A Happy Man, Still

This piece first appeared on my blog April 26, 2007. I pulled it back out because, well, (1) it’s all still true, and (2) today I received several notices from lifelong friends about a magazine article that featured James Pankow, trombone player for Chicago. As I’ve been reading the article, I knew I had to publish my blog again.

      Can a rock band play my heart language? Can it be that simple? What I mean is, can the language of my heart be so simple that a bunch of guys who started playing rock and pop music about 1967 speak to it fluently. Guys who don’t even know me.

      Last night (April 25, 2007) I joined Cyndi and several close friends in the Ector County Coliseum to hear a concert by Chicago, an event I’ve been anticipating for weeks, or months, and especially during the past few stressful days.

      Chicago Transit Authority (Chicago I) was the first full-length album I ever bought with my own money, sometime around 1971 or 1972. Within a couple of months, I’d cobbled together enough cash to buy Chicago’s second and third albums, and I started saving up for the fourth. I was hooked. I was in deep.

      Even today, if I close my eyes and listen to the music, I’m once again seventeen years old, lying on my bed studying music scores while listening to Chicago II on my record player. It was a time when I was vulnerable to spiritual influences, and their music captured my soul.

      Some have heard this story so many times they can repeat it back to me, but here it is again. I remember working in the backyard of our house on Thorpe Street in Hobbs, New Mexico, one hot summer afternoon in 1971. Up until that summer I had played trombone in the school band; I enjoyed band because my friends were in with me, but the idea of music hadn’t yet seized me. I wasn’t a particularly good player, and the trombone seemed so lame, and I was hungry for changes in my life that would open up my world … all in the summer before my sophomore year of high school.

      But that afternoon while I was pulling weeds, the radio played a song by Chicago, “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is”, which I’d heard many times before, but this time the DJ let the music play all the way to the end before talking - so I heard, for the first time, the brief trombone solo that famously finishes that song … and, all I can say is, my life changed that day. There’s no other way to say it. My life changed. It had to be a gift from God because no one else could have changed me so completely. The day before I heard that solo, I was a goofy teenager ambivalent about almost everything; the day after, I was a musician. That event changed how I saw my future, it changed my thoughts about playing the trombone, it changed the path of my life, it was my Damascus Road … it changed my heart.

      As a result of that experience, that conversion, I’ve been playing my horn ever since. Thirty-six years later (now, FIFTY years later) I still play several times every week. I play mostly in my church, with our orchestra, and with our praise band … and it brings more joy to my life than almost anything else I do. Playing impacts how I write, how I see the world, how I teach, the rhythm of my speech.

      So, all day long, last Tuesday, I heard from friends who called to ask if I knew Chicago was playing that night. Of course, I knew, and of course they all knew I knew. I’d been carrying tickets in my wallet for weeks. Even my brother Carroll, a phenomenal drummer who lives in Austin, called to tell me he was jealous. I said, “Don’t give me that – you live in the Live Music Capital of the World.” He gave me some lame excuse about work and kids and not having time to hear very many bands, but I wasn’t listening. Let him wallow in his jealousy, I say.

      The concert audience was made up mostly of people my age, which means we sat in our seats most of the evening. I did stand up with outstretched arms when James Pankow played his trombone solo on “Does Anybody Know What Time It Is”, and also when the band played “Free”, which has the hottest horn riff ever recorded in America (at 1:17 in the link). And it was a pleasant surprise when I realized Cyndi and I and our friends were sitting in almost the same location where I sat, in the same coliseum, to hear Chicago, with my friends Rick and Carol, in 1974.

      Afterwards, while we were all buzzing in the parking lot, a friend who sat behind us in the concert joked about how most guys play air guitar during a concert, but I was moving my arm back and forth playing air trombone. “I don’t think you missed a single note,” she said.

      I don’t think I did, either. It was a great evening. It did my heart good. I know what it means to be a happy man. (Still.)

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

What Do You Want?

      Recently, I was a guest in a young-married Bible study class, invited by my friend Clark. The class had been discussing ways to do discipleship better; I was there to discuss a mentoring exercise I do called Journey Group. It’s been an important part of my personal ministry, but also of my own spiritual maturity and growth. I’ve learned as much from the men I meet with as they have learned from me.

      Before the class, Clark emailed a list of questions, and I spent a week working through my answers, trying to understand my own motives and desires and expectations for the groups. I knew the answers, but not how to articulate them out loud to new listeners.

      Until Clark’s invite, I hadn’t spent much time thinking through the program. Well, not true – I spend a lot of time thinking through everything I do, including Journey Groups – specifically about structure, procedure, and what can be improved. But this project was different; I’d avoided analyzing something that was working, afraid to ruin it.

      The thing is, Clark knows as much about Journey Groups as I do. It wasn’t details he was after; he wanted to hear what I would say and how I would say it. His list of questions was more for my benefit than for him.

*   *   *   *   *

      In two of my favorite Bible stories Jesus asked the question: “What do you want?”

      One story is found in John 5:6, when Jesus encountered a man who had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years. Jesus asked, “Do you want to get well?”

      The other story is about the time a man named Bartimaeus, who was blind and a beggar, asked Jesus for mercy. In Mark 10:51 Jesus asked Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?”

      The curious part of both stories is, why did Jesus ask them what they wanted? The answer should’ve been obvious to everyone. Except that Jesus never asked questions because he wanted information. He already knew all there was to know. Jesus asked questions for the benefit of the other person rather than for himself. Jesus asked, “What do you want?” because each man needed to hear his own answer, out loud, in public.

      That question – what do you want - can be surprisingly difficult to answer. For example, I’ve prayed frequently that God would heal my left foot and ankle. Is that what I want?

      I have flat feet, no arches. My feet have never been flexible, and I can’t extend them as much as I should. Through the years my toes have taken on bizarre shapes, but I didn’t care as long as I could still run and walk. It isn’t a recent phenomenon – my feet have been that way since I first got them. However, they never bothered me, and for years and years I never thought about them. They carried me through nine marathons and thirty-thousand miles of running. I should be happy, right?

      But last year my left ankle started collapsing and suddenly, almost overnight, I was limping. I now have custom orthotics in my shoes, and they help, but I seldom go without discomfort in my ankle and foot.

      I believe in the power of prayer, but it feels strange to pray for lifelong chronic problems. In the back of my mind, I think this must be how God wanted me – since the root cause goes back to the beginning. Why would God respond to my prayer and fix it all now when this was how he created me?

      How would I answer if Jesus, looking down at my left foot, asked, “What do you want?”

      In truth, I can put up with a bit of pain and limping. I don’t expect my life to be easy. I’m content when compensating and working my way through problems. What I really want is continued use of my ankle, so I can run – no matter how slow – and hike – again, slow – and bike, for years to come. I want the confidence to plan adventure trips such as hiking the Camino de Santiago and the Colorado Trail.

      My answer today when Jesus asks what I want? Show me how to keep moving forward, both down the trail, and through the lives of these young men and women.

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

Call of Adventure

      It happened the summer before my sophomore year in high school. We were living in Hobbs, New Mexico. It was 1972.

      My friend Doug and I spent the summer riding our 10-speed bicycles all over town, and somehow along the way we decided to take an epic bike trip across the state. After discussing all our options, we determined to ride our bikes to Cloudcroft, 168 miles from Hobbs with a 5,000’ increase in elevation. Doug’s uncle worked at a hotel in Cloudcroft, and we figured we could spend the night with him, then ride back home.

      Looking back, I realize this is the sort of over-the-top challenge that usually results from the combination of bragging and alcohol, but there was no alcohol involved in any of this. Rather, it was just the youthful yearning for epic adventure.

      My bike was a Volkscycle, purchased at Mack’s Sharp Shop down the street from our house. I have no idea what Doug rode, but both bikes were standard-issue 1970-era 10-speeds. Heavy, in today’s terms.

      We didn’t have any cool cycling gear. I wore Levi cut-offs and a tank top, the official summer uniform of 1972. We certainly didn’t have any performance cycling clothing, and probably didn’t know it existed. We didn’t have helmets since it was safer back then. I had a hippy-style floppy hat. I don’t remember gloves, either. I’m also sure we wore our Stan Smith tennis shoes.

      We traveled with sleeping bags, one change of clothes, food, water, and tools for roadside repairs. All of that was tied onto our bikes. I’m sure we also took money, but I don’t remember how much … probably not near enough since teenagers always underestimate how much money it takes to do anything. I only have one photo of the trip. Before digital cameras people didn’t take as many photos as they do now.

      We left Hobbs one Friday morning at 6:00 AM and took Highway 62/180 west toward an intersection of roads called Arkansas Junction. Then, we joined NM Highway 529 and rode and rode and rode. We stayed on the narrow shoulder of the two-lane highway, hanging onto our bikes as oil field trucks whizzed past.

      It was a long, lonely highway and we didn’t come to our first town until we reached Loco Hills, NM, 52 miles from Hobbs. In the small café there was a chalkboard that said, “Today’s menu: Bowl of chili or Hamburger.” We had hamburgers. It was too hot for chili.

      We rolled out of Loco Hills after lunch and headed west on US Highway 82 toward Artesia, another 20 miles away. Our original plan was to ride through Artesia and on to Hope, a tiny town with population less than 100, where we would camp on the ground for the night. There was an abandoned gas station beside the highway, and we figured we could set up under the awning.

      Remarkably, we had no flat tires and only one minor roadside repair. I don’t even remember what broke, but I do remember repairing it with a piece of bailing wire I found alongside the road.

      We rode together all the way into Artesia until Doug got sick. I think he’d been suffering for a long time but wouldn’t talk about it. Once we crossed the city limits, however, he got off his bike and threw up into the bushes. It wasn’t a good sign for the rest of our adventure.

      It was clear to both of us by now that we were in no shape to continue, but being guys, we’d have kept going to the point of collapse, neither of us wanting to be the one to quit. However, now that Doug was obviously sick, it was over. He said, “This is it for me. I can’t go any further.” He had been recovering from a case of mononucleosis and thought it was all behind him, but 78 miles of bike riding brought it all back. It was a gift for both of us. It was better to stop in a town than alongside a deserted New Mexico highway, and by this time we both knew there was a zero chance we’d complete the trip.

      Doug knew a family friend on the Artesia police force; we phoned him, and he took us in for the afternoon. We slept for a long time in the air conditioning at his house. Doug phoned his parents who agreed to drive to Artesia and bring us back to Hobbs.

      As it turned out, a huge thunderstorm rolled off the mountains that night and dumped 2” of rain on Hope. We would’ve been soaked in our sleeping bags had we spent the night there. It was one more confirmation we made the best decision.

      The call of adventure is a mighty thing. The urge to do something bigger than ourselves, to live our lives in the big story can be irresistible. Doug and I had ridden all the roads in Hobbs that summer and we needed something bigger to do. The fact we were unable to complete our trip was surely a blessing since we weren’t fit enough or equipped enough for what we were trying to do, but it is still one of my happiest memories. It was a time when my friend and I were brave and reckless and bulletproof and willing to try the impossible.

# # # # #

This article first appeared in the June 2021 issue of
Windbusters,
newsletter of the Permian Basin Bicycle Association

# # # # #

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

Writing Journals

      This is something that seldom happens in my life. The month is almost over, and I only have a handful of journal pages left, which means I can and will start a new journal on the first day of the month, June 1st. I won’t have to leave blank pages stranded and unused forever, and I won’t have to split the month between two books.

      I understand that being happy about this makes no sense to most of the people I know, or even people I don’t know who bother to read what I write. But if you spend enough time writing in a journal – in my case, I can’t claim daily (I’m not that good) but at least weekly (usually more than once a week) since 1995 – small things like finishing one at the end of a month is worthy enough to be happy about.

      The tools we use regularly matter to us. The reasons we prefer one over the others are usually so subtle they’re invisible to everyone else and make us seem peculiarly choosy about unimportant things. Whether your tool is a journal, or a chef knife, or favorite cookie cutter, yoga mat, hand saw, laptop computer, disinfectant, guitar pick, mobile phone, database software, motorcycle, saxophone, digital tablet, or shoes, the subtlest things can be huge if it’s something you use over and over.

      People give me journals all the time, and some of them are expensive and leather bound and chosen specifically for me with love and care. I feel guilty that I don’t use them regularly – I’ve tried all of them for at least a few pages, to give them a fair chance and allow my habits freedom to change – but in every case I return to my favorite. I’m sorry if you gave me one of those cool journals – there is always the possibility I’ll try it again, and who knows, maybe it will become my new favorite. If you want it back, I won’t mind. I’d rather all journals be written in than sit on a shelf.

      I started the practice of daily writing under the influence of Natalie Goldberg and Daniel Pinkwater (an unusual pairing, I’ll admit), in 1995.Through the years I’ve experimented with a variety of journals – different sizes, hardback and softback, lined paper or graph paper, thick or thin, and I have a box full of them that I’ve accumulated and tried for a week or two. Many were given as gifts by people who love me. But I settled on a Moleskine Classic, Hardcover, Large (5” x 8.25”) with squared/grid pages, black, 240 pages, in April 2005. I have used those ever since with one exception.

            In 2009 I decided to try writing on blank pages (instead of lines or grid) to shake up my graph paper world, to force improvisation and creativity into my writing, and to see if living without boundaries would open my mind to new paths of thought. I don’t know if it worked. I doubt anyone can tell a difference between what I wrote during my free-range period and my gridded days. I only tried it once because Cyndi objected.

      She said, “I like it best when you use graph paper.”

      “Really – Why would you even care?”

      “When you’re standing on the edge, with your blank pages, it makes me want to be cautious. But when you use graph paper, I feel free to be as wild as I want to be. One of us has to stay grounded. I’d rather it was you.”

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

Thoughts About Life Goals

      I recently met with a group of men for breakfast where we discussed our current project, writing a list of 100 Life Goals. We learned it from author Mark Batterson, and some of us have developed and worked on our lists for more than ten years. Others are just getting started.

      I left the breakfast meeting with three main thoughts: (1) These are incredibly smart and talented men and I’m blessed to have them as friends; (2) We heard smart, witty, and insightful lists from each guy … lists that represented their unique lives, calling, and ministry; and (3) One man’s impossible idea is something the guy sitting beside him can make happen.

      Personal change almost always happens within a community where people support each other, practice what they’re learning, and keep each other accountable. For much of my adult life I wouldn’t have thought this to be true. My assumption was I could do it by myself. But because of men like these, I’ve seen the power of community lived out.

      Not everyone likes goal setting. Some people are naturals and others aren’t. And I don’t think you need to set 100 life goals like me. But it’s a worthy endeavor, and I encourage you to give it a try.

      One reason: goal setting eliminates cynicism. Cynicism seems smart, as in knowing the real story all the head-in-the-sand optimists ignore. But it is the lazy way to live. It’s easier to be against things that it is to be in favor of things, and you’re never held accountable for being wrong. Cynicism becomes self-fulfilling prophecy, a habit that infects our work and life. Setting big scary goals helps us avoid this.

      Another reason: goal setting helps us filter the inconsequential out of our lives. Ryan Holiday wrote, “In order to think clearly, it is essential that each of us figures out how to filter out the inconsequential from the essential. It’s not enough to be inclined toward deep thought and sober analysis, a leader must create time and space for it.”

      One more reason: Goal setting changes you. Jim Rohn said, “You want to set a goal that is big enough that in the process you become someone worth becoming.”  Setting goals is less about what you do than who you become. It’s making moves now based on what you want your life to look like ten or twenty years from now.  And from Seth Godin: “If you want to get in shape, it’s not difficult. Spend an hour a day running or at the gym. Do that for six months or a year. That’s not the difficult part. The difficult part is becoming the kind of person who goes to the gym every day.” Set goals that push you toward the person you want to be.

      I hope you’ll join us in this project; and I hope you’ll share your results. Here is a link to my current list of 100 Life Goals. Feel free to appropriate any of these as your own. I should add that I’ve rewritten it several times to reflect the changes that come with age and the different seasons of life.

*   *   *   *   *

      PS: I intended to publish this last week, but I was delayed. Thursday, I traveled to Tyler, Texas, with Rabon and Craig, to play with Denver and the Mile High Orchestra (DMHO) in a concert at Green Acres Baptist Church. It’s always a tremendous rush to play with the big boys, to play big boy music, in big boy settings … and my mind will be buzzing for a week or two from pure energy.

      But here’s the thing. When I wrote my first list of life goals, in 2009, I didn’t include anything about playing with a group like DMHO. It never occurred to me that it was possible. It was completely beyond my imagination. But - and it’s a long story which I’ll gladly tell you in person - I drafted behind my friends, pulled along by their goals and dreams. If you hang around with ambitious godly men, you’ll find yourself in places and situations you never dreamed of. I cannot wait to find out where this community takes us next.

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

Guadalupe Peak

      Last Saturday, April 24th, our Iron Men group, and friends, hiked Guadalupe Peak again. We had thirteen in our group; ten stood on the summit. The other three made it past the bridge, a worthy achievement. We’d planned on 61* with 20 mph wind gusts, but we were blessed with weather much warmer and calmer. It was beautiful, all day.

      We arrived at Guadalupe Mountains National Park (GMNP) at 9:45 only to learn both the trailhead and visitor’s center parking lots at Pine Spring were full. The rangers directed us to the Butterfield Stage parking lot, about a mile hike on the Pinery Trail to the trailhead. I’ve heard high attendance is normal for national parks nowadays. People tired of being sequestered at home are visiting in droves. While GMNP is one of my favorite places, it is unusual for it to be so full. It’s too obscure and too remote. I can only imagine the crowds at other more popular and accessible national parks.

      Because my left ankle has been bothering me, I had no confidence of hiking all the way to the top and then back down, so I brought two books to read in case I turned around early and came down before the rest of our crew. However, I didn’t need them. I felt as good as ever. I never had to stop to catch my breath, my legs, foot, and ankle performed well. I never considered turning around at any of my predetermined places (the horse trail junction, the big turn, the bridge, etc.).

      Hiking to the top of a mountain can be a satisfying experience. There is a definite goal to achieve, and the goal is easy to evaluate. You know when to turn around and start back. Unfortunately, there’s no quick way to the top, no shortcuts, no secret passageways for the cool people, no chair lifts, or tramways. You can’t conquer the Peak by reading or studying or going to workshops; you must hike with your own two feet.

      A summit is an exclusive experience. It’s self-selecting. No one ends up on top of a mountain by accident or because they got lost. A hiker goes there on purpose - pays the price to get the view, to get the experience.

      Well, as it turns out, even though the first half of our day was one of my best ascents ever, the last two hours coming down were dismal. It’s during the descent when I feel my age. Without intending to, I’ve gotten more careful, more tentative, with each passing year. And more careful means hiking slower; I’m on my feet even longer. Even though I now have two after-market pain-free bionic knees (this was my 5th time at the summit with them), I still gingerly pick each step.

      As I hobbled down the trail, stumbling over the giant rock steps, I told myself this would be my last hike to the summit. Coming down is too hard. Twenty-three times to the top was enough for anyone. Of course, it’s possible I’ve had that very same thought and made the same never-again commitment on all my previous descents, so I can’t guarantee it’ll stick.

      If I didn’t have a busload of guys waiting on me there are plenty of times I would rest on a boulder and maybe even take a nap. But instead, I kept moving. My one single athletic skill is perseverance.

      Hours later, once we were all off the mountain, settled in for the long drive back to Midland, the bus was filled with a buzz of stories, scars, photo sharing, and hearts joining together. That part of the trip always makes me happy. Maybe it isn’t the trail itself that makes men brothers as much as the bus ride home. Once a guy spends that sort of time with friends it changes all their future conversations

      I’m blessed to have these men in my life; guys who will hike with me, who will wait for me without complaining, who believe in me and listen to what I say. I never take for granted the valiant men God has entrusted to me.

      I prayed: Thank You for keeping us safe today, thank You for giving us the desire and ability to do this, and most of all, thank You for giving us one more turn.

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

Not Going, Again

      Cyndi and I, reluctantly, postponed our trip to Spain for the second time. The first time was last year during Spring Break when the Covid pandemic became real across the world, even in Midland, Texas.

      Our plan had been to spend about ten days hiking on the Camino de Santiago, the Way of Saint James. It’s a well-known pilgrimage that dates to the year 814, when someone discovered what was believed to be the tomb of the Apostle James.

      Even though the likelihood that the bones in Santiago de Compostela belonged to James, brother of John and the first of the twelve disciples to be martyred, is essentially zero, the discovery inspired a phenomenon. It wasn’t long before King Alfonso II of Asturias made the trek from Oviedo, his capital, west to Compostela to pay homage to this saint. Alfonso would be the very first pilgrim on the Way of St. James - a journey that drew penitents from across western Europe and made Compostela the third-holiest site in Christendom after Rome and Jerusalem.

      As for me, I’m not concerned whether the tomb contains the bones of Saint James, or any of that. However, I am interested in absorbing the spiritual energy from people who have been taking this path for 1,200 years.

      I like to immerse myself in an experience, whether that means a three-day solo backpacking trip, or reading twenty books by the same author. I want to dive in and see what I can learn beyond the obvious, knowing the experience will change me in ways I can’t predict or control.

      The word “pilgrim” comes from the Latin phrase per agrum, or “through the fields.” To be a Perigrinus was to be the fool who left the security of the village and wandered off, literally through the fields, into the wilderness. Pilgrimages – in my case they are usually long rides, hikes, or runs - deepen my relationship with God because I finally leave my mind and heart open long enough to hear God speak, comfort, remind, or encourage me.

*   *   *   *   *

      Cyndi and I first heard about The Camino in 2012 when we watched the movie, The Way. (If you haven’t seen it, I recommend you put it near the top of your list.) We started telling each other we’d like to do the pilgrimage someday, and then in 2019 we started making plans. I researched several guide services, read books, and checked into the best season with the best weather conditions for an optimal hike.

      The month of May seemed to be the opportune time. The rainy season was over, and the European vacation season was still weeks away. So, we made plans to hike The Camino in May of 2020. But then, Covid. The entire country of Spain locked down and the hotels and hostels along the route were closed. We reluctantly delayed our hike one year, to May 2021.

      But this year, this spring, the Covid situation in Spain has been on the uptick, and we decided to delay another year. We’re not really worried about getting sick, after all these months; but we don’t want to risk being quarantined in some tiny town in Spain.

*   *   *   *   *

      In his book, The Well-Played Life, Leonard Sweet posed a key question for what he calls the Third Age of Life (years 60-90) … “What should I do with the best years of my life?” I like this question. It paints the possibility of a brighter future. And, in fact, I do see these as the best years of our lives. We plan to hike the Camino in May 2022.

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

Letting Go While Holding On

One morning last week I resurrected a spiritual practice that I hadn’t observed for decades: reviewing Bible verse cards when I run. About two miles in I flipped over one of my favorites, from Psalm 1.

He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water,
Which yields its fruit in its season
And its leaf does not wither;
And in whatever he does, he prospers.

      I remembered something Eugene Peterson wrote: “This is a domestic tree planted on purpose, not a wild species growing by chance.”

      In 1999, I wrote in the margin of my Bible, “Lord, I want to be well planted.”

      In 2014 I wrote, “Lord, I want to be a planter of trees.”

*   *   *   *   *

      There is a Bible story from 1 Samuel 3, about the time God spoke to the young boy Samuel. He heard God call to him three times in the middle of the night, and all three times he mistook the voice of God to be the voice of Eli, an elderly priest and Samuel’s mentor.

      Each time he heard the voice he jumped out of bed and ran to Eli, “Here I am!”

      Eli was confused at first, knowing he didn’t call the boy, but he eventually understood Samuel was hearing the voice of God. He said, “If the voice comes again, reply, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’”

      In my book, Trail Markers, I wrote: “It’s our responsibility as seasoned leaders to not forget the voice of God, and to help young Samuels know how to recognize God’s voice when they hear it.”

*   *   *   *   *

      When reading these Bible stories, I can’t help but put myself in the place of one of the characters – usually the hero, for some reason – and I wonder how I would have responded in the same situation. But over time, my perspective changed, and the characters I identify with have changed as well. Where I used to wonder how I’d have reacted if I were Samuel, now I think of myself as Eli. My viewpoint has shifted from that of the young receiver of advice to the older giver.

*   *   *   *   *

      One of the prime motivators of my life, the thing that drives almost everything I do, comes from Luke 12:48 ... “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.”

      I was blessed with a family who loved me and loved God: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and brother. I have much to give back.

*   *   *   *   *

      Tuesday morning in Michelle’s gentle yoga class (my wife Cyndi handpicks my classes based on what she thinks I’m capable of doing), I heard about a concept called aparigraha, a term that translates to non-greed and non-attachment. It’s about letting go.

      I thought about aged Eli and how he graciously let go of his place as the only one who heard from God and made room for, even encouraged, young Samuel. In the same way, we older guys who’ve been following Jesus for a long time – we Eli’s – have an obligation to share with the Samuels in our life.

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

Editing the Future

       The thing is, I love to edit. I believe it’s during the editing process where my best writing happens. Sometimes I write down ideas with no clear direction of where it will go, just so I’ll have some material to edit. I have no idea the theme, or the punch line until I start editing and it leaps out.

       Editing often means cutting the original idea that birthed the essay, and that’s especially hard. I tend to value process over end results, so cutting out the beginning feels like betrayal. But I’ve learned to be ruthless, eliminating anything that doesn’t help make the point, even if was my original inspiration, even if it was my favorite joke, even if it was a connection I was especially proud of.

       Unfortunately, I’m never finished editing. I’ll make changes every time I read a piece. In my most recent book, Practicing Faith, I made at least eight editing runs through the entire book, and that was after countless hours spent on each individual piece. Then, I sent it off to my professional editor for expert help.

       I often wish I had a writing supervisor to grab the copy from my hands and turn it in, instead of having to decide myself. It’s difficult to stop editing.

       And writing isn’t the only thing I edit; I’m constantly fiddling with my own life – throwing out what hasn’t worked or I no longer care about and reinforcing the best parts tweaking my daily schedule and routine with an eye toward sustainability, and like that. I usually call it goal setting, but it’s editing.

       The scary part? Just like editing an essay, once I start making changes, I lose control of the finished product. Personal change is never a stand-alone thing; it always affects more than we expect. We can’t know exactly who we will be on the other side of an attempted or accomplished goal.

*   *   *   *   *

       I was riffing in my journal on the verse Isaiah 46:4, which says, “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” (NIV)

       I like the sustain, carry, and rescue part of that verse, but I balk at the phrase, old age. There are occasions when it feels more than appropriate, however; mostly on days a new discomfort kicks in, such as an aching jaw, ankle pain, gout, dislocated ribs, or an arthritic thumb.

       I remember when one of my favorite Bible verses was 1 Timothy 4:12, “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, and in purity.”

       Nowadays, when someone looks down on me because of my behavior, I can’t blame it on youth and inexperience. It’s my own fault if my speech, conduct, love, faith, or purity don’t measure up. I can only blame myself. I’ve had plenty of time and opportunity to learn godly behavior.

*   *   *   *   *

       So back to editing. With my 65th birthday approaching, I’m reworking my list of 100 Life Goals. (You should have your own list. If you don’t, write to me … I’ll help you get started.) It isn’t a bucket list as much as it is a roadmap, or better, a compass, pointing my life in the direction I want to go.

       My purpose in life has been to share what I’ve learned, to tell stories that guide people to a deeper life with God. It’s why I teach, why I mentor, and why I write. And having a list of goals? That’s editing the future.

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

Packing Our Fears

This is an excerpt from my latest book, Practicing Faith.

 t’s the backpacker’s dilemma: we pack our fears. We load too much heavy gear into our packs, so we’ll be prepared. 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.

But 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 had already packed as lightly 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’s 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.

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