Classic Vulnerability

      I’ll just go ahead and say this right up front. I’m not the man I used to be. I’m more and more like a 1956 classic car, full of modern replacement parts on the inside but showing all of 66 years on the outside. And I probably don’t need to point this out, but I will anyway, the replacement parts cost more than OEM parts. 

        My friends have taken to calling me the Six-Million Dollar Man. But I didn’t get motors in my knees and telephoto eyes. Should have spent the 6MM, I suppose. 

*  *  *  *  *

      At home, the day before we left, I told Cyndi, “You don’t need to hang around the hospital during the entire surgery. I’ll be fine on my own.”

      She said, “I don’t intend to. I’m planning to spend the day having fun with my granddaughters.”

      On Wednesday morning (June 22) the girls traveled with us from Mansfield to Dallas. We stopped to have breakfast at McDonald’s (I couldn’t eat, but they could) and they went upstairs with us to check me into the North Central Surgical Center. The administrators gave me a code number that Cyndi could use to check on progress and all that.

      Then Madden said, “Look, you’re on the board.” She pointed to a big tote board showing where each patient was in the sequence, and she recognized my code number.

      A nurse came to fetch me, so my three girls took off. They figured I could handle whatever came up.

*  *  *  *  *

      When all of this started building momentum back in May, I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to put weight on my left foot for several weeks, so I dug out my crutches. I was offered a knee scooter but I turned it down. They seemed too awkward.

      However, at the last minute I borrowed a scooter from my friend Darrell, and immediately changed my mind. It was great. I realized the knee scooter is one of the finest inventions of this generation. It’s right up there with portable GPS, fleece pullover sweaters, and seedless watermelons.

*  *  *  *  *

      My inaugural ride on the knee scooter was at Love Field in Dallas. Cyndi dropped me off at passenger departures with my scooter and backpack, and she circled around to return our rental car. I scooted inside, through TSA Pre-Check, and into the security pen.

      They asked if I could stand up without the scooter and go through the scanner, but I said, “No, my left foot must stay off the ground, and I can’t reliably hop that far.”

      So they pulled me over to one side for a personal pat-down. The young TSA agent thoroughly searched my backpack, my scooter, and me. The searcher must’ve been new to searching and pat-down protocol because he was excruciatingly deliberate and detailed. He even called a supervisor over to witness the whole thing.

      The process took so long Cyndi caught up to me and cleared security before I did. She returned our rental car, rode the shuttle bus to passenger departures, worked her way through the ticketing line so she could check bags, and still won the race.

*  *  *  *  *

      Cyndi has taken great care of me these days in spite of our family’s reputation for expecting everyone to get better on their own. And also, in spite of my reluctance to ask for help (also a family thing).

      Part of my recent growing up has been learning to embrace vulnerable moments, to let God speak to me through them, and let my own heart speak to others. We have the greatest opportunity to change the world when we are willing to be open and vulnerable.

*  *  *  *  *

      Thanks, Cyndi, for holding my hand through these vulnerable moments. I’m glad I don’t have to do all this without you.

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

A Surprising Reminder

       I thought I would write about my post-surgery checklist, my attempt to keep my days full so I wouldn’t descend in binge-watching Seinfeld all day on the couch. I have four main daily goals: workout, practice music, writing, and estate planning. But I have nothing to say about those.

       Before my foot/ankle surgery two weeks ago, when I made my list of goals, I assumed this slowed-down recovery time would be rich with insights and ideas. But the truth is, my journal is surprisingly thin lately. Most of what I’ve written is about mobility and medication and daily details. I anticipated more. I’d hoped to be more productive.

*  *  *  *  *

       Cyndi once shared a poem with me by Danna Faulds, titled Walk Slowly:

It only takes a reminder to breathe,
a moment to be still, and just like that,
something in me settles, softens, makes
space for imperfection. The harsh voice
of judgement drops to a whisper and I
remember again that life isn’t a relay
race; that we all will cross the finish
line; that waking up to life is what we
were born for. As many times as I 
forget, to catch myself charging forward
without even knowing where I am going,
that many times I can make the choice
to stop, to breathe, and be, and walk
slowly into the mystery.

       “It only takes a reminder to breathe, a moment to be still, and something in me settles.”

       Those are good words. They took me back to a morning in the Guadalupe Mountains, at the junction of Tejas and Juniper Trails, when I sat on a fallen log planning to spend some time writing in my journal, but instead, I simply sat still and breathed and listened for a half hour and allowed the sounds of the forest to soak into my heart.

       The significance of the moment surprised me. I’m so process-driven in most of my life I seldom stop and listen just to stop and listen. It turned out that “doing nothing” was important to this “doing stuff” guy.

        That trail junction became a thin spot for me. I stop and sit every time I hike past that fallen log.

*  *  *  *  *

       Cyndi and I have been listening to a daily devotion phone app that my friend Jeff Andrechyn introduced to us, called Lectio 365. It begins each morning session the same way: “As I enter prayer now, I pause to be still; to breathe slowly, to re-center my scattered senses upon the presence of God.”

       Good words: I pause to be still.

       So here is my challenge to myself for this summer: to listen and breathe, not try to force the insights or plan good writing.

       Sit and breathe and wait.

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

What Should a Real Man Do?

       OK, I’ll admit it. I fret for months over which book to use in my church’s Iron Men class. I’ll also admit that it matters less that I make it out – our conversations are more important that any book. Not only that, but it also shouldn’t be hard to pick a book since the questions haunting men are universal and consistent: Do I have what it takes? Can I pull this off? Will I be found out? Am I enough?

       Part of the problem is our cultural definition of what it means to be a real man. I found nearly 50 versions of the “50 Things A Real Man Should Be Able To Do” list, and they included things like:

       Throw a punch

       Chop down a tree

       Jump-start a car

       Change a flat tire

       Build a campfire

       Clean a paint brush

       Point toward north

       Avoid boredom

       Tie a bowline knot

       Change a diaper

       Calculate square footage

       … and on and on (a real man should know when to stop making lists!)

*  *  *

       Reading this week from 1 Chronicles 5:24, it says: “These were the heads of their families: Epher, Ishi, Eliel, Azriel, Jeremiah, Hodaviah and Jahdiel. They were brave warriors, famous men, and heads of their families.”

       These are prime qualities for real men - brave warriors, well-known and influential men of importance, leaders, responsible decision-makers. Yet the Bible goes on to say these manly men failed at the most important thing.

       Verse 25 says: “But they were unfaithful to the God of their ancestors and prostituted themselves to the gods of the peoples of the land, whom God had destroyed before them.”

       Because of their unfaithfulness God allowed an enemy nation (Assyria) to swoop in and defeat these men and carry them off as captives, spoils of war. Their families, friends, and neighbors all suffered because these men failed to be faithful to God. Even courage, fame, and influence weren’t enough. They were like the foolish man who built his house on the sand: they were swept away. In the final accounting, they did not have what it takes. They couldn’t pull off their single most important task.

       It’s too bad. Men who could’ve changed the world for good wasted their turn by being unfaithful to God. And not that they just drifted away from God, but they actively gave themselves over - “prostituted themselves” - to the gods of the world, even gods they knew had been defeated.

       It happens too many times. Good men in leadership positions, even influential spiritual leaders, twist off, start believing their own press clippings, and sell out completely to the god of this world. It’s tragic.

*  *  *

       So what things should a real man (or real woman, for that matter) be able to do? What should be at the top of the list?

       The Old Testament prophet, Isaiah, gave this insight to King Ahaz when he asked for advice: “If you do not stand firm in your faith, you will not stand at all.” (Isaiah 7:9) It is our faith that gives us strength, gives us depth, and density. A person who professes no faith has little to stand on when the troubles come.

       I once heard Erwin McManus challenge an arena full of Promise Keepers by saying: “The shape of your character is the shape of your future. Not skill, but character. Not influence, but faith.”

       And there is the main point – if you don’t stand firm in your faith, it matters very little what else you do. In fact, you won’t stand at all.

       Few people leave faith all at once, as an act of independence or defiance. More people simply drift away, a bit at a time, forgetting what matters, until one day it is gone, they are gone too far away to want to come back. In order for that NOT to happen we have to stay engaged. We have to be careful. We have to take care.

       McMannus says, “God does not reject the sinful. He rejects the arrogant.” Being arrogant is the opposite of this passage. It’s leaning on self and smarts and skill, not God. Arrogance was the sinful failure of those heads of families in 1 Chronicles 5:24.

*  *  *

       Here’s another story, from 2 Chronicles 20:12. King Jehoshaphat ended a long prayer for guidance with this phrase, “We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You.”

       He was a king who understood the limits of his own wisdom, courage, influence, and power, and knew to stand firm in his faith.

       And so, my prayer, “Lord - I am asking you again to speak to my heart about teaching and writing and books and engineering and music and family cash flow and publishing and marketing and loving Cyndi and taking guys into the mountains and all that. I don’t know what to do, but teach me to keep my eyes on You.

“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.

Tool Chest

      Have I mentioned how much I love containers?

      For me, the well-used full container represents success and efficiency. An empty container represents hope for the future. I know when the right situation arises, I’ll have a place to put the parts. It is the same feeling I feel when I look at my empty pickup bed – when the need arises, I can help.

      I have boxes of boxes, boxes of bags, and whenever we visit the Container Store, it takes diligent disassociation for me to avoid buying even more. The only things to stop me, really, is the knowledge if I bought everything, I’d have no way to organize and store it all.

* * * * *

      It’s occurred to me that if you did a close inspection of my stuff, you might not agree with my love for organization and structure. My books often seem to be randomly distributed on the shelves. My projects are piled on my desk. Even worse, and most embarrassing, my wrenches and sockets are loosely gathered in a toolbox. Anytime I need one I must dig through and separate the metric from SAE and find one that seems to be the correct size. I only do it when no one else is around since I don’t want to explain myself.

      I’m not obsessive about organizing. I’m not that interested whether other people could find what they are looking for because I would just as soon do it myself and I usually find what I need quickly. Even if the untrained eye sees only a pile of papers on my desk, I almost always know which pile has the piece of paper I need. I guess I am more of a functional organizer, and if my structure makes sense only to me, that’s fine.

      And yet, still, whenever I need to use a socket wrench, I am frustrated to dig through my own disorganization looking for the right one – embarrassed that it’s taken me so long to grow up. At least they were all together in one place.

      Which leads me the newest edition to my collection.

      Cyndi and family bought a rolling tool chest for my Father’s Day and birthday. (I’m happy to combine the two gift-giving occasions – It’s hard enough to think of one gift idea, certainly not two.) I was slow agreeing to a tool chest because, I suppose, I didn’t think I was worthy. It seemed to be too much money for someone like me who uses tools only rarely. I’m not a mechanic, and only a nominal home handyman.

      I changed my mind once I started researching big tool chests in hardware stores, I was all in. I couldn’t wait to have all those drawers. I even started watching YouTube videos telling how to best organize a tool chest.) I’ll welcome any tips or photos if you’d like to help me.)

* * * * *

      This morning I read Ecclesiastes 3:11, which says God put eternity in our hearts (the source of our pull toward the transcendent) yet did not give us the capacity to understand it all.

      I see this all the time in my own life. I’m drawn to big ideas, deep thoughts, epic views, long rides, life-changing adventures. It’s why I love looking out airplane windows and reading books about across-the-USA bike rides and dreaming of life-changing thru-hikes on two-hundred-mile trails.

      I understand the limits of my intellectual capacity and, dare I say it, my own attention span. Like the verse says, God did not give me (or any of us) capacity to understand it all.

      However, I’m comforted by knowing I can collect knowledge and ideas and store them in containers … in Word documents, Excel spreadsheets, notes I make in book margins, on 3x5 cards, and in journal after journal after journal. If ideas are organized and safe and retrievable, I can pull them out and use them. When the need arises, I can help.

* * * * *

      Cyndi is coming home today from a four-day three-night backpacking trip on the Ouachita Trail in eastern Oklahoma. It is a group hike, and weeks ago when I first signed us up, I fully expected to go, but since then my ankle turned to the worst and I had to stay home. Cyndi bravely represented the family by hiking the wilderness without me.

      All that is to say, I’ve had six days at home by myself. I worked on cleaning the garage, painting one set of wooden window blinds to see if the finished product would be acceptable, and organizing my new tool chest. I’m not yet finished, but I now have hope for a better, happier, brighter, and more structured future.

“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.

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.