15,000 Days

      Friday, August 21, will mark 15,000 days of marriage for Cyndi and me.

      We have a lot to live up to. I looked up length of marriages to see the pattern laid out for us by parents and grandparents:

      Cy and Dulcie Simpson: married 44 yrs.

      Roy and Pauline Haynes: 49 yrs.

      Forrest and Ruby Atchley: 57 yrs.

      Deane and Lenelle Simpson: 59 yrs

      It’s risky to talk about marriage, since the evidence of our expertise is out there for all to see. Other topics are easier to mask. For example, I might bluff my way though a discussion of oilfield equipment design, or drilling operations, or even Bible study, and only real experts would know whether I was on target.

      But writing about marriage to people who see us several times every week means no bluffing. They can see the truth. And not only that, the story isn’t over yet. Who knows what will happen tomorrow?

      I have no illusions that our marriage is invulnerable. No relationship is bulletproof. We will continue to suffer attacks from now on. The world will pressure us to fall apart, to break up, to destroy what is important to us; we should expect nothing less. We don’t have to be afraid, but we do have to be wary. We have to be proactive to keep our relationship strong.

      There are many topics of married life I certainly don’t feel qualified to write about, such as conflict resolution (I clam up and avoid confrontation); family finances (I’m usually overwhelmed and afraid); or family devotion times (I’m such a loner I forget about including those around me in my devotional life).

      But I can write about staying in love for 15,000 days since that has been my life story.  And Cyndi, well she has, as it turns out, dedicated her life to making me a happy man. So love is a good topic for us.

      Here’s the thing: We learned a few fundamentals in our early twenties that have served us well. I don’t know if we picked them up on our own, or if we read them in a book, or if we heard them in a sermon or seminar, but they’ve protected us all these years.

      Probably the best thing we did very early was to decide how we would talk about our marriage, and about each other, to friends and family. We decided to keep our mouths shut about complaints or struggles or dissatisfactions. I don’t mean that we walled ourselves off from people who wanted to help us, but we guarded and protected each other as individuals and as a couple. We were careful about what we said to others.

      I also made a conscious decision very early never to tell marriage jokes. I remember being in a large break room one day during lunch, it was full of my coworkers, almost all men, and they were cracking jokes about marriage and bad-mouthing their own spouses. I decided I didn’t want to live like that.

      If people heard me talk about marriage it would be only good things. It was a sacrifice, of sorts. I knew I could make people laugh and I was good at sharp retorts and wise cracks and marriage is an easy target. “Take my wife, please …”, and like that.

      But I knew that over time, bad marriage jokes would change the shape of my heart. I decided not to do it. I didn’t want to joke myself out of being in love.

      Cyndi once described us as living back-to-back, taking on all attackers. Any challenge against one was an attack on both of us. We were back-to-back, shoulder blade-to-shoulder blade, fending off the world if necessary. Not that we were combative, but that we were always protecting each other.

      That meant we didn’t have to guard our own back from our own partners. It meant we didn’t tell things on each other, even to our own families. I didn’t tell things on Cyndi to my family or friends, and she didn’t tell things on me to her family and friends.

      And so, we never had to be afraid of being ambushed in a future family conversation with some personal piece of embarrassing information.

      The curious thing is, our human desire for long-lasting love doesn’t have an evolutionary advantage. It makes us vulnerable, makes us take chances not necessary for survival. The more we love someone, the more we risk, and the people we love most have the greatest opportunity to hurt us the most.

      Love means giving your heart away – a great risk. Like ET, whose heart glowed red and showed through his skin when he was emotional, making his physical heart an easy target for anyone who’d cause him harm, our hearts are our weakest most vulnerable assets when full of love.

      I’ve learned from comments left on my blog that some people would rather avoid the bother and danger of love. Not me. Long-term love makes my life work. It’s more than worth it. I’m in for another 15,000 days.

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

The County Library

      Cyndi once asked, “Why did they let elementary-age boys check out books about homemade rocket fuel?”

      “I don’t know,” I said. “But I think a kid could get by with a lot in 1965 in Kermit if they didn’t look like a California hippie.”

*     *     *     *     *

      Susan Orleans, in The Library Book, wrote, “The library might have been the first place I was ever given autonomy.” That was true for me as well. My mom allowed me to walk by myself to the Winkler County Library where I browsed and checked out books long before I had a way to accumulate any money to buy things. Like Ms. Orleans, picking out books to read might have been my first autonomous decisions.

      Libraries go way back in my timeline. About ten years ago my mom gave me a blue three-ring binder that contained, along with High School letters and certificates and photos, copies of my summer reading list when I was in early elementary school. The library had a reading program to encourage youngsters to read ten books during the summer. I don’t have any memories of my mom taking me to the library and helping me choose books, but the reading lists show I was too young to go on my own.

      My earliest memory of going to the library by myself are from the summer when my mom worked as secretary for Grace Temple Baptist Church in Kermit. I was probably in fourth or fifth grade.

      The church and the county library were a bit less than a mile apart, a straight shot walking east, about a 12-minute walk. I don’t know if they’re in the same location as they were in the mid-sixties, but the odds are neither has moved. For once, the route on Google maps, along West Bryan Street, matches the pictures in my memory.

      Was it considered safe and good parenting to let a fourth grader walk a mile by themselves, in those days? I don’t know. But my mom always took me to the church with her while she put out the weekly bulletin since there was no such thing as childcare back then. Maybe she got tired of me pestering her because I was bored and simply sent me down the street to get rid of me. She was never one to complain or gripe, but she was quick to dream up a project to keep me busy.

      A patient librarian taught me to find the age-appropriate books and how to work a card catalogue. I was so excited when I found a complete set of Boy Scout merit badge books – small, about 4” x 5”, brown hardbound books. I checked them all out, one at a time. I was never in Scouts; I don’t know why. But I found the books, read them all, and tried to do what I could.

      It was in the library where I first read about rockets and learned I could build my own.

      Friends of mine owned Estes model rocket kits and I would go with them when they launched and recovered their rockets. For some reason I never had a kit of my own. I don’t think it was because they cost too much; I have no memory of asking my parents to buy one. But once I found books in the library, I wanted to build my own.

      From the Winkler County Library, I learned how to make my own potent rocket fuel using a 50/50 mix of potassium nitrate and sugar – both available over-the-counter to a young boy. I launched countless rockets using that fuel. Well, the word launch is a stretch, because none of my rockets flew. I wasn’t as good designing a functional rocket as I was making engines and fuel. So, I built a test wire in the backyard and raced my engines across the ground whistling and smoking. It was incredible. And all thanks to the county library

*     *     *     *     *

      Going to the library was one of the things I missed most during the long Covid shutdown. It was painful. I needed a place to sit and spread out, write, edit, and read. I wanted to check the new-book shelf and see what I might be missing. I even missed sitting in the middle of the noisy room with families crisscrossing around my table. (I also longed for the old study carrels in the hidden corners known only to long timers, even though modern libraries no longer have them - they are all designed by people who think everyone wants to sit in the middle of the room … but that’s more of a rant than a missing out.)

      There’s good news! Lately we’ve been able to reenter the libraries again, and it’s been like coming home. It reminds me of my mom sending me down the street with an armload of books.

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

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Like We Do

      Cyndi and I married on July 28, 1979, so this summer is our 41th anniversary. It will also be our 15,000-day anniversary in August, but I’ll write more about that later.

      A few years ago, I realized one way to celebrate our anniversary was to spread love around. We feel fortunate and blessed to have each other, and we want to share that with people close to us.

      So, in 2007 I started giving away love songs. I searched my archives and the internet and found twenty songs I wanted to share - twenty because that’s how many fit on a CD.

      I hope at least one of these songs will soften your heart and push you toward your own true love. This is my 14th collection to give away, and my first to give away mostly as a playlist rather than actual CDs.

      Burning CDs was time-consuming, but giving them away was satisfying. It reminded me of giving away mixed tapes back in the 1970s (My tape-of-choice? A 90-minute Maxell).

      This year I created my playlist on Spotify – I can and will burn a physical CD for anyone who wants one, but as Cyndi reminded me, most people don’t have easy access to CD players like they did when I started in 2007. She’s right. Neither do I. My sole source for playing a CD is my desktop computer in my office.

      The move from CDs to playlist was surprisingly and disproportionately difficult for me. Sharing a playlist instead of a CD is like giving an elbow bump instead of a handshake; it might be better and more in keeping with the times, but much less satisfying. At least when you listen to one of these songs on Spotify, the artists will receive a few pennies. I can be happy about that.

      The only way to stay together in love for 41 years is to constantly adapt to changes, and moving from CD to playlist is a tiny change compared to our lives these past months.

      Falling in love often feels like an accident, but staying in love is a learned response, maybe even a spiritual practice. If listening to love songs reminds us how to be in love, shouldn’t we all listen more often?

      I expect there will be many more of these since I intend to stay with Cyndi for a long time, so I need your suggestions. Send them to me. In the meantime, play these and dance with someone you love. It might give you that soulful strut.

      To find my playlists (I have them all, back to 2007), follow this link to Spotify, or this link to my webpage.

1.     (I Do) Like We Do, Harry Connick Jr., 2015. “I ain't much but this much is true, no one does 'I do' like we do. ‘

2.     While We’re Young, Huey Lewis & The News, 2020. “Now, here we are, getting older, wondering what we'll be, life is short, let's take advantage of every opportunity.”

3.     You Are The Best Thing, Ray LaMontagne, 2008. “You are the best thing, ever happened to me.”

4.     About You, Albin Lee Meldau, 2018. “I don't believe that anyone feels the way I do for you.”

5.     Soulful Strut, Young-Holt Unlimited, 1968.

6.     You Got Me, Colbie Caillat, 2009. “It's everything that I've been dreaming of, I give up, I give in, I let go, let's begin, cause no matter what I do, my heart is filled with you.”

7.     Anyhow, Tedeschi Trucks Band, 2016. “I would go anywhere, anytime; I would do anything, anyway, anyhow.”

8.     Bring It On Home, Little Big Town, 2013. : When your long day is over, and you can barely drag your feet, the weight of the world, is on your shoulders, I know what you need, bring it on home to me.”

9.     Can’t Hold Out On Love, Jason Mraz, 2017. “It's up to us to make sure there's enough, we can't hold out on love.”

10.  Here Come Those Eyes, Chris Rice, 2007. “Here come those eyes, there goes my ability to breathe, those legs are walking her to me.”

11.  L-O-V-E, Gregory Porter, 2017. “Love was made for me and you.

12.  By My Side, The Indomitable Soul Band & Kat Wright, 2016. “I never worry when you're by my side.”

13.  Fly Me To The Moon (Live), Diana Krall, 2002. “In other words, hold my hand.

14.  I Am Yours, Andy Grammer, 2019. “Still can't believe it when you say your mine.”

15.  Slow Down, Gone West, 2020. “You make me want to slow down.”

16.  I Like You, Ben Rector, 2013. “Life is not the mountain tops, It's the walking in between, and I like you walking next to me.‘

17.  A Love That Will Last, Renee Olstead, 2004. “So call me romantic, I guess that must be so, there's something more that you oughta know, I'll never leave you, so don't even ask, I want a love that will last.”

18.  Power of Two, Indigo Girls, 1994. “Adding up the total of a love that's true, Multiply life by the power of two.”

19.  Alright Okay You Win, Count Basie & Joe Williams, 1955. “Well, alright, okay, you win, I'm in love with you.”

20.  We Got Love, Walk Off The Earth, 2015. “That's the thing about us, we got love, love, love.”

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

Behind the Curve Again

      We were in Albuquerque for the weekend, to attend a memorial service for Cyndi’s uncle, Leon Aschbacher, who passed away last March. The service was in Tijeras, NM. This was the first opportunity for the family to get together and celebrate Leon’s life.

      The first thing we noticed was that wearing masks was much more common in Albuquerque than in West Texas; it’s required by the state to wear a mask when in a public setting. Knowing that was a possibility, we all brought our masks with us to be prepared.

      In a sense I’m embarrassed I don’t wear a mask more often back home, not because I’m afraid of getting sick (I’m not) or because I want to make a political statement (I don’t), but out of respect to society in general. There’s more than enough empirical evidence that masks reduce the spread of the virus, and wearing one, at least for me, should be a statement that I care about you and your health more than I care about my own inconvenience or independence.

      The only reason I can think of for why I haven’t been wearing a mask all the time is I don’t want to be a go along with the crowd  guy, or be included with the goofy people who wore plastic bottles on their head back in February. I don’t want someone to think I’m afraid, or easily scared. Mostly, in all areas of life, I push back against being told what to do. Just like most Americans.

      That tendency is not my best feature. My first reaction shouldn’t be to fight back, but be humble and teachable.

*     *     *     *     *

      My first independent decision in the direction toward safety was when I started wearing my seat belt while driving. I was 20 years old. This was in 1976, long before it was mandatory to wear a seat belt, which happened in the 1980s. It was also long before seat belts were spring-loaded and gave the wearer freedom of movement. In my Ford Maverick, once I put the seat belt on I was stuck in place. It was completely inconvenient. But all the evidence pointed to how much safer it was; it was a logical evidence-based practice that improved the survivability of an auto accident … unmistakable and non-arguable. The only reason for not wearing a seat belt was because they were uncomfortable (true) and it was someone else’s idea “who knew what was best for me”. But I knew I would get used to the feeling of wearing a belt if I wore it every time I drove.

      So I made a deliberate decision, as a college student, to wear my seat belt every time I was in the driver’s seat. It became part of my identity.

      Another example: My decision to wear a helmet when cycling. This one was easier since the helmet debate occurred before I started riding – that is, during my current adult phase of cycling. Everyone I cared about or listened to wore a helmet. I chose to wear one because it was the smart thing to do.

      A more appropriate comparison to wearing a mask was my decision as a cyclist mirror on my helmet so I could see traffic behind me. A lot of road cyclists think mirrors are only worn by rubes, and they won’t even consider one. I decided early on I didn’t care if the cool kids liked my gear; I wanted to see behind me, especially when merging with traffic or changing lanes.

      The difference between those examples and wearing a mask is this – those decisions were made to protect me from danger; wearing a mask is to protect vulnerable people from me.

*     *     *     *     *

      Sitting in the hotel lobby in Albuquerque, writing in my journal, I realized I should make the same decision about wearing a mask; make a deliberate change; a pivot; a public statement not about conformity but solidarity, that you are more important than me -even if we disagree, even if you think I am a foolish sheep merely following the scared crowd, even if you think I am a slave to fear or captured by the 24-hour news networks (which I never watch). Even then.

      Here’s the thing: If we lived anywhere but West Texas I’d be wearing a mask all the time already. The decision wouldn’t be mine – it would be made for me. And while I often bend or break rules to make my life easier to live, I usually do it in such a way no else notices. I don’t want my identity to be a stubborn rebel. It’s hard to share love and grace with people when they think of you as a hardened angry grouch.

      So I bought two new masks (black, like Zorro would wear), and I’m committed to wearing them. I doubt it’ll happen immediately. I’m notoriously slow to change my patterns and routines. But I’ll try.

*     *     *     *     *

      While I was pondering all this in the hotel lobby in Albuquerque I noticed a Facebook memory from several years ago, when I had posted lyrics to a Steven Curtis Chapman song, The Walk:

You can run with the big dogs
You can fly with the eagles
You can jump through all the hoops
And climb the ladder to the top
But when it all comes down
You know it all comes down to this

Do justly, love mercy
Walk humbly with your God

       This convicted me even more. Am I more interested in planting my flag and declaring my right to make my own decisions, like mask wearing or seat belt wearing or helmet and mirror wearing, or in living humbly with my God.

      I fully understand I’m decidedly behind the curve regarding masks. Not only that, the whole mask-wearing decision is only a temporary thing. It will be over soon. Neither are good reasons to do the wrong thing.

*     *     *     *     *

      By the way, this isn’t what I thought I would be writing about last Saturday morning, or even what had been on my mind … this is simply where my pen and paper took me. I goes that way sometimes.

      But the decision whether to love my neighbor as myself, to put other people first, to do justly, love mercy, to walk humbly with God … that’s a lifelong decision that comes back over and over.  It is my prayer that making the humble and teachable decisions will get easier, and in the future I’ll do it sooner, with less hesitation.

Making Lists

      I was reading Proverbs 30, written by a man named Agur son of Jakeh. If you look it up, you’ll see it contains several lists. In fact, it is a list of lists. For example:

      Verse fifteen says, “There are three things that are never satisfied, four that never say, ‘Enough!’…

      Verse eighteen says, “There are three things that are too amazing for me, four that I do not understand …”

      And verse twenty-one says, “Under three things the earth trembles, under four it cannot bear up …”

      (These are just the headings of Agur’s lists. You’ll have to read Proverbs 30 for details.)

      I realized I’m a lot like Agur; it’s hard to know how many things to put on a list. And it’s hard to know when to stop.

      I make daily lists all the time, especially if my projects include a lot of different locations around town. Once I have a list of all the things I need to do, places I need to go, I can sequence them for efficient driving and all that.

      Once I have a list, I relax. I no longer have to depend on my memory to get important things done, I just follow the list.

      That means, I can be creative without the fear of becoming distracted. I can let my mind wander knowing all I have to do is look at my list for the next project. I only have to remember one thing … keep up with my list.

*     *     *     *     *

      I’ve been reading Every Tool’s a Hammer, by Adam Savage (MythBusters), my Christmas present from daughter Katie (she gave it to me after she’d finished reading it herself … a longstanding tradition). Savage actually included two chapters about list making: chapter two – “Lists,” and chapter three – “Checkboxes.”

      He wrote, “I love lists. I like long detailed lists. I like big unruly lists. I like sorting unsorted lists into outline form, then separating out their topics into lists of their own.”

*     *     *     *     *

      When I get nervous about something, my first defense is to start making lists … lists of things to do beforehand, lists of things to take with me, lists of things to consider and think about, lists of questions to research, lists of projects to do afterward, and like that.

      Why do I start there? Because the part of any big project that makes me fret is my fear I’ll forget something important. (People say “If it’s important you’ll remember it.” That is a lie. Don’t believe it. Write it down!)

      I’ve actually gotten up out of bed after tossing and turning, not sleeping because I’m worrying about a project or trip or writing idea and scribbled down a list of the things that have been bothering me. Once I have it on paper, I usually drop off to sleep immediately. It’s like magic. The magic of making a list.

      A list lets my brain floaters settle. When I have a list in my hand, I know what to do next, I don’t have to keep guessing.

*     *     *     *     *

      Not all lists are things to do. Back in 1983 a motivational speaker named Jim Rohn taught me to keep a wisdom list, with quotes and phrases and lyrics, and to keep a list of books I’ve read. He said we should intentionally capture knowledge and wisdom.

      His advice not only changed my life, it improved my future. I still keep the lists, and still add to those same lists, he recommended, 37 years later.

      CHALLENGE: Make a list of things to start doing, and ideas to start thinking. Start today.

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

Learning How to Run Again

      Wednesday morning, I went for what has become my regular, every-other-day, three-and-a-half-mile run through the neighborhood. It’s been one of the small handful of practices I’ve been able to stick to since being harbored at home. I’ve been able to alternate running one day and cycling the next day. Being outside has been even more important nowadays than before and moving down the road has been one of the few routines I’ve kept my grip on. It helps me forget that long list of projects I thought I’d tackle once I had plenty of time but have, well, failed at.

      The thing about my runs is if you saw me, you’d probably think I was walking. The reason I know is because that’s the comment I hear most often, “Hey, I saw you walking down our street.”

      It’s been that same conversation for a long time.

      I first started running in May 1976 at age 19, having never been interested in sports or athletics, because I needed to impress a girl who had been dating a jock. Running was the easiest entry point into the athletic world, with the least skill or technique required.

      But for all that, I’ve never been fast. And yet, despite my slow plodding pace, I ran a lot of miles, a lot of races, and multiple marathons. That is, until around 2004, when my knees started hurting.

      Doctor Cochran’s diagnosis was osteoarthritis - the meniscus in both my knee joints was gone.

      At first, I assumed running all those miles were the cause. It made sense that I had worn out my meniscus from overuse. But like any good engineer I did my research and learned the root cause was most-likely genetic. In fact, running had given me more additional years of movement rather than causing damage.

      I tried a variety of things to keep running, including repeated visits to physical therapists at Seton Medical in Austin, modifying my gait and shoes, and regular injections of Synvisc in both knees. I learned that I couldn’t do much to repair, or even slow down, the damage; all I could do was manage the pain. So I took a lot of vitamin I (Ibuprofen) and kept moving. Eventually, my running deteriorated to a jog, and then to a hobble, to a shuffle, and eventually to a crooked bowlegged limp.

      I had both knees replaced with titanium joints in 2015, and my life has been markedly better ever since. I’ve cycled thousands of miles, hiked up and down dozens of mountain trails, and run a bit. But even after five years I’ve never been able to run faster than a slow shuffle, or as my neighbors would say, walk, even with my new after-market knees.

*     *     *     *     *

      I read a book of essays titled, I Was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley, and she wrote of the time when she was misdiagnosed as having hemochromatosis, a too-much-iron-in-the-blood disease. Later, when she found out she wasn’t sick after all, she was a little sad. “I had myself an explanation for everything that had ever been wrong with me,” she wrote. “I wanted to hold my flaws close but controlled like a balloon tied to my wrist with a string. If anything went wrong, all I had to do was tug at the string and bring my explanation down for others to see. This is who I am, and this is why.”

      The question we must ask ourselves is this: Do I want to get well?

      Jesus asked this same question of a man who had been paralyzed for 38 years. Jesus found him lying by a pool of water, a place where blind, lame, and paralyzed people were left by their families. There was a tradition that when the water was stirred, the first person into the pool was healed. (John 5:1-9)

      Jesus asked the man, “Do you want to get well?”

      The man said, "Sir, I have no one to put me in the pool when the water is stirred up and someone else always steps down ahead of me"

      Curiously, the man didn’t answer Jesus’ question. He started making excuses. Jesus didn’t ask him, “What are your problems? What makes your life so hard?” He asked, "Do you want to get well?"

      This man had been sick so long he forgot about wanting to get well. All he could do was explain his limp.

      Is it possible to live so long in injury that our bodies forget how to live without it? Is it possible to forget how good life can be? Or do we learn to enjoy limping? After all, it provides a convenient excuse to explain away poor performances.

      I know this much: It’s possible to limp so long we make agreements with ourselves. As in, “Pain-free walking just isn’t for me,” or “I’m stuck in this lousy relationship but I’m used to it now,” or “I’m saddled with this addiction for the rest of my life, I should just get used to it.”

      Too often we settle when we don’t have to,

*     *     *     *     *

      Wednesday morning, I had brief stretches where I picked up the pace and felt like a real runner again. It was a gift from God. It was a reminder that my problem is less physical than mental. I have a lot more in me than my brain is willing to release.

      Unlike the man lying beside the pool of water, I do want to get better. I have sixteen years of shuffling muscle-memory to push through, but now is the time to start.

      What about you? What excuses are you holding on to?

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

Practicing Matters

      One Saturday morning, I enjoyed a bowl of nutty whole-grained cereal while solving the newspaper Sudoku puzzle and listening to a NPR Weekend Edition interview with Stuart Davis, musician and writer and comic. Davis mentioned during the interview that he was a Buddhist practitioner. He said, “I have followed that path for 15 years.”

      I wondered why we don’t use language like that about following Jesus. Why don’t I say, “I am a Christian practitioner – I have been following the path of Jesus for 56 years?” I’m comfortable to say, I believe in Jesus; why is it uncomfortable to say, I practice Christianity?

      If I say I’m a practitioner, it implies a couple of things: (1) my practices matter, and (2) I’m still learning. Saying I’m a practitioner puts the emphasis on what I do rather than what I say.

      In a well-known Bible story, Jesus asked Peter, one of his closest friends and disciples, “Do you love me?” When Peter answered, “Yes,” Jesus followed with the specific command, “Feed my sheep.” (John 21:15-17)

      In other words, don’t just say you love me, do something about it. Don’t just love, act. In other words, be a practitioner.

      I live so much of my life inside my own head it’s easy for me to fall into the trap of believing that thinking about stuff has the same value as doing something. But the truth is, my practices matter.

      If I say I love you but don’t put you foremost in my life, I’m wrong … or lying. I cannot say I want to help you if all I do is talk, talk, talk. If my explanations smell more like excuses and justifications, they smell. Jesus said, if you love me, take care of my people, love who I love.

      Being a practitioner of Christianity means I’m still learning. It means I don’t yet know all the answers and I’m still searching for truth, still learning to walk like Jesus, and I hope, growing better and deeper every day.

      One of my core beliefs is that we should grow closer to God every day. Another is that we should be lifelong students. Both of those beg for practice.

      I read this (but unfortunately don’t remember where): “The essence of Christianity is practicing the art of being His obedient children. A medical doctor, psychologist, teacher, professor, artist, and violinist are all considered practitioners of their occupation, vocation, and gift. Christ intends for us to be practitioners in action, service, and heart. The practice of the faith is truly from the heart and motivated by the love of Christ.”

      In Romans 12:1-2, Paul writes: “Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don't become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You'll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.” (The Message)

      Those are good words. Living God’s way takes a lot of practice.

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

Practicing Faith: Experiencing the Sacred

      I spent Saturday afternoon strolling around downtown Santa Fe looking for any of several bookstores that popped up when I pressed my Around Me app, but no joy. Either the data was stale, or the bookstores were too well hidden. Hiding a bookstore makes no sense if the owner intends to sell books unless it’s a Harry Potter bookstore. Or in Santa Fe where businesses relish being hard-to-find and impossible-to-park nearby.

      Hoping to redeem my time spent not locating a bookstore, I walked inside St. Francis Basilica to sit in a pew for a short while. The cathedral has a nice bookstore, so I suppose I found what I was looking for, but I’d been here many times before and already bought all the books I was interested in.

      After a few minutes of sitting and writing I lifted my head out of my Moleskine journal and noticed a couple of dozen tourists inside. I was the only one not taking a selfie.

      Of course, I felt noble and righteous because I wasn’t taking a selfie and my own phone was reverently stowed in my back pocket. However, as I sat in judgment of the selfie-takers it occurred to me how un-St. Francis it was to feel nobler-than-them.

      Taking a selfie is not unholy or irreverent. We all experience the sacred in our own way. Who knows the stories of all these people? Maybe they recently turned their life around and entered a church for the first time in their lives and documented the experience for themselves and for their support group. Or they promised their dying aunt a photo since she wanted to attend this church her entire life and now she is unable to come so the selfie taker was doing the next best thing. I’m sure many of those same people wondered why a gray-haired man would sit alone in a cathedral writing in his journal. Was their method of documenting the experience less righteous than mine, they might ask?

*   *   *   *   *

      I read from Isaiah 30, including verse 21, “… your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it.’”

      In the margin of my Bible I’d written a list of messages I’ve heard from God, plain and clear as if there were a person behind me speaking into my ears.

      These aren’t the only ones; maybe the only ones with enough years behind them to give me the courage to write them down in my Bible.

      “Marry Cyndi” (sitting at the kitchen table in my apartment in Norman, Oklahoma, while talking to Cyndi on the phone; she was in Albuquerque, New Mexico; it was Fall 1978)

      “You should be teaching” (in Keith Parker’s Sunday School class, in the spring of 1990)

      “You have something to say” (in the Prayer Gardens at Glorieta, July 1996)

      “Stay where you are” (walking across the stadium parking lot at FBC after Helen Spinks’ funeral, in April 1995)

      “Dude, go for a run” (at Wild at Heart Boot Camp, Buena Vista CO, November 2003)

      “Sell some stuff” (going up the elevator to my office in the Western National Bank building, around 2005-2006)

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how big it is” (at Wild at Heart Advanced Camp, after August Rush, in May 2008)

      “I don’t want to find God, standing alone” (on Sam Williamson’s front porch, Anne Arbor, MI, June 2013)

*   *   *   *   *

      We talk too much about clarity, how we are seeking it in a situation or in a decision. Not only is clarity rare and elusive, it’s subjective, and highly overrated. Instead of solving problems it leaves us wanting more.

      I can’t think of any decision Cyndi I ever made when we were clear about what we should do, clear about God’s direction, clear about what to expect.

      Maybe one of the clearest decisions I can think of was running for reelection in 2007. I felt as certain God was calling me, expecting me, to run for the at-large seat, as any decision I’d had up to that point. I had complete peace in my decision to run.

      But I lost the election, resulting in a minor crisis of faith for me – well, not exactly a crisis. I never doubted God’s call for me to run. I knew he didn’t promise I would win. But I didn’t understand why he called me to campaign so I would lose in front of the whole town.

      None of my job changes felt like clarity. I would say my decision to work for Amerada Hess in 1979, when Cyndi and were starting out, was the only job I ever accepted where I was thinking of a long-term career. All the others - a collection of major and independent oil companies in Midland - felt like temporary solutions to me when I started, like place-holder jobs I could take advantage of until God’s real plan was ready. I didn’t see clearly how God used them in my life until years afterward.

      Even in retrospect I seldom see much clarity. I can analyze old decisions and see how eventually they worked out to advantage, but that is more about redeeming the past than clearly understanding my story.

      I remember when we borrowed money to build Cyndi’s new yoga studio. It was a little unnerving, even though both of us felt it was the right and best thing to do. Cyndi said, “Well, if it all falls apart and we lose money, we’ll figure it out and move on” … a key, if rare, grown-up attitude. (Her comment reminded me of a song from one of my Love Song collections, Vintage, by High Dive Heart, where she sings, “But if it all goes to hell?” and he answers, “At least we won’t be by ourselves.”)

      I believe Cyndi and I have become more comfortable with uncertainty as we get older – probably because we trust each other more, but even more because we trust God’s character. And because we trust God, we trust our own intuition about decisions. We’re more comfortable saying, “Let’s do this and see what happens” because God has been faithful for so long.”

*   *   *   *   *

      Do you have gifts and talents you underestimate? The correct answer is: Yes, you do. We all do.

      We typically don’t recognize or understand our most powerful talents on our own, we need to hear from friends and family. In fact, it’s unlikely we’ll ever understand our calling or purpose without the advice and counsel from people who are close around us.

      But we get glimpses, and for me they often come through music or movies.

      Cyndi and I typically watch a movie in the evening while working on stuff (like family finances, writing the next book, managing a mobile home park, running a yoga studio, etc.) We tend to pick movies we’ve seen many times so we can follow along without being distracted by a story we don’t already know. And much to nephew Kevin’s dismay, when he is with us, as he often is, we typically choose non-exploding non-fighting movies.

      So we watched August Rush again. I’ve now seen this movie many times since my first viewing at a Wild at Heart Advanced Camp in May 2008, where it changed almost everything about my life, so I didn’t expect it to affect me in the same way as it has in the past. I supposed I’d built up some immunity.

      I was wrong. The movie nailed me, once again, and I had to go sit by myself in my closet (I have a rocking chair in there) and absorb the message. Specifically, I internalized what God was saying to me before I let it get away.

      A lot of movies dig emotional responses out of me - no, that’s too weak a statement - a lot of movies make me cry. And each year the list of movies gets longer, either because I’m better at picking out movies, or because I’m getting softer. August Rush is one of those; it slips past the bare patch of my armored chest like Bard’s black arrow and sticks directly into my heart.

      The movie is about a young orphaned boy named August Rush, a musical prodigy, who uses music to reach out to the parents he hopes to find. Only, when I watch it, it isn’t about music, but about writing and teaching.

      In the movie, when a man asks August, “What do you want to be?” he answers with one word, “Found.” Not being lost is profound, and watching this movie helps me realize it’s my job to find people and lead them on the trail so they won’t be lost.

      But the scene that penetrates my armor is when the head of a music conservatory asks young August, “Where does the music come from?” He answers, “It’s like someone is calling out to me. Writing it all down is like I’m calling back to them.” This is exactly what writing feels like to me.

      Later, in my closet, after the movie finished, I sat in my rocking chair with tears rolling down my cheeks, praying, again, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how big it is.”

      “I’m sorry I continually underestimate what You’ve given to me. Because I don’t speak to big crowds or sell tons of books or have thousands of readers I underestimate the gift, and the result. Thank You for giving me so many turns. Thank You for lighting the fire inside to teach and write and give away and improve. Thank you for sharing insights and connections. I want to give them back to You.”

      Here’s the thing. None of us understands our own influence. None of us knows how big it is because we don’t pay attention the same way God does. We don’t notice the same results God sees. We don’t see hearts the same way God does – we are stuck in this present day and God sees the long-term benefit. All we can know is we aren’t the heroes of our own stories, no matter how big. The heroes are the people who respond, who stand up and step forward, and we are simply lucky to be part of the story.

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

Numbering Days

      This morning I read one of my favorite verses, Psalm 90:12, which says, So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

      I like the phrase, a heart of wisdom, because I don’t usually think of wisdom as a characteristic of my heart as much as of my mind. This verse causes me to rethink my entire idea of wisdom, and nothing but good can come from that.

      Of course, being a log keeper, calendar maker, and note taker, I can’t pass by the phrase, teach us to number our days. It makes me want to number my days.

Here they are:

23,320... days I have been alive

20,756... days since I was baptized

18,898... days since I first picked up a trombone

15,857... days I have been (verifiably) hot for Cyndi

15,307... days since I started running.

15,254... days since I told Cyndi I was in love with her

14,949... days I've been a college graduate

14,885... days I have been married

14,473... days I have been a father

13,754... days I have lived in Midland Texas

12,960... days since my first marathon.

12,536... days since I first started tracking the books I read

11,824... days since my marathon PR

10,831... days since I first started teaching adult classes at church

9,478..... days since I was laid off for the first time

7,835..... days since I published my first Journal Entry

5,955..... days I've been an Iron Man

4,470..... days I've served as Uncle Berry

4,419..... days I served in city government

4,161..... days I have lived in Woodland Park

3,962..... days since publishing book #1

3,716..... days I've been a grandfather to Madden

3,558..... days since I started cycling (in the modern era)

3,496..... days since my last marathon

3,374..... days since publishing book #2

2,887..... days I've lived with a retired teacher

2,674..... days since publishing book #3

2,602..... days since my last bike crash

2,468..... days I've been a grandfather to Landry

2,099..... days since my mom passed away

1,744..... days on new knees

1,124..... days since my dad passed away

1,065..... days I cycled at least 15 miles

1,032..... days since publishing book #5

90......... days I've donated blood

42......... days I've spent on crutches

32......... days I have been working from home in 2020

30......... days I have spent on solo backpacking trips

22......... days I have summited Guadalupe Peak

9........... days I’ve spent running marathons.

2........... days I spent conceiving children

1........... days since my last run.

1........... days I spent getting married

0........... days since I read my Bible

0........... days since I slept next to Cyndi

Lessons from Quarantine

     Saturday morning I met my friends from our church Sunday School class in the stadium parking lot near First Baptist Church. Our instructions were to bring our own coffee and bring our own chair. Of the twelve vehicles in the parking lot, ten were pickups and two of those were pulling trailers. As it turned out, the morning was breezy and in the 40s, but we talked and laughed, mostly laughed, for over an hour.

      I’m surprised how much I miss gatherings like this. I’m one of those people who is not only content being alone most of the time, but who go out of their way to insure solitude. For me, working from home under coronavirus quarantine has been easy. For one, being longtime empty-nesters, we don’t have any littles running around. Sam Williamson wrote to me: “Your quarantine sounds like heaven to me.” He is correct; it’s been an easier transition for me than for most of my friendly friends.

      What I miss most is mobility - going places to read and write and study and ponder. I do best when I can move around. I can withdraw into my own thoughts even in a noisy fast food restaurant, often better than I can in my own home. I’m trying to change that during this shelter in place era - trying to learn new patterns and routines and ways of living. So far, I’ve been only marginally successful at retraining myself.

      But even though I love being along, I also need people around me regularly - to bounce ideas off of, to ask questions, to tell stories to. Especially when teaching. We have now had four weeks of online Sunday School using Zoom, and while it is awkward and clumsy, it is better than not seeing each other at all. I have a coworker who told me to take online teaching another step and start videoing my lessons and put them on a YouTube channel and build a following. But I can’t see that working very well. I am not a good straight-ahead lecturer. I’m at my best as a teacher when I have live listeners who can make comments and challenges. I like the give-and-take that happens among seasoned friends.

*   *   *   *   *

      Trying to take advantage of my time in our house, I spent last weekend cleaning out my closet. It is not a small task. When we built this house eleven years ago one of the few features I wanted was my own separate closet. And what we built was perfect. It is about ten by ten feet, has shelves and racks, and a small desk and rocking chair. It is my final hideaway, and I retreat there often.

      So while cleaning my closet I discovered a CD from a live concert in the summer of 1976, Continental Singers Tour E. I played bass trombone with Continentals during the summers of 1974, 1975, and 1976, and this CD was from my last tour. In 1976 I also played harmonica on one of the closing songs, "I'm Gonna Meet Jesus."

      I didn't remember who made the recording but expected our sound man put it on cassette. I do remember listening to the original while we were riding on the bus the next day ... and we were so impressed with ourselves. None of us, singers or musicians, had heard the complete sound, all summer. We held our breath and listened in awe to the whole concert.

      I posted the CD photo and a link to the music on a Facebook page for Continental Singer alumni, and I heard back almost immediately from Douglas Karl, a member of that tour. He wrote, “I think I made the CD. I recorded it on CD from a cassette that I had. (I was shocked the cassette was in such good shape) I have the audio tracks on my computer. I think I made some copies for some Xcons from that tour. Am I remembering that right?”

      When you’re on the tour bus together for three months it is inconceivable that you'll ever forget any of the names or details. But then you go back home to civilian life, and one year turns into five years, turns into twenty years, which turns into forty-four years ... just like that. I look at the photos and wonder, who were those people that I was so close to and why aren’t we still friends?

      Modern social media has been a true gift to me. I know some people see Facebook as a giant time waster, but for me, a proud introvert who cherishes solitude, it has helped me connect with old friends. That’s been especially true with many of my Continental Singer buddies … men and women I had long forgotten about.

      Once again, I was reminded how important personal relationships are to me. For all my talk of solitude, I cherish close friends and companions profoundly. I cannot function long all by myself, either intelligently or creatively. I need the back-and-forth exchange between time alone and time together.

      What a mystery, the way God made each of us. We are so different. We are so much alike.

      How about you? What have you been learning during these strange days?

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