Practicing Faith: What I Learn from Cycling

      Saturday morning, I rode in a cycling club 100K fun ride, the furthest I’d even thought about riding for two years. I had double knee replacement about eight months before this ride, and I’d been making incremental increases up the distance ladder. It was a plan that made the most sense physically, and to avoid injury, but it did little to energize my thinking. I expected this ride to open my mind, as well as give my knees a substantial test.

      Unfortunately, I made the rookie mistake of starting out too fast and trying to hang with the lead group longer than I should have. But I did that on purpose since most of my rides are alone; I seldom get a sense of how much more energy I should invest when I’m riding by myself. I knew I couldn’t stay with the lead pace all day, but I pushed hard to stay with them if I could.

      The good news from the ride was my knees felt great. They weren’t the limiting factor for the day. What slowed me down were my lungs. I couldn’t ride the pace with the rest of the group and still breathe.

      In truth, with full disclosure, I didn’t make the entire 100K. I was tired and defeated at the two-hour mark, which was also when the ride director suggested everyone turn around and head back home, so I uncharacteristically followed instructions and turned around.

      Riding back toward Midland was much harder than riding away. I fought against the strong southeast wind blowing against my right shoulder for miles, getting slower and slower, until another rider rode up beside me. Jeff is about eight feet tall and creates a formidable wind break. He maneuvered to the right-hand side of the road, between me and the wind, and motioned for me to tuck into his draft. He drug me for the next ten miles and would not let me fall off the pace. In fact, whenever I started to fade, he slowed down to catch me and bring me back to speed

      By the time I finished the day I had 58 miles, four miles shy of a 100K. I wasn’t disappointed, though; this was a significant jump in distance for me and I was happy to finish on my own two wheels. I accomplished all my objectives of the day: my knees felt great, my legs were shot, yet I could still stand up and walk around.

      As I loaded my bike into the pickup bed, I heard the other guys talk about their Sunday morning plan. The next morning, they were riding to Kermit and back, about 140 miles round-trip. It was a bit overwhelming to hear this knowing I was done for the weekend, but it gave me a better picture of what’s possible. I can’t do what they planned to do, now, but someday.

      There is a hardness that comes only from extended time in the saddle. I don’t mean butt or quad hardness, but mental hardness. And it doesn’t come any other way except from riding long distances on a regular basis and letting other riders pull you up to speed.

      It’s also true for running, backpacking, and even for yoga. My wife Cyndi can do back-to-back day-long workshops, at a master level, when I can barely last through a one-hour class. She’s put the extended time on her mat. She’s toughened up. And she’s let other people pull her up.

      While my regular twenty-mile rides meet the need for cardiovascular exercise and weight management, they do little to energize my thinking. I learned in my old life it was the long training runs (two hours or more) that reshaped my thoughts and opened my mind. I had to run far enough to find the meditation point. Now that I’m cycling, I must ride far enough.

      The Bible says, “When troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy.  For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow.” (James 1:2-3, NLT) We cannot grow without trouble, and we will not grow without perseverance. The good news is, we don’t have to endure on our own. We don’t have to fight the head winds by ourselves. We can draft behind those who are stronger and let them pull us. We can borrow faith from each other when life gets hard. Pull up close and let your brother or sister block the wind.

*   *   *   *   *

      The northwest wind was significant, and I knew I’d have to fight it the entire way, but I’d been dormant long enough. I needed to move.

      I rode my regular route to GreenTree only to discover the main boulevard was being rebuilt. Half the road in both directions had been scraped down to the caliche base, meaning I’d have to bump across a three-inch deep canyon and dodge giant road-building equipment. I was certainly on the wrong bike for that sort of thing, so I modified my route using the unaltered roads and found the distance I was looking for.

      Pleased with my problem-solving ability and manly wind-fighter legs, I headed back home on Wood Street. About two blocks east of Midland Drive I looked to the northern horizon and saw an epic Dust-Bowl-Days wall of sand blowing toward Midland. It was frightening, so the first thing I did was stop and take a photo, since no difficult task or situation goes undocumented nowadays. Then, I stood up on my pedals and took off for home. Could I make it home before the sand overtook me? We’d soon find out.

      A couple of drivers slowed as they passed me, lowering their windows and shouting advice while pointing at the approaching storm, assuming, I suppose, I hadn’t noticed it or else I wouldn’t be out riding. They wanted to talk to me, but I had no time for conversation. I was in a race against nature.

      I almost made it. I was about a half-mile from my house when the headwind and sand hit me full on, instantly dropping my speed from 15 mph to 7 mph.

      Here’s the thing: It makes no sense to complain about the wind or sand. Having lived in West Texas for 55 of my 63 years, I have no excuses. Only a fool would be surprised about something as permanent and persistent as the wind. I either keep my bike in the garage until perfectly calm days, which are few, or take on the challenge.

      Through the years I’ve learned most of my creativity comes from turbulence. I doubt I’d have much to write about if life suddenly went laminar. After an essay or two about how peaceful I felt, I would be done.

      My pursuit of God is born in turbulence, too. I’m afraid I would forget about God if I didn’t have to beg Him for help on a regular basis, every time I felt the wind and sand in my face.

*   *   *   *   *

      Last week’s bike ride near Durango, Colorado, wouldn’t have lit me up the same way had it been 30 miles on straight flat roads like the ones I ride all the time at home in Texas. It was the 20-mile descent and 8-mile climb that gave me a story and made the ride worth hauling my bike all the way up from Midland to Colorado in the back of Cyndi’s car.

      I rode the same route twice, Sunday and Tuesday, and on both occasions, I had to stop partway up the climb. My legs were tired, and my lungs were drained. I unclipped from the pedals, laid my chest on the handlebars, tried to breathe, and not throw up. The first day I was audibly gasping when a young rider dressed in black rode right past me, dancing in his pedals directly up the same road that had broken me. In my defense, I was thirty years older and thirty pounds heavier, and I live at 2,782’ elevation where the air is abundant instead of 8,222’, where it isn’t.

      I wasn’t embarrassed being passed as much as I was jealous. The truth is, no matter what you do there is someone who does it better and easier. Cyndi was once passed during the Boston Marathon by a guy running backwards and then by another guy wearing an Old North Church costume. I was passed in the New York City Marathon by a guy juggling three tennis balls. There is always someone.

      My Durango adventure wasn’t an epic bike ride in the world of cycling, but for me, in my current state of fitness, in my current state of age, in my current state of training, it was huge. If I lived in Colorado and rode every day, I would be making hard climbs regularly; but I don’t, and I don’t, so I can’t.

      I didn’t do hard rides exclusively. While in Durango I spent more time writing and reading while seated comfortably alongside the Animas River than I did riding my bike. But trying something hard is important to me. And having a story to tell is even more important. My writing is better, closer to the bone, if I invest first in cycling or running or hiking. It grounds me; settles my thoughts.

*   *   *   *   *

      I met David at the Valley View route, a good place to ride I’d heard about for years but hadn’t been brave enough to drive down and join myself to a group.

      I didn’t have big expectation; I wanted to get my first ride over with. I knew I would be stronger and longer if I rode with a group, but not being able to keep up with a group kept me hanging back on my own solitary rides.

      But riding alone means I’m not accountable to anyone for my speed, to keep going even when wiped out, to push and to keep pushing. I suppose I’m accountable to the data, which I record, but no one looks at it or cares about it but me.

      When riding by myself it’s easy to excuse my lack of speed because of the wind, or heat or cold. But in a group ride those excuses don’t hold up since everyone is fighting the same wind, heat or cold.

      Riding by myself I’m never called on to be brave. I can live my life being regular, never brave.

      It was cold when we rolled out of Valley View, and wind was about ten mph from the southwest. Our first turn into the wind David pulled us about 17 mph, so our second turn into the wind I rode up to do my turn. I held 17 mph. It was hard but I kept pushing and kept my pace up. It wasn’t until a mile or two later I felt the damage from pushing too hard too long into the wind. I had burned all my matches for the day in one effort. I knew instinctively I had blown myself out. I should have backed off the pace a bit, but I was working hard to be part of the group and do my share of the work.

      And there I was nauseous and achy, and I knew I’d have to cut the ride short so I could come back another day. I turned around and rode back to my truck, well actually David and Clair rode back with me to make sure I didn’t get lost, for an eighteen-mile day, when I had planned for more like forty miles.

      By the time I got home I was still miserable and achy, but now also chilled from my wet clothes. I had a specific ache in my left hamstring. I got undressed and crawled into bed, to calm down, to warm up, to recover. I stayed in bed an hour. And then I was OK. Except my left hamstring still hurt a bit.

      My observations from the morning: (1) it was a fun ride and group and a great route with very little traffic – all I’d hoped for; (2) today was a tough day for me and every cyclist has good and bad days – even the pros; (3) I am not used to dipping so deep into my reservoir of energy and power and I paid for it – I need more practice to learn my practical limits and have to recover better; (4) I was riding above my current training level (one of my goals for being there) and above my weight and fitness level; but (5) I was not close to my personal ceiling – I got a glimpse of how much better I can be if I’m brave more often – courageous enough to ride with good cyclists. I don’t exactly know my ceiling, but I know I’m not yet close.

*   *   *   *   *

      I rode with Brian yesterday at 5:00 pm. It was 103*F when we left my house for a 20-mile ride.

      Brian was among the tribe of voices, along with my brother Carroll, Mark, David, David, and Todd, who convinced me to try cycling when arthritis had damaged my knees too much for running. I quickly learned I could push myself on my bike and work my heart and lungs the way I used to do when running but could do no longer. My knees didn’t hurt on my bike, or even later after I go off my bike. I also learned, or remembered, how much fun it was to ride long and fly the through the air.

      When I first started riding, in June 2010, Brian was racing a lot and he was my hammerhead example and a rider I admired and looked up to. I didn’t plan on racing, felt too late to the game for that, but he had a big influence on me. I remember he loaned his collection of bike saddles so I could try them one-by-one and see which style worked best for me.

      So, when he sent a message asking if I wanted to ride, I was both happy and nervous. I knew it would be hot, but Brian lives in Saudi Arabia now, and is used to hotter conditions than I am, and I regularly ride at above 100* in Texas summer. The question was – can I keep up – but since he broached the subject, I figured he was already prepared to ride at my pace.

      It was a fun ride and we did lots of visiting and catching up, that is, when the wind wasn’t blowing into our ears and when cars weren’t zooming loudly past.

      I’m stronger when I’m with someone else.

*   *   *   *   *

      A few minutes ago, I got off my bike from a warm and windy April ride and started working on these stories. Like everyone else in the world, I’ve been stuck working from home and severely limiting my outside trips due to the COVID-19 epidemic. My best survival tool so far has been a daily run or ride. No one gets closer than thirty feet during either adventure, so I feel I’m keeping enough social distance.

      I’ve learned from past crises that I stay on point best when I commit to daily disciplines. The practices I try to do every day – read from my Daily Bible, write in my journal, ride or run – take on even more importance when the rest of life gets wobbly.

      It’s hard being by myself all day, even for an introverted loner like me. I’m stronger when I’m with someone else.

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

Practicing Faith: Connecting On The Trail

      It was bright and cloudless, 9:00 AM and 24*F, when I parked at the Chamisa Trail trailhead on Hyde Park Road. We were in Santa Fe for the week while Cyndi attended a workshop, and I had planned a two-hour hike, my first long trail adventure in many months. I wanted to judge whether my new, five-moth-old, after-market knees were ready for our Iron Men Guadalupe Peak hike in two weeks.

      As I gathered my gear and studied the map, I noticed there were two mostly parallel trails. A large sign read “Alternate Route More Difficult.” I decided the alternate route was the one for me; after all, this was intended to be a test.

      While the regular trail followed the fall line across the face of the mountain, the Alternate Route climbed straight up the drainage, meaning there were several steep climbs. I was careful to keep from slipping and banging my new knees. The trail was still covered with snow from yesterday’s storm, but I was using trekking poles to keep me stable on the ice.

      For the first thirty minutes my hands were uncomfortable cold, painfully cold, even with my gloves. Still, it was a beautiful morning and an incredible hike. After about 45 minutes I reached a trail junction where the Alternate Route joined the original Chamisa Trail, as well as the Saddleback Trail, which despite its name followed a ridge line.

      I followed the Saddleback Trail to the southwest for another 15 minutes, sticking to my original plan which was to go out for an hour then return. I wanted to give my knees a good test, but I also wanted to be able to function the rest of the day. Two hours seemed realistic.

      After I made my turnaround, on the way back toward the trailhead, I kept thinking about that sign and the Alternate Route up the mountain. How often do we willingly take the Alternate Route More Difficult in our everyday lives, not to make our journey harder but to make it significant? We’re not the sort of people who are satisfied with a simple easy hike through life but prefer to take on challenging projects day after day. The alternate route, the more difficult route, the meaningful route, calls out to us. Following our calling is never the easier trail.

      I spent years watching my parents live lives that were fully engaged with other people, giving away their talents and energy, choosing the Alternate Route More Difficult. And now, following family tradition, I feel called to help people live deeper lives with God. Even as I long for a simpler life I know I’ll never be happy if I’m not engaged with the Alternate Route.

*   *   *   *   *

      During the Thanksgiving holidays of 2015 we saw the movie, A Walk in the Woods, based on Bill Bryson’s book of the same name, about two unfit aging non-hikers attempting the Appalachian Trail. During one scene when they were hiking at night through blowing snow, Cyndi leaned over and said, “You wish you were with them, don’t you?” She was joking, I think, but I realized, yes, I did wish I was with them ... not in the snow in the dark, but certainly with them on the big trail.

*   *   *   *   *

      It’s the backpacker’s dilemma. We pack our fears. Load too much heavy gear into our packs, just in case.

      The more discomfort we’re afraid of, the more gear we pack, and the heavier our pack becomes. If we’re afraid of the dark mountain night, we pack extra flashlights and batteries. If we’re afraid of eating cold food, we pack extra fuel canisters. If we’re afraid of getting rained on, we pack an extra change of clothes. If we’re afraid of getting hungry, we pack extra food.

      Unfortunately, a heavy pack is a danger of its own. It’s exhausting to carry and alters our behavior on the trail by slowing us down, hindering good decisions, and draining our energy.

      The good news is, with more experience we can overcome many of our fears. I’ve learned how much food I’ll need on a three-day hike, so I don’t carry too much. I’ve learned how many meals to expect from a fuel canister, so I don’t weigh myself down with extras.

      Other fears, we learn to live with. I can suffer through a day in wet clothes, so I’ll leave the extras behind. I can survive a night without a flashlight, so I’ll leave the extra one at home. I can tolerate heavy hiking boots in the evening around camp, so I won’t pack my cushy camp shoes.

      It’s a learning process, this constant winnowing of fears and gear. It takes a lifetime to get our pack weight down.

      When I first began backpacking, I was convinced I’d already packed as light as possible. Everything in my pack seemed necessary and useful. It took time on the trail to learn what I needed and what I didn’t need. It took miles on the trail to know the difference between what was important for civilized survival and what was merely compensating for fear.

      One Sunday morning in our adult Bible study class we discussed a story found in Matthew 19 about Jesus and a rich young ruler. The story begins with the ruler asking a sincere and heartfelt question of Jesus: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” The man wanted to do the right thing, and he asked the right person.

      I picture the man holding his open checkbook and pen, the check already signed, ready to fill in the amount. He was willing to support Jesus’s ministry, or sponsor a wing on the children’s hospital, or give to the temple fund, or whatever Jesus asked.

      However, after quizzing the man about his obedient lifestyle, Jesus surprised him with this request: “Sell everything you have and give it to the poor, then follow me.”

      This was the last advice the man wanted to hear. It spoke to his deepest fears. How could he possibly give it all to the poor? Who would he be if he gave it all away? Who would listen to him if he weren’t rich? How could he do great and mighty acts for the kingdom if he himself was poor? Where would the weight and significance of his life come from?

      Hearing Jesus’ expectations made the ruler sad. He had started the conversation with big hopes of doing something grand, but now, all he could do was walk away.

      The young ruler’s backpack was full of fears: the fear that in the end he would be worse off than in the beginning; the fear he would lose more than he gained; the fear of financial insecurity; the fear of a life with no guarantees.

      The man wanted to follow Jesus, but his backpack of fears was too heavy for the trail Jesus called him to hike.

      When fear drives our behavior, we are not trusting God for our well-being. We must open our backpacks to God and release our grip on our own perfect gear for our own perfect hike.

*   *   *   *   *

      On our first hike up Guadalupe Peak, the highest elevation point in Texas, October 2003, it was Cyndi and me. We were at the top enjoying lunch, looking through the logbook conveniently provided by the National Park Service, reading comments from other proud hikers, when I asked Cyndi what she would write. Her eyes twinkled and she quoted Sam Gamgee: “I wonder what sort of story we’ve stumbled into?” We had no idea we’d still be hiking this mountain seventeen years later. It turned out to be a big story after all.

      Since our first hike with Cyndi I’ve summited the Peak more than twenty times, yet the hike remains as hard as ever. It never gets easier. I keep asking myself the same question: Why am I still doing this?

      Climbing to the top of a mountain is a satisfying experience. There is a definite goal to achieve, and the goal is easy to evaluate. You know for certain when you’re at the top. But hiking to the top of this mountain is not easy. The first hour is hot and steep and hard, a series of rocky switchbacks that gain elevation step after step. It is enough to send most casual hikers back down to their car. All you can do is put your head down and keep moving. There is no quick way to the top, no shortcuts, no secret passageways for people who buy the expensive tickets. You can’t conquer the Peak by reading or studying or going to workshops; you have to hike with your own two feet, and it is hard work.

      I enjoy taking groups up Guadalupe Peak; it’s a metaphor for how we achieve the most valuable things in life. The trail is hard and long with no shortcuts or quick fixes. Kathleen Norris described my own thoughts in her book, Dakota: A Spiritual Geography, “Enlightenment can’t be found in a weekend workshop. There is not such a thing as becoming an instantly spiritualized person.” She continued, “Americans seek the quick fix for spiritual as well as physical growth. The fact that conversion is a lifelong process is the last thing we want to hear.”

      I’m also attracted to the Guadalupe Mountains because of the view. It’s spectacular - breathtaking in its raw unconcern for the hiker. As you stand at the summit and gaze across the Chihuahuan Desert for a hundred miles, there is nothing visible friendly to man, nothing that cares whether humans cross. The desert is complete, self-contained, and stingy, offering no comforts to sooth a human being. Oddly enough, the indifference speaks to my heart. 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.” (Small Wonder) I need to be regularly reminded I’m not the center of life, and this desert convinces me better than anything else.

      Hiking these mountains reminds us we can push through almost anything hard, difficult, or painful if we have a compelling reason to not give up. During the last 25% of the hike when we’re all exhausted, our feet are sore, we’re dehydrated and long out of water, and we can see the parking lot way down there but there is no short cut back to the bus and there is no faster way down the mountain. Even then we keep moving.

      Later, once we are all off the mountain, settled into our seats for the long drive back to Midland, the bus buzzing with stories, injuries, photos, and hearts joining together. That part of the trip is one of my favorite moments of the day. Sharing our stories makes us brothers.

      I often say, “without a scar we don’t have a story.” It’s in the disasters, the injuries, the surviving, when our character is revealed, and a simple set of facts morphs from timeline to story.

      Since that October day with Cyndi in 2003, the trail up Guadalupe Peak has become one of my most important paths. From it I’ve learned 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.

*   *   *   *   *

      Early Monday morning, Labor Day, Cyndi, Clark, and I left Williams Lake (11,040’) and hiked down to my pickup at the trailhead, put on clean dry clothes, and made the five hundred mile drive home, through Taos, Santa Fe, Roswell, Plains, Seminole, and Midland.

      We’d spent the previous two nights at Williams Lake, and it rained all night the second night. It was cold, but never got down to freezing. I was proud of Cyndi – I know she was uncomfortably cold the entire time the whole trip. From parking lot to parking lot. For the rest of us the climb up to Wheeler Peak at altitude was the hardest part of the trip. For Cyndi that was the easy part … the cold was hardest on her.

      At 13,161 feet above sea level, Wheeler Peak is the highest mountain in New Mexico. Located in the Sangre De Cristo range at the southern end of the Rocky Mountains, inviting all to enjoy its majesty.

      This was our first ascent of Wheeler Peak, and it was grand. The trail from Williams Lake to the summit is about five miles round-trip and is ranked as a steep and difficult class 2 trail, with the final mile-and-a-half a series of switchbacks crisscrossing a rocky scree slope. The rocks never felt dangerous, even if the trail was often uncomfortable and slippery. It was well-maintained and not as dicey as I expected after reading online trail accounts.

      We spent about thirty minutes at the summit: taking photos, eating lunch, signing the logbook, and laughing at the college guys who lost the trail and were forced to scramble straight up the scree slope.

      We started down at the sound of approaching thunder, moving slowly at first. Descending is technically more difficult than ascending. During the climb up, your foot is planted before your body weight is shifted. The opposite is true on descent, and it’s less stable. Descent is basically a controlled fall, which is why most mountaineering accidents happen during the descent. It pays to be careful.

      We made it back to camp as the sky opened with rain and hail; we all got free afternoon naps in our tents while waiting out the storm. Later, after the rain stopped and we cooked our dinner, we talked about a term I read in Scott Jurek’s book, North. The idea of elective suffering, that we put ourselves though hard activities simply because we want to. We’re lucky to live lives that allow this, with enough discretionary time and money. So why choose to use our freedom to hike and tent-camp in the cold and wet? I don’t know, except to say there is value in elective suffering. There is the joy of success, a sense of accomplishment, and camaraderie of shared experience.

      But beyond that, there is added value in going beyond the casual effort. It amplifies the focus and risk and spiritual connection.

      Backpacking connects me to God. Even more than hiking. I love the day hikes we do, but they connect me with people, especially other men. Backpacking is different because there is more risk involved, more uncertainty, more opportunities for things to go wrong, more ways to be miserable for a day or two. And that risk, along with the isolation of the outback, opens me up to God, focuses me in some way, quiets my mental chatter,

*   *   *   *   *

      One Saturday I was blessed to join my friend David hiking in McKittrick Canyon. The canyon trail is famous for two things: (1) it’s the only easy hike in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park, and (2) it’s surprisingly, brilliantly colorful in early November.

      In general, nature couldn’t care less if we enjoy the view and it makes minimal effort to carve an easy path for us. But McKittrick Canyon is an exception, a gift from God.

      The hike is about seven miles round trip and is easy enough for young families. There were plenty of youngsters on the trail, and a few hikers older than either David or me, if you can believe that.

      This was meant to be a larger hiking group. I had twenty on my list last Monday, for a sixteen-passenger church bus. But what I knew would happen happened, family life took its toll, and one by one people dropped off the list, all with good reasons – weddings to attend, soccer games rescheduled, illness, tickets to a (losing) college football game. My list had deteriorated down to two hikers by Friday, including me.

      Life is all about choices, and we’re continually choosing between good options. As adults, and as parents, we must consider the whole family when choosing how to spend our Saturdays, so I wasn’t disappointed that people chose to do something else. But I had a choice to make, too. Should we go with only two people, or cancel the trip? The canyon is 3-1/2 hours’ drive from Midland, a 7-hour roundtrip, and we all have plenty to do on a Saturday.

      However, I didn’t want to cancel. I’d already bailed on one hike two months earlier for the same reason and I didn’t want to do it again. I also knew David had been planning for this for a long time. Besides being a great friend and fellow Bible teacher, David is in long recovery from a near-fatal heart attack. Back in the old days, before his attack, David joined us on much more difficult hikes to the summit of Guadalupe Peak. I wanted to be part of his return to the trails.

      The best time for hiking McKittrick Canyon is the last week of October and first week of November, when the changing leaves offer the most vivid and striking colors. In the middle of the arid desert mountains, the canyon surprises hikers with oak trees, ash trees, and big tooth maples. It’s a pretty place to be any time of the year, but in the fall when the leaves change colors, it’s stunning. The bright yellow and dark maroon leaves stand out against the gray-brown landscape, and it’s beautiful.

      At one of the water crossings we waited in line for the one set of steppingstones. A hiker was struggling to hold her balance as she tiptoed across the rocks, swaying from side-to-side like a beginning tightrope walker. Fortunately, she made it without falling. She didn’t get wet. The curious thing was she had a trekking pole in her hand which she held aloft for balance. If she had planted the pole on the bottom of the stream with each step, used it as it was designed, her journey would have been much quicker, safer, and less frightening. I considered hollering to her about using her pole, but no one wants unsolicited advice while working their way across a stream.

      I wondered how many of us struggle through life trying not to lose our balance and topple into the water, when we’re holding in our hands the exact equipment we need to make the trip stable and safe.

      The same situation appears in the movie, A Walk in the Woods, when the two senior-in-age-but-not-in-experience hikers, Bryson and Katz try to cross a wild river. They both end up losing their balance and falling into the water, backpacks and all. Every time I see that scene it’s all I can do to keep from yelling at the screen (Cyndi would say I occasionally do yell), “Use the trekking poles you have strapped to your backpacks, you fools! Why carry them all along the Appalachian Trail if you don’t use them when crossing a river?” The two hikers could have stayed dry had they used the tools they were carrying.

      We’ve been given everything we need to navigate the rocky streams of life. The Bible says, in 2 Peter 1:3. “His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness.”

      God doesn’t promise we won’t slip into the water, or slide off one of the rocks, or sneeze as we are stretching for a long step to the bank and lose our balance, but he promises us everything we need to live a godly life. It’s up to us to use what he’s given, live out his calling, rely on his mercy and grace, believe his promises, and stop leaving them in our backpacks for another day.

      One Saturday I enjoyed two of God’s greatest gifts, both of which I need for a godly life. One was time on the trail surrounded by wild beauty, and the other was extended time with my friend David. I tell Cyndi often, “Too many men go through life without one single quality friend, and I have dozens … more than my share.” The hike in McKittrick Canyon was fun, but more than that, it was an honor to share the trail with one of my guys.

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

Practicing Faith: Grace Abounds

      For the past few years Cyndi and I have traveled with the Metro Big Band, Cyndi on percussion and congas, me on trombone. The Metro Big Band is an 18-piece jazz ensemble based in the United States led by Camp Kirkland that travels to various locations around the world. Finding this ministry was a delight after all these years in music. It has reenergized our love of music and deepened our understanding of the many ways we can share the love of Jesus.

      On our trip to Guatemala, we worked with Coro Philharmonic, an organization in Guatemala City that rescues kids and young adults from street gangs and violent homes by teaching them to be musicians. Manuel Lopez explained his ministry: “In this avalanche of sin, grace abounds through music.”

      One Sunday afternoon we drove to the church in Villa Nueva, Guatemala, the Green Church as we called it because it was painted bright neon green. They were in their seats patiently waiting for us as we set up on the small crowded stage. Knowing how loud we were, I was concerned that the first row of people were only about six feet in the front of the band.

      For our church concerts we included several hymns in our set, so the congregation could sing along with us. We played “How Great is Our God / How Great Thou Art,” and “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” They loved it, singing with heads back and mouths wide open. It was a joy to be with these passionate people and their robust singing.

      During “Great is Thy Faithfulness” I noticed a woman about two rows back, probably in her 70s, with long silver hair pulled into a loose ponytail, eyes closed and arms in the air, singing with full emotion and energy, and weeping huge tears. Here was a woman who understood the faithfulness of God. Of course, as soon as I saw her, I started crying too, which made it hard to keep playing since I couldn’t see my music. The scene reminded me of Kathleen Norris’ observation about the old women and their well-worn Bibles … there is more to this than you know.

*   *   *   *   *

      The musicians in the Metro Big Band come from all over the country. They tend to be middle-aged or retired adults who can afford the time away from home, and who have lived many years playing music.

      The charts are emailed to us about four weeks before the tour, which means we’re expected to learn them before we leave home. The first time the band rehearses together is our first evening in our destination country. Our first concert is the next day.

      When Cyndi and I traveled with the orchestra version of this ministry, I made it through the first night of rehearsals feeling good about it all. We were exhausted from the flight to Israel and two long hours of rehearsing, but we both felt up to the challenge of the music.

      However, that first night in Guatemala with the jazz band was different. From the very beginning, the very first song, I felt like a little boy in a room full of adults. I was intimidated by the musicianship and the rapid learning curve. The first couple of songs we pulled out scared me, not because the music was too fast or too impossible, which it was on both counts, but because everyone in the band was so much better than I was - better than I’ll ever be. Better than I could’ve ever been had I dedicated my life to it.

      After rehearsal I texted about my fears and instability to Rabon, who has traveled with this group at least a dozen international trips. He gently talked me off the ledge and promised it would get better, less frightening, as the tour proceeded. Also, after I got a night or two of sleep.

      As the week progressed, and after a half dozen successful concerts, I began to feel better about my playing. I was beginning to settle in. My confidence grew with each performance, and by the end of the week I felt, well, still out of my league, but comfortable playing with them. I knew I was contributing in a positive way. And I was having fun.

      Even with all my personal angst I loved watching Cyndi play congas and growing into her own confidence. It was probably the first time in our years together both of us had to struggle with inadequacy and fear at the same time, together. Was it a bonding experience? Maybe, but I don’t recommend it for anyone.

*   *   *   *   *

      The night before we left, when we were packing our suitcases, Cyndi was thinking and rethinking her selections. We both tend to pack light, in fact we often have the least luggage in the band, so we have to make specific choices about clothing.

      She held up a handful of clothes and looked at me for my opinion. “Should I take these instead?”

      I started singing, “Don’t go changing, to try to please me, I love you just the way you are.”

      And then it occurred to me – we’ve done nothing but change for each other for the past forty years. Sorry, Billy Joel, it’s a silly song. Successful marriages are about constant change. Even after all these years, all I want to do is please Cyndi.

*   *   *   *   *

      I recently stuck this question on a shelf in my closet: “I wonder what my life would be like if I started doing all the things I’m afraid to do?” Surprisingly, the first thing I thought of was music.

      One of my goals for 2017 was “to practice trombone at home more often,” knowing that any practice at all, even only one time, would exceed what I’ve been doing. But I needed more; a new big goal to follow. It was time to reboot some ancient habits, so I did something I’ve been afraid to do. I signed up for private trombone lessons, my first since 1976.

      “So why take private lessons, at your age?” you might ask. “Don’t you usually run away from situations where you appear to be a beginner? Isn’t that the very thing you’ve been afraid of?”

      “Yes.”

      I knew taking lessons would be scary at first, exposing my fading ability to a professional musician who was probably younger than my son or daughter. But I hoped the scariness would last only one or two lessons, and then the constructive work would begin.

      I’d grown lazy and complacent as a musician and needed a professional reboot. I was looking forward to starting over with basic exercises, happy to be reengaging with something I’ve loved since I was twelve. I was glad to know I still have improvement ahead of me.

      The underlying reason I started taking lessons was this – I wanted to learn how to play improvisational jazz solos. It is on my list of One Hundred Life Goals and I had delayed getting started long enough. I’ve played in jazz bands since the beginning, but always as a section player. I was never brave enough to stand up and play a solo. And then, for some reason, last fall, I decided my Fear of Looking Foolish (FOLF) was less than my Fear of Missing Out (FOMO). I didn’t want to live out my life having never tried.

      I’m so happy that playing trombone is still part of my life after all these years. I’m a better engineer because I’m a musician. I’m a better writer, a better teacher, a better husband, father, and lover. Having music in my life makes me creative, open-eyed, and helps me appreciate quality, hard work, and practice.

      I Corinthians 1:5 says, “He has enriched your whole lives, from the words on your lips to the understanding in your hearts.” (Phillips) Music is one of the most enriching gifts God has given me.

      Not only does music enrich my life, but it’s firmly embedded in my family. Dad was a church worship leader and Mom played piano so there was always music in our house. I was often “recruited” to play trombone solos in church, and since there weren’t many soloists in those small congregations I stayed in the regular rotation.

      What’s more, Cyndi and I first met in a band hall in 1973, and we’ve played in various ensembles together ever since. I cannot imagine our life without this bond between us.

      One of my favorite Bible verses is Psalm 33:3, “Sing to the Lord a new song; Play skillfully with a shout of joy.” That’s what it takes: skill (hard work), and joy (sheer pleasure). Or as my musical mentor and trail guide, Rabon says, “You’ve got to dig what you’re doing.”

*   *   *   *   *

      I don’t know how far back music goes in my family; What I meant is, I don’t how many generations were musicians. But I know my grandfather, Cy Simpson, learned to play piano from a correspondence course. I wouldn’t’ve thought it possible to learn piano that way except we have a stack of his old lessons, complete with his handwritten answers and his instructor’s comments. He learned to play shaped notes, which is an old-school way of notating music. Each shape corresponds to a different note on the scale, and changing keys is very easy.

      My dad and his sister, Betty, used to stand beside the piano and sing duets while Cy played. He could change keys on a whim, even in mid-phrase, which he did often, just to mess with the singers. Joking at each other’s expense goes way back in my family, too.

      As a young man my Dad lead the music in small churches all over central and west Texas. In fact, he met my mom at a revival at First Baptist Church in Ackerly, Texas. My other grandfather, Roy Haynes, was pastor, and his oldest daughter, Lenelle, played piano for the worship services. My dad was the visiting musician for the revival, what we used to call the music director and now worship leader. He was a student at the time, at Howard Payne College in Brownwood, Texas.

      Music was part of our home life as far back as I have memories of anything. My dad had stacks of long-play record albums, mostly of Southern Gospel singing groups. He also had the Greatest Hits of Glen Miller, and I played it all the time. It was my first exposure to big band jazz and hearing it was fundamental to my being a musician today, 50 years later.

      I credit my dad with the fact I am a musician today. He never pushed me into music, but he certainly inspired me. In my life as a young boy, because of my dad’s obvious example, 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 I played trombone, and we played together in various church ensembles as often as possible.

      Our children, Byron and Katie, became musicians. They both played piano and sang in children’s choirs. We used to sing songs together while driving around Texas in our Chevy Astro minivan. Especially during the Christmas season, which in our family begins November 1st, as soon as Halloween is over.

      Both B&K went on to play trombone, and one of my favorite memories is Christmas caroling as a trombone trio. We kept trying to bring Cyndi into our group so we could become the Simpson Family Quartet, but she said we were just making fun of her as a percussionist. She was a little bit correct in the making fun part, but still, we wanted her to join.

*   *   *   *   *

      I’ve tried to think my way into jazz for too many years. I assumed the way to learn to improvise would be to learn all the blues and jazz scales, maybe learn some cool licks in every key, and then good music would simply flow out of me. It was intellectual and structured approach. Engineer-like, like me.

      Nowadays I’m trying not to think so much, just listen and play. I’m not doing anything interesting yet, but it is fun to try. And I know it isn’t enough to poke around in my practice room my myself. I must step out and play in front of people who know the difference.

      I mentioned once to Rabon, “I suppose I have to commit to failing in front of my favorite people for at least a hundred times.”

      Rabon said, “Or a thousand times.”

      When I mentioned this to Bob Hartig he said, “You have to commit to failing every single time. You have to jump in all the way.”

      The thing is, this whole episode of my life is about more than just practicing, or learning different scales, or whatever. It’s a deliberate move to receive guidance and encouragement form an expert, something adults don’t get very often.

      I like being told what to do.

      I can’t believe I just wrote that because I usually bow up when someone tells me what to do, but I suppose I have my categories when I like it.

      I like being coached when lifting weights or doing Pilates or yoga. I don’t always want to decide on my own. And I like it when my trombone teacher, Ethan, shows me new software aps or new music or practice books. There is comfort in being directed, nurtured, and guided. And especially when there is a mutual expectation that I will get much better.

      My jazz sensei, Rabon, introduced me to a classic musical textbook by Madeline Bruser titled, The Art of Practicing. In it she wrote, “Fear is energy. If you allow it to flow through you, you transform it into fearlessness … each time you confront fear head on and let the adrenaline flood your body, you liberate the energy of fear and make it available for creative action.”

      I’ve made a mental commitment, when playing with our local community college jazz band, to agree to as many solos as possible and appropriate. To be brave enough to stand up and play despite the fear of failing, being stupid, looking and sounding like a beginner.

      I know I’ll get better with practice, but I need practice in front of people. I must force the fear, take it on, and push through that barrier, in order to improve and really learn. This is one of those things I cannot get better at by reading and studying. I have to clock in the time.

      Karen Rinaldi wrote an interesting book called, (It’s Great to) Suck at Something. I’ll admit I was hesitant to read it since sucking at something was what I was trying to avoid, but after I heard a podcast interview by the author, I decided to give it a try.

      Rinaldi explains how working at something you aren’t good at and will ever be exceptional at leads to other opportunities and other situations that would never be possible otherwise, but would never even be on your personal radar, on your bucket list, never under consideration. She asks us to trust that working hard at this will result in ways I can’t imagine. Failing is often the only way to get better.

      I want to live in courage and not fear, and the only way to learn that skill is to be intentional about doing things that I am afraid of, knowing courage there will also pop up somewhere else.

      She writes that the ability to suck at something, which is weird to think of as an ability, is a learned skill. Most of the time most of us won’t even attempt something that we don’t think we can do well, we’re more afraid of looking silly than afraid of missing out, so allowing ourselves to be bad in public, is an ability.

*   *   *   *   *

      I dreamed I was sitting inside a band hall full of chairs and music stands scattered randomly, like all band halls between rehearsals. I was the only musician in the room, and I was holding my trombone and sitting in the third chair from the end of the row when I heard a sharp rapping sound known to all musicians as the conductor calling his group to attention.

      It seemed a little strange to me since I was apparently alone in the room, but I put my horn up out of habit and prepared to play. I didn’t even have any music.

      The conductor said, “Let’s begin.”

      “Begin what? I don’t have any music.”

      “Just follow Me and it’ll be fine.”

      “Follow where? What do You want me to play?”

      “Just follow My lead. Start in A-flat and try to keep up through the changes in the chorus.”

      “You want me to improvise in the key of A-flat? That means I have to play in 5th position. Nobody plays 5th in tune on a trombone. Let’s do something else.”

      “You always want to do something else, don’t you? You always want to pick the music yourself. I’m the conductor. Just follow Me. Trust Me.”

      “I do trust You. I just want to you to pick a key I can play well. How about something in F? I always play better in F.”

      “Not as often as you think.”

      “What? How often do You hear me play?”

      “Well, I’m the one who gave you that horn. I’m the one who gave you music.”

      “My parents gave me this horn back in 1970.”

      “But I put music in your heart. It’s because of Me that you still play. And, by the way, it wouldn’t have hurt if you’d’ve practiced a little more through the years.”

      “You wanted me to practice?”

      “I gave you a gift; don’t you think I expected you to practice a little?”

      “Well, I did practice. I made All State, I played in college, I play in church orchestra … “

      “I gave you a gift, and I wanted you to use it more often. But that is beside the point. Let’s play!”

      “I don’t have any music.”

      “Improvise.”

      “You want me to play jazz?”

      “Why do you always want a plan, a direction, a piece of music to look at? Is it so you won’t have to follow Me? You don’t want to be a musician; you want to be a technician … a plan follower. I want you to follow Me.”

      “OK, I’m ready. Should we tune?”

      “Oh, suddenly you want to tune. All these years you didn’t worry that much about tuning. You just wanted to play the notes.”

      “Should we tune?”

      “We’ll tune as we go. You’re playing a trombone, the easiest instrument to play in tune. Remember, you’re holding your tuning slide in your hand.”

      “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that my whole life from every band director I’ve known. If I’m holding my tuning slide in my hand, it also means a trombone is the easiest instrument to play out of tune.”

      “Don’t get Me started. You wanted choices. You wanted free will. You wanted to be independent. You could’ve played an instrument with structure and no obligation for tuning … like the triangle.”

      “But I’d only get to play one note.”

      “Do you want freedom or not? If you want to play a lot of notes, play them in tune. Let’s go.”

      “Well, I’m sorry I’ve played out of tune so often. My ear isn’t as good as it used to be.”

      “Your ear was never that good. Maybe if you’d practiced more … “

      “The thing is, I can usually tell when I’m out of tune … I just can’t tell if I’m sharp or flat. I can tell I’m off; I just don’t know how to fix it.”

      “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since we started. You play the horn and let Me tune for you as we go.”

      “You can tune my horn while I’m playing?”

      “I don’t care about your horn. I’ll tune your heart. You just play.”

      “How will tuning my heart make me play well?”

      “Stop worrying about whether you play well. That’s My problem. All I want you to do is practice, and play, and listen, and follow Me.”

      “So, what’s my job again?”

      “Follow me and let me tune your heart as we go.”

      “OK. So, what are we playing?”

      “Just follow Me.”

*   *   *   *   *

      Manuel Lopez of Guatemala City advised, “Play with excellence, and wait for the miracles of God.” That’s what I’m counting on.

Practicing Faith: Keep Exploring

      Turning sixty was liberating. I got a new stack of blank pages ready to fill with promises, possibilities, mysteries, and adventures. I had a new chance at life. Old things passed away; new things were coming. I was finally old enough to grow my hair out again, like I did in the 1970s, like a Hogwarts headmaster, or better, like Zorro (Anthony Hopkins edition).

      When I turned fifty it felt like release. I said goodbye to all expectations of being cool or hip or fashionable and started crediting my idiosyncrasies as eccentricities. It was great. I was finally living up to my gray hair and beard.

      No one, including me, cared if I knew current pop songs or TV shows. In fact, even better, no one expected me to know. It was grand.

      When I turned forty, I finally felt like an adult. (No, that’s not entirely correct. Even today I only feel like an adult about 50-60% of the time. I always think of adults as the men of my dad’s generation, whatever age that happens to be.) However, by forty, I could no longer hide behind my age. I was old enough to know stuff, old enough to stop blaming behavior on my upbringing, old enough to formulate my own opinions without basing them on a talk radio host or what the guys at work say, old enough to settle into my reading list and read the books I enjoy, old enough to learn new ideas, old enough to change my mind.

      When I turned thirty, well, that one is still a blur in my memory. We had a six-year-old and a three-year-old and dad-hood took its toll on my brain cells. The summer of my birthday we moved, but didn’t move, to California due to a promotion I got, and then didn’t get. A few months later I was with my son Byron when he was hit by a car while we were all riding bikes one Saturday afternoon. It changed my understanding of being a father and spiritual leader. I learned bad things could happen to those I love even if I was acting responsibly and following the rules. It was the first time in my life I called upon God out of desperation and fear.

      The year I turned twenty was my last of three summers touring with Continental Singers as a bass trombonist, and my segue into big-time college life at the University of Oklahoma. It was the beginning of my lifelong journey with personal discipleship, my introduction to daily spiritual practices and teaching, my first experience with leaders who deliberately invested in my life, and my first date with Cyndi Richardson. Little did I know I was starting the adventures that would define my future.

      Recently my daughter, Katie, gave me a red and white patch that says “Keep Exploring.” In the 1970s I would’ve sewn it on my bell-bottomed blue jeans so that everyone else could see it, but instead I asked Cyndi to sew it on my backpack so that I would see it every day as a permanent reminder of how I want to live.

      The Keep Exploring movement was created by Alex and Bret, two young men from Flower Mound, Texas. Their webpage says this: “Keep Exploring is the simple idea that adventure can be found anywhere. We are trying to be better explorers by seeking out opportunities in everyday life. This is a collaborative movement - Everyone is invited. Start looking for new roads to take, old mountains to climb, and wild food to chew.”

      Well, that’s who I want to be. Maybe not the chewing of wild food part, but I want my sixties to be years of exploring new ideas, trails, mountains, techniques, books, movies, relationships, influences, and music.

      One Sunday afternoon I was cycling with my friend, Wes, and we were working through our increasing list of athletic ailments. Wes changed everything by saying, “This is the best time of our lives. We’re finally old enough people listen to us. We can really make a difference.”

      I thought about what he said for a long time. Through the years I’ve been motivated by this thought: If I apply the weight of my life toward the people God has entrusted to me, I can change the world. But now, even that seems too small. I no longer want to merely change the world … I want to change The Future. I am finally old enough, finally weighty enough, to speak truth into hearts and change the future.

*   *   *   *   *

      What have I left behind becoming an adult? Well, I’ve left behind the impatience and longing to be a grownup who can make his own decisions, do whatever he wants, and spend his own money. It turned out to be more about worry and obligation than wide-horizon freedom.

      I’ve left behind excuses. Whatever adult skills I’ve yet to acquire, such as auto mechanics or golf, I can no longer say not one has taught me. Anything I don’t know, or know how to do, is my own fault, and I have no one to blame but myself.

      Another thing I’ve left behind is the idea I have to be good at everything. When I was young, I tried lots of things – soccer, racquetball, cycling, writing, politics, and on and on. Some of those turned out to be who I am, others I tossed over the side. It was a breakthrough for me when I realized I didn’t have to keep doing whatever I started for the rest of life. I could change my mind and move on to something else. I look back on these young adult days as my trial-and-error phase. Now, I don’t want to accumulate. I want to narrow and refine.

*   *   *   *   *

      It’s occurred to me when I use words like liberating (in my sixties) and release (in my fifties) it sounds like I might be disengaging, giving up, or maybe even running away. But what I intend to do is engage, step up, and lean forward. Liberating release is the freedom to be myself.

      That sounds so high minded, but the truth is, freedom is costly. Not everything about aging is a reward. The price is usually sudden and shocking and includes some loss of ability or function.

      I recently told my friend Bill how the slightest bump can put brown bruises on my skin and I quickly start bleeding. He was having the same problem. It was a recent phenomenon for both of us, a product of aging.

      For example, I was in Best Buy entering the checkout line when a blue-shirted employee asked if I was OK. She was pointing at my arm, specifically the trail of blood running across my skin. I had apparently bumped my arm on one of the display racks as I circled the checkout maze, a bump so slight I didn’t notice, but now I was bleeding. This sort of thing happens way too often. I never expected my hands to turn into my Dad’s hands. I’m not happy about that.

      Bill and I wondered if all the fanny packs worn by men in the retirement village where my dad used to live, the ones I thought were full of snacks and candy, were really full of body repair kits: Band Aids, Liquid Skin, Super Glue, Ace Bandages, Advil, absorbent towels, etc. Was that our future?

      I don’t resent the effects of aging. I just want to know how to deal with them, how to do work-arounds, how to compensate and keep moving. I suppose I could stay home and sit in my recliner where it’s safe, but as Jeff, my friend and eye doctor, once reminded me, “That’s not a world you and I want to live in.”

*   *   *   *   *

      Getting older reminds me of being a teenager. Remember how we were completely shocked that all our new freedoms and opportunities were accompanied by increased expectations and obligations? Every generation is stunned to learn they are now responsible to take care of themselves and take care of their own business when all they wanted was their own phone, their own truck, and a chance to stay up late.

      In the same way, I’m constantly surprised at the new baggage that occupies my silver-haired years. One recent Saturday morning I woke up with a stiff and painful ankle. How could anyone sprain their ankle while sleeping?

      Here’s another: I’ve never had great vision – I was the kid in first grade wearing glasses – but I’m still surprised whenever I can’t see. Just last night, feeling noble, I dug out my old Bible memory verse cards only to realize I couldn’t read them. The writing was impossibly small. What was I thinking when I wrote them out so tiny? I don’t know how I ever read those.

      And now that I have finally outgrown face zits, which by the way took decades longer than I expected, I get blotches and bumps and tags on my face, all of which look like cancer to me. I even started going to a dermatologist. On my first visit he asked, “Mr. Simpson, what brought you in this morning?” I said, “I decided to be a grownup for a change and get professional advice.” He told me my concerns were nothing more than marks of old-age and come back next year.

      Yet, even with all these strange aging indicators, and I haven’t mentioned them all since memory is a big one, I love the freedom and understanding that comes with age.  I don’t resent transitioning from running to cycling, or adapting from tiny print to 12-point font. I wonder what will be next.

      I fully expect the next years to be the best ones. I just read a headline that said, “World’s Oldest backpacker plans two-month trip to Europe at 95 years old.” That sounds great to me, like something I want to do. I hope my shoulder feels better by then.

*   *   *   *   *

      I’m typing this with Band-Aids on my right hand: one on my right thumb, and the other on my right index finger. They’re the cloth-type Band-Aids, flexible and persistent, but they collect every speck of dirt that meanders by. After a few hours my hand feels like I’m wearing a bulky cotton work glove. It’s a clumsy and awkward setup, and I don’t recommend it. The inconvenience soon surpasses any pain from the original injury, and I am tempted to pull them off and try typing without them. It’s only my years as a grown-up, which have taught me healing takes time regardless of whether I’m patient. I left the Band-Aids in place.

      What happened to my hand? One evening Cyndi and I joined the local bike club for the Urban Mountain Bike Ride. We don’t get to ride together very often, so this felt like a date. Instead of buying flowers, though, I bought Cyndi a front and back light for her bike. It was a great start.

      After we arrived at the Midland College parking lot, I unloaded and reassembled the bikes and pedaled around a bit on each one to make sure everything worked. While I was riding my own bike and adjusting my helmet mirror, not paying attention to where I was going since it’s a huge parking lot and what could possibly happen, I ran into one of those bright yellow curb bumpers. I didn’t know I’d collided with the bumper until I hit the asphalt.

      Fortunately for me I was creeping along, so my crash didn’t result in any road rash. However, I ended up with a cut in my thumb and finger, a knot on my right thigh, and a strangeness on my left hip.

      I could tell right away these were only superficial wounds and wouldn’t interfere with the fun of the evening. After shooing away all the potential first-aiders, I checked to make sure my bike wasn’t damaged. Both wheels and brakes worked. I was ready to move.

      As far as bike crashes go, this was mostly benign. Two Band-Aids and two days of sore quads and I was fine. Not like my 2013 crash which left me with a watermelon-sized butt and hip and weekly visits to Wound Management for the entire summer. This time it was inconvenience rather than real injury.

      The morning after crashing I told my story to a surprisingly-unsympathetic friend who asked, “Aren’t you too old to be hitting the pavement?”

      “Yes, I am.”

      What I didn’t tell my friend, who is someone who would never hit the pavement because they never do anything except sit on the couch and watch TV, was that there is risk with not doing Urban Mountain Bike Rides. The risk of losing adventure and heart and soul.

      Still, my friend was correct: I’m too old to be hitting the pavement. While I hope to have many years of risk and adventure ahead, I’m old enough and smart enough to look where I’m going and wait to adjust my helmet mirror until I stop moving. Each adventure – each blank page – each phase of life – requires its own wisdom and responsibility.

*   *   *   *   *

      And then I woke up Wednesday morning with a broken toe. At least, that’s what it felt like.

      The big toe on my left foot felt like I had jammed it, or broken it, sometime during the night while peacefully asleep in bed. That scenario seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t deny the stiffness and swelling and pain. All my toes were puffed up like Vienna Sausages. Even worse, my middle toe was bright red, probably infected.

      I hobbled around all day hoping I could bring the pain to submission though strength of will, my usual technique of self-medication, but I was unsuccessful. I just felt old and lame and helpless. This wasn’t the sort of injury I could walk my way through. I was miserable.

      Friday morning, I went to see my doctor. The minute he walked into the room and saw my foot he said, well there is obvious infection in that one toe. But your main problem is gout.

      Bummer. Gout. One of the most ancient of diseases; documented as far back as 350 BC by Hippocrates himself. Now I really felt old.

      The good news is, by Monday morning, six days after my flare-up, I seemed to be about 85% back to normal. I even walked the mile around our neighborhood ponds. On Wednesday I walked about three miles. Maybe the comeback trail is a real possibility?

      Of course, none of my complaints surprise God. He’s known all about me for a long time now. In fact, Psalm 139 says He planned each day of my life – He charted those days even before I was born. Every moment He knows where I am, and He both precedes and follows me and places His hand of blessing on my head. Who could whine or complain about treatment like that?

*   *   *   *   *

      In the movie, A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson (played by Robert Redford) was standing in line at a funeral waiting to speak to the widow, when a friend in line behind him tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Makes you think of slowing down, doesn’t it?”

      I remember hearing that line in the movie theater. I almost stood up and said aloud, “No, it makes me want to speed up!”

*   *   *   *   *

      When I approached the one-year anniversary of my father’s death, people asked how I was doing. And the truth: I was doing just fine. Dad died well. He left no accounts unsettled, whether financial, emotional, or family. He did what he loved best all the way to the end: cycling up to his last two weeks, and cracking jokes up to his last five days.

      Oliver Sacks wrote in his small but profound book, Gratitude, “When my time comes, I hope I can die in harness, as Francis Crick did.” (Crick died at 88 from colon cancer, still fully engaged in his most creative work all the way to the end.) I like this. Dying in harness sounds fun, adventurous, and fulfilling.

      Sacks left me wondering what dying in harness would look like for me. Does it mean I might die …

      … at my engineer desk, working on a problem, face pressed into my computer keyboard?

      … at some Whataburger booth, while writing in my journal? If so, I hope whatever I am writing is good and not stupid. I don’t want people to think my writing became so incoherent I committed suicide in the restaurant rather than keep trying.

      … on my bicycle? If so, I hope I have a heart attack and slip off into the barrow ditch, and not get blown away by some big truck while the driver is texting. And I hope I’m flying with a tailwind so at least I’ll be smiling.

      … while hiking? That would be great. Of course, it might be days before they find my body, which could be unpleasant for the finders.

      … while playing trombone? I usually play in public so it would be traumatic. Especially if I keeled over while on stage at church.

      … climbing the stairs in my office building? Again, it might be a long time before I am missed and even longer before I am located in a seldom-used stairwell. I suppose if they find my pickup abandoned in the parking garage someone would think to look in the stairs.

      … while teaching? It would be dramatic, that’s for sure, and it might leave emotional scars on my class. I would hope to go out while making a significant point.

      … while skiing? Crashing into a tree would be preferable to having a heart attack while riding the lift and leaving hundreds of people stranded while the ski patrol unloaded me from the chair.

      Sacks also wrote about his own father, who lived to age ninety-four, and who often said “the eighties had been one of the most enjoyable decades of his life. He felt, as I begin to feel, not a shrinking but an enlargement of mental life and perspective.”

      I recently opened my copy of Soul Salsa, by Leonard Sweet, to browse through it again. When I first read this book in 2005 I wrote some notes on the first page: “As I get older, I want to: lean forward not backward, be less dogmatic, default to grace, give away more money, time, energy, creativity, life, music, books, insight.” I was pleased that none of those wishes had diminished in the fifteen years since I first wrote them.

      Most developed world countries have accepted the chronological age of sixty-five years as a definition of elderly. So, at the moment I am writing this, I have fifteen more months of middle age to enjoy.

      The ability to change the future, and the freedom to keep exploring, comes with additional responsibility and obligation. The Apostle Paul admonished in 2 Corinthians 8:11, “Now finish the work, so that your eager willingness to do it may be matched by your completion of it, according to your means. (NIV)” Maybe that is what staying in harness all the way to the end of life really means. We should stay engaged in the purpose and calling God has given to us, finishing as strong as we began.

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

Not Alone

      Last Friday I attended a funeral in Stanton, Texas, for Darlene Bristow Caffey. It was a grand celebration of a godly woman who, in the pastor’s words, lived well, loved well, and left well. For me, it was a convergence of the deepest longest roots of my life: family, church, and music.

      The Bristows (Darlene’s family) and the Haynes (my mother’s family) grew up together around Ackerly. It isn’t a big place. The most recent census count (2010) credited it with a population of 220. I assume there were a few more back in the Bristow/Haynes years.

      Darlene and my mom were best friends in school. And my uncle, James Haynes, went to school with Jim Bristow from the fourth grade on, and they both eventually served as Best Man in each other’s weddings.

      As for me, I remember the store near Lake Thomas owned by their family, where my grandfather – known to everyone else as Brother Haynes but I called Papa Roy - took me often to buy bait or fishing gear, but mostly to visit with his friend Vernard Bristow. I always drank a cold Coke in a green bottle with crimped metal cap while they talked grownup talk.

      My mission for the afternoon in Stanton was to find Jim Bristow at the funeral and visit with him. I wasn’t sure I would recognize him right away, so after the service ended, I waited in the church foyer watching the family file out looking for a clue. I didn’t need to worry. He found me first.

      As soon as we made eye-contact he made a beeline for me, charging through the crowd and pulled me in for a long hug. He then surprised me by saying, “I love everything you write. I’ve been reading your emails for years.”

      Then Jim drug his wife over, literally pulling Judy away from friends by her arm, and introduced me to her by tracing our family trees back through the Haynes bunch. Her eyes brightened and she said, “Oh, you’re the writer! Jim is always pulling me over and saying, look what Deane’s son wrote.” It was another reminder how people can be close without even knowing.

      We talked for a long time - Mostly, I listened - about family history and our intertwined roots. Judy nudged me and said, “He can go on about this for hours.”

      Later, as I was crossing the street to leave for home, I saw Paul Peterson, funeral director, who was a teenager in the church youth group when my parents were first married and living in Big Spring. My dad was worship leader.

      I told him my connection with the Bristow family, describing all the threads … “Our two families have meant a lot to each other for a long time.”

      Paul said, “And your dad meant a lot to me.”

      The Bristows and Caffeys came to Midland in 2014 for my mom’s funeral, and again in 2017 for my dad’s. And now I was in Stanton for Darlene’s.

      Brene’ Brown wrote, “Funerals matter. Showing up to them matters. And funerals matter not just to the people grieving, but to everyone who is there. The collective pain (and sometimes joy) we experience when gathering to celebrate the end of a life is perhaps one of the most powerful experiences of inextricable connection. It is a ministry of presence. These moments remind us that we are not alone.” (from Braving the Wilderness)

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

What We Learned from a Good Dog

       “Do you think we get the dogs we need?” was the question writer Jon Katz asked on his Facebook page. In our case, regarding Lady the Running Labrador, we got exactly who we needed. She lived with us 12-1/2 years, ran thousands of miles with us, and in her own fashion wriggled her way into the hearts of two non-dog-people in the most subtle ways. She taught us how to live with love and grace during her final years, and how to grow old with dignity and value.

       Lady is gone now. She died Saturday afternoon, August 28, 2010, on the table at the vet’s office. But her influence on Cyndi and me still lingers ten years later. I expect it will last the rest of our lives.

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

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

       When we got her I was looking for a dog to run with Cyndi and Katie to keep them safe. I was looking for a black Lab because they appear mean, even when they aren’t. A running dog doesn’t have to be attack-trained to protect a runner – any dog will keep almost all attackers away.

       I spent time on the internet searching for the best breed for running, finally settling on either a Greyhound or a Labrador. They both seemed to be good with people. I preferred a Greyhound because I thought the idea of rescuing a racing dog as a cool idea and because all Greyhounds love to run. From what I read; Labradors were iffier. Some loved to run, some didn’t, and you couldn’t tell by looking at them. And some Labs suffered from hip dysplasia that made running impossible. I found someone who lived south of town who owned Greyhounds and I drove Katie down to see them. Katie was a bit shocked to see these two dogs who were as tall as she was (Katie was a freshman in high school at the time). She thought they were funny looking, long and lean and skinny and strong. I thought that was a good description of Katie as well.

       So, since the Greyhound idea went nowhere, I called the City Animal Control office and told him I was looking for a gentle Black Lab who could run with us. He called back a few days later and said he had a Black Lab for us to look at, but he also knew of a Yellow Lab (mix) being kept temporarily by a friend. The dog had been lost or abandoned, no collar or tags, and she didn’t want to send the dog to Animal Control knowing the fate if no one adopted her.

       Cyndi and Katie and I drove over to the house and went into the backyard to play with the big Yellow Lab. She wasn’t pure Lab, had some other breeds mixed in her bloodlines. I remember at one point I was asking the home owner if she thought this dog would adopt to a new family and the woman pointed across the porch to where Cyndi and Katie were sitting down on the concrete and the Lab was laying across their laps. I knew we were taking this dog home today.

       I thought we should call this big beautiful dog Goldie since it described her so well. Cyndi said, “Katie and I want to call her Lady.” I said this dog would be a great outside dog and Cyndi said, “Except for nighttime – she should spend nights inside with us.” I realized that even though this project to find a running dog was my idea and my initiative and all my work, I had been cleanly excised from the process and from now on I would be a bystander.

       We learned some things about Lady right away. She didn’t like being in water deeper than her belly, and she showed no interest in fetching anything (two core behaviors for most Labrador Retrievers). She didn’t seem to care much about playing or wrestling. She seldom barked, and never barked inside the house. She never made a mess in the house. She only dug in the backyard to find a cool place to lie down, and even then, she was discrete about her digging locations. She never chewed anything she wasn’t supposed to chew. She mostly laid around on the floor and licked the carpet.

       And, she loved to run.

       I realize that all dogs like to run around the backyard, but that isn’t what I mean. Lady loved to go for 2 miles, or 5 miles, or sometimes 10 or 12 miles. She simply loved it. She could tell when anyone in the house was getting dressed to go running, and she would dance in the hallway.

       Lady knew the difference between us getting ready to run and us getting ready to work in the yard – both involving shorts and T-shirts. Cyndi thought it was the shoes; that Lady was keying off our shoes. I wasn’t so sure since I had a closet full of old running shoes retired from the road but active in the garage and yard. How could she tell dirty running shoes from dirty yard shoes when they were both the same model of new Balances? I don’t know. But she knew. And when she detected a run coming up, she started jumping and hopping. She would stay very close so she wouldn’t be left behind. If the bedroom door was closed and she was in the hallway and she knew one of us was getting ready to run, she would bump her head into the door over and over to make sure we knew she wanted to go.

       It was the only time in her life that she showed excitement, and she was completely over-the-top. It was often hard to lace up our running shoes because Lady was right in our face jumping and smiling and … well, being overjoyed. I wished I had Lady’s enthusiasm for, anything, in my life.

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

       Our regular five-mile route took us around the pathways of C. J. Kelly Park. Cyndi, and her friend Meta, ran with Lady very early in the morning before the sun came up, usually off leash since no one else was out.

       I ran with her between 5:30 and 6:00 PM, always on the leash since the park was filled with kids practicing sports. Sometimes soccer, sometimes baseball, and sometimes football.

       Lady didn’t care about kids in the park or balls bouncing by or rolling past. She was in her own running world and all those were nonexistent to her. If she was off-leash she would run huge arcs paying attention to everything; but when running on the leash she was focused and tunnel-visioned. I don’t know how many times a soccer ball or baseball would come rolling across in front of us. Sometimes right into our path. Lady didn’t care and didn’t respond except to quickly hop over the rolling ball if necessary. She never even turned her head.

       She was the same with other dogs in the park. They could run around, or bark, or growl – Lady never gave them the courtesy of acknowledgment. She was on her mission. She had five miles to run. She was a dog at work and would not be distracted or delayed.

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

       Eventually Lady was too old to run more than a few blocks. However, she still wanted to go, and she would get so excited when she knew either of us was getting dressed to run. We felt guilty leaving her behind because she wanted to go so badly, but she was no longer capable. There were times when we carried our running gear out into the garage to change where she couldn’t see us, then sneaked out the garage door to go run without her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       I once spent a weekend at home by myself putting books on the shelves, carrying boxes from the garage, and putting stuff in my closet. Every time I changed rooms Lady followed me and curled up on the floor. But I was moving from room to room a lot and she had to get up to follow and then curl up again, and then get up to follow again, over and over. None of it looked comfortable. I started feeling guilty that she was moving so often, and I tried to bunch my trips more. I even tried to sneak out of the room one time. I realized what a strange situation, that I was worried about inconveniencing her and all she wanted to do was hang out with me. There was a measure of grace in that.

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

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

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

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

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

       When I read this piece to Cyndi it reminded her of a song by Cody Carnes. He wrote:

I'm caught up in Your presence
I just want to sit here at Your feet
I'm caught up in this holy moment
I never want to leave

Oh, I'm not here for blessings
Jesus, You don't owe me anything
More than anything that You can do
I just want You

       What did we learn from a good dog? We learned how to grow old in grace, love, and affection. How to find new ways of engaging with those we love even as our physical abilities deteriorate. We learned the value of simply being close to someone. I want to live with God that same way. I want to live my life all the way to the end, just like Lady.

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

Practicing Faith: Not On My Own

      “Many carry the misconception that we should become more comfortable and that things should become easier as time goes by. This is a belief system designed to undermine you.” (Twyla Tharp, Keep it Moving)

      I was walking across the parking lot one Sunday morning after church, trying to find the best stride length and foot roll and posture to keep me from limping due to pain in my left ankle, the result of fallen arches and resulting ankle collapse.

      I haven’t had arches as far back as I can remember – by that, I mean, I had very flat feet. I never paid attention to my feet until 1978 when I was shopping for my first pair of running shoes and reading articles about support and cushion and pronation and the wet-foot-on-the-floor test to analyze the types of arches I had. When I stepped away from my own wet footprint all I saw were parallel lines, no evidence of an arch at all. Just flat feet. But my feet didn’t bother me through nine marathons and all the training miles.

      Until lately.

      Maybe my once-crooked arthritic knees caused my ankles to shift, collapse inward, and now that my legs are straighter and my knees don’t hurt, my ankles have weakened, and the tendons shortened, and bones rearranged.

      Twyla Tharp writes about “the significance of that final moment when your body breaks its contract with you.” That’s what it felt like. A long-standing agreement had broken.

      While walking across the parking lot it occurred to me my life would be a process of solving the weakest link, one body issue at a time, from now one. My knees don’t cause trouble nowadays; my shoulder while not as good as original is better and functional for almost anything I want to do. My current weakest link are my arches and ankles.

      When I heard Cyndi gasp, I was hoping she’d finally noticed my sculpted quads, but no, she was reacting to my feet. They weren’t doing well. My arches, such as they were, had dropped, and my ankle bones were tilting inward. She wasn’t proud, as I’d hoped, but worried.

      My feet seem to be entering a new chapter of life, a common story with all the rest of my body parts since turning 60; pieces wilt and skills crash regularly. I’ve had to do more research and relearning to keep up and keep moving.

      At the time of Cyndi’s gasp, I was in her studio where she was thrashing me on a Pilates reformer machine under the guise of developing her teaching skills. She usually takes an obtuse direction when trying to change my life knowing how I stubborn-up when confronted directly, but this time there was nothing subtle in her approach. She took charge and set me up with Chris, one of her yoga patrons, an experienced physical therapist, and a fellow cyclist. Chris wrapped my feet with about one hundred feet of tape and showed me how to do it myself. She was great, and my feet felt better right away when I walked around.

      Chris also suggested arch supports for all my shoes. “Start small and work your way up. It takes time to retrain muscles and bones,” she said.

      I started taping-and-arch-supporting right away, satisfied with my progress and process. I’m always happier when I have a diagnosis and a plan.

      That is, I was happy until I decided to replace the tape which was looking gnarly and ragged. As I pulled it off, I noticed I’d pulled skin off, too. And I even had one blister on my heel. I hadn’t noticed the damage before, and none of it hurt until I saw it, then the pain started.

      While I inspected for more damage I noticed a series of deep blisters on the bottom of both feet, apparently from the overly-ambitious arch supports I had been using.

      Around our house I’ve often been accused of trying to do too much too soon, of thinking the regular rules didn’t apply to me and I could do things my own way. Apparently, in this case, I was trying to repair something quickly that took a lifetime to develop. I was too aggressive with tape and arch supports and my feet paid the price.

      Cyndi, who still hadn’t caught her breath from that first glance at my ankles in the Pilates room, was nice about it this time. She even showed appropriate sorrow and concern over my plight.

      So I decided to leave my feet alone long enough for the skin to heal and blisters to calm down. The pause would give me a few days to ponder my habit of solving everything myself, often to my own discomfort.

      And then, on a Thursday morning, the day I planned to leave town for the weekend, I felt a hard knot under the ball of my right foot. I thought, what have I done to make this even worse. But when I sat down and looked closely at my foot I discovered a penny stuck to the skin. The good news: my new problem was imaginary. The bad news: I had already started making plans for a new round of treatment. Sometimes I’m so smart, so intentional, so in-tune, I trick myself and make a big mess.

      I once had a close friend warn about my tendency to solve problems using my own strength of will. Gary said: “Berry, you have the ability to figure out what has to happen, and that's where you have to be really careful. Because you can figure things out, there is a tendency to place God in the situation out of courtesy, but He doesn't really need to be there.” I wasn’t sure what he meant at the time, but in the years following I’ve seen his warning play out in my life over and over. Too often I assume I can solve my problems on my own.

      A week after pulling off the tape and skin, and three weeks after first frightening Cyndi, I was ready to start over. I told Cyndi, “It’s time to resume treatment. I’ll be more patient this time.”

      “I love you, Berry,” She said, even with the we’ll-see-about-that look in her eyes

      I ended this morning’s run with an irritation on the right side of my right foot, mid-foot. I thought it would be a blister but when I looked at it, it was a small cut, or tear, or crack in the skin, running perpendicular to the long-axis of my foot.

      It must have formed while my feet were taped, but I didn’t notice until this morning. I took the tape off last night, after 1-1/2 weeks, to let my feet breathe. The skin on my right foot was flaky and crackly all over.

      I have developed an ache in my left ankle, at the level of the protruding ankle bone, that changes my gait to a limp, but doesn’t show up every day and doesn’t seem to get worse if I walk on it a lot. I am sure it’s related to my arches and feet.

      In fact, a week later, my massage magician, Bill, spent a lot of time working on my ankle and surrounding tendons. He said because of the fallen arches, the tendons on the inside were stretched and the tendons on the outside were tight and hardened from sixty years. And the injury had crept upward toward my ankle.

      Bill said, “When you have as much tenure as we do, you have to respond in new ways.”

      I’ve been doing toe exercises and toe lifts during the day. Sometimes I take off my shoes at work and walk around my office in socks hoping to strengthen my feet. I also bought a foam roller ball to keep under my desk to roll my feet and ankles in all directions while sitting and working.

      I’ve been doing Pilates strength training with Cyndi once a week – well, I wish it was every week. My feet are the limiting factor for how many reps I can do. However, I’m hoping the Pilates exercises will strengthen my feet in the process and maybe rearrange my arches.

      I couldn’t sleep Wednesday night because my foot was aching. It scared me. Back when my knees were at their worst, I knew there was a permanent solution available – joint replacement. With my ankles and feet, I'm not so sure.

      I once lost a city-wide election that I was certain God had told me to pursue. Only later did I realized I needed to leave government, to clear my calendar, to clear my life, for the next set of adventures. Had I simply left office on my own I might have wondered forever if I quit too soon; but losing an election was final. Is that what this – my foot problem – is about? Is God clearing my calendar and life for the next thing?

      Lying in bed, holding Cyndi’s hand for confidence, softly so I wouldn’t wake her, I prayed a three-part prayer: God, please heal my feet; Show me what to do to make them better; and Change my heart to prepare me for whatever comes next.

      That next morning, the first thought across my mind was to visit Smith’s Shoes in Odessa (Engineering Comfort Since 1975). When I pray for guidance, I feel obligated to act on the first thoughts that cross my mind. Otherwise, why waste time praying?

      I texted Cyndi to tell her I was driving over for Smith’s advice and help that afternoon. Cyndi wanted to go with me, which made me happy. I always like it when she’s with me, and even more when I’m nervous about my own future. I need her endorsement and her approval to push forward into new things.

      I bought a pair of casual Brooks trainers and a pair of office-appropriate New Balances, and had custom orthotics fitted to my feet for both pair of shoes. I don’t expect this to completely solve my problems, but I always feel better when I have a plan of action and take positive steps toward a solution.

      It seems we are always doing at least one of three things: training (to get better and stronger); rehabilitating (to recover and mend damage); or compensating (to accommodate an injury in order to keep moving, as in using props in yoga class to make up for lost flexibility.)

      My friend, Clark, pointed out a fourth thing … sometimes we surrender.

      Cyndi and I have been making plans to hike on the Camino in Spain this May. We’ve talked around the idea for years and finally decided it was time to go. It’s the most pressing reason I am nervous about my feet. I want to be healthy enough and fit enough to do it.

      Two weeks ago, we were skiing in Santa Fe with our family, including granddaughters, and I had to limit my runs to protect my left ankle. I changed boots the second day to accommodate my ankle and it seemed to help. It certainly gave me more confidence.

      When we got back home to Midland Cyndi asked how I felt. She knew I was worried. “How do you feel about going forward? Will you ski again?”

      “I hope so. I’m not ready to start quitting things yet. But I don’t know if this an outlier, or a trend I have to surrender to.”

      “You know you don’t have to figure it out on your own.”

      “Thanks.”

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

All the Way Through

      One morning, in my Daily Bible, I read a long hammerfest by the prophet Amos against a collection of evil nations: the Syrians, Philistines, Tyre, Edomites, Ammonites, Moabites … and so forth. I wondered, as I read, how this particular prophecy would speak to the rest of my day. It didn’t seem applicable to my regular existence.

      It was several years ago when I first decided I should try reading through the entire Bible in one year. I didn’t have a plan or a schedule; I just opened to Genesis and started reading, doing the same the next day, and the next. I stayed on task until I got to Leviticus, when I ground to a halt about halfway through. I tried again a couple more times but never finished, always stopping about the same place. Why it was so hard to read through the entire Bible when I read a lot of books cover-to-cover every year, some of them much longer? What made the Bible so different? Why was it so much harder?

      A few years later someone gave me a printed schedule for reading the entire Bible. It had a lot of little boxes which were great fun to check after each day’s reading. The schedule helped solve the Leviticus problem by mixing passages from the New Testament and the Old Testament and Psalms every day. It was a good plan and I followed it for about six months, reading and flipping pages and checking boxes. Then I stopped out of exhaustion. Too much flipping.

      I finally put myself in the camp of people who say, “Reading the entire Bible is OK for you but I don’t need to do it.” I sat comfortably in that camp for years until Cyndi bought a copy of “The Daily Bible” for me. It was a New International Version rearranged into Chronological order and divided up into 365 dated readings. I didn’t want it at first because I already had a shelf of Bibles, and when you get a new Bible you can’t throw the old ones away. They sit on the shelf; forever. And now I had one more to worry about.

      But Cyndi was so proud of this Bible I decided to give it a try. I started reading on January 1st and kept reading and kept reading and stayed engaged all the way through Leviticus and Numbers and Deuteronomy and rolled through the summer and fall until I finally reached Revelation 22:21 on December 31st. I was so happy with my success I started at the beginning of that same Bible the next morning, and read it all the way through again the next year. And now, thanks to Cyndi’s gift, I’ve successfully gone through it many more times, enough times that it has become an essential part of my day.

      So I ask myself: what changed? Why was I finally successful?

      I’m not sure, but I think it had more to do with changes in me than in that particular copy of the Bible. Henri Nouwen wrote: “The daily practice of sacred reading, over time, transforms our personal identity, our actions, and our common life of faith.” Somewhere down the line my reasons for reading changed. I started out trying to read the entire Bible just so I could say I did. And so I could find a special verse for each day that would help me at work and play. And then one morning I realized I was no longer reading to find good verses or to learn more facts about God, but I was reading because I loved it.

      I compared it to my life with Cyndi. When we were dating most of my conversations were to learn more about her, more facts and data and history and dreams. But now, after forty years of marriage, we talk more than ever, and very little of it is about facts or information. We talk all the time because that’s what people do who love each other. Somewhere our motives shifted from information to relationship. I think in general, women make that transition much sooner then men – maybe by the second date – and it takes men a lot longer to understand the value of simply talking, I eventually got there.

      And so, my reading of the Bible moved from a system of information-gathering to relationship-building. It’s been easier to keep reading ever since. Even on days when it all about obscure prophecies. Just as I’ve learned to anticipate my conversations with Cyndi even when the topic is something as unromantic as wireless microphones, I also look forward to my conversations with God even when it’s something as uninspiring as judgment against the Moabites.

      And just like my lifetime of conversations with Cyndi have changed me – changed my thinking and my dreams and changed my heart – my reading of the Bible has changed me deeply. I’m not the same guy I used to be.

NOTE: I first published this in 2007. I still read through the same copy of the Bible that I had then, and enjoy it even more.

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

Closing the Door

      Saturday morning, I read a story from my Daily Bible about a door slamming shut. It was from Genesis, about Noah in the ark, verse 7:16 says “Then the Lord shut him in.” I had once written in the margin of my Bible, “We talk a lot about God opening and closing doors. Here is a case when God closed a door as protection … yet, I usually pray for open doors.”

      For my entire life as a believer I’ve heard the phrase, “When God closes a door he opens a window.” The idea is that if an opportunity goes away God provides another. It is meant to be a comfort when something we wanted gets closed down. In later years I learned a Quaker phrase, “Proceed as the way opens,” meaning in our pursuit of God’s life we seldom get to see very far in advance but we should simply move forward as opportunities open up. Both of those phrases have proven true for me at different stages of life.

      In Noah’s case God closed the door to protect Noah and his family. I wonder how often God has closed a door, slamming it shut, to protect me and my family? How many missed opportunities or regrets that seemed bad at the time were actually God’s grace?

      This was a door God closed to keep Noah where he was. To limit his movement. He wanted Noah to stay put, and he did it to protect Noah from the danger outside.

      I’ve read this Genesis story so many times and I’m still not sure what to make of it – of course I know what it meant for Noah and his family, but how do I interpret it for me and my family?

      Here’s the thing: I wrote that margin note on Thursday, January 4, 2002, three days after I lost my job. I had no idea where our family would land. I wasn’t worried, because I trusted God, but I was scared, because I didn’t trust myself.

      Unemployment wasn’t a big surprise. I had known the end was coming for quite some time – it was obvious the relationship with my employer had soured, and worse, it was during a financial downturn in the industry – I’d been applying and interviewing with other companies for months, with zero success.

      I wondered, in 2002, was the story from Genesis about God closing the door a sign telling me to stay put? Maybe. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time I got that message.

      God closed the door on us thirty-four years ago, sixteen years before I wrote those margin notes. It was a surprise ending to what I’d assumed to be an important career advancement, a challenging move to California, and what had seemed like a gift from God. It fell apart, probably due to some upper-management corporate scuffle, but for too many years I interpreted the collapse of the job promotion as a personal failure, evidence I didn’t measure up. That is, until about two years ago, when I finally understood God had closed the door to save us for a life and ministry in Midland that was deeper and richer than mere corporate advancement and management perks. It took thirty years after the door closed before I was old enough to see the truth … that God had rescued us, saved us, protected us. Just like he did for Noah.

      How about you? When has God closed doors to protect you?

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

20 Good Books I Read in 2019

      I’ve said (written) this before and I’m proud to say again: I am a man of lists. I love making lists, whether shopping lists, to-do lists, book lists, running and biking lists, hiking lists, blood pressure and heartrate lists, and even list lists. Way back in 1986 I followed the advice of motivational speaker Jim Rohn and started keeping a list of books I’d read. It wasn’t a hard decision. I love to read, and my reading habit precedes my list-making habit by decades. I still have, thanks to my mom who saved everything, my first Texas State Library Reading Club Certificate from the summer of 1963. I was between 1st and 2nd grades in Kermit, Texas, and my list includes J. Hamilton Hamster and I Want to be a Scientist.

      I learned early that it was not only acceptable to write in the margins of books and use a highlighter to accent important passages; it was integral to the joy of reading. I do the same with my Daily Bible, and if I ever lose it, I’ll miss my own notes the most. One of my favorite writers, Austin Kleon, wrote, “The first step towards becoming a writer is becoming a reader, but the next step is becoming a reader with a pencil.” Someday, when I’m gone and they divvy up my library, those margin notes may be the most revealing thing I leave behind.

      I don’t expect everyone to love reading as much as I do, or like the same books I like, but I know all of us would be better people if we read a book or two every year. And so, here are some suggestions. These are listed in the order I read them; I didn’t try to rank them by importance or enjoyment … that’s a paralyzing and pointless exercise. However, if you’re interested, give me your email address and I’ll send you my entire Excel reading list for 2018. In fact, I’ll send you my complete list going back to 1986 if you want, but it isn’t a quick glance. And send me your own list. I’m always searching for ideas.

      I made a big change in reading strategy last year, adding the Kindle app to my phone so I could read while waiting at the doctor or dentist or oil change, rather than playing a stupid game app or watching pointless 24-hour news programs.

      This year I decided to include audio books in my big list. For some reason I’ve always kept audio books on a separate list; I suppose in the back of my mind I considered an audio book to be more about entertainment than actual reading. That’s a silly distinction, actually, and I decided, or realized, it was a stupid position to hold. I have too many friends who wouldn’t be able to read anything at all if it weren’t for audio books. Who am I to judge a good practice like that? So my list exploded in length this year due to the addition of audio books … almost all of them listened to while driving with Cyndi.

      I read almost non-fiction almost exclusively. But my audio books are almost all fiction, and most likely spy thrillers and the like.

      This is my list of 20 Good Books I Read in 2019, the books that turned out to be the most meaningful for me over the past twelve months. Reviewing my spreadsheet to find these particular twenty books helps me remember God’s providence throughout the year. What was it that I thought I needed to hear or to learn, or to remember? Sometimes these lists give me a clue.

      Should you choose to read one of these books, I’d love to hear from you. I enjoy hearing different takes on books that made my year better.

1.     Chasing the Demon: A Secret History of the Quest for the Sound Barrier, and the Band of American Aces Who Conquered It, by Dan Hampton … The race to break the sound barrier

2.     The Tour According to G: My Journey to the Yellow Jersey, by Geraint Thomas … A great cycling book about Thomas’ surprise winning of the 2018 Tour de France

3.     Hearing God in Conversation: How to Recognize His Voice Everywhere, by Sam Williamson … We studied this book in Iron Men, and it is the best I’ve ever read about conversing with God. It is theologically deep and yet easy to read and absorb

4.     Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad, by Austin Kleon … One of my favorite writers, a huge influence on me as a writer and creator

5.     Oswald Chambers: Abandoned to God, by David McCasland … This was a fascinating biography of Oswald Chambers

6.     The Art of Neighboring: Building Genuine Relationships Right Outside Your Door, by Jay Pathak & Dave Runyon … We studied this book in Iron Men; I selected it because I am not good at learning the people who live around me

7.     Endurance: My Year in Space, A Lifetime of Discovery, by Scott Kelly … the memoir of an astronaut who lived a year on the International Space Station

8.     Meditations from the Breakdown Lane: Running Across America, by James Shaprio … One of the first running books I ever read (1986) and a big inspiration to me about long-distance adventures

9.     It's Great to Suck at Something: The Unexpected Joy of Wiping Out and What It Can Teach Us About Patience, Resilience, and the Stuff that Really Matters, by Karen Rinaldi … An encouraging book that asks us to not be afraid to do things we aren’t good at, to do something unremarkable, uncelebrated, and without much to show for it, with love and with hope in your heart.

10.  The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life, by David Brooks … A surprisingly spiritual book about how to live the second half of life with purpose and significance

11.  Chasing the Moon: The People, the Politics, and the Promise That Launched America into the Space Age, by Robert Stone, and One Giant Leap: The Impossible Mission That Flew Us to the Moon, by Charles Fishman … I know, I know, these are two different books, but both are about the Apollo moon landing program and tell slightly different angles of the adventure.

12.  Dreyer's English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style, by Benjamin Dreyer … a surprisingly clever and entertaining book about writing and editing

13.  Moods of Future Joys: Around the World by Bike Part One (England to Africa) and Thunder & Sunshine: Part Two (Riding home from Patagonia), by Alastair Humphries … Again, two books, but one adventure.

14.  Infinite Powers: How Calculus Reaveals the Secrets of the Universe, by Steven Strogatz … A fun book about (stay with me) calculus.

15.  All Our Waves are Water: Stumbling Toward Enlightenment and the Perfect Ride, by Jamal Yogis … Another surfing book. Whether riding grisly waves in the Pacific or navigating the waves of the heart and the mind, Yogis discovers that it is between water and air, between control and surrender, between the tangible and the intangible, where grace can be found.

16.  Soul Keeping: Caring For the Most Important Part of You, by John Ortberg … how to live in deep, satisfied spirituality and a restless, dispassionate faith. This will be our Iron Men book for spring 2020

17.  Princess Bride: A Tale of True Love and High Adventure, by William Goldman … the inspiration for the movie we love and watch over and over at our house

18.  It's About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels, by Robert Penn … an experienced writer and cyclist goes on a pilgrimage to build the perfect bike

19.  Unforgettable: A Son, a Mother, and the Lessons of a Lifetime, by Scott Simon … an excellent memoir by one of NPR’s best story tellers

20.  Keep Moving: Lessons for the Rest of Your Life, by Twyla Tharp … how to harness vitality and find purpose as we age

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