Miles to Go

       Early Wednesday morning I was sitting in the food court at Dallas Love Field working on this essay, in town for an MRI of my left foot and ankle. Thursday, the next day, I sent Cyndi off to join a dozen other hikers on an epic backpacking trip in eastern Oklahoma, one that I wish I could join. They’ll spend four days and three nights on the Ouachita Trail.

* * * * *

       About nine weeks ago I noticed a decided increase of pain in my left ankle. It’s been bothering me for at least three years, but during a weekend in Austin for a birthday party, it suddenly got much worse.

       I blamed it on running. I got new shoes, which were more comfortable on my feet, and my average pace improved. I started dreaming of more and longer and faster runs. Until, in Austin, I could hardly walk. Running probably had nothing to do with it. It’s more likely my ankle finally gave up the fight.

        The first time I paid serious attention to my ankle and foot in the modern era was when Cyndi gasped during a Pilates session. 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 was worried for me.

       Cyndi’s concern over my feet goes way, way back. In fact, I once wrote about a potential conversation where I quoted what Cyndi might’ve said: "I've been embarrassed by your feet ever since I saw them the first time. Good thing you didn't wear sandals while we were dating or I might never have married you."

* * * * *

       And yet, it’s possible my problem dates back much further than that 2019 Pilates workout. I’ve had minimal arches my entire life. I never paid attention until I started running in 1978, and even then, not until I decided to replace my Stan Smith Adidas tennis shoes – leather with zero cushioning – with a pair of real running shoes. When I did my shoe research I learned how to tell if I had high arches or low arches. It wasn’t hard to figure out.

       However, those flat feet served me through nine marathons and over 37,000 miles of running. Nowadays 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 and abilities wilt and crash regularly.

* * * * *

       Doctor #1: (as he walked into the examining room) “What did you do to yourself to have an ankle like this?”

       Me: “I have no idea. I just got worse over time.”

       Doctor #1: “Your ankle is a mess.”

       He pulled up the x-rays and pointed out a major bone that was shifted back, out of place. Also a huge calcium deposit that had built up on the front of my ankle as a result of constant stress.

       He said this deposit, he called it a glob, prevented my ankle from flexing, said it probably hadn’t flexed in years. He said when I think I’m flexing I’m only bending my foot. The ankle bones are essentially frozen in place.

       Then he pointed out my big toe and how the joint had dropped out of place. He said it’s probably also true that this toe hadn’t move at the joint in years. In fact, all the bones in my foot were in the wrong places and needed repositioning and stabilizing.

       Doctor #1: “First, we repair the big toe joint and spot weld the other bones so they’ll stay in place and function properly. Then, three weeks later, do an ankle replacement.”

       He promised I’d recover in a couple of months, and afterward would be able to walk, ski, play tennis, play golf, cycle, hike, dance, all of that. “You will love it.”

       Me: “Wow. I couldn’t even play golf before.”

       The doctor pointed out two places he said were fractures.

       Doctor #1: “When did you injure it?”

       Me: “I have no memory of injuring my ankle. Certainly no memory of fractures.”

       Doctor #1: “Either it was a very subtle injury but doesn’t look that way, or you have a neuropathy that your nerves don’t send pain signals to your brain like they should.”

       We put my name on his list for future surgery.

* * * * *

       I made an appointment for a second opinion with Doctor #2, in Dallas, a month away (the soonest I could get in).

* * * * *

       Last January at my annual checkup (when my ankle was still only an inconvenience rather than a crises), I asked the nurse to measure my height. My fears were confirmed. I was not as tall as I’d been telling everyone, nor as tall as I’d been telling myself. She measured me, using official apparatus, at 5’10”.

       I’ve told people I am 6’ for the past 45 years, which the last time I was officially measured. I was in college at the time. Either I’ve shrunk, which is a possible and likely effect of aging, or I’ve been wrong since 1977, or maybe both.

       Emotionally, 5’ 10” is at least 10” shorter than 6’.         I spend a lot of time and energy thinking about my life, to know who I am and who God made me to be. But now I’ve learned that I thought I was this, but actually was that. Not only that, but maybe I’ve been wrong about this and that for decades.

       I’m trying to adjust to this new normal. At each of my recent ankle visits I’ve boldly answered 5’10” whenever they asked my height. I’m trying to talk myself into getting used to being comfortable with the idea, trying to accept I’m not who I thought I was.

* * * * *

       Thursday night before my appointment with Doctor #3, I was laying in bed not sleeping, but mentally running through my list of concerns. I prayed for the next day’s visit. I prayed for wisdom for Cyndi and me to know what to do and whose advice to follow and all that. I prayed for clarity along the path forward. I prayed for restoration of my ankle so I can return to what I love – movement, specifically walking and hiking.

       It occurred to me that I never pray for direct, miraculous healing for myself. Why not?

       I often pray for doctors and hospitals, because that’s where I expect healing to come from, but I never ask God for supernatural healing. Lots of people do, including many of my friends, but I don’t.

       Why is that?

       I doubt I’d hesitate to pray for miraculous healing if I had cancer or kidney disease or a brain tumor. But it feels awkward to pray for something that has bothered me for years.

       Why should I feel presumptuous to pray for miraculous healing for myself?

       I don’t know.

* * * * *

       I once had a close friend warn me about my tendency to solve problems using my own strength of will. He 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.

       Is that what I’m doing when I don’t pray for miracles? Leaving God out of the situation?

       I typically want to fix problems myself, on my own terms. Even better if I get it repaired in secret and I don’t have to reveal my struggle until it’s over and I’ve won, and I have a convincing story to tell.

* * * * *

       “You provide a broad path for my feet, so that my ankles do not give way.” (Psalms 18:36 NIV)

* * * * *

       And then, Monday afternoon, Cyndi told my story to Roy, her 89-year-old private yoga student. He asked if he could phone his son-in-law, who had a medical imaging company and knew the best ankle specialists in Dallas. His son-in-law said he’d get an appointment for me if I was interested. I said, sure.

       I throw that out there as if it’s so easy to change plans, but that’s hardly the case. It’s difficult for me to switch plans mid-stream, especially when I’ve spent time and energy and emotion working it out and thinking about it. Once I’ve moved past the deciding phase and into the action phase I have little interest in rethinking or starting over.

       But this time, I agreed to the change. It felt correct.

       The next day a scheduler from The Carrell Clinic in Dallas called me to set an appointment, which we did, for three days later. I was stunned at the speed of it all. As my friend Craig said, “When it’s supposed to happen, it happens.” Was this the miracle I was unable to pray for?

* * * * *

       Doctor #3 noticed a lot of the same things as Doctor #1, mainly the shift in all the bones. Also he pointed out on the x-rays where there should be spaces between bones, but wasn’t. In fact, that was the theme of every x-ray he showed me: bone-on-bone.

* * * * *

       Left posterior tibial tendon dysfunction with increased hindfoot valgus, ankle arthritis, subfibular impingement. Left hallux rigidus. Left 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th hammer toe deformity. Left 2nd crossover toe deformity. Localized, primary osteoarthritis of the ankle and/or foot. Acquired left hallux rigidus. Acquired hammer toe of left foot. Acquired deformity of toe. Severe subtalar degenerative changes of the ankle. Increased talus-1st metatarsal angle. Subfibular impingement. Plantar calcaneal enthesophyte. Enthesophyte at the Achilles insertion. A mild Haglund's deformity. A prominent os trigonum.

* * * * *

       Doctor #3 explained the reconstruction process. He suggested a Triple Arthrodesis to reset the bones with screws, and a Deltoid Ligament Reconstruction.

       Cyndi asked if these procedures were rare and he said no. He said my ankle damage was unusual, and to need both procedures was rare, but he performed both repairs on a regular basis.

       We scheduled surgery with Doctor #3 for June 22nd, one day before my 66th birthday. He said I’d probably need ankle replacement someday, whether six weeks or six months or six years later, but not until the bones grew into proper alignment. “A replacement now would just break.”

* * * * *

       One of the exercises I do with men is to compose a six-word memoir … a phrase that describes your current life and what you want your life to be in the future. For my six-word memoir I’ve adopted a phrase from Robert Frost: Miles to go before I sleep.

       I picked this phrase because I want to keep moving – miles to go – and I have promises to keep. Promises …

       To mentor men and couples

       To tell stories that put truth within reach

       To teach and speak from my heart

       To be a husband and lover and supporter of Cyndi

* * * * *

       “Taking him by the right hand, Jesus helped him up, and instantly the man’s feet and ankles became strong.” (Acts 3:7)

That’s what I’m praying for.

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

Thank you for reading! This is a reader-supported publication and it only works with your help. Please share with your friends or buy my books. You can find more of my writing, and learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at http://berrysimpson.com.

Safe Together

       I first published this in 2004. In those days, Cyndi and I volunteered every year with Rock the Desert, a weekend-long Christian music festival in Midland, Texas. We drove a van carrying musicians from the airport to the venue, and later, to their hotel. (I went looking for this essay after reading 1 Samuel 22 a few days ago.)

       Our assignment was to chauffer a rock band from Portland named Kutless. Through the years we’d done the same thing for several bands, and we were often surprised how quickly the talented and enjoyable young men who clearly loved God and were serious about using their talents to share the gospel turned into screaming banshees once they took the stage. “What happened to them?” we asked, like parents after sending their own children off to college.

       One of the guitar players, James, who once complained of being “wicked bored,” had several tattoos and a variety of body piercings. He even had a silver ring through his lower lip. When Cyndi asked if it got in the way when he kissed his wife, he said, “No, she’s used to it; but it does get in the way when I drink hot coffee.” Curiously, on his right arm was tattooed in large letters, “I Sam 22:23.”

       It was a reference to a Bible story about young David and a priest named Abiathar. In his pursuit to track down and kill David, King Saul slaughtered the entire village where Abiathar lived, men and women and children and livestock. Abiathar was the only survivor. He fled to tell David what happened, and David told him, “Stay with me; do not be afraid, for he who seeks my life seeks your life, for you are safe with me.”

       Through the years I’d read that story many times, but I never landed on that verse. However, Cyndi and I had several conversations about it after the concert - how it described what we wanted and needed from each other.

       David told Abiathar, “Stay with me.” This young priest had narrowly escaped with his life after witnessing the slaughter of his family and friends, and I’m sure he had misgivings about more bloodshed should he stay with David. But David asked him to stay anyway.

       We all need someone to stay with. It’s hard to be faithful or brave or bold if we’re alone, but we grow strength and courage when we know we have someone beside us. I want Cyndi to stay with me; I don’t want to be alone. I want Cyndi to stay on my side, in my life, in my bed, in my house, holding my hand, sharing her dreams and concerns and fears and life with me. Like David, I want Cyndi to stay with me.

       David next told Abiathar, “Do not be afraid.” That’s an easy thing to tell someone else but not so easy to follow. One of our biggest responsibilities in any relationship is to remind our partners “don’t be afraid, it’ll be OK.” I know we shouldn’t promise something we can’t carry out, and sometimes when I put my arms around Cyndi and ask her not to be afraid, I wonder how I can be so sure it will work out. I can’t know, of course, but I do know we’re stronger together, and if we stay together, we’ll be safer, and we won’t have to be so afraid. We can borrow strength and courage and faith from each other.

       The next thing David told Abiathar was, “he who seeks my life seeks your life,” which means, “we’re in this together, we share the same enemy.”

       Again, what I want Cyndi to know, and what I need to know from her, is that we are in this together. We’re on the same side; we’re facing the same enemies; and we’re covering each other’s back. This isn’t a solo fight, we’re not alone, and we’re not living separate agendas. We can be brave because we’re in this together.

       And finally, David told Abiathar, “You are safe with me.” Wow. It took me decades of marriage to understand what it meant to tell Cyndi she was safe with me. I used to think it meant I’d protect her from the wolves and gangsters at our front door, but now I know it means she is safe from me as well. It’s a commitment never to hurt her on purpose, and more likely, not to hurt her by accident … such not noticing something important, or cracking a joke at her expense, or forgetting something I should remember (all things, I’m sad to say, I do too often). I want Cyndi to know she’s safe with me. And I’m finally learning how important it is for me, Mr. Independent Self-Reliant Man, to feel safe with her. I need the safety she has to offer.

       Well, what a surprise to learn about marriage from a tattooed rock-and-roll guitar player. While I’ll say that I have no plans to permanently install this verse to my own arm, it’s been tattooed on my own heart ever since.

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

Thank you for reading! This is a reader-supported publication, and it only works with your help. Please share with your friends or buy my books. You can find more of my writing, and learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at http://berrysimpson.com.

Crowing in the Post Office

       Thursday morning I was in the downtown Midland post office picking up a book from Amazon when I heard a rooster crowing from somewhere in the back of the building. I didn’t believe what I heard, at first, but the sound repeated, over and over, and it was unmistakable. There was a rooster in the post office. Someone had mailed a rooster and it was in the back of the building alongside all the other packages and letters waiting to be picked up. I wouldn’t have thought you could actually mail a rooster.

       Once I returned to my pickup in the post office parking lot I posted: “I’ve seen people pick up boxes of chicks before, but I didn’t know you could mail a rooster.”

       Some of the comments I received: “You can even mail fighting roosters. I once had a church member who was a fighting rooster dealer,” “Maybe it was a chick when they dropped it in the mail,” and then this, “When I drop off snakes the FedEx workers know me and want to see pictures.”

       I looked it up and discovered In compliance with USPS Publication 52 section 526.4 (live adult birds), chickens are indeed mailable when also shipped in accordance with USPS DMM section 601 (mailability) subsection 9.4.3 as well as USPS Publication 14. So the answer? Yes, you can mail roosters.

       There are a few rules, of course. Your chicken must be disease-free, can’t be dead already, and weigh at least 6 ounces but not over 25 pounds.

       Once I was on the research kick I decided to see if you can buy roosters from Amazon. Apparently, no. Unless live roosters are buried further down the list of suggestions than I had patience to find (and I looked at least ten pages deep). You can, however, buy metal roosters for your yard, non-slip rooster rugs for your kitchen, rooster trucker’s hats, rooster puzzles (which would have been handy to know in 2020 when everyone was working puzzles during the great quarantine), rooster toothpick holders, rooster wine glasses, rooster crossbody cell phone purses, rooster earrings, and even a biography of Rooster Cogburn of True Grit fame.

        Why am I writing about this? Because in a world at war in eastern Europe, with COVID-19 rampaging in Hong Kong, and raging wildfires in central Texas, it makes me smile to know someone – maybe someone I know – ordered a rooster by mail and it arrived Thursday morning and now their flock of chickens will be more complete.

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

Thank you for reading! This is a reader-supported publication and it only works with your help. Please share with your friends or buy my books. You can find more of my writing, and learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at http://berrysimpson.com.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

       I recently had two of my annual doctor visits, one with Dr. Grigsby (because I don’t see very well) and the other with Dr. Willingham (because I have high blood pressure). I like both men and enjoy our annual conversations. And I like the visits in spite of the fact they take a long time and a significant chunk of my day. In both offices I spend my time going from room to room, machine to machine, test to test, and waiting between each. But I always have a book on my phone, so waiting isn’t so bad.

       This time, when I was at Dr. Willingham’s office, they asked me step onto the scales. This is usually an unhappy revelation; my weight is one situation I can’t blame on aging. It’s entirely my fault. After I absorbed the bad news and blamed it on my shoes (running shoes that were surprisingly heavy – about fifteen pounds, I’d say) and my jeans (Wrangler Relaxed Fit, so you know they must weigh another fifteen), the nurse started leading me toward the examination room. I stopped her when we passed the wall-mounted device for measuring height. I asked her to tell me how tall I was. I hadn’t actually measured my height since college.

       My fears, concerns, and premonitions were confirmed. I was not 6’ tall like I’ve told anyone who asked (almost always in the medical field (no one else cares)) since that time in college. I’ve suspected, however, that my height has diminished through the years since I now buy 32” inseam jeans instead of 34” like I did the first thirty years of my adult life. I blamed it on the fact I used to wear bell-bottomed jeans and walking on the hem until it frayed was a fundamental part of jeans wearing. At least in the seventies. But that was a ruse. I hadn’t worn bell bottoms since 1978. And while it might be true that jeans don’t shrink as badly as they used to, which would account for buying longer jeans back then, the fact was, I was the one who had been shrinking.

       Or, and this is a real possibility, the person who measured me back in college got it wrong, or told it to me wrong, and I have been living the wrong story for forty-four years.

       Why did it matter?

       I’m not sure.

       Maybe 6’ felt more manly to me. It’s certainly easier to convert to inches, easier to write down, and easier to rattle off when someone asks.

       Maybe because 5’10” rather than 6’ means I am violating the height-weight ratio even more than I thought. This new piece of data meant I was more overweight than I claimed, or accepted, if only privately in the secret corner of my closet.

       But I’ve decided, as I age, if I can’t happily embrace the changes I should at least be honest about them. I shouldn’t deceive myself about something trivial when I try so hard not to deceive myself with the bigger questions of life.

       Well, I used a BMI calculator online, entering the newer, truer numbers, and it said, “Your BMI is in the overweight (bold font) category for adults of your height … a healthy range would be from 129 to 174 pounds.”

       174 pounds seemed impossible enough, but 129 felt ridiculous. I doubt I’ve weighed 129 since junior high. Maybe since elementary school.

       And, as Ron Popeil would say, there’s more.

       Dr. Grigsby suggested I switch from 2.00 reading glasses to 2.25s. “It’s time,” he said. For me that meant tracking down all the 2.00s I had scattered around my bedroom and desk and backpack and pickup and wherever else, and replacing them.

       The thing is, I’m not afraid of getting older. And I’m not afraid of the changes that come with that. I just wish I had more warning so I could formulate a plan. I’d like a list of what to expect in the next few years so I can plan accordingly.

       But why would God want to furnish that? He cares more about our relationship than he does my precise navigation of aging. He cares more about me drawing closer to him than whether I make the right adjustments.

       Apparently, February was my health and wellness month because a week after my two doctor visits I had a colonoscopy. When the nurse interviewed me beforehand, she handed me an iPad with questions asking for my response. Since the font on the screen was excessively small, I said, “Based on the people I saw in the waiting room, I doubt any of us can read this tiny print.” She agreed and read it to me.

       When she got to the end, she asked the question of all questions, the one I’d been dreading most: “Mr. Simpson, how tall are you?”

       For the first time in public, I sat up straight and said, “5’10”.” She smiled and nodded and entered the numbers as if it was no big deal.

       That’s right.

       No big deal.

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

Thank you for reading! This is a reader-supported publication, and it only works with your help. Please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing, and learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at http://berrysimpson.com.

Finest Moments

       I first published this in February 2011, after a group hike in the Guadalupe Mountains. I rediscovered it after reading my margin notes in my Daily Bible for February 19, 2022. It’s a story worth repeating.

       We were in the Guadalupe Mountains - David and four from his singles group (Elizabeth, Michelle, Tim, Lyden), all from First Baptist Church, Midland TX. We spent Saturday and Sunday night at Pine Top.

       Sunday morning we hiked Tejas to Juniper, then to The Bowl. We took the western loop of the Bowl to Hunter Peak, then back home. It was almost dangerously windy on Hunter Peak. The sky was clear so we could see a long way, but too windy to stay on top long.

       We didn’t walk too slow or waste time, but we made frequent stops and David had each person tell a story. It was a good group experience. There was no sense in hurrying with a group; the reason were up there was to do it together. It was beautiful day, about 70 degrees, but the wind was blowing fiercely. Fortunately all its energy was spent rattling the tree tops and not on us.

       At one of our stops David pointed out  a big pine tree, which had no branches for the first 10’ from the ground, but had a basketball-sized knot about head high. David called it a burl, and said it was prized among woodworkers for turning bowls and such.

       Something terrible had to have happened to the tree to create that burl, and our group of hikers talked about how tragedies can turn into value.

       David’s comment about the burl captured my attention and, later, after I got back home to internet access, I looked it up. “A burl is a growth on a tree that is very rare and most often occurs when the tree has been damaged usually either by some sort of fungus or mold, or an insect attack. It often looks like a big round tumor growing on the trunk of the tree.”

       It occurred to me that if you were to ask the tree about the valuable burl, it would not be so proud of it, but probably ashamed of the bulbous scar and reminded of the deep wound that caused it.

       I thought of a scene from the move, Apollo 13, when the NASA Director said, “This could be the worst disaster NASA’s ever faced.” Gene Kranz (played by Ed Harris) replied: “With all due respect, sir, I believe this is going to be our finest moment.”

       In our own lives we often can’t get past the story of the deep wound to see the beauty. We are still too close and still hurting from the tragedy to imagine any value.

       Brennan Manning wrote (The Ragamuffin Gospel): “Genuine self-acceptance is not derived from the power of positive thinking, mind-games, or pop psychology. It is an act of faith in the God of grace.” We have to trust God that our wounds can become something valuable.

       Not to say every wound is good. They aren’t. Not to say all disasters become our finest moment. They don’t. But some do.

       We need community - we need other people - we need each other - to see those beautiful parts of our life and remind us of our best features. We’re often too close to see our own finest moments.

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

Olympics 2022

       Watching the Olympics has been our family tradition for forty years. And now, because we watch on YouTube TV, I can watch almost any Olympic sport at any time of the day. It’s a great time to be alive.

       Every two years it’s the same story. We stay up late and watch sports we don’t understand, we take sides when speed skaters are feuding like junior high boys even when we don’t really care about which guy is right, we discuss short-track strategy as if we understand it, we comment on the figure skating costumes and whether they are manly enough, we wish we were young and wild and crazy like snowboarders, we hope we look as good together as ice dancers, and occasionally, we even watch hockey (if curling isn’t on). We are fans of every Olympic sport for at least two weeks.

       I enjoy the opening ceremony; my favorite is the parade of athletes when they enter the stadium. The team members from Kazakhstan don’t look like each other, they look like individuals, but they look significantly different than the athletes from Norway. (Although the mandatory masks didn’t help with this observation.) I like to know, in our modern connected world, we’re still individuals, and we resemble other members of our tribes.

       I also like analyzing all the team uniforms for the opening. It’s obviously a struggle to represent individual cultures and yet remain practical (except for American Samoa – they don’t care about practical). However, some of the team uniforms look like they were designed by committees who never had to wear them.

       So far, I’ve never cheered for an Olympic team that my next-door neighbor hated. I can’t say that about college football. And knowing the games will last only a couple of weeks (as opposed to the NBA playoffs, for example) helps me sacrifice the time and energy to watch.

       All sports have an aspect of danger to them – some much more than others. The Winter Olympics seem to have more opportunities for high-speed crashes than the Summer Olympics. The Ski Halfpipe, for example, saw 28% of athletes injured in the 2018 games. Snowboard Cross had 26%.

       I’m inspired by the skill and talent of the athletes. Their stories are inspirational and show their hard work and determination through obstacles. This is the power of stories: When we think we cannot go on, when it is just too hard and no one really understands, we hear these stories, and we gain strength. These stories inspire us and give us hope.

       We don’t have many ways left in our culture to be collectively inspired. After more than a year of lockdown, tragedy, and uncertainty, watching athletes achieve their dreams despite all the challenges feels like one.

       Regardless of whether it’s winter or summer, I love it when it’s that time again and the Olympics take over our television. I can’t wait for the Paris Olympics in 2024.

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

 Thank you for reading! This is a reader-supported publication and it only works with your help. Please share with your friends or buy my books. You can find more of my writing, and learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at http://berrysimpson.com.

Certainty

       We traveled to Mansfield last weekend for our granddaughter’s baptism at Rush Creek Church – Mansfield West. It was a joyous affair. I don’t know how often this church has baptisms; the setup was not a permanent installation, but it was quick and celebratory. The morning we were there they baptized ten, ranging from our 8-year-old granddaughter up to two high school juniors.

       After looking around at the people sitting in the front five or six rows of the worship center, I mentioned to Cyndi that either the demographics of this church skewed much older than I’d expected, or we were all grandparents who were here for the baptisms.

       When we first arrived at the church we noticed small pieces of paper on every chair. Each paper had two peel-off dots each about ¾” diameter - the type used to mark prices at a garage sale. The campus pastor, Scott Oldenburgh, asked us to write the name of someone on each dot – someone who needed more of Jesus in their life – and then peel off the dots and stick them to the underside of our chairs. He said they do this every few months and if we looked under the chairs we’d see several dots and names. He said, “Every chair has a name, and every name has a story, and every story matters to God.”

       The baptisms took place in a long, narrow metal trough positioned front and center on the stage. Each person climbed in and sat on the bottom of the trough. The youngsters were baptized by Children’s Minister Misty Nailon after answering a question or two, then climbed out and huddled dripping under their towel while the rest of the group were baptized. It was holy and joyful and practical all at the same time. It reminded me of a quote I captured from Dennis Okholm’s book Monk Habits for Everyday People: Benedictine Spirituality for Protestants. He wrote, “Benedictine spirituality is not glamorous. It is extraordinarily ordinary.” That feels right to me.

       Our granddaughter was brave to be the first in line, which meant she stood longest in her wet clothes. I wasn’t surprised. I’m used to bold courage and stubborn determinations from her.

       I often tell people I live among a multi-generational tribe of strong women. From Landy and her sister Madden, to their mother and my daughter, Katherine, to my wife Cyndi, to her mother Deanna, to Cyndi’s grandmother Ruby, and then to her great-grandmother Stella (who owned Smith’s Grocery and served as U.S. Postmaster for Tolar, NM).

       This powerful lineage makes me happy. I’m stronger and braver because I live alongside these women.

       On Saturday we all had lunch together: Katie and her girls, Cyndi and me, Byron and Angela (another strong woman, by the way). After our tasty hamburgers we visited the Dallas Makerspace where Byron and Angela have a membership. It’s a huge 36,000 square-foot warehouse of tools and equipment and ideas. As we walked through, we saw members making ceramics, woodworking, repairing auto parts, programing electronics, using 3-D printers, and lots more. The entire space felt to me like an invitation to learn new skills and turn ideas into stories.

       Angela told us a sad story about a man who, just a few days before, dropped his beautifully completed laser-etched cutting board and watched it shatter on the floor. People in the room, all working on their own projects, held their breath as he picked up the pieces. It was heartbreaking for everyone.

       There is no certainty in life no matter how much we try for it. Our efforts can be shattered no matter how hard we work or how much our ourselves we invest. Ozan Varol wrote, “Our yearning for certainty leads us to pursue seemingly safe solutions. Were certainty ends, progress begins.” (Think Like A Rocket Scientist)

       Pursuing safe solutions may feel logical, but it may cause us to miss the beauty of handmade cutting boards.

        The baptism of a beautiful 8-year-old girl in not an act of certainty. It doesn’t guarantee she’ll always make great choices or never be distracted by our crazy world. But it a picture of hope, and hope always trumps certainty.

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

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I Like to Know

      In mid-December we made two trips on Southwest Airlines flying non-rev, which means standby, which means maybe they have room for you on the airplane or maybe they don’t. Both trips went well; we made all our flights and got home when we needed to.

      Why does it matter? Because I’m much more comfortable flying with a purchased ticket, even though it costs money. Flying non-rev costs, too; you pay for it with uncertainty. In general, I’m happier spending money than sacrificing certainty.

      The first trip was to Nashville for a concert (Amy Grant and Vince Gill). We arrived with plenty of time to enjoy a late lunch of Nashville Hot Chicken at Hattie B’s.

      And on the way home, even the full flights had seats for us. I was worried about getting home Wednesday night since I was teaching Iron Men at 6:30 am Thursday morning and Cyndi was teaching yoga at 5:45 am. We knew it would be impossible to recruit substitute teachers at such short notice. But we made it home just fine.

      The second trip was to Dallas, leaving at 6:00 am from Midland, to see our oldest granddaughter, Madden in her first gymnastics meet of the season and her first meet after moving up to the next competitive level. The early flight was not crowded, and we arrived with enough time for a leisurely breakfast at La Madeleine’s in Grapevine. Afterwards, our 4:00 pm which had been full, opened, and we got “C” boarding passes. We were home and in our house by 6:00 pm.

      I told Cyndi I can see a day in my future when I’ll be more relaxed in the standby world.

      Is it possible to begin any new year without a huge cloud of uncertainty? Has anyone ever reached the last week of December and said, “That was a perfect year. Everything worked out how I wanted it to, and it all makes sense. I can’t wait for another year like the one I just had.”

      No one says that. The end of each year feels like the worst year ever even though it’s been happening over and over since the beginning. Even back in the days we now refer to normal, as in pre-Covid, we weren’t as satisfied as we remember. It was rough, then, too. Life is always confusing and mysterious and unpredictable on the fly.

      The thing is, I should be better at living with uncertainty as much as I write about it. I should have solved much of my discomfort by now. In fact, I’m not sure why I expect anything else from life.

      But I do. I long for order and structure. I want systems that work and can be depended on. I create endless checklists and calendars and plans-of-action to organize my life, and I put them on spreadsheets (who doesn’t?), searching for that one special spreadsheet to rule them all.

      I assume having a predictable life would be better than being confused all the time, but that comes from the logic portion of my brain. My intuitive part tells me I wouldn’t enjoy it. It’s because of chaos I turn toward God, turn toward Cyndi, turn toward family and friends. I’m not sure I would do that if my world were more structured.

      For the past year I’ve gotten the same question from well-meaning friends almost every week: Are you officially retired these days? They ask because they care about me and because they’ve noticed my leisurely calendar. It doesn’t bother me except that I can’t decide how to answer.

      I’m on the payroll as a Professional Engineer for a local environmental company, which would normally mean I’m still working, but they haven’t needed me since last summer. I would like to be working more (Cyndi says I’m not happy unless I’m solving problems), but sometimes I dream of this next phase of life. In the meantime, I want to know how to get ready, whether working or retired, so I can plan. I want to know what’s next.

      I want to know my next move as soon as possible – whether I’m writing a book, or doing a big training ride on my bike, or picking the best lane on I-20 – I want to be ready before I must be. I don’t like making last minute decisions when I had plenty of time to avoid waiting until the last minute.

      Well, Friday morning, Christmas Eve, I told my friend Bill about my Southwest Airlines non-rev adventures and how I’m getting more comfortable not knowing how things will turn out. He laughed at my discomfort and said, “You made it through last week, you’re ready for 2022.”

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

100 Things That Made 2021

       It’s the most wonderful time of the year, the time for making lists, and I’m still at it. Lists make me happy, calm me down, and push me forward into the future – especially lists of happy things and good times.

       We tend to remember the bad over the good since most good things stretch out over long periods of time, but bad things happen all at once. So the bad things stick in our memory while the good things fade to the back. Also, we have an Enemy who tries to rob us of joy and love.

       Therefore, we must remind ourselves of the good things, the grace-filled things, the influential things, and the things that make us human. Living with gratitude is the secret to a meaningful life, and this exercise of listing people, events, and things that made the year better is a powerful move toward having a habitually thankful heart.

       Writer and artist, Austin Kleon, taught me to do this, and thanks to him this is my 7th edition. You may notice some repeats from my previous lists. That’s on purpose. I love the good things that stick year after year, and I want to call them out.

       I encourage you to put together your own list, and don’t stop until you can identify at least 100 things. It won’t be easy. You may have to find help to remember the best, so dig out your journals, comb through your calendars, review your reading lists and music purchases, and ask those who are close to you. It’s worth the effort.

       And when you do, I hope you share. A big part of imbedding gratitude in your life is making it known.

       (By the way, this list has been randomly sorted using the magic of Excel. Trying to rank items by importance is paralyzing.)

100 Things That Made 2021

1.       Lunch with my former colleagues, the Mayor, City Council members, and City Staff, reminiscing good times.

2.       Quote: "When you’re young, it’s easy to confuse strength with dominance; when you’re older, you realize the feat of character it takes to be meek. I used to imagine my calling was to defend the Truth. Now I’m just trying to figure out how to love.” (James K. A. Smith)

3.       Book: This Odd and Wondrous Calling: The Public and Private Lives of Two Ministers (Lilian Daniel and Martin Copenhaver)

4.       Song: Anyone At All, Carole King (from You’ve Got Mail)

5.       Holding hands with Cyndi

6.       Quote: “About 80 percent of the writing I do looks nothing like writing. It looks like reading, or daydreaming, or driving, or drawing, or listening to music, or lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.” (Elizabeth Percer)

7.       Successfully replacing the 12-volt battery in Cyndi’s Lexus hybrid without smashing my fingers or throwing out my back.

8.       Dinner in El Cajon with Randy and Sue Luce

9.       Ruthlessly blocking hateful people on Facebook

10.    Attended a Michael W Smith concert in Midland with Pyeatts and Hodges.

11.    Summer Lawn Concerts at the Museum of the Southwest, in Midland.

12.    Fly fishing in the Guadalupe River with Byron

13.    Reentering church leadership

14.    Regular phone calls from my brother, Carroll … and because of his new after-market hip, dreaming of future bike rides together

15.    Reading my Daily Bible

16.    Christmas concert at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville featuring Amy Grand and Vince Gill.

17.    Specialized Tarmac Elite road bike

18.    Watching my son, Byron, teach his niece and my granddaughter, Madden, how to peel and mash potatoes.

19.    Bear Trap Ranch

20.    Whataburger Yeti cup

21.    Working on my first novel, my first attempt at writing fiction

22.    Quote: “The greatest call of a spiritual director is to open the door to the opportunities for spiritual growth and sometimes to provide a glimpse of the great mysterious light behind the curtain of life.” (Henri J. M. Nouwen)

23.    Online conversations with Jeff Andrechyn about the fulness of life.

24.    Book: Think Like A Rocket Scientist, by Ozan Varol.

25.    British television series, New Tricks

26.    Playing music with Rabon Bewley

27.    Gran Camp 2021

28.    Playing in the FBC orchestra and Midland College Jazz Band with Cyndi

29.    Blue Bell vanilla ice cream, my summertime reward for each bike ride longer than one hour and 95*

30.    Soft Cover black squared Moleskine Journals

31.    Listening to Cyndi’s excitement when her students find deeper understanding.

32.    Playing solos with the Midland College Jazz Band

33.    Our large tribe of clever, intelligent, godly friends. Sometimes if feels like we have more than our share.

34.    Two garage doors that work.

35.    Our Family Vacation to Seacrest Beach, Florida

36.    The Quiet Room at Centennial Library finally reopened (after Covid shutdown).

37.    Base Camp Gathering in Colorado with my Noble Heart friends

38.    Story: While donating blood, a big bodybuilder sitting beside me finished up and stood, wavered a bit, then walked on. He asked, “If someone big like me falls down, how do you women get me back up?”
“We don’t. We put a blanket on you and a pillow under your head and leave you alone.”

39.    Sitting with Cory on the back row of our church orchestra

40.    100 continuous days of working out (and hoping this is only the first of many 100-day projects).

41.    Movie: The Adjustment Bureau

42.    A dress-up date with Cyndi to the High Sky Crystal Ball.

43.    Uncovering the actual date of my baptism with help from Kermit friends: January 19, 1964.

44.    The Delta Flyer podcast

45.    Celebrating the life of Robert Walter.

46.    Journey Groups

47.    Riding the Paluxy Pedal and Tour de Agua bike tours with my brother, Carroll

48.    Receiving letters from my granddaughter, Landry, and writing back to her.

49.    Book: Everything Happens For A Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved (Kate Bowler)

50.    Playing trombone with Denver and the Mile High Orchestra in Tyler, Texas

51.    Quote: “I have everything that I wanted as a teenager, only 60 years later.”

52.    Playing with the FBC Praise Band with Rabon and Craig

53.    Cyndi soloing on the vibraphone at our Christmas concert.

54.    Leonid & Friends

55.    Donating 123rd pint of blood

56.    Green Chile Chicken Stew from Market Street.

57.    Book: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (John le Carre’) -(book, movie 2011, TV mini series 1979 (I like them all))

58.    Energel Liquid Gel Ink Metal Tip 07mm ball pens

59.    Quote: “I shall never forget you. And in all my troubles past and all my troubles yet to come, I'll never find a better friend.” (Kris Kringle, Miracle on 34th Street, 1994)

60.    My Panama hat

61.    My first time to testify as a witness in a courtroom trial, and it was on behalf of a great friend.

62.    Magazine interview with James Pankow, trombone player with Chicago, titled “Making the Trombone Cool for 54 Years.” I still play trombone today because I heard Pankow play a solo in 1971.

63.    Movie: Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

64.    Discussing life plans and future projects with Gary Barkalow and Sam Williamson

65.    30th annual Midland Storytelling Festival

66.    Gentle yoga class

67.    Kevin’s graduation from Marine Corp Boot Camp in August in San Diego.

68.    Hike to the summit of Guadalupe Peak with Iron Men, my 21st time on top.

69.    Sitting on the couch with Cyndi watching TV episodes together – a practice we learned during the Covid Shutdown of 2020.

70.    Road trip to Tyler with Craig Freeman

71.    Watching granddaughter Madden blossom as a gymnast. I have no idea where she hides all that strength in such a tiny body.

72.    2020 Summer Olympics (held in 2021)

73.    Watching the 2021 New York City Marathon on TV. It was the first time in the past ten years I’ve felt left out.

74.    Forty Ways to Keep Your Lover

75.    Finding my books on the Local Author shelf at the Centennial Library in Midland (I look for them every time I pass by.)

76.    Movie: A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

77.    Lunches with Chris Cruz; he always takes me a new restaurant I never knew existed.

78.    Watching Cyndi decorate cookies

79.    Song: Wouldn’t It Be Nice, by Trousdale

80.    Trusting Cyndi when she says celery juice is worth it.

81.    Reading beside the stream in the park near my house

82.    Yellow highlighters

83.    Cyndi’s homemade apple pie

84.    Working on Granbury lake house projects with Katie

85.    Sudoku puzzles

86.    Playing a Conga-Trombone duet with Cyndi for the 11:00 service at our church.

87.    Donating eight boxes of books to the Midland County Friends of the Library (don’t worry, I still have more than plenty).

88.    Cyndi playing the congas.

89.    Story: Cyndi was singing songs from The Sound of Music, so I joined in.
Me: “I am sixty-five, going on sixty-six, I’ll take care of you.”
Cyndi: “That doesn’t work.”
Me: “But you need someone older and wiser.”
Cyndi: “That just doesn’t swing.”

90.    Daily writing practice

91.    NB 1540v2 running shoes

92.    Mailing birthday cards

93.    Traveling down the highway listening to audio books with Cyndi

94.    Regular dinners with Britt and Patti Pyeatt

95.    Cyndi Simpson in yoga pants

96.    Returning to the MS150; riding with a strong southerly tailwind.

97.    Bill Britt with Integrity Massage – he keeps me straight and loose

98.    The peace that comes from not watching 24-hour TV news

99.    Fleece pullovers

100. Walking around the neighborhood ponds across from our house with Cyndi

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

The Season Comes 'round Again

      I’m working on this while flying home from Nashville, where Cyndi, Katie, and I attended a concert – Amy Grant and Vince Gill in concert at the Ryman Auditorium. Amy Grant is especially fun at Christmas, and this was no exception. The concert was excellent. In fact, it was a respite, no, a reconstruction, or reestablishment, of the hope of the season. It was what I needed.

Love has come
For the World to know
As the wise men knew
Such a long time ago
And I believe angels sang
That hope had begun
When the God of glory
Who is full of mercy
Sent His Son

      Last week I testified in court as a character witness for my friend, David. It was my first time ever in the witness box; not only that, but I’ve never even served on a jury. My courtroom experience was zero. I’d been thinking about this, about what I ought to say, about not making a mess of things, for two months, since David first asked me. I was more nervous testifying for a friend than I would’ve been testifying for myself.

      There were about six of us on the list to testify, and we were called to the courtroom Wednesday morning at 8:30 am. They were ready for us first thing. I was third in the queue, and I couldn’t’ve been in the courtroom more than three minutes. I was on my way to the parking lot soon after 9:00 am.

      After leaving the courthouse, I drove to Whataburger near I-20 to decompress and work on my Iron Men lesson for Thursday morning. I needed something else to concentrate on. We’re working our way through the book, Jesus is the Question, by Martin Copenhaver, and in chapter eleven (about how we often feel abandoned by God) he wrote, “In most instances, the greatest obstacle to faith is not belief’s irrationality but life’s injustices.” It felt especially on-target to me.

      I drove home, intending to put some big miles on my bike to burn off the adrenaline built up over the past two days, but by the time I got home I was too heavy. I don’t know any other way to describe it. My heart felt heavy, and my mind felt heavy. So instead of riding my bike, I went to bed and napped for about an hour. It worked for Elijah, maybe it would work for me. David has been one of my guys for ten years; I’d underestimated how much of this load I was carrying around.

      I could feel the weight of a family who lost their son because he was doing his job, protecting the community, and the weight of a great friend whose own son was Nathan’s best friend when they were growing up.

      I felt the weight of a police force who feared this was one more instance of open season on officers.

      And I felt the weight on David, how everything can go completely wrong in an instant, even when all you want to do is protect your own family.

      Sorry to be so dark just before Christmas, but these past days were a deep dive into faith for me. I was reminded that the very sense of injustice we often feel is an indicator of the image of God within us. We didn’t learn our expectation of fairness as a process of evolution, but because we were made in God’s image.

      After the concert I left the Ryman auditorium singing songs in my head … mostly this one, which is one of my favorite Christmas songs:

May the new year be blessed with good tidings
‘til the next time I see you again
We'll all join hands and remember this moment
And we'll love and we'll laugh in the time that we have
‘til the season comes 'round again

      Christmas is a reminder that no matter how bad the year has been, whether because of a long quarantine shut-down, or a scary trial of a close friend, or something even worse, God did not leave us to wallow in despair. We aren’t alone, we haven’t been abandoned, we have help to work out our lives. We know and expect 2022 to brings it’s own share of surprises and disasters, but we can enter it with hope because of Emanuel, God with us.

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