Just Say Yes!

       Monday morning, while sitting in my favorite booth in Whataburger, I read from John 14, when Jesus was drawing very near to his death and was sharing his last words with his disciples. Jesus said, “Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and show myself to him.” (14:21 NIV) Jesus unequivocally linked obedience to love.

       The next verse says, “Then Judas (not Judas Iscariot) said, “But, Lord, why do you intend to show yourself to us and not to the world?”

       My first thought upon reading this was that this Judas (not Iscariot) needs a better last name than not Iscariot. Surely, he had a second name. Maybe John couldn’t remember it. Judas was a popular and common name during that time in history, but no one wants the same name as the betrayer of Jesus. I doubt any believers were ever named Judas, again.

       Some Bible scholars believe this disciple was also called Thaddeus. Good. He must’ve kept the Thaddeus name after this so he wouldn’t have to remind people that he was the other Judas and not Iscariot.

       My second thought was that regardless of his name, I appreciated Thaddeus’ question. He asked, “Why are you showing all this to us and not to everyone?” It’s a legit question, and a familiar question to many people in leadership.

       The question follows two familiar paths. The first, who am I that I’m privy to this special insight? How did I end up here, with these others? I don’t remember doing anything special or noteworthy, all I did was say yes when asked. Is that all it takes to end up an insider?

       I’ve been in too many situations where I had to talk myself back from the ledge because I felt I was – knew I was – inadequate for the task ahead of me, and wondering how, of all people, I ended up here. If I don’t appear to have those concerns when you see me, well, all I can say is most of what you see is learned response – I’ve learned to hide it. I’m sure Thaddeus felt the same way. I suppose all of the disciples felt the same way. How did I end up here learning the gospel of truth and life from the Son of God? Why me?

       The second familiar path I hear in the disciple’s question is this – Now that you, Jesus, have shown yourself to us and not to the whole world, does that come with expectations and responsibilities? Because not only do I wonder how I ended up here in this room with this group, but I’m also afraid I won’t be able to do whatever you have in mind.

       Personally, I can only think of one or two occasions in my life when I was handed a life-sized challenge and I thought I was up to the task. As in, they asked exactly the right guy.

       However, I can think of dozens of occasions when I knew the opposite – not only did I have no understanding of what was in to, and if I did understand it, I would be even more unsure of myself.

       Here’s the thing. I don’t want to live a life that always makes sense to me, where I know what I’m supposed to do and how to do it each and every time. That’s why I keep saying yes to hikes and bike rides I doubt I can complete, to classes I’m not comfortable to teach, to trombone solos I don’t know how to play, to novels I don’t know how to write.

       I expect Thaddeus was the same. Otherwise, he would have stayed home when Jesus asked him to follow. But he didn’t stay home. He said Yes!

       That’s all Jesus asks of us – to say Yes!

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

Stories About Trees

       We bought a seven-foot potted Ficus tree sometime in 2009 after we moved into our house in Woodland Park. It was beautiful. We kept the tree in a large pot on a flat tray with wheels on it so we could move it inside and outside. We moved it into the house every fall, and back outside every spring. The tree grew very tall, so tall we had to trim the top each year so it wouldn’t scratch the twelve-foot ceiling.

       Once inside our house, the tree sat in our library behind my big brown chair. I loved it even though, like all Ficus trees, it dropped leaves into my lap and onto the pages of my book all winter long. It felt cozy and warm and inviting to sit under a tree, like there was a source of life behind my chair.

       During the warm season the tree sat in its pot on the back porch, mostly sheltered from the wind (although we had to stand it back up several times each season). We often pulled it out from under the porch when it rained.

       That very first spring of 2009 a dove built a nest in the tree, and since it was right in front of a window, we could watch the progression from eggs to chicks to birds. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. The doves used that same nest year after year, adding more sticks each season.

       Here’s the sad part. Last fall 2021, we waited one night too many before moving our tree inside. It froze. We were heartbroken, but we moved it inside anyway hoping it was only mostly dead. We moved it back outside in the spring, giving it a chance to recover, but there was no joy. It just dried up and got more brittle every day.

       And yet the doves still returned to the nest. They sat on eggs amid all the dead branches and brown leaves.  We knew the tree was gone, and I knew it was my job to dispose of the remains, but I waited until the doves finished raising their new family.

       Friday, November 4th, I loaded the tree into the bed of my pickup and took it to the city drop-off for yard waste. It was time. Its sad condition had haunted me long enough.

       I saved the nest, however, as a reminder. Maybe I’ll stick it in a new tree and see if the birds use it again.

*  *  *  *  *

       Mary Reynolds Thompson quoted Willa Cather in her book, Reclaiming the Wild Soul, “I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.”

       Our Ficus tree never complained about our forgetfulness. It kept most of its leaves and branches, even though brown and brittle, all last winter and spring, seeming to delay its final transition.

*  *  *  *  *

       I often ask people where they feel most at home. The usual answers center around familiar places and familiar roles.

       One of the places I used to feel at home was in my hammock in the backyard under the shade of a big honey locust tree. I loved to lay in that hammock with the Sunday paper across my chest and sleep while I gently swung myself by pulling on the slender rope tied to the porch post. I could swing myself and sleep at the same time. It was wonderful and peaceful, and it was home.

       Unfortunately, I had to cut that tree down. It was attacked by bores in the summer of 1999 and by spring of 2000 it finally gave up the fight to stay alive. It broke my heart to lose this tree.

       It had a trunk of eighteen inches; Cyndi and I planted it years before when it was a 1" stick. It was the biggest and oldest impression I'd ever made on the actual earth. I loved that I planted something that seemed so significant. I was inspired by that tree.

       I thought I was more in charge of my environment. I expected the things I did to stay done. I don't enjoy short-term fixes and it hurt to realize my efforts had been so temporary.

       I borrowed a chainsaw and cut the tree down. I was finally convinced the tree would never come back to life and I was at peace with the loss, so I calmly spent an afternoon converting the tree into a stack of firewood.

*  *  *  *  *

       One of my favorite Bible passages is about trees, from Psalm 1.

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

       This passage marks a significant progression in my life. In 1999, I wrote in the margin of my Bible, “Lord, I want to be well planted.” In 2014 I added, “Lord, I want to be a planter of trees.”

*  *  *  *  *

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

Somehow Something Changed

       What first captured your heart and opened your eyes to the world of art, music, and transcendence? Who was the first to ignite your artist soul?

       For me it was a rock band: Chicago. Hearing their music literally changed my life in 1971. I would not be a musician today if they hadn’t happened to me. And this week I was fortunate to hear them play again, in Midland, at the Wagner Noel Performing Arts Center.

       I posted: Swinging with Chicago tonight … I’m the one in the balcony singing and playing air trombone.

       One hot summer afternoon in 1971 I was working in the backyard of our house on Thorpe Street in Hobbs, New Mexico. Up until that summer I had played trombone in the school band. I enjoyed band because my friends were there, but the idea of music hadn’t yet seized me. I was thinking about quitting. It was the summer leading into my sophomore year of high school and I was hungry for changes that would open my world.

       That afternoon I heard KCRS play a song by Chicago, “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is.” I’d heard it many times before, but this time the DJ let the music play all the way to the end. For the first time in my life I heard the trombone solo that famously finishes that song … and all I can say is, my life changed that day.

       There’s no other way to say it. My life changed. It had to be a gift from God because no one else could have changed me so completely. The day before I heard that solo, I was a goofy teenager ambivalent about everything; the day after, I was a musician. That event changed how I saw my future, it changed my thoughts about playing the trombone, it changed the trajectory of my life, it changed my heart.

       Because of my backyard conversion when I was just 16 years old, I still play trombone weekly. I played last Sunday, I played tonight at church orchestra rehearsal, and I’ll play tomorrow night at MC Jazz Band rehearsal. Because of that hot afternoon, music informs how I write, how I see the world, how I teach, and even the rhythm of my speech.

       If you had told me in 1971 those same guys (well, at least three of them) would still be playing rock-and-roll when they were in their 70s, and I would get to hear them play live, I would’ve laughed. How silly. And yet, now it’s my life goal to enjoy what I do as much as they enjoy performing, all the way to the end of my life, just like them.

       Tuesday night, the first song Chicago played was “Introduction,” which happens to be the first track from their first album. As soon as I heard those distinct eighth notes, bump bump, a pickup and beat one, I was carried away, like magic. “Sir, I can name that song in two notes.”

       Here’s the thing: I’m not really writing about Chicago; I’m writing about the power of music. I’m writing about how some things latch on to your soul so that you wallow in it for decades. Maybe for you it was soccer, or dance, or math, or mountains, or the beach. For me it was music, and Chicago made it happen.

       Week after week I write about God, running, cycling, backpacking, spiritual growth, family, music, and loving Cyndi. And the truth is, I can’t separate those topics. They are woven together, and I don’t care to cut them apart.

       I went to the Tuesday concert, not just to hear the same songs I can listen to any time I want, but to reinforce a 51-year-old life-changing experience that still influences me every day. Music is one of our tightest family ties. Music is one of my deepest spiritual truths. I don’t want to let that slip away.

*  *  *  *  *

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

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Leave No Trace

       Last week I listened to a podcast about men living in prison hospice. Men with no families, no friends, and no hope. The interviewer referred to them as “men whose only future is to disappear without leaving a trace.”

       That phrase – without a trace – haunted me for days.

       It’s a familiar phrase to me, even if I know it mostly in another context. Leave No Trace is a concept in camping, hiking, and backpacking. It encourages us to leave minimal impact when outdoors in order to preserve and protect the wildness and the beauty. “If you pack it in, pack it out.”

       But all I could think about after listening to the podcast was my fear of leaving no trace in life, leaving no trace on the world, leaving no lasting impact and nothing meaningful.

       One of our go-to movies, The Bourne Supremacy, has a heartbreaking scene when Jason Bourne burns all the evidence of his girlfriend and their life together, making it harder for the bad guys to find him again. He wanted to disappear.

       I’ve watched this scene many times, and it always makes me sad that he destroyed the traces of his life. It’s the opposite of how I want to live. I hope to leave lots of evidence that tells what God has done for me. Not to be famous or well-known, but to leave a wide wake of changed lives.

*  *  *  *  *

       I once sat through a Christmas dinner for Greathouse Elementary School where Cyndi taught 5th grade. I was seated next to another teacher’s spouse, a man whose life dreams could be summed up by his desire to live completely “off the grid.” He wanted to get away from it all, be away from it all, disappear, and depend only upon himself. He rambled on and on during the entire dinner and through most of the congratulation speeches and gifts.

       He was oblivious to the fact that not only could I have not cared less about his off-the-grid dream, but it was also the opposite of how I want to live any part of my own life. But I couldn’t get away from him without abandoning Cyndi, who was sitting on my other side, so I listened to all of it.

       In my book Practicing Faith, I told the story of a young Louis L’Amour, about a time when he was hired to guard a mine that lay in a basin at the end of thirty-odd miles of winding, one-lane dirt road in remote southern California. L’Amour’s boss dropped him off in front of a concrete bunkhouse and drove away, leaving Louis all by himself. He wrote, “It was not Walden Pond. There was no water here except what came from a well. There were no forests. There wasn’t a tree within miles.” But there were boxes of books left by the previous occupant, and Louis L’Amour devoured them. He said the loneliness never affected him because he was so busy reading.

       Well, that sounded attractive to me. Minimal obligations, plenty to eat and drink, and unlimited time to read, go for long runs, think, and write.

       It also sounded lonely and incomplete. I wouldn’t be happy living that way for long. Besides the fact that I couldn’t be happy without Cyndi, I’m never totally happy learning and studying and analyzing unless I have an opportunity to share what I’ve learned. It isn’t enough to do something; I want to tell my stories afterward. Somehow sharing is part of the learning process, as if I won’t have room to learn more unless I pass along what I know.

*  *  *  *  *

       How do you change the world, how do you leave a widening wake of changed lives, how do you speak grace and wisdom into young men’s hearts, living all by yourself off the grid. That isn’t who I want to be. Do you?

       I want to be completely engaged in the lives of other people, sharing stories that put God’s truth within reach. I want to be firmly planted in the grid, changing the grid, changing the future.

*  *  *  *  *

How about you? What will the world miss if you don’t tell your story?

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

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Dreams of Saving the Day

       Like you, I dream every night. At least, I suppose I do. Most of the time I forget my dreams by the time I walk to the bathroom; they have less than a one-minute half-life.

       One thing I’ve never dreamed about – and this is the reason I’m writing about this - is playing music. Why is that?

       There are few things in my life more regular than music. I’ve played trombone since 1968, 54 years, longer than I’ve done anything else.

       OK, maybe I’ve ridden bikes longer than 54 years, but my cycling habit has large multi-decade gaps. And yet, I have dreamed of cycling many times.

       But never a dream of playing my trombone despite the fact there are no significant gaps in my 54 years. It seems I would’ve dreamed at least once about playing during all those years.

       Why not one dream of playing in some restaurant with Craig and Rabon and my solos are so good, so clean and simple, so independent, everyone in the room stopped eating just to listen? And we were so successful, the restaurant, which was struggling, has a renaissance and the family who owns it can send their kids to college?

       Or why not a dream of playing in church with our orchestra and it energizes everyone’s worship experience and people start walking in the back door like in the movie Sister Act?

       Or how about this? Why not a single dream where I’m sitting with Cyndi and all our friends and family at the Wagner Noel concert hall, waiting for everything to start, when a young roadie walks up the aisle, stops at our row, and tells me James Pankow is suddenly ill and can’t play and would I mind joining Chicago on stage to play his part? Why not a dream like that? That would be epic.

       Why not a dream where I’m the rehearsal hall with all the Metro Big Band musicians from the past ten years, and the director asks, can anyone demonstrate a B# mixolydian counter-punctel Asian-modal scale, and I jump up and play two different versions – the second one being my personal favorite for jazz – to the shock and awe of everyone?

       And that isn’t all. Why can’t I dream about things on purpose? Why can’t I drift off to sleep with something on my conscious mind that becomes the most vivid dream. I’ve been dreaming even longer than I’ve been playing music. Why can’t I aim my dreams?

       If I could, I would go back to sleep right now (it’s only 4:23 am) and dream about saving the day with my trombone.

       Or Cyndi. Maybe I would go back to sleep and aim my dream at an exciting romantic liaison with Cyndi. Wouldn’t that be cool?

       Instead, I dream of things like being stuck in the mud in my Tacoma, or something useless and uninspiring as that

 *  *  *  *  *

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

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Rest and Patience

       I spent last weekend at a men’s gathering, and the words God spoke to me were “rest and patience.” It isn’t what I expected. I thought I’d hear something more like a bold call to action.

       The retreat, known as Base Camp Gathering, was hosted by The Noble Heart ministry and took place at Bear Trap Ranch near Colorado Springs. The opening night Gary gave us a list of words and asked us to choose a couple that described what our lives felt like at that moment. The two words I chose were exhausting and expectant.

       The fact is, I’ve been surprised during my three-months (so far) recovery from surgery how exhausting healing can be. I ran low on both physical energy and creative energy. The physical part wasn’t such a surprise since I was limited in the exercises I could do. But the creative side? Much to my surprise, I did almost no original writing. That isn’t what I expected. I’d hoped my down time would be full of ideas. Instead, I took naps.

       I also came to the weekend feeling expectant. With a new gait in my future, and the winding down of my current church leadership responsibilities, I saw an open field of opportunities ahead. I was anticipating some great commission from God.

       Monday morning, back at home in Midland, I rode thirteen miles on my bike. It took me a little over an hour – averaging 11.5 mph. It felt pedestrian and lazy, but it took all the energy I had in me.

       It was my fifth ride since Dr. Vineyard released me to the road twelve days ago. His only qualification when I asked about cycling was, “Don’t ride thirty miles the first day.” Little did I know I couldn’t have ridden that far that soon anyway. But I was happy to have his permission.

       My first ride was two days after the doctor visit. It felt great just to be outside moving and spinning my legs, even though the muscles in my left leg had dwindled into flab after three months of riding a knee-scooter. It felt tender to flex my ankle while pedaling, but that was the reason I was riding. I needed the therapy.

       What surprised me was how exhausting it was. I’d lost more than muscle mass; I’d also lost my energy reserve. I rode ten miles, slowly and deliberately, then came home and took a nap. I was wiped out. Happy, but drained.

       But being back on the road, riding outside felt like the future. I’ve already started dreaming of new adventures on my new foot.

       One of the speakers for the weekend in Colorado, Scott from California, asked, “What parts of life have you been gripping tightly but couldn’t hold on to?” I realized how dependent I am on my own plans, bullet points, and checklists, and how disoriented I get when those plans don’t work out. And specifically, in these past few months, my grip on healing, and my grip on my future as an engineer. Scott suggested that my disorienting might be God’s invitation to lean into him, and to trust him more with my future.

       At the end of the weekend I had two new words to describe what my life felt like: rest and patience. Don’t get in a big hurry to heal quickly and be prepared to rest and wait patiently for the life that lies ahead (whether I am employed or retired).

*  *  *  *  *

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

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Changing Places

       I have fond memories of sitting and writing in certain places (even if I don’t always remember exactly what I was writing at the time), such as at the trail junction in The Bowl, or in Plainview on the way home from the Amarillo Marathon, or in Veranna, Mexico, or on the dock in Granbury, or at a metal table in the garden in Italy. I’ve often traveled to workshops with Cyndi (as in, Santa Fe or Durango) knowing I’ll benefit from writing in a new place, even if I’m still writing at a table in a fast food restaurant.

       I have different thoughts when I’m in different places. Even a Whataburger off Greenville in Dallas affects me differently than a Whataburger in Midland. It’s true despite the fact both locations have identical booths and identical tables and identical food.

       I know if I go somewhere different, away from my regular haunts, I’ll notice different things and think different thoughts. I have a formula: ΔPL + ΔPA = ΔPE, meaning a change in place plus change in pace equals change in perspective. It works for me even when the new place is not exotic or far away. The smallest changes in pace and place can trigger my imagination.

       Part of what I’m doing when I travel is learning how to pay attention. Variety and change of scenery are important, but exotic change is not necessary. Even the most ordinary experience in a different place changes the way I think. It wakes me up. I pay attention.

       Annie Murphy Paul wrote (The Extended Mind: The Power of Thinking Outside the Brain), “All of us think differently depending on where we are … The field of cognitive science commonly compares the human brain to a computer, but the influence of place reveals a major limitation of this analogy: while a laptop works the same way whether it’s being used at the office or while we’re sitting in a park, the brain is deeply affected by the setting in which it operates.”

       One place where I go seeking change is an annual retreat called Base Camp Gathering with The Noble Heart Ministries at Bear Trap Ranch, in the Rocky Mountains near Colorado Springs. I’ve attended this event every fall since 2012, and this week I’m going again.

       I always go to Base Camp with a heart full of questions about life and ministry and what to do next. Remarkably, even though I don’t come home with something as tangible as a bullet-point list of action items, I always leave with a sense of what to do next.

       The questions on my mind this year are about ministry and timing. What should my teaching ministry and men’s ministry look like during the next few years?

       And now that I’m well on my way to recovery from ankle surgery in June, I’m looking forward to more time on my bike and more time on the mountain trails. What do either of those look like in my life of teaching and mentoring?

       Erwin McManus wrote (in Wide Awake), “You can’t just sit back and hope that the life you long for will simply come to you.” One of the things I do to seek that life I long for, the life God has for me, is to retreat into the mountains with men I love and respect. I’m ready for this change in my pace at a change in my place. I’m praying for a change in my perspective.

*  *  *  *  *

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

Please forward this blog to others; I need your help to spread it around. Thanks.

Missing Outdoors

       When asked about my summer recovering from ankle surgery and how did I manage being inside almost all the time, I joked that at least I missed the Texas heatwave. My outside excursions seldom lasted longer than ten minutes, and never included walking around our neighborhood ponds or cycling across town. In fact, I missed both walking and cycling, no matter how hot it was. I missed them – as in I didn’t have the opportunity, and I missed them – as in their absence left longing in my heart.

       Alastair Humphreys wrote, “It’s normal nowadays to spend most of our lives inside, temperature-controlled, light-switched, water-softened, air-freshened, and double-glazed ... I’m more at peace with myself and the world when I spend an extended period outdoors.”

       Me, I’ve spent most of my life, at least 90% of my career, indoors. But I got outside as much as I could.

       I first started running in 1978, and for the next 42 years 99% of those miles were outside. I prefer running outside no matter how hot or how cold. I felt the same way when I started cycling in 2010, preferring to tackle the heat and wind rather than retreat inside.

       When I try running or cycling indoors, my brain surrenders after twenty minutes. It’s all I can handle. I’ve tried to extend my indoor training time knowing that indoors is probably my future, but so far, I haven’t been very successful. Running or cycling indoors feels like a cardio workout but going outdoors is an adventure.

       In her book, The Extended Mind: The Power of Thinking Outside the Brain, Annie Murphy Paul mentioned a promising app called ReTUNE (Restoring Through Urban Nature Experience). It is an app developed by University of Chicago psychologist Marc Berman and doctoral student Kathryn Schertz and it works like a conventional GPS system, but instead of providing its users with the speediest route, it offers them the path with the greatest number of trees, the largest proportion of flowers, the highest frequency of birdsong.

       Annie Murphy Paul wrote, “Natural scenes are more coherent, lacking the jarring disjunctions common in man-made settings … natural scenes also offer more redundant information. Colors and shapes are repeated again and again ... Fractal patterns are much more common in nature than in man-made environments. Fractal patterns are those in which the same motif is repeated at differing scales ... There is a building pile of evidence that our ability to think clearly and solve problems is enhanced by encounters with these nature-like fractals.”

       When driving my pickup through Midland I often take routes through neighborhoods rather than zipping around Loop 250 or any of the major streets, even though it makes the trip longer, requires stopping at stop signs, and limits speed. I couldn’t explain why I did it so I never tried. I simply said, “I needed a change.” But after reading Paul’s book I think I was subconsciously searching for nature’s fractals.

       Last Thursday morning I called up the ReTUNE app to plot my route home from Whataburger, but I learned it only works in Chicago. That’s too bad. I would’ve enjoyed the alternate routes home.

       From my very first office job in 1979 I kept plants in my room. I loved big bushy plants around my windows and creeping ivy that ran across my desk. I wanted plants to provide fresh air in my closed and highly regulated environment. Now I wonder if my eyes were longing for fractal images of plants to counter the visual landscape of graph paper, spreadsheets, straight lines, and square corners.

       I must admit, though, that I love air conditioning and indoor lighting. I’ve met people who spend their entire lives outside among the fractals, and I don’t want that life for myself. I’m fortunate to have landed in a lifestyle and location that gives me the choice to enjoy the outside when I want and enjoy the climate-controlled indoors when I want. I’m grateful for that choice.

       I’m hoping Doctor Vineyard will release me to walk and bike in a few weeks. It’s about time to get back outside.

*  *  *  *  *

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

Please forward this blog to others; I need your help to spread it around. Thanks.

Guadalupe Pilgrim

This is an excerpt from my book, Practicing Faith.

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

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

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

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

I’m also attracted to the Guadalupe Mountains because of the view. It’s spectacular—breathtaking in its raw unconcern for the hiker. As you stand at the summit and gaze across the Chihuahuan Desert for a hundred miles, you see nothing friendly to man, nothing that cares whether humans cross. The desert is complete, self-contained, and stingy, offering no comforts to soothe a human being. Oddly enough, that indifference speaks to my heart. From Barbara Kingsolver: “Looking out on a clean plank of planet earth, we can get shaken right down to the bone by the bronze-eyed possibility of lives that are not our own.” I need to be regularly reminded that I’m not the center of life, and this desert convinces me better than anything else.

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

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

I often say, “Without a scar, we don’t have a story.” It’s in the disasters, the injuries, the surviving, that our character is revealed, and what starts as a set of mere incidents morphs from timeline into story.

       Since that October day with Cyndi in 2003, the trail up Guadalupe Peak has become one of my most important paths. From it I’ve learned God speaks to me most often when I’m moving and when I’m vulnerable. Dirt trails have become a big part of my spiritual journey and being on top of mountains helps keep my eyes open to the larger, wider, wilder world.

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

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Getting Better Soon

       The question I hear most often nowadays is this: “How much longer will you be using that knee scooter?”

       My standard answer: “My next doctor visit is September 8th. I hope he releases me to walk during that visit.”

       I had surgery on my left foot and ankle eight-and-a-half weeks ago. It has a handful of screws in it (they look like giant lag bolts to me) and two new tendons. I’ve been non-weight-bearing since the surgery, thus, the knee scooter. Now, after eight weeks of scooting, my right leg looks like Popeye’s and my left leg looks like Olive Oyl’s.

       It reminded me of a long recuperation I had back in the summer of 2013, after a bike accident where I skidded out on a righthand turn and crashed to the asphalt on my right hip. I goofed around for several weeks self-treating myself, until it blew up one morning at Gold’s Gym. My doctor set me up the following Monday with the Wound Management Department at the hospital.

       I was nervous about going to Wound Management. Friends used words like wire brushes and fiery antiseptics when they told their own stories.

       As it turned out I was wrong about all that. They were very efficient and reassuring. They didn’t hurt me at all. We all joked about what I’d done to myself, and they showed me how to clean and bandage my wounded hip every morning.

*  *  *  *  *

Gracious words are a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
(Proverbs 16:24 NIV)

*  *  *  *  *

       The day after my first visit I posted on Twitter: “Wondering if my Monday visit to Wound Management Dept. at the hospital was a mistake. Should’ve held out for Wound Healing Dept.” Wound Management didn’t seem specific enough. I didn’t want to just manage the problem, I wanted to get better.

       And that turned out to be a big deal. The doctor and nurses and technicians in Wound Management told me how important it was for a patient to want to get better. Most of their patients were there because of the effects of diabetes, and they were not going to get better. All they could hope for was no amputations.

       I started noticing the other patients in the waiting room, and realized most of them, at least physically, were as healthy as they would ever be. And I was complaining about a few-weeks delay in my cycling habit. My self-pity changed to gratitude that morning, and I think my rate of healing improved as well.

       I noticed the same phenomenon during my August 22nd post-op visit for my foot. Most of the people in the waiting room were not going to get much better. Their physical state was as good as it was going to be. But I expected to be hiking, cycling, walking, working out, and playing with granddaughters in a few months. My heart must be patient and full of gratitude. I will get better soon.

*  *  *  *  *

Light in a messenger’s eyes
brings joy to the heart,
and good news gives health to the bones.
(Proverbs 15:30 NIV)

*  *  *  *  *

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

Please forward this blog to others; I need your help to spread it around. Thanks.