A Whole New World

      Wednesday night was when it began. During church orchestra rehearsal for our upcoming Christmas production.

      While counting rests I received a text from my new best friend, Hector, from Toyota, wondering if I could come to the dealership and get my brand-new Tacoma. It had arrived earlier in the day and was now waiting for me at the dealership, calling out my name.

      I asked if I could pick it up on Thursday and he said they could deliver it to our house, which I thought was great, so I texted, “Yes,” thinking Hector meant Thursday but he actually meant right away.

      My next text (yes, I’ll confess, Dr. Bewley, I was looking at my phone during rehearsal, but we had a LOT of rests to count so I had plenty of time) said they were in front of my house with the Tacoma and where should they leave the keys.

      And just like that, in the middle of rehearsal, I moved into a new beginning.

      Thursday morning I moved some of my stuff from my old Tacoma (which, believe it or not, was my second one, and all three look the same - same model (four-door 4WD), same color (Barcelona Red), same heartbeat (when I find something I like I can be loyal for a long, long time)) into my new Tacoma, went online to add it to my insurance, and left for Whataburger for a bit of writing and reading.

      After about an hour, Cyndi called to tell me she had been at a Scout Guide social at Black Rifle Coffee, and she told me they had a lot of tables, which was her way of saying I might want to try it out as an addition to my writing locations.

      “Have you been driving your new truck?” she asked?

      “Of course. But even though it looks and drives 95% the same as my previous two, unlike either of them all the interior containment slots were different.”

      “Oh no. What will you do?”

      “I’ll eventually learn all the new places and it will feel like home, but in the meantime, I’ll be lost every time I reach for a highlighter or glasses or Carmex.”

      And then, while sitting in one of my favorite booths at Whataburger on Andrews Highway, while on the phone with Cyndi, it occurred to me I should take advantage of this unstable season I’m in and make changes I’ve been afraid to make. Once I know a squishy few weeks are in my future, why not tackle everything at once?

      I told Cyndi, “Since I’m not a big coffee drinker I seldom go to places like Black Rifle, but as long as I’ll be learning all new container locations in my new pickup I might as well experiment with other new projects and see what sticks. Expand my horizons, and, like that.”

      “Wow. A whole new world.”

      “Yeah. 2024 is already looking better.”

      Cyndi was about to hang up and get on with her busy life when I said, “And it gets even better. Our yard nativity figures are still standing up!”

      “Really? After four days?”

      Keeping our yard nativity upright has been a constant multi-year struggle for me. A dark plague that has threatened my joy of Christmas. There isn’t a morning when I don’t find at least one wiseman or shepherd face down in the yard. Last weekend I glued some metal tubing to the backs so I could add additional metal stakes, and strung wire on other to keep the pieces together … and they’ve stayed standing now for four days. A brand-new record.

      Even in the midst of this rickety unstable period of my life, begun with my new pickup, I’m facing, I’ve found new stability.

I will make a list of things to change.

I’m open to suggestions, if you have any.

      It’s a whole new world.

      Merry Christmas.

Ride to End Alzheimer’s 2023

Observations from a Wimberley Hill Country Ride

My brother, Carroll Simpson, and I rode in the November 2023 Ride to End Alzheimer’s in Wimberley, Texas. A fund-raising ride, we did it memory and in honor of our mother, Lenelle Simpson, who passed away with Alzheimer's in July 2014.

It was a great event. There were plenty of smiling and helpful volunteers, the course marking was the best I’ve ever seen (which includes races I used to put on), and the aid stations were friendly and fully stocked.

The ride had over 530 cyclists who rode one of five different distances (10, 20, 40, 60, or 100 miles), and raised nearly $640,000 for Alzheimer’s research. Carroll and I rode 60 miles together; with a total elevation gain of 3,461’.

Carroll and his son, Evan, designed custom cycling jerseys for us. On the front was an anime-style skunk, chosen because our dad used to give mom small ceramic skunks whenever he found them. And on the back was printed “New-Tex Salvage.” The actual name of our parent’s service company was New-Tex Lab, but Carroll changed it to salvage since both of us are full of artificial replacement parts (knees, hips, screws, etc.)

*  *  *  *  *

 A few observations from Carroll:

We always yo-yo on these rides, and that’s okay. We both mostly “train” alone and while riding shoulder-to-shoulder is optimum, time alone staring at the pavement by yourself is welcome, maybe even crucial. Life isn’t always lived in the pack, even with adored family, and it’s just fine not to chase. We’ll always catch up to each other, coming back to the pack better for it after a lot of deep breaths and spinning out the legs at our own pace.

What’s interesting is when I move in front, it’s typically from chasing the speed and fun of a downhill. When I’m chasing you, it’s because you motor away steady-as-she-goes on the uphill grind. 

We didn’t talk much about Mom, our Alzheimer’s connection. I think that’s okay, I think she would rather us get the work done, and sappy sentiment was never really her style.

I got a lot of heartfelt “I’m proud of you”, but is it weird that made us almost uncomfortable? This wasn’t about tilting at the Alzheimer’s windmill for mom. We were grateful for comments; just casually conflicted.

Never, ever make hot chocolate at home with hot water ever again.

I very clearly under-prepared physically, that is a lesson painfully learned and to be remedied.

An oversized beef rib with my clan, both old and new, is a very grateful way to wrap up the day.

Riding myself into oblivion is something I hope I can do with my brother until the day when our wives have to hide our bikes from us.

  *  *  *  *  *

A few observations from Berry:

This was one of the few occasions I’ve had to use every single gear on my bike, over and over. I bottomed out into the lowest gear several times, and then had to mash the pedals the rest of the way to the top.

Sadly, there was one hill I had to dismount and push my bike up the last hundred feet because I couldn’t breathe deep enough to keep pedaling. My legs were still working, but my lungs quit. In the group we were (loosely) cycling with, the only one who rode all the way up was a woman on an e-bike. She was very proud of herself. Good for her.

We went past one aid station two different times. The first time they had a horse, I suppose it was their petting zoo, and the second time they had hot chocolate. I didn’t bother with petting the horse, but the hot chocolate was perfect.

When we rode up to the station Carroll noticed the crock pot right away. It was full of steaming milk for hot chocolate. The hot chocolate was perfect, and I never got chills after that.

The weather was cool and slightly damp. The only time I got cold was when I was off my bike at the aid stations.

I was surprised to bump into an old friend at one of the aid stations, Jeff Byrd.

I think all those years running long distances helps me ride up hills. That makes me happy. I was never much of a runner, I just kept doing it. At least it finally counted toward something useful. 

I think your (Carroll) background of BMX and mountain biking make you braver (or in the eyes of our wives, more reckless), and so faster on the descents. 

I would like to go downhill faster. After all, I earned it, going up.

My legs felt fine on Monday while driving back to Midland. I might have had a different story had I tried to ride. The issues that will linger a bit are saddle sores, which reminds me I didn’t do enough long training rides. I often forget how much extended time in the saddle matters. 

One of the most comforting things to see on a bike route is a Continue Straight sign. Because what it really says is: You are fine, you haven’t made any wrong turns or gotten yourself lost. Proceed ahead. It's nice to have confirmation you’re still on the route.

I remember doubling back at about mile 22 of the Ft. Worth Cowtown Marathon because I feared I’d missed a turn. As it turned out, I hadn’t. I was on the route. But your mind plays tricks on you after that much running. You aren’t at your cognitive best. I would’ve welcomed a Continue Straight sign.

It’s worth the money to travel and ride together with Carroll. I’m glad we have these stories in our memory banks.

Because I take after my mom in personality and temperament, I was concerned I might be especially susceptible to Alzheimer’s, too. So my response after she passed away was to do the 23-and-Me  DNA analysis to see if I had higher-than-normal likelihood of Alzheimer’s. It turned out, I don’t. In this category, I was happy to discover I’m simply normal.

I used to visit my mother in the Manor Park Younger Center for patients with Alzheimer’s. I don’t know if she recognized me as her oldest and most cherished son, but she wasn’t afraid of me and would tell me stories from her day. Afterward I’d ride bikes with my father. It’s interesting how those two things (Alzheimer’s and bikes) have circled back around, together.

More Than Ready

       Last Friday morning I was sitting in my favorite Whataburger booth when I read from my Daily Chronological Bible. I already knew what it would say. I’d been looking forward to that day’s reading for a month. In my Bible, October 20th is the day we get to read about the birth of Jesus. All month long I found myself flipping through the pages to see how much longer I had to wait.

       Why was I so anxious? Partly because the language and stories from the Gospels breathe fresh after the hard prophecies from the end of the Old Testament era; partly because I love the Christmas season, love the music, love the movies, love the friendliness and grace that mysteriously overtakes us all, and love the fact that we’re concerned more about what we should give rather what we hope to get; and partly because the cooler air and shorter days bring fresh energy to my daily reading. By October 20th I’m more than ready.

       So sitting in the booth, sipping a Diet Coke, reading, I stopped on Luke 1:46, what we call The Song of Mary, or The Magnificat:

       My soul glorifies the Lord,
       And my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
       For He has been mindful of the humble
       State of His servant.

       To be honest, I started to tear up as I read those words. I didn’t really want to cry in the restaurant and shake up the serving staff or the family sitting in the booth next to mine, but there it was. As I read the words, what I heard in my heart was the phrase I heard long ago, sung by 14-year-old Adriana in about 1992, when she was playing the role of Mary in a church choir presentation. She sang:

       My soul magnifies the Lord.

       I’ll be honest; this song always breaks me down, no matter who sings it. But last Friday, while sitting in the booth, the reason I stumbled over those lines was I realized they describe who I want to be.

       For all my writing, teaching, talking about journey and calling and purpose and meaning (if you’re around me much you know I talk about those all the time), the person I want to be, who I want my life and legacy to be, is a man who magnifies the Lord.

       Not magnify, as in making the Lord bigger. That’s impossible.

       But magnify the Lord, as in making Him easier to see, making His grace more comfortable to accept, opening His comfort for healing, illustrating His huge strong hands that have a firm grip on me. I want my life and my writing and my teaching to be a continuous stream of, “Hey, take a look at this,” and point directly toward Jesus. I want to describe and re-frame and illustrate and illuminate the grace of God through my own experience and my stories.

       I will be singing the song in my head for the next week or so, so don’t be surprised if I look a little distant yet surprisingly happy.

       It is almost Christmas. Let us all magnify the Lord as we give ourselves away to each other. I’m more than ready.

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

Paluxy Pedal Again

      Saturday, October 7th, my brother, Carroll, and I rode the Paluxy Pedal in Glen Rose. This was my fourth time riding this, and our second time to ride this together.

      It’s a beautiful and challenging route through the north Texas hills. The roads are all up or down, seldom level, quite steep in places. The auto traffic is usually light, traffic control at intersections is good, the aid stations well-stocked and well manned with friendly volunteers.

      The Paluxy Pedal is famous among north Texas bike rides for The Wall, a brutal climb 3/10 of a mile long with an advertised 19% grade.

      This year Carroll and I decided to bypass The Wall. We made the decision weeks ago, knowing the holes in our training, and we didn’t talk about it much once we started the ride since both of us were a little embarrassed to not give it another attempt. But neither of us are youngsters and we were aware of our training and physical condition and knew trying to ride up The Wall would be dismal at best. We’d likely spend more time walking our bikes up the slope than we would riding them.

      Our morning started well. We left Granbury with plenty of time to drive to Glen Rose, unload our bikes, get kitted up, grab our race packets, and make the ride start at 8:30. It was a beautiful October morning, in the low 50s, breezy but not brutal. Our long sleeves were perfect.

      We finished in Glen Rose about 11:30 am. The ride went well, except that we got a little mixed up with the various routes (there are choices of 29, 39, 53, and 60 miles). Somehow, we finished the day with only 36 miles. It was a big surprise when the finish line arrived so soon. We had planned on 53 miles.

      We also had another problem, unrelated to cycling, that happened before the ride started. All I can say and still maintain family confidentiality is we had a UACB (Unscheduled Automotive Control Breakdown). We made every effort before the ride started to fix the problem. We even asked for help, but no joy.

      By the time we finally rolled out everyone else had been gone for several minutes. We couldn’t be sure we were even on the correct route until we started overtaking riders.

      At the first aid station, Carroll phoned his wife, Jennifer, and asked her to check with the local Ford dealership and see if they could help. That gave us another ten miles to think about our problem until the next aid station came around.

      As it turns out, there is no Ford dealership in Glen Rose, and the dealership in Granbury Ford wouldn’t answer their phone, so option #1 was out.

      Jennifer found someone who could bring a computer and help us, so we phoned him as soon as we finished riding. Unfortunately, the soonest he could meet us was 7:00 pm. Neither of us wanted to hang around for seven hours. Carroll said, “Well, we came here to ride bikes. Let’s ride to Granbury.”

      So we rode our bikes 22 miles north on Highway 177 to our house in Granbury. The ride was brutal. The half hour we rested while trying to decide what to do was enough time for our muscles to cool down and tighten up. Plus the post-ride slices of pizza we probably shouldn’t have eaten talked to us the entire way.

      The first eight miles were the worst. There was only about three feet of rough gravely shoulder for us to ride on, and half of that was cut up into rumble strips. It was unnerving to have such an unstable road with cars and trucks passing us at full highway speed.

      However, after about eight miles, the road widened, and our bike lane became smoother and cleaner and more pleasant.

      We were exhausted when we finally arrived at the Granbury house. We now had 58 miles for the day, and that was plenty. At least we could now enjoy the OU-Texas football game which we’d set to record while were riding. We’d maintained radio (phone, internet, and texts) silence so we wouldn’t know how the football game was going. We plopped down in front of the TV and watched the first half, until it was time to head back to Glen Rose.

      By the time we finally made it back to Granbury with both trucks, we grabbed dinner and watched the rest of the game. We finally had the good news, 34-30, at 9:30. Fifty-eight miles and a winning football game. It was a full day.

      Paluxy Pedal and The Wall, we will be back.

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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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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, learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at berrysimpson.com.

Uncertainty at the Airport

       The first thing we saw after exiting the rental car shuttle bus and entering the doors at the Denver International Airport terminal was a long line of people with their carryon luggage. The line stretched to the left and to the right as far as we could see. It wasn’t clear what they were in line waiting for, or whether we should join them.

       Well, as it turned out, at least they weren’t in line to check in with Southwest Airlines. We managed our way through that quickly. But when we approached the entrance to security, we could see long lines of people snaking out from the official switchbacks and randomly wrapping around the terminal.

       We split up since I had a TSA PreCheck clearance and Chad didn’t. As it turned out, PreCheck status didn’t help much. Both classifications had long lines that stretched far away around corners. We both went looking for the tail end of our respective lines.

       Because there were lines of people everywhere it was impossible to be sure where each line ended up. I stood in a long line for Clear for several minutes before realizing I was in the wrong place. A uniform came walking by and about a dozen of us jumped out at the same time to ask, “Where is the TSA PreCheck line?”

       She gathered us up and said, “All of you stick with me. We’re going to find the end of your line.”

       She took us from one end of the terminal to the other, I don’t remember if it was North to South or South to North. By now I was completely disoriented. But she finally found us a spot and assured us we were now in the right place. None of us were convinced, but we didn’t know where else to go.

       This new line took us out the sliding glass door to the sidewalk outside, went about fifty yards down the sidewalk, then reversed itself and went all the way back to the same door and back into the terminal.

       I received a text from Chad: “I just found the end of my line. I may not make it.”

       I texted back: “We may not make it together. I just finished my first switchback outside on the sidewalk. At least we’re not in France where they don’t believe in lines. They just mob the entrance.”

       Once back inside, it was only a couple of minutes before we could see the TSA screeners and, most importantly, a giant PreCheck sign. Not only were we in the right line, but we were almost to glory.

       For ID screening we could choose from among six different stations. The woman next to me asked, “Which one do you think is the fastest?”

       I told her, “It’s always the other one.”

       After my ID proved satisfactory, I made my way over to the left-hand side where TSA had full-body scanners. I have enough replacement parts in my body to set off the regular metal detectors. As I walked up, the guard asked, “Do you have any internal metal?”

       “Yes, I do.”

       He motioned me on past toward the full-body scanner. When I started to step inside, another guard asked, “Sir, are you bionic?”

       “Yes, I am. Would you like to see me fly through?"

       "No sir, it only works if you stand still with your arms over your head.”

       I texted Chad, “I’m through security, headed to the train station.”

       He texted back, “The drug dog like me so I was escorted through and completely checked. I shouldn’t have packed those M&Ms.”

       “See you at the gate.”

       Chad got to gate C51 a few minutes before I did. We were just in time to hear there were 143 passengers for 143 seats. The airplane would be completely full.

       We didn’t care. We made it to the gate, and we’d see our wives in a few hours. It took about fifty minutes from the time we walked into the terminal until we arrived at our gate. That’s a long time, but I thought it would be two hours when I first saw all those lines of people. Fifty minutes seemed short.

       It occurred to me that most people were acceptably patient as long as they knew for certain they were in the right line. The uncertainty of thinking you might be in the wrong line was more stressful than the actual waiting. It reminded me of registering for classes at college. You thought you were in line for Engineering Physics only to discover, after 30 minutes of waiting, you were in line for Interpretive Dance.

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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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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, learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at berrysimpson.com.

Song Stories

       Maybe the reason guys like me – you know, late 60s - say things like, “today’s music doesn’t’ speak to me,” isn’t just because we are becoming geezers. Maybe it isn’t so much about the music or the lyrics or the beat, but because we don’t yet have any stories linked to those new songs.

       In his clever book, “Manhood for Amateurs,” Michael Chabon, lamented the format change at his favorite radio station. They flipped from the oldies of his youth to contemporary pop, and it hurt. Each of those old songs linked to a story from Chabon’s life, and whenever he heard a favorite, he also remembered the story. He called it, “the mysterious power of the chance interaction between radio and memory.”

       While reading Chabon I started thinking of the memories that I flash whenever I hear certain old songs, and I scribbled several in the margin of my book.

       If I hear Steely Day singing “Reelin’ in the Years,” for example, I’m transported back to the evening when fellow trombone player Jan Ramey gave me a ride home in her station wagon after evening band practice, and we heard that song for the very first time.

       If I hear “Never Ending Love For You” by Delaney and Bonnie I am instantly skiing with Cyndi, clicking my poles behind me for a rhythm track, singing to her.

       When I hear “Jesus is Just Alright With Me” by the Doobie Brothers, I remember sitting in my car on a rainy Sunday evening outside of Bellview Baptist Church in Hobbs waiting for the song to end before going inside. It was the coolest song I’d ever heard and the coolest song I could imagine ever hearing containing the name “Jesus.”

       Whenever I hear the opening beats of “Fallen” by Lauren Woods my head snaps around looking for Cyndi who will already be walking toward me with arms outstretched ready to dance. It’s part of our ongoing story. We’re forever linked by that song.

       When I hear “Hit the Road Jack,” by Ray Charles, I remember one weekend when Cyndi was away teaching an aerobics workshop. The kids and I worked up a surprise for her. I would say, “Well, it’s time to hit the road,” and Katie would say, “Jack,” and Byron would say “Don’t you come back no more no more.” They were both preschoolers. We practiced over and over all weekend, and when we picked Cyndi up at the airport and tried it on her, it worked perfectly. We all laughed and laughed we were so proud of ourselves. We repeated that little mantra many times through the years, and I still think of it every time I hear the song.

       I remember the first time I heard “Hey Jude,” I was riding in the backseat of my grandparents’ car on the way to a family reunion at Kirkland Docks on Lake Brownwood. I think of that scene every time I hear the song. I also think how strange it is to link my kind and gentle grandfather, a very conservative small-town Baptist preacher, with The Beatles and “Hey Jude.” He would’ve been shocked at the connection.

       Not all my song stories are ancient. Hearing “Life Less Ordinary” by Carbon Leaf takes me back to 2008, driving north from Ventura on Highway 101, enjoying the sunshine and relaxed freedom of the road, thinking once again of the extraordinary future I dream of with Cyndi. I can’t help but smile.

       I could go on and on to the point of boredom listing songs linked to stories of my life, and perhaps I already have. I’m not sure the ones I mentioned are even the most important ones; they are just the first few I thought of right away. And I wonder if I would even remember those stories at all if I never heard the songs again. I can learn to enjoy new songs, but I would hate to lose my stories.

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

An EV Adventure

       Cyndi and I have traveled more than usual this past spring, including two international trips. I thought we were done for the year until Cyndi signed up for an Anatomy Trains Myofascial Workshop in Walpole, Maine, in mid-August. Of course, I came along to hang out with her.

       Whenever I go to a workshop with Cyndi, it means she’s in class all day while I entertain myself. I’m happy being with that arrangement. I take my backpack stuffed with books, journal, articles to be read, and catch up on personal projects, Cyndi learns new ways to help people, and we’re someplace new, together. What could be better?

       We flew to Portland International Jetport Wednesday morning by way of Austin and Chicago with only a few hour-long delays. When we finally got to the rental car counter, they were out of cars, even though we had reservations. The line to get one was excruciatingly slow since they had to wait until another car was returned before they could take the next customer.

       The young man behind the counter offered anyone who would take an EV (Electric Vehicle) a half-price discount. Cyndi and I talked it over each time he made the offer, turning him down twice, until we finally ran out of patience and took him up on it. They gave us a white Chevrolet Bolt.

       Thursday morning, we left our Airbnb in Wiscasset and drove to the Anatomy Trains Workshop in Walpole, about half an hour. It was beautiful, especially for two desert dwellers like us. We drove past ocean inlets and down deeply wooded roads.

       I came back to the house in Wiscasset for a Zoom meeting which lasted two hours. After that, I needed to go somewhere, anywhere, else, so I loaded my backpack and went to a nearby McDonald’s (described on the city map as an iconic fast food hamburger restaurant). It turned out to be a fine location for some reading and editing a mentoring course I’ve been working on. Then back to the Anatomy Trains studio to get Cyndi.

       She was excited about her day, and all she’d learned. Her notes had my name written in the margins, meaning she’d heard how to help even me. We discussed it all over haddock cakes and roasted lobster at the Water Street Restaurant in Wiscasset. It was very good, but I have yet to be blown away by lobster. Even here, in Maine. Maybe if they added green chilies?

       Friday morning we again left for the workshop, stopping to buy supplies at Hannaford’s Grocery in Damariscotta, then to the Anatomy Trains studio. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, Cyndi discovered she didn’t have her books for class, so I drove back to our house, scooped them up, then raced back. I handed them off about 9:20 to another workshop attendee who was coming down the stairs as I walked in.

       “Here, these are for Cyndi.”

       “I’m sorry. I don’t know which one she is.”

       “She’s beautiful with stunning, curly gray hair.”

       The young woman went inside and handed the books directly to Cyndi. Well done.

       After watching a YouTube video about vehicle recharging, I drove back to Damariscotta to the Rising Tide Coop for my first attempt. One thing I noticed right away: this charging station was not a fast one. I plugged in and sat in the car, reading, for about an hour.

       Saturday morning, we packed up our stuff and loaded the car. The check-out time for our Airbnb was 10:00 am, which seemed a bit early. Our plan was to drive back to Portland that evening after the workshop to spend the night with Jeff and Robin Darr on their sailboat.

       I decided to find a fast DC Charge Station in one of the larger towns west and south of Wiscasset but had no real success. Several stations advertised as fast charging, weren’t. And most of those were already in use. I finally found an empty station at a hospital, and later another one near the headquarters for L. L. Bean, in Freeport. I was barely keeping up. Finally, defeated, I drove back to Damariscotta and charged up a little more at the Coop. All my efforts of the day were wasted. I burned as many kilowatts driving around searching as I put in.

       Now, I was concerned. I didn’t want to ruin the evening for Cyndi, but I knew we wouldn’t make it all the way to the South Portland Marina without stopping to charge at least once, if not twice.

       As we drove toward Portland, Cyndi located an EZgo charging station, and she called the main office to ask if it was a fast charger. They assured her that it was, even when she asked in her strongest elementary school teaching voice. And this time, they were correct. In only 45 minutes we had enough charge to get to the marina that evening and the airport the next morning.

       I was worn out, emotionally exhausted, from worrying all day and making little or no progress. To settle my mind while driving I made a mental list from the day:

       First, when all was said and done, I enjoyed driving the car. I would happily drive an electric car all the time, based on the driving experience. I knew I’d figure out all the charging problems with a little more experience.

       Second, we had two things working against us. We were in a rental car that we weren’t familiar with, and it was our first time dealing with charging, so we had no idea how long it would take to charge or where to find fast charging stations. And we were in rural Maine, which means we had few choices for charging.

       Third, I finally talked myself down from thinking I’d wasted time sitting in the car for hours while it charged. In fact, I was working on the same projects I’d’ve worked on we been driving a gasoline car. The only difference – I would have been sitting in McDonalds, an iconic restaurant, instead of the front seat of our car (which was probably the healthier choice).

       Fourth and final … I don’t enjoy a just-in-time life. I like having reserves - whether money, or time, or electricity. I am a planner, and I enjoy following my own plans. I do better in life when I know where the edges are, the risks, and the worst-case scenario. Once I figure that out, I’m comfortable improvising. But with this EV I was never comfortable. I didn’t know how much reserve I had. I didn’t know what to do I if ran completely out of charge on some bridge on the Interstate.

       Well, it all turned out great. We made it to South Portland in time to have dinner with Jeff and Robin, then spent the night on their boat. It was fun, and we had a great time learning about sailboats. Cyndi wanted to go sailing with them so bad she was vibrating.

       I was afraid my concerns might dampen the joy Cyndi was having, and I didn’t want that. I don’t need, nor expect everything to work out according to my plans, but it was my job to look at the practical side of charging the car. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t important, or we would end up stranded beside the road in rural Maine with few ideas what to do next.

       Sunday morning we flew from Portland to Baltimore, then to Dallas, and then to Midland. We finally got home about 11:00 pm. In spite of my worrying and all that, Cyndi had a great workshop. Each day she came out excited and full of ideas. Check the online schedules for Cyndi’s yoga studio and attend one of her Myofascial Release classes. She’ll make your life better.

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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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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, learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at berrysimpson.com.

100th Anniversary

       I received a letter recently from Stan Blevins, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Ackerly, Texas, and Lynda Perry, Chair of the Anniversary Committee. It was an invitation to join their celebration of the 100th anniversary of the church. Both church and town were founded in 1923.

       They invited me to come to the celebration because my grandfather, Reverend J. Roy Haynes, was pastor of the church from 1950 to 1956.

       My mother (Lenelle), and her brother (James) and sister (Jeanine) grew up in Ackerly during those years. I’d never even visited there more than four or five times, but I suppose because so many people who were part of my past would be there, it felt a little like I was going back home.

        I do have one legendary story from Ackerly, one that I heard repeatedly growing up. One year, during those early 1950s, Brother Haynes contacted Howard Payne College, asking “if they had a preacher boy and a singer who could come to Ackerly to hold a revival.” I don’t know the name of the preacher, but the singer Howard Payne sent was my father, Deane Simpson.

       During the revival, Deane fell in love with the young lady playing piano, Lenelle Haynes, the pastor’s daughter, and my mother.

       Because of that story I knew I had to attend the celebration. Music and revivals and church are a deep root in our family, one that needs to be fertilized as often as possible.

       I was teaching Sunday School that morning in Midland so I knew I wouldn’t make it to Ackerly in time for the worship service, but I could make lunch. After joining the food line, then filling my plate – the food was catered by Danny’s Hens and Fins – I found a round table with an empty seat. I sat and introduced myself and immediately learned the woman beside me went to high school with my mother. She leaned over and said, “Your grandfather, Brother Haynes, baptized me.” It was a statement I heard at least a dozen times during my visit.

       The man sitting beside her leaned across the table and said, “Your grandmother grabbed me by the arm one Sunday morning, along with my best friend, and pulled us both down to the front of the church, and said, ‘It’s time you boys made a decision.’”

       Another woman walked all the way across the room, her eyes fixed on me in determination. When she got close, I stood up to introduce myself. But before I had the chance, she asked, “Are you that Haynes boy?”

       I apparently hesitated longer than expected because she asked the question again, “Are you that Haynes boy?”

       “I suppose I am. Although my name has never included Haynes, and no one has considered me a boy in fifty years.”

       “I know your name isn’t Haynes. But that’s where you come from. I can see it in your eyes. You’re Lenelle’s boy.”

       She was smiling the entire time.

       To be honest, I was surprised how many people talked about my grandfather. He was only one of forty-three pastors the church had had since its founding in August 1923. He served for six years, from April 1950 to September 1956, but it felt like he’d been there dozens of years based on the number of stories and memories I heard.

       Two different people repeated the family story to me – the one about how my parents met during a revival. It made me happy. I’ve told that story so many times it was affirming to hear it from outsiders, proving it’s more than family legend.

       As I drove back home, I was reminded of a Bible verse that motivates everything I do: From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked. (Luke 12:48, NIV) The First Baptist Church Ackerly 100th Anniversary Celebration reminded me of how much I have been given, and how much I still have to give back. I’ve been blessed with deep roots.

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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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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, learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at berrysimpson.com.

Life is Beautiful

       Cyndi and I married on July 28, 1979, so this summer is our 44th anniversary. A few years ago I realized one way to celebrate was to spread love around, give love away. We feel fortunate and blessed to have each other, and we want to share that with people close to us.

       Falling in love often feels like an accident, but staying in love is a learned response, maybe even a spiritual practice. Staying in love is an act of will, intentional and specific. We all must find our own methods and practices to keep love fresh and alive.

       One of my practices is listening to love songs. I’m drawn to love songs on the assumption that they were all written about Cyndi and me. I don’t always agree with every lyric, or even the motivation of the composer or performer; I just want to enjoy the song and appreciate the fact they wrote it just for us.

       Music is a deep root for Cyndi and me. We first met in a high school band hall in 1973 in Hobbs, NM; we rediscovered each other and started falling in love at a NTSU One O’clock Jazz Band concert featuring Bill Watrous, in Denton, TX, in 1976. We’ve been playing music together ever since. It’s impossible for us to separate love from music.

       The Bible says we have eternity in our hearts. I believe that refers to our capacity and longing for transcendence; our need to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Surely music is part of that … as if God said, "Here take this, you’ll like it, it’s some of my best stuff.”

        A few years ago (2007 to be exact) I started collecting love songs into playlists and giving them away. This is my 17th list. Initially I made CDs and gave them away. But starting in 2020 I just created playlists. Mostly because, it was pointed out to me, few people have CD players anymore. (I can and will burn a physical CD for anyone who wants one.)

       To find my playlists (I have them all, back to 2007), follow this link to Spotify, or this link to my webpage. It will make me happy if you listen to them and let me know which are your favorites.

       I’d love to have your suggestions and recommendations for next year’s list. My ears are always open for love songs.

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Can't Get Enough of You Baby, Smash Mouth, 1999 … That’s correct, I can't get enough of you.

Lovely Day, Bill Withers, 1977 … Just one look at you and I know it's gonna be a lovely day.

Almost Like Being in Love, Diana Krall, 2020 … There's a smile on my face, for the whole human race. Why it's almost like being in love.

Getting Started, Jason Mraz, 2023 … Sometimes good things still come late. Yeah, the future hasn't happened yet. I'm still unfolding every day. I cannot wait to get this started … Even after 44 years.

Perfect, Ed Sheeran, 2017 … We were just kids when we fell in love, not knowing what it was. I found a woman, stronger than anyone I know.

All This Goodness, Kyle Andrews, 2014 … I'm getting big ideas. We can spell them out. No clue where they lead. But it all starts with you

It's Always You, Amos Lee, 2022 … Each time I fall in love, it's always you.

Beyond, Leon Bridges, 2018 … She might just be my everything and beyond.

Taking You With Me, Daniel Tashian, Mindy Smith, 2011 … Wherever I go, I'm taking you with me. Wherever I go, You're coming along.

Love You Is Sweeter Than Ever, Susan Tedeschi, 2005 … Loving you has made my life sweeter than ever before.

Life is Beautiful, Keb' Mo', 2006 … And a song that lasts forever; each song getting better all the time. Life is beautiful, life is wondrous.

Endlessly, Green River Ordinance, 2016 … She’s the days I can't get over, she’s the nights that I call home. I love that girl.

Consequence of Love, Gregory Porter, 2016 … I will fight for the right to be your love.

You and I, Johnnyswim, 2014 … It’s always you and I, at the center of my world.

Come Dance, Kat Wright, 2016 … Come dance with me. Doesn't matter if you can't. Doesn't matter if you're shy. Doesn't matter if you're scared. Just give me a try … One of the biggest surprises of my adult life is that, because of Cyndi, I enjoy dancing. And Cyndi always wants to dance with me in spite of the fact I can’t dance without counting beats, or because it scares me.

You're Sensational, Ron Boustead, 2013 … My need of you is much more than romance. I want to be with you.

Love Someone, Brett Eldgredge, 2017 … You're everywhere I wanna go, everywhere I wanna be, and everywhere I've ever been. Everything I'll ever need is sitting right here next to me.

The One Thing, Gabe Dixon, 2016 … One thing I did right … Well, if I got one thing right, I got a big one.

My Girl, Dave Barnes, 2010 … Talkin' 'bout my girl … This song simply makes me smile.

I Don't Want To Miss A Thing, Postmodern Jukebox, Sara Niemietz, 2019 … I don't wanna miss a thing … Exactly. I want it all.

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

“Never pass up an opportunity to build mental toughness.”

       This was a comment made to Lisa Thompson by one of her climbing partners as they were preparing to practice crossing a ladder across a crevasse with crampons strapped to their boots. They were at Mt. Everest base camp preparing to summit. She wrote about this and her other summits in her book, Finding Elevation.

       The quote reminded me of a recent bike ride. I rode 24 miles, my regular Fasken route, and it was an uncharacteristically cool 79* (it was our summer “cool front”, bookended by multiple weeks >100*)

       My ride was going OK, but I was feeling stiff and tired as I rode around the northern part of Green Tree. I considered skipping the Fasken loop and simply heading back. Even as I approached the point of decision, where Sequoia Dr. heads south from Green Tree Blvd. If I went straight west, I was committing to doing the full Fasken loop. While there were several short-cut options around Fasken, I knew the odds were, I would ride my regular loop without even thinking about it – if, that is, I crossed Holiday Hill Road. If I turned south on Sequoia, I was committed to a quick ride home.

       In reality the difference between the two routes was only about 4-5 miles. If I were training for some big ride, I would’ve gone the entire way no matter how I felt, but I wasn’t training. This was just a fitness ride. Whether I rode 19 or 24 made very little difference. At least those were my thoughts as I got nearer to the point of decision.

       Why is it so easy to talk ourselves down? Why do persuasive reasons to take the easy way fill our mind so quickly?

       But when I got to the intersection of Sequoia and GTB, I kept riding west. Just like that. Without thinking. For all my calculating and analyzing, the decision to ride west to Fasken rather than turn left on Sequoia took a fraction of a second. In fact, there wasn’t much of a decision. I simply didn’t turn left.

       For all my fretting and mental arguing, those moments of decisions are usually brief. The blink of an eye.

       I’m fully aware this was a small-scale decision made on a moderate-length bike ride with minimal results at stake. I’m not telling this story to point out what a hero I am, but to confess how easily I could’ve decided to give up.

       How we live our blink-of-the-eye moments is how we live our lives.

       Well, my ride was better the rest of the way, the rest of the morning. I felt better, rode better, and enjoyed myself. The weary stiffness from before vanished. Maybe because I was proud of my decision. I realized the effect of continuing was more than the extra 4-5 miles. It was mental training.

       So when I saw the quote in Lisa Thompson’s book, “Never pass up an opportunity to build mental toughness,” I knew that was the point. This time I had chosen mental toughness over relaxing on my way back home.

       Not giving up is a powerful feeling that can last a long time. Maybe I should tape a message on my handled bars, choose mental toughness, where I’ll constantly see it. Maybe I should include a checkbox in my run/bike logs for mentally tough choices.

       I must add, choosing mental toughness doesn’t always work out well. Sometimes it results in a long, hard, bad day.

       But not this time. I was proud of my tiny achievement.

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       How about you? When did you last choose mental toughness (no matter how small)? I’d love to know your story.

 *  *  *  *  *

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

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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, learn about my books, or subscribe to this free blog, at berrysimpson.com.