Are You Practicing?

Do you enjoy practicing? As in, music, or dance, or sports … those are the categories I think of most when I hear the word practice. Maybe none of us enjoy practice as much as we enjoy the results. Erwin McManus wrote (in Wide Awake), “You can’t just sit back and hope that the life you long for will simply come to you.” Anything worthwhile is hard work and inconvenient.

When I was in college I fell in with a group of leaders and students that taught the value of spiritual practices. It was what I needed to hear and do, so I joined right it. At the time, for me, that meant scripture memory, bible study, teaching, and group worship.

As I got older my list expanded. To my surprise, running became a spiritual practice even though spiritual pursuit had no bearing on why I started running in the beginning. It’s as if God saw me doing something on a regular basis, in a systematic way, and decided to join me. In my new post knee-replacement era I’m walking instead of running; I expect walking will become a spiritual practice in the same way that running did, but only time will tell. Maybe cycling, also.

And my list of spiritual practices has continued to grow. Most of my hiking and backpacking is in pursuit of God, and I expect to hear from him on the trail.

Writing has certainly become a spiritual practice for me, helping me learn what God is telling me, setting it in my life, allowing me to work out my theology and understanding. Writing also allows me to tell the story and share the lessons I learn. It is in those stories that I see the real work of God.

But there is more to this than modifying our behavior and reshaping our heart. The Apostle Paul wrote: “But I discipline body and make it my slave, so that, after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified.” (I Cor. 9:27, NAS)

What specifically did Paul mean when he said he disciplined his body? I doubt Paul went to weight lifting classes. I think he probably was a runner at some point in his life because he referenced it so often in his writing. He also mentioned boxing in the verses just before these; do you thing he was into boxing? In the NLT translation of the Bible, the verse says, “I discipline my body like an athlete, training it to do what it should.”

We don’t know what disciplines Paul engaged in, but he was a man who believed in spiritual practices.

But even more mysterious than Paul’s workout discipline is this: what did he mean that he would be disqualified?

Disqualified from what? Preaching? Writing? Traveling? Mentoring? Was he afraid he might lose his turn, or people would stop listening, or maybe he’d die too soon?

It’s unsettling that I could be disqualified from teaching because of the way I take care of my physical body. I don’t want to be disqualified because I was too soft or too lazy to treat my body like an athlete, training it to do what it should. So I keep practicing.

Here’s the thing. I’ve learned that if I do the practices: read from my Bible every day, read spiritual books, pray, find time for solitude and searching, share and teach what I’ve learned, memorize and meditate, get around other believers and let them influence me, listen to good teaching and preaching … and all that; well, if I’m true to the practices, the truth comes to me. Through constant practice, Christianity makes sense beyond my rational mind; it makes sense in my heart and soul.

Spiritual practices don’t earn us an audience with God, or mark us as serious disciples, but the process of repetition changes us, changes our heart, changes our motives, and changes our character, to be more like Jesus. Spiritual practices don’t attract God’s attention, but they focuses our own attention toward God.

How about you? What are your regular spiritual practices? How do they help you know and understand God?

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

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Dreaming Again

Yes, I will admit this right up front: I’m dreaming again. My new titanium knees have resurrected my hope of distance and adventure. Since July, I think of my life in two phases … BNK (before new knees) and ANK (after new knees). Not the handiest set of acronyms, I’ll admit, but the delineation is sure to loom large in my life.

Since I’m not supposed to run, at least not yet, I’ve been walking a lot. And I’ve been adding my walking mileage to my run log, the log I’ve kept since 1978. I write down the miles I walked in the same way I used to write down the miles I ran.

I don’t log all of my walking miles – as in, walking around the house or walking down the halls of my office, etc. – but I include miles I walk specifically for walking’s sake. It’s more about intention than frequency or pace.

In October, I walked 30 miles, at about 3 miles a pop, the most I’ve covered in one month since March 2013. In fact, of the 76 miles I’ve logged so far in 2015, 56 have happened in September and October.

This is representative of my new ANK life. I can cover ground again without little or no pain for the first time in about ten years. And even though I’m walking instead of running, my pace isn’t that much slower than my hobbling runs from just a few months ago

Why does this matter? Because it represents my return to dreaming - of long distances, marathons, epic hikes in the mountains, backpacking with my grandchildren, and covering significant ground with my feet. It represents the return of hope to my daily life.

I’ll log another 19 miles in the next couple of weeks, and when I do, it will put me over 37,000 lifetime running/walking miles. I doubt I’ll spend much time celebrating since it’s the sort of landmark that has little appeal to anyone other than the logger. Maybe I’ll have a milkshake.

Here’s the thing. I first started running in May 1978 to win the heart of a girl. I’d just completed my first senior year at the University of Oklahoma when I came home to Hobbs, New Mexico to work as a summer intern for Getty Oil Company. Within my first week home, I realized my well-thought plans for the summer were in trouble: the girl I’d dated the previous summer, who attended New Mexico Junior College in Hobbs, and whom I’d hoped to date again, had been seeing a track-and-field jock during the school year. He was a javelin thrower, of all things. How could I compete for her attention against a guy like that? I needed something besides good grades in college to win her back.

Once I understood my dilemma, I did something uncharacteristic for me - something that shaped the rest of my life. I decided to go for a run. If I had to compete with a jock for the affections of this girl it had to be something physical, and running seemed to be the easiest thing to take up. It was the first voluntary run of my life. In fact, other than an occasional touch football game or church softball game, it was my first voluntary attempt at any sport besides ping pong.

Never did I imagine that running would become instrumental in how I lived my life, how I planned my time, where I traveled for fun and leisure, how I met my friends, and how I ended up serving in local government. The daily dose of being alone on my feet became my best spiritual meditations. I didn’t intend for running to become such an integral part of my life. All I wanted to do on that fateful day in late May 1978, when I put on my shoes and stumbled through three miles, was to win back my girl.

And now, 37 years later, ANK, I’ve already planned a Guadalupe Peak hike in November and a 5K at Thanksgiving. Who knows where hope will take me next.

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

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Making Plans

Yes, I am a planner. I like to plan things out, knowing that plans always change. I’m fully aware well-made plans rarely work out the way you thought they would, but I’d rather have to re-plan on the fly than depend on random luck. Yes, I even plan out vacations. I make a spreadsheet calendar to ensure we have time and opportunity to squeeze in all we want to do. I also include lots of downtime and free time. I’m not trying to stay busy; I’m trying to stay organized.

I enjoyed planning our trip to Italy last May. It was nerve-wracking, for sure, because I didn’t want to make a mess for everyone else, but I loved looking through guide books and maps, looking for places to run or bike, planning what books to take, watching movies to get in the Italian mood. I even loved building my spreadsheet with ideas for each day.

Calendars are great visual presentations of data. They’re like time-maps, and I love maps. I crave the big-picture, high-altitude view of everything. I want to see it all, all at once. As a result, I don’t like calendars that make you turn the page at the end of each month since no one lives their lives like that. I want my calendars to flow, week after week after week, like a continuous river of time, like an endless map.

I’m not alone enjoying the planning process. Psalm 139:16 says, “You saw me before I was born and scheduled each day of my life before I began to breathe. Every day was recorded in your book.”

So God is a planner, a calendar-lover, too. Can’t you picture him holding a calendar in one hand and a pen in another, making entries for our future, all while closely watching each of our complex parts forming up into a baby?

Is that the level of attention God pays to us? It sure seems that way when I read Psalm 139. It sounds very hands-on and detailed.

When I think about our future I’m happy to know God has scheduled every day. He even schedules times when we should stop and rest. Knowing God has taken that level of concern, down to the day-by-day detail, gives us confidence and hope for tomorrow.

At a recent men’s retreat we looked at Ephesians 1:5, which says, “He predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—.” (NIV)

Typically when reading this verse we skid to a stop at the word “predestined” and start arguing and fighting. But this time we considered the same verse from The Message translation: “What pleasure he took in planning this!” And that’s when I started smiling. I loved the notion that God took great pleasure in planning us.

It made God happy to plan our life, the people he would pull into our circle, the words he would give us to speak and teach and write, the wake we would leave behind. I wonder if God went around showing off his spreadsheet (like I do) because he was so proud of his planning.

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Choosing Between Two Trails

Just that morning in our men’s book study class where we are reading Plan B by Pete Wilson, we’d discussed the things that paralyze us with fear and why does that still happen to grown men. We agreed we worried more when our wives or family were on a road trip without us than if we ourselves were driving. Being the driver brings a bit of confidence to react and get out of jams. None of us said this out of arrogance, or the delusion that men are better drivers, but rather as our way of coping with manly responsibilities in an uncertain world. As in, if I am driving at least I have an opportunity to avoid the danger, but if someone else is driving all I can do is worry.

And then, before the day was over, one of our own was driving east on I-20 toward Ft. Worth, with his wife and son, when he hydroplaned across a rain puddle and flipped his Explorer into the service road barrow ditch. His family was uninjured, but the vehicle was totaled. It happened so quickly, in a blink.

Clark hinted at the scariest part of the accident for most men when he texted, “… there’s the fact that God protected my family when I could not.” That’s not an easy or painless lesson for husbands and fathers to learn. While we are grateful for God’s protection, we are hurt that we ourselves could do so little.

In my book, Remodeled, I told the story of the time my 5-year-old son was hit by a car while riding his bike. I was riding my own bike three feet behind him when it happened. I wrote: “I worked hard at being a good dad, but even if I drilled my children on the rules of the road and coached them how to ride in traffic, they were still vulnerable to crazy people driving too fast. Bad things happen to good people even when good people do the right thing. My inability to protect my son was frightening.”

We get frightened because there is that residual voice in our head telling us we are all alone, it’s all up to us.

After hearing about the rollover I texted Clark: “Two possible reactions: (1) I trusted God with my family and he let this happen to us; (2) I trusted God with my family and he protected us.”

Both paths of analyzing the crash are defensible, and for most of us, both ways live in our mind at all times. How do we chose? Are we deceiving ourselves, seeing God's hand when it’s nothing more than random disaster?

Too often we find ourselves staring down two distinctively different trails through life: one is the trail of faith, the other the trail of cynicism. We have to choose which trail to walk, every day.

But faith is more than a choice; it is a gift from God. The fact that we even have a choice, that we are not doomed to cynicism, is a gift.

We see God’s rescue because we look down the path of faith. And that very faith is a gift from God. Unless he gives us faith, we have no choice but to see rollovers as proof that we are alone. Our hearts will glow angry and bitter

God has given us a gift of faith to see his hand among the Plan Bs and stave off bitterness that poisons the soul. But seeing the world through the eyes of faith requires practice on our part. We have to choose how we’ll see. We have to choose a trail.

And so, my challenge to you today: choose the path of faith. Make it your daily practice.

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

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Big Boy Music

Last week, Thursday night, I got to play with the big boys. I played trombone with the Midland College Jazz Band, and we shared the billing with - get this - Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra (JLCO). It was amazing.

Since the JLCO was the feature of the evening, they set up their own gear on the giant stage, and we used it. This, for me, meant a chair, music stand, microphone, and two music clips. It felt as if the kids had snuck onto the stage when the big boys weren’t looking and made themselves at home.

My daughter Katie posted this on Facebook: “Can't wait to hear the stories and see the pictures of my dad, getting to rock out with his Silver Sonic trombone while opening for jazz royalty Wynton Marsalis tonight!!!!!”

But the meaning of the evening went even deeper. My brother Carroll posted this: “Music is strong in my family, and that is powerful. We may not be the best at it, but that's not at all the point. What is the point is that it is a bond, a glue, a presence, even a bragging right sometimes. It doesn't even have to come up that often, because when it does, we circle the wagons. Tonight is one of those nights, and I could not be more excited for my brother.”

I was 12-years-old when Carroll was born and I started college the year he started first grade. And so, we had very little in common. I grew up with 60s rock-and-roll, Richard Nixon, the Viet Nam War, and wore bell-bottomed Levi’s. Carroll grew up with 80s rock inspired by MTV, Ronald Reagan, and wore zippered parachute pants and Vans.

Through the years the thing we had between us was music. I played trombone and loved music, Carroll played drums and loved music. I’ve always been a utility player, able to handle my parts but never a soloist. Carroll has always been a percussion prodigy, earned his living playing for many years, and he is the finest drummer I’ve ever played with.

I don’t know how far back music goes in our family; what I meant is, I don’t how many generations were musicians, but I credit my dad with the fact I am a musician today. He never pushed or pulled me into music, but he certainly inspired me. Because of my dad I grew up knowing music was something grown men did regularly. It was a manly pursuit. So I pursued it.

And just like my Dad, I married a musician. Cyndi played melodic percussion (bells, chimes, xylophone, etc.), and we play together in various church ensembles as often as possible.

Playing my trombone, something I’ve done consistently since 1968, is not only fun, but it is completely physical. I use primarily my arm, lungs, and chops, but truly my entire body is part of the action. Especially my heart, which is the most important part. Music is a full-body experience. (Maybe that’s why electronic dance music leaves me cold … there aren’t enough body parts used to create it.)

Not only do I appreciate the physicality of playing music, and the deep family connection, but I love the tribal impact it has had on me. I once asked my music mentor, Rabon, “When we are together, I can play rhythms and hit high notes that I’m not good enough to play any other time. Why is that?”

He just laughed and shrugged his shoulders in his non-analytical way, as if to say it was all a mystery and it was all joy and maybe I should just let it happen.

Not willing to leave any thought unanalyzed, I said, “I think it’s because when we’re together I’m braver, and bolder; I’m a warrior standing beside my band of brothers and I can do more than I ever imagined.”

Rabon just nodded his head to agree.

Here’s the thing. I spent a weekend at a men’s retreat in the Colorado Mountains, and surprisingly, one of the things I left with was a renewed and reinvigorated appreciation for music in my life. Maybe because my roommate was a guitar player and worship leader and we talked music the entire weekend.

And then, four days after my retreat, I played an outdoor jazz concert with Wynton Marsalis and the JLCO. Although our skills were markedly different, we all, both bands, played our best, and there was music in our hearts. It lit me up, once again.

So much that I’ve been practicing my trombone at home, not a lot, but more than I have in twenty years. And I’ve been listening to J. J. Johnson and Jack Teagarden in my office. Who knows what will happen next. I’ll just have to follow the changes and try to keep up.

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Standing Alone

Sometimes, most of the time, I’ll admit, I prefer being alone. I can entertain myself without getting bored, and most of my best ideas and insights come from being alone. But there are times when I look around to discover myself standing alone, and it is a complete surprise. Last week, while eating at Chic-fil-A in Love Field, Dallas, waiting for my flight to Denver, I read in my Daily Bible from Daniel 10, about his last grand vision from God. It says, “I, Daniel, was the only one to see this. The men who were with me, although they didn’t see it, were overcome with fear and ran off and hid, fearing the worst.” (10:7, MSG)

I wrote in the margin of my Bible, “That is a hard part of leadership, being left standing alone.”

Apparently Daniel didn’t start out the day alone, but when the vision started it was so frightening the men who were with him fled even though they didn’t actually see the vision. Something scared them. Maybe it was the energy in the air, or Daniel’s reaction, a sound or vibration, who knows, it doesn’t say. But Daniel was left standing alone.

And so, when reading this, I thought about the two opposing sides of leadership. Leaders cannot function without community, yet leaders are often alone. Leaders cannot lead, cannot succeed, cannot know or understand God’s will, on their own. They need other people, valiant men and women. Not only that, but being a leader means intentionally bringing other people alongside. It is an obligation.

Yet, so often, the leader is left standing alone, especially when the scary visions begin.

One of my greatest leadership revelations of recent years happened on the porch of Sam’s house in Ann Arbor, MI, when I was writing and thinking about my calling, trying to put it on paper, meditating and praying on the idea of being a lifelong pilgrim for Jesus, when out of the blue I prayed, “God, I don’t want to finally find you, standing alone.”

I don’t want to find myself standing before Jesus and hear him say, “Well done, Berry, you searched for me your entire life, and now here you are, with more understanding and insight than most.”

It was in that moment I realized what had been true all along but I didn’t understand it or know how to articulate it. My life’s calling was not merely to pursue God, which is what I thought, but to bring people with me. I could imagine Jesus saying, instead of congratulations and well done, “Let me see who you have with you.”

But yet, there’s Daniel. He was left alone when the visions began. So much of leadership means being alone, whether setting up chairs, or making coffee, or studying to put together a talk, or gassing up the bus at 5:00 AM, or walking hallways all night looking for leaks. At some point, the number of people willing to stay gets very small. In Daniel’s case, they ran away.

There is another thing about this. Daniel didn’t remain standing before the vision because he trusted God more than the other guys, or because he wasn’t scared. In fact, verse 10:8 says he was “left alone after the appearance, abandoned by my friends, I went weak in the knees, the blood drained from my face.” (MSG)

Daniel stayed because that’s what leaders do, they stay. Daniel stayed because that’s what people who want to hear from God do, they stay. Even when they are frightened and weak in the knees.

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Breaking Patterns

Wednesday I walked for two miles, my first time to walk that far since surgery. Not only that, but my average pace was about eighteen minutes per mile, which I would’ve once considered slow, but in my current rehab era seemed quick. By the time I got back to the gym I was already rethinking my plan to enter the Kick for Kenya 5K and ready to move up to the 10K. I was feeling full of my own, new, bad self. I finished the workout with my regular prayer: (1) Thanks for keeping me safe, (2) Thanks for giving me the desire to keep moving, and (3) Thanks for one more turn.

But later Wednesday afternoon as I walked down the basement hallway connecting the parking garage to office elevators I discovered I was now praying, “Thank you for this talk, you know, it really eased my mind.”

It occurred to me I was praying with song lyrics, from the Chicago V album, released in 1972.

I hope it’s OK to pray in those terms. David prayed with poetry, surely I can pray in song lyrics.

I was so encouraged by my two-mile walk I drove to Run This Way and bought a pair of Hoka Clifton running shoes, which are extremely cushioned, not because I’m ready to start running again, which is the most frequent question I’m asked, I promise not to consider a return for six to twelve months, giving my legs time to completely heal and rebuild strength, but to make walking softer and more fun. And, to signal that a new day has arrived.

I knew I needed to jump-start this next phase of life. I’m certainly guilty of what Patricia Ryan Madison wrote, that “age produces an increased tendency to rely on known patterns, if not all-out petrifaction.” Buying those Hokas was a departure from my known patterns.

Sometimes incremental change, the very sort of change I’m most likely to make, doesn’t really change anything. We end up pushing things around, re-arranging furniture, making small tweaks, living our lives in the way. Sometime we need bold changes.

I’m using my summer of new knees as a launching pad for the next phase, or next remake, or next reboot, of life. After all, I’m firmly on the eve of my 6^th decade and I don’t want to waste the opportunity to make the most of it. I don’t know how many more major fresh starts I have left.

I told my friend Rabon, in our conversation about the possibility of jazz lessons, that I wasn’t doing anything scary nowadays, and that scared me a little. I have a great tendency to settle into the things I do well, the things I like, and put off the things that scare me, the risky things. And I don’t mean risky, as in rock climbing or hang gliding – those are nothing. I mean the risky things that I might fail at and damage people’s impression of me and then I’m stuck living with that. How can I be brave if I don’t do scary things?

So besides jazz, the scary things I’m beginning to think about again are half-marathons or marathons, and long-distance backpacking. And finishing my next book, the one I’ve been massaging and manipulating for over a year. I have to stop worrying whether anyone will think it’s good writing, or a worthy topic, and write what’s on my heart. I need to let it go, to quote my granddaughters.

Sakyong Mipham wrote, “Movement is good for the body, and still is good for the mind. To lead a balanced life, we need to engage and be active, and to deepen and rest.” (Running With The Mind of Meditation) What Mipham didn’t say was that both movement and rest speak to our souls, and amplify our spiritual journey toward God.

St. Augustine wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you." I expect to find continued rest in God as I find ways to break my known patterns. Who knows where this journey will lead.

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Wild Places

“Why does the desert have such a hold on me?” was the question I found scribbled one of my old 3x5 cards. That’s a good question. The desert doesn’t have trees or water or shade, three of life’s best gifts to humans. So why do I keep going back to the desert mountains?

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

Specifically, I enjoy the Guadalupe Mountains, even though hiking and backpacking there can be very difficult. I love to sit up on Bush Mountain or Hunter Peak and look out across the desert expanse and imagine ancient oceans and infinite possibilities.

I need wild places in my life, and I haven’t been in a wild place in at least two years. That’s too long.

It’s just that with my deteriorating knees I couldn’t physically handle the trails up to the ledges, and any wild place I could drive to wasn’t truly wild. The closest I’ve come to a wild place is a mountain ridge I ran to last May, up a long winding well-maintained dirt road, if you are generous enough to consider what I did as running. I was uncomfortable (= in pain) the entire time but I kept going because the top was calling out my name, and besides, we were in Italy and I thought this would be a noble outing in case it turned out to be my last entry in my running log, a log that traces back to 1978.

It was hard work, and a stunning view of Tuscany, but it wasn’t very wild. I’m glad I hobbled to the top, but it didn’t feed the hunger in my heart for a wild place.

I need to feel dirt under my feet. I need to live off of whatever I can carry on my back. Why? Because God speaks to me most often when I’m moving, and when I’m vulnerable. Dirt trails have become a big part of my spiritual journey, and being on top of mountains helps keep my eyes open to the larger, wider, wilder world.

Barbara Kingsolver wrote, “We need it to experience a landscape that is timeless, whose agenda moves at the pace of speciation and glaciers.” (Small Wonder)

The wild place I immediately thought about when reading Kingsolver’s quote was Hunter Peak in the Guadalupe Mountains of Texas. It is a noble and brave place, and certainly wild. While the elevation is only 8,368’, small when compared to mountains of the world, it demands a vigorous hike, climbing 2,540’ elevation in 4.5 miles. Hunter Peak gives you a magnificent panorama of Guadalupe Peak, the highest point in Texas.

The wilderness overtakes me when I sit just below the ridge facing east, so that all I can see is the harsh and prickly slopes broken only by dramatic cliffs, all of which drop suddenly 2,500’ to the Chihuahuan Desert. On a clear day you can easily see over a hundred miles to the east and south.

The starkness is breathtaking in its raw unconcern for the hiker. There is nothing in this scene friendly to man, and nothing that cares whether or not man crosses. It’s complete and self-contained and stingy, offering no comforts to sooth a human being. Oddly enough, it’s that very indifference that speaks to my heart. Again, from Barbara Kingsolver: “Looking out on a clean plank of planet earth, we can get shaken right down to the bone by the bronze-eyed possibility of lives that are not our own.”

The reason I rediscovered my old 3x5 card (with the question on it) was because I was digging through my backpacking file and dreaming of future adventures. Now that I have brand new knees I’m once again hungry for those favorite wild places. As my friend Paul Ross likes to say, “My boots are dancing in the closet.”

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

September Reboot

September is a season for fresh starts. In fact, since in my opinion September should be the beginning of fall, I’m taking advantage of this change of seasons by reengaging with my own life. I’ve always looked forward to the beginning of school season as a return to structure and predictability after the chaos of summer, and I still think of it that way even two years after Cyndi retired from teaching and decades after our own children finished school.

I don’t even mind the sudden intrusion of school zones. The yellow flashing lights are reminders we are finally back to normal and it is now time to reengage.

Because I am a creature of discipline and structure and process, I do my best work when I have a system that works, a place to record progress, and a reminder what to do next. I will go to great lengths of effort and time to find the best system, and once I’ve found it, I will not change my pattern unless forced by extreme circumstances.

For example, I have been using the same log for recording miles I’ve run (or now, biked) for over twenty years.

For example, I record my blood pressure, heart rate, and body weight every morning. I put the numbers into Excel so I can generate plots. I intend to track the physical factors that could actually kill me someday if I forget to take care of them.

For example, I have a black backpack I keep in my pickup, and it contains the items I need to begin each morning: my Daily Bible, my journal, and whatever book I happen to be reading. It also has other things, like reading glasses, pens, headphones, etc., but those are in the backpack to serve the first two items. So when I grab my backpack and head to my favorite booth, I know what to do with my first moments of the morning. And so, my day is better, happier, more productive, and more understanding.

I am currently working on the processes and projects that will carry me through this next season of life. It feels like I’m surfacing again from weeks of recovery, rehab, and house arrest, all due to knee replacement surgery. I feel like Gale and Evelle climbing out of the mud in Raising Arizona.

I’m happy to be riding my bike outside on the streets again, in the sun and wind, even if the doctor only allows me twenty minutes per ride per day. It is my return to discipline and routine, and I am happier for it.

I’ve also been paying close attention to how I walk, trying to erase the ten-year muscle memory of limping and waddling. I’m lifting my head and neck, keeping both feet pointing forward, using my core muscles, and bending my knees. To be honest, it feels awkward, like I’ve morphed from walking like Granny Clampett to walking like Chewbacca.

Lauren Winner wrote this in her book, Still, “Every ten years you have to remake everything. Reshape yourself. Reorient yourself. Reboot.” I intend September 2015 to be my next remake. My new knees will change who I am and what I do and say. They have already changed my dreams.

Whenever I record my (twenty minute) bike rides in my logbook I can see the future, and my future looks like longer rides, epic backpacking trips, long-distance walks, stronger legs, and pain-free knees. The return to pattern and discipline is the return to life.

I hope this September is your season for change, your opportunity for fresh starts. My challenge to you is this: Ask God to speak to you about your future; ask Him to give you the courage to start over and reboot.

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

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Transitions

After pump class last Friday morning I complained to Cyndi about the new shoulder workout track, and how they expect us to bounce up and down, from pushups on the floor to standing barbell presses. They repeat the pattern two or three times; it feels like doing burpees. I’ve never enjoyed that sort of exercise – I want to stay up when I am up, or stay down on the floor when I am down. And now, since I am still babying my new knees, it takes me even longer to move from standing to floor, back to standing, and back to floor.

Cyndi agreed with my complaint, and then she said, “Well, you are slow at transitions.”

It occurred to me she meant more than exercise routines in the gym. I think she was tapping into the truth that I am slow at all of life’s transitions.

What I mean by life’s transitions are those unstable intervals when we cross from something familiar to something unfamiliar. Most are small and pass by unnoticed. Some, however, are major disruptions and force us to re-examine our values and lifestyle.

This summer has been one of those major disruptions, one that was planned and anticipated, but I’m ready for it to be finished. The good news is, I have new knees and my joint pain is gone. The (temporary) bad news is that I still have muscle pains and stiffness from the surgery, making it hard to find a comfortable position to sleep.

I expect those pains to go away, and in fact they are receding. I feel much better this week than last, and I know I will feel even better next week. I can feel the transition happening as it happens.

It’s just that I want to feel better right now. I want to get on my bike and ride for two hours. I want to go to the mountains and hike up Tejas Trail with my backpack on my back.

I have to remind myself that what I went through was not a minor procedure. When I look at the disappearing scar on my knees it is easy to forget that only a few weeks ago they used power tools and angle grinders and tourniquets to, as Cyndi reminds me, “cut off my leg,” and reassemble it with new parts. It was major surgery and that sort of thing takes a while to heal.

I am being impatient because I can imagine a brighter future, one that I’ve only dreamed about for years, and now I’m ready to get on with it.

However, at the same time, I don’t want to waste this transition period. Moments of change and transition should never be ignored. Most of the time, our lives are too crowded and rushed to hear from God; it is during those intervals of upheaval when our heart is softest.

Transitions are gifts, opportunities to lean forward into the future and open our hearts to a fresh new word from God. And so, as I continue this long transitional essay, my prayer for you and for me is the same: Don’t let these times of change pass you by. Listen to God.

Well, I wrote this journal on Wednesday, before I had my first post-op visit with my doctor on Thursday. It went well, and he was happy with my progress. He told me I could take my bike outside as long as I didn’t ride more than twenty minutes at a time for at least two more weeks.

But he reminded me that the deep, inner stitches that I can’t see, take eight weeks to heal completely. Meaning my right knee is ready, but my left knee is only 50% healed. Meaning no matter how good I feel, or ready to move on with active life, I must go easy so healing can occur and I don’t tear myself apart.

Maybe some transitions take longer than we want because we need the time for the deep inner stitches, the ones we can’t see, to heal. Deep healing takes longer.

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.