally to remind me of an exit on the freeway, usually about ten minutes after I’d already made the move. Cyndi went straight to bed about 8:00 PM.

Before crashing, Cyndi sent me to Target to buy Pediolite (a mystery to me why it should help with headaches) and Tylenol PM. It was the only time Cyndi budged all night long, to drink and swallow.

The thing is, I always function better with more information, but I didn’t have enough in this situation. When I don’t know what’s going on I tend to assume the worst, and since I had no idea how to help Cyndi, I spent the entire night dreaming about brain tumors and devastating illness and how, sooner or later, one of us would be left alone.

In my dreams I asked myself why Cyndi and I didn’t make more time for each other in our last years. Why didn’t we go to more cool places, not just workshops or seminars or business trips. Places like the Pacific Northwest, or New England, or Europe, or more cruises.

Why didn’t I take Cyndi dancing more often (well, because it hurts my knees … but so does running and hiking and I still do those). In my dreams I went through thing after thing, item after item, all night long, asking myself why I didn’t take our life together more seriously.

When I woke up, much to my surprise, I was singing inside my head. That’s actually not a surprise since I wake up singing in my head almost every morning, but this time I was singing a song we often sing in church, rather than some hang-dog blues riff which is what I would’ve expected after being hounded all night in my dreams. I had tossed and turned over unfounded and fabricated fears all night long, and yet I woke up singing a praise song. How does that work?

As I was brushing my teeth, before getting into the shower, wishing Cyndi would join me in the shower but glad she was still sleeping in bed, about 7:15 AM Sunday morning, I was still singing the song in my head when I realized the song itself was the answer to my long night of fears:

So what can I say, What can I do, But offer this heart, O God, Completely to you. So I’ll stand With arms high and heart abandoned In awe of the one who gave it all So I’ll stand My soul, Lord, to you surrendered, All I am is years. (The Stand, Hillsong United)

The reason I worried about our future and fretted over our past was because I didn’t trust God with our life together.

I should do this better. My constant prayer for the past two years has been - “Teach me trust you.” So often I stand up in front of people and talk about trusting God, yet I don’t trust him with my own best stuff.

So while brushing my teeth, I prayed, “Lord teach me to trust you. I give you Cyndi, and all she means to me. I give you this time we have together that is so important to me. Teach me to trust you.”

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

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Future Value

Last week I was sipping a Chic-fil-A Diet Coke while glancing through the stories in Time Magazine’s May issue – The 100 Most Influential People – looking for sentences exactly like this one about Jeff Bezos of Amazon. It stopped my reading and my sipping. “Nobody else reinvests almost every cent of profit in growth, as Bezos still does. Amazon is immensely valuable today, and almost all of its value comes from the future.” (Peter Thiel)

I put down my drink, grabbed my highlighter, marked the article, then folded the magazine and put it in my backpack. I had caught a glimpse of how I want to live, how I want to be known, and I needed time to think about it.

Thiel’s description of Bezos is how we should all live. Our value should come from our future, and that only happens if we invest heavily in our own growth.

How do we do that? We must master the gifts God has entrusted to us. We can’t depend entirely on past glory or ancient skills, whether they are writing, teaching, music, engineering, cycling, running, sales, parenting, or whatever. Go to schools, go to workshops, learn the best practices, and adapt them to your own life and ministry.

One Bible verse that means more to me the longer I teach and write is Matthew 13:52. Jesus was speaking to His disciples when He said, “Therefore every teacher of the law who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven is like the owner of a house who brings out of his storeroom new treasures as well as old.” (NIV)

We need new treasures as well as old, new stories as well as old, new lessons to teach as well as old, new skills and habits as well as old, new insights as well as old. We have to learn new things if we want to change the world.

Back when I was in city government I was saddened by how few of my fellow councilmembers took the time to attend state-wide conventions and workshops. How did they plan to learn new things? How could they know if our city was being smart? Did my colleagues think they were already as smart as they ever needed to be? To be honest, I hope I never become that person. I hope I’m never as smart as I need to be. I hope I’m always learning new ideas and concepts, always open to change and ready to grow.

Another part of adding value to our future is laying down our past successes. It’s too easy to coast for years using that great Bible story you worked up ten years ago. So it was a great lesson and it still makes sense - move on and learn a new story. Stop leaning on the one book you published so long ago. Of course it’s still a good book and you still believe everything you wrote, but talk about what you’re learning today. Stop playing that same tired guitar solo, and learn something new.

Invest your time and energy in growth. Your value comes from the future. Your best days are ahead of you, not behind you

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

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Finding Your Voice

Every morning last week Cyndi and I woke up to the sound of birds. Loud birds. Our bedroom, if you call it that, had only one wall and the rest was open to the world. We couldn’t help but experience the chorus. It was obvious even to non-birders like us the overly ambitious bird just outside our “bedroom” was calling, or warning, more of its own species on the next ridge, and they were responding in kind.

They didn’t seem to care about all the other birds calling around them. They knew exactly which voice was the correct on, and were interested only in that.

I sat in my lounge chair writing in my journal while listening to birds and thought about how quickly I can recognize Cyndi’s voice in a crowded room. We’ve invested over 35 years learning each other.

And yet, I have to admit I’m still learning my own voice. Finding that voice is the life struggle for any artist, certainly any writer. I’m always surprised when readers tell me they hear my voice when they read my writing, because I’m never certain. I don’t think we develop or learn a voice from scratch as much as discover and deepen it. But it takes a lot of writing, a lot of copying, a lot of reading, for our true voice to find its way out.

For me, the biggest influences in finding my voice has been teaching and reading.

In teaching I’ve learned how to bring my far-flung abstractions into focus so others can follow what I’m saying. There are moments when I’m teaching in Compass or Iron Men when I realize I said something in my authentic voice, and it’s sobering. I often retreat to the corner after class, seeking quiet and solitude because, I can’t believe what just happened.

As a writer I never witness the active response of my readers, but when teaching I am constantly aware of the responses of listeners. Teaching has made me a better writer, and has helped me find my voice.

And reading certain authors has shaped my writing voice. Calvin Trillin has taught me than anything can be funny. Austin Kleon taught me to let people in on the writing process and not just the finished product. In reading Donald Miller I’ve learned to love my readers and trust what I’ve written matters to their lives. Erwin McManus has encouraged me to stop fretting, sit up straight like a man and be the artist, and to wear my creativity on the outside where it shows.

But none of those have crafted my voice as much as a lifetime of knowing God.

In his book, The Artisan Soul, McManus wrote, “When we hear God’s voice, we finally find our voice. When we find our voice, we discover we finally have something to say, and that when we speak, our words have power.”

If we want our true voice to speak or write words that matter, we have to first hear God’s voice. It’s God that gives us something to say that has lasting value.

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

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How Do You Know When You're Ready?

How do you know if you’re ready to do what you’ve been called to do? There is the story about Moses, who fled for his life into the wilderness after killing an Egyptian. We don’t know exactly why Moses killed the man, but he probably thought this would be the beginning of his ministry as leader and deliverer of his people.

Patrick Morley wrote, “Moses wasn’t ready to do what he had been called to do. His character wasn’t deep enough to support his calling – at least not yet.” (How God Makes Men)

How often is that the reason our calling hasn’t kicked in yet? We say we are in training for our calling, like the young future Zorro in the training circle, but assume that training is about skill, not about deepening our character.

I wrote in the margin of my book: “Is it possible to know this about yourself?” Of all the things we can’t accurately judge, our own character must be the greatest. How can we possibly know the depth of our own character? How do we know if we’re ready?

My friend Bob Cain asked, “So, if it's not possible to know that about yourself (the depth of your character), who do you have to do that for you?

That’s a fair question. There aren’t many friends, no matter how close, who’ll say, “You just aren’t grown up enough yet to do that. Wait a few years.”

About twenty years ago, in 1995, I wanted to lead a class at my church on the Great Books of the Christian Faith. I wanted to start with Knowing God by J. I. Packer. I had a study guide, I read and re-read the book during the summer, and made notes in the margin. I was  ready to teach.

When I shared with Cyndi my dream of a Great Books class she smiled sweetly the way she does to let me know she loves me and believes in me and is proud of me, and asked, “But who would come to a book class besides Bear?”

Well, I didn’t know who would come, but surely there would be a few people. I thought it was a great plan to read Augustine and Luther and Eusebius and Calvin, and discuss their approaches to Christianity, and together we’d all grow smarter about God and have a better understanding of how we should live. I thought it was a worthwhile project, and I was the one to lead it.

Well, about two weeks before my class was scheduled to begin, the church asked me to teach something else instead – they had a video series about – I don’t remember, but I think it was relating to one another as church members – and they wanted me to teach that instead of the book. Well, bummer.

I mean, I was flattered they asked me to lead a class normally taught by staff. I appreciated the confidence they had in me, and I knew I had the skills and heart to teach the material. But I also felt the loss of a dream, and I wondered if someone at my church thought I was too much of a light-weight to teach Packer, or thought Knowing God was the wrong book. I mostly took it as a personal hit.

The video study went well but it was like a lot of canned courses I’ve taught where they take one magazine article and stretch it into a twelve week course. Classes like that are difficult to teach after everything has been said two or three ways and you still have eleven weeks to go.

I never mentioned my idea of a Great Books course after that, except to Cyndi and Bear. I was not the guy to do it, if indeed it should be done.

But then one morning not long ago it occurred to me that I had been leading a men’s book study class on Thursday mornings. We call I Iron Men. I was doing what I once dreamed of doing, only twenty years later

However, the difference was way more than twenty years. I had become a different person. Back in 1995 my goal was that we’d all become smarter in the ways of God; now, my goal is that we’ll grow together in our Christian walk, a band of brothers on a common mission. Twenty years ago my focus was on books and intellect; now it’s about relationship and leadership and how we help each other live as men.

It was a surprise to realize I was doing what I wanted to do so long ago. I wasn't ready back then; I was living the wrong message. I had to personally grow into the man God needed. My heart needed more training.

Thinking again about Moses, it was during those hot lonely wilderness years that he went from being a spoiled, privileged, rich kid to a patient, persistent, and wily backcountry survivor. Morley wrote, "What Moses no doubt thought was abandonment was actually equipping."

I once saw Gary Barkalow pull out a claymore, one of those huge Scottish swords, as in William Wallace, and swing it around the stage. He said, “This is a powerful and lethal weapon; but imagine going into battle with a sword this big before you’ve been trained to use it. You would hurt as many of your own men as the enemy. Having a powerful weapon from God can be dangerous if used before God makes you ready.”

That would’ve been Moses had he moved into leadership forty years too soon. That would have been me had I taught the class twenty years too soon.

Back to Bob Cain’s question – How can we know? – I don’t think we can know ourselves. But if we keep learning, and training, and equipping, and being patient, God won’t keep us sidelined forever.

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

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