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

I’ve watched this scene so many times and I always thought it sad he had to destroy everything. For most of us, our most cherished possessions are the photos and stories of our life.

What Jason Bourne was doing, is the opposite of how I want to live. I want to leave lots of traces. I want to leave lots of evidence. I want to use the stories of my life to tell God what has given me.

Back in December 2003 Paul Byrom asked if I’d be part of a new men’s ministry he was pulling together at our church. I said I would gladly be part of it but I didn’t think I should teach it, or lead it, since everything I was doing at the time I was the teacher. I worried that I was teaching too much and listening too little.

Another reason I was reluctant to lead a men’s ministry was because I never considered myself a man’s man. I was not an athlete, didn’t play golf, only followed sports sporadically, would rather be by myself reading or writing than hanging with the men spitting and whittling, didn’t hunt or even own a gun, rarely went fishing, had never been to drag races, and was totally indifferent about NASCAR.

But when Paul told me they were going to start by going through the Wild at Heart materials I knew I was full in. I think Paul knew it, too. My wife, Cyndi, had already tipped him off during one of their early morning runs.

What happened next is summed up by this quote from Mark Batterson’s book, Wild Goose Chase: “Nothing is more unnerving or disorienting than passionately pursuing God. He will take you places you never could have imagined going by paths you never knew existed.”

This past Tuesday evening we celebrated ten years of that same men’s ministry, which is now known as Iron Men. It has grown into a band of like-minded men dedicated to helping each other live solid, godly lives as leaders, husbands, and fathers.

I consider any man who has been to one of my Wild at Heart classes, or a Relationship Lab, or for any other reason has landed on my email list, to be an Iron Man. If you stand next to me in line at Whataburger you might end up on my list. Why? Because I want all the men who come close to come in closer. I know that if we all move further up and further in together, we will be better men with deeper character. I know we all need each other more than we know, and certainly more that we are willing to admit.

The relationships I’ve formed during those ten years have been the most significant influence in my spiritual formation. I did not expect that, back in 2003.

The name of our group comes from Proverbs 27:17 that says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” But sharpening each other isn’t all we do. We also smooth each other. We’re like old wooden-handled tools that show the wear of constant use, the smoothed portions worn smooth by the hands that used them. Our constant contact with each other wears away the rough spots leaving us with the pattern of our fellow valiant men. The older I get the more I look forward to being worn smooth by these men.

And we don’t just study books together. We do a lot of hiking in the nearby Guadalupe Mountains, at least two big trips each year. Why” Because men make friends outside, especially when they’re doing something difficult together. One morning, on the strenuous opening mile of switchbacks of the Guadalupe Peak Trail, I mentioned to my friend Paul Ross “Surely there is an easier way to do ministry.”

Well, there might be, but I doubt easier is the same thing as better. I don’t know any other way to duplicate the time I get to spend with my guys; the extended conversations along the trail are my favorite part of the trip.

I’m often surprised that the guys want to go up the same trail again – same mountain, same hike, year after year. But of course, we don’t really do it for the actual hiking; we do it for the time together on the trail. As William Blake wrote, “Great things are done when men and mountains meet; this is not done by jostling in the street.”

So many times we’ve come down off the trail, collapsed into our seats on the bus, changed into comfortable shoes, gulped water, scarfed down Advil, and immediately started telling stories from the day and congratulating each other. It makes me happy. My heart swells and my brain settles, proud to be one of us. The world is full of men who live their entire lives with no real friends who will hike to the top of the mountains with them, yet I have a bus full of guys like that.

It reminds me of a Bible story about a young man named Saul who lived a small life tending the family flocks until God called him out to be the first king of Israel. I Samuel 10:26 says, “Saul went to his house in Gibeah, accompanied by valiant men whose hearts God had touched.” Before he became the king, Saul was all alone. But afterward, he was surrounded by valiant men. Coming off the mountain, I realized I was like Saul, surrounded by valiant men whose hearts God had touched.

Rick Warren once said, “We overestimate what we can do in one year and underestimate what we can do in ten.”

Ten years ago God gave me a gift I didn’t request or expect, or even understand. He gave me the Iron Men, and they are the finest men I have ever known.

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

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I find it comforting that I don’t have to learn everything on my own; I can look it up. I can research anything. And with my smart phone, I can look it up right now. No waiting, fewer unknowns, and less guessing. It’s a great time to be alive.

Of course, looking up the singer of a certain pop song from the 1970s, or the origination of a physics quote, or even the meaning of cliché, is more fun and games than researching serious life work. Understanding how to live life is a harder search.

This week I have been reminded once again how many important things I didn’t have to learn from scratch. Like whether to go to church, or read the Bible, or pour my life into God’s work. I didn’t have to figure out the answers to all of that because I had living examples in my mom and dad.

I am writing about this because my mother passed away this week, about 2:30 AM Wednesday morning, after suffering from Alzheimer’s for the past four years. In the past few weeks she began to fade quickly until she finally just dwindled away. It was time.

Almost immediately I thought of this verse from Jeremiah 6:16, “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk it in it, and you will find rest for your souls.”

I like this verse because it paints a picture of someone searching for a better life. And the search centers on “the ancient paths,” which for me, represents family. I didn’t have to bushwhack my way learning the best way to live, it was lived out before me by two faithful followers of Christ – my mom and dad. And beyond them, my grandparents and aunts and uncles. I have a mental image of my family tree filled with row after row of people, all of them walking with God and preparing the path for me. It gives me confidence. Cyndi and I are not in this life alone, we have a long history behind us.

Another phrase I like from the verse in Jeremiah says, “Stand at the crossroads and look.” God is calling for a pause in the action, asking us to stop in our relentless pursuit of the future, to stop and ponder our way. God is telling us to stop at the crossroads, at the obvious point of decision.

It requires action on our part to follow Jeremiah 6:16. We have to stop moving. We also have to look and ask “where the good way is.”

Not all ancient paths are good ones. We don’t have to hear very many old stories before learning to be choosy about following someone’s footsteps. We discover which roads not to take and which mistakes not to make.

But by looking and asking, we also learn the wisdom of consistency. Many of those ancient paths became paths because they were tried and found to be true. Those are the paths we should remember and follow.

The final expectation from Jeremiah 6:16 is to “walk in it.” It isn’t enough to identify the best path to follow; we have to commit to it. We have to act on the knowledge, we have to walk.

I hope to spend the rest of my life walking the path forward – learning new writers, new teachers, new language, new skills – and at the same time, facing back into the past – remembering the old writers, old teachers, old languages, and old skills.

I have a head start on that path. I was raised by two people who tried to do the right thing, following God every day. And because they did, I can enjoy my own walk with God today. Maybe I would have found Jesus on my own had I not been raised by this powerful family, but I’m glad I didn’t have to do it that way.

And so I promise – I commit – to sharing the ancient paths I’ve learned, to passing along the good ways, and more importantly, to living my own life for God, quietly and dependably, doing the right things, for the sake of my own children and grandchildren. I can do no less. I owe it to my mom.

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

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The first book I remember reading all by myself was the classic, Go Dog Go, by P. D. Eastman. I wish I still had my copy of the book, but it disappeared in some garage sale after I finished reading it.

Recently, when our daughter, Katie, and her family, were visiting, I told my first-book story. Katie smiled and pulled out a new copy of that very same book, Go Dog Go, belonging to my granddaughter, Madden. It made me happy.

I have always been a reader.

During my elementary school years I used to sign up for the summer reading program at the Winkler County Public Library. My mom let me walk from the church, where she was working as part-time secretary, to the library. I would load up on books, carry them back, and read them lying on the floor of her office while she worked on Sunday School attendance records and the weekly church bulletin.

I learned about Civil War battles, WWII aircraft, the Alamo and San Jacinto and how to be a Texan, Boy Scout merit badge skills, and how to build my own rockets and make my own rocket fuel. Cyndi was surprised a library let boys check out books about building homemade rockets, but it was the 1960s. Apparently it was considered safe back then.)

Once, in the 5th grade, I checked a book from the school library titled Man of War, naturally assuming it was about giant British warships from the 17th and 18th centuries. I was so disappointed  when I started reading a book about a race horse. Who wants to read about horses?

I read so many books about war my teacher told me to pick something else. She was afraid I would turn violent. But she did me a favor. I moved to another section in the library and discovered books about spies and espionage. Perfect.

The first time I spent my own money on a book was to buy paperback copies of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, for $1.25 apiece. I still have them on my shelf.

When I was a student at the University of Oklahoma I discovered the Baptist Student Union bookstore, and many of the books I bought and read shaped the rest of my life.

As an adult, the first non-text-book I asked for was American Caesar, about General Douglas MacArthur, by William Manchester. Cyndi gave it to me our first Christmas as a married couple.

Unfortunately, my early adult reading practice was sporadic and weak for too long. That is, until I heard a motivational talk by Jim Rohn encouraging me to be intentional and systematic about learning and growing and living. He told me to keep a list of the books I’ve read. Following his advice, I started my list in 1986.

Not long ago I rediscovered a book by Lynne Sharon Schwartz titled Ruined by Reading. She wrote, “Reading was the stable backdrop against which my life was played.”

That is certainly true for me. I am defined by years of reading. If you hear me say something clever, or read some brilliant piece of my writing, know that it comes from my lifetime of reading.

I love having books around me, especially if they’re books I’ve read. Sometimes I wonder if my drive to write comes from the desire to do my part to add to the books on the shelves.

Well, you can tell a lot about people by the practices they maintain throughout their life. To know me, you have to understand my life with Cyndi. But I’ve been a runner even longer than I’ve been married. And I’ve been a musician longer than I’ve been running. And I’ve been a dedicated reader longer than all those, longer than anything but eating and sleeping.

How about you? What is the longest thread running through your life? What is your deepest practice?

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

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Cyndi and I met our daughter Katie in Abilene last Saturday, where Katie handed off her own two daughters, Madden (age 4.3) and Landry (age 0.9), and 300 pounds of baby gear, so the girls could spend a week with their Gran and Pops. And honestly, it’s taken all week to remember how we used to leverage little kids into our full lives.

Of course, Cyndi spent the most time with the girls. She took them to play with Pattie’s two grandsons, took them to swimming lessons, to the Children’s Museum, to the water park in Andrews, and everywhere else. I’m sure she has more stories and insights than me, but she’ll have to write her own blog.

I had the girls to myself each evening while Cyndi taught her classes. It went like this …

“Look girls, Grand made us Neelix Rolls, a family favorite” “Pops, can I have another one?” “What would our mom say?” “Well, what do YOU say?” “Sure. Here you go.”

“Pops, do you know how to skip?” “Not anymore.”

“Pops, can you read this book to me?” while holding a copy of Confessions, by St. Augustine. “Sure, Madden, come back in twenty years.”

“Here is another sticker for your shirt. It’s a sparkle star.” “It looks great on my black polo.”

“Cyndi, do you think it would be OK if I took the girls on a bike ride if they sit in the trailer?” “No, Landry is too small; she’ll tumble over on her head.”

“Pops, will you fix my hair?” as we walked into church. And then  when it became clear I had no idea how to do it, “Call Gran on your phone so she can come fix my hair.”

“Hey Pops, what does a Monarch Butterfly say?” “African or European?”

“Do you have Hello Kitty on your phone?” “Not since Gran made me take it off.”

“When will this race ever be done, Pops?”  while sitting my lap watching the Tour de France. “In three weeks.” “That’s too long.”

At Chic-fil-A … “Hey Madden, are you big enough get me a refill?” “Yes.” “Do you know where to go?” “To the counter.” “Do you know what I want?” “Diet Coke.” “Good girl.”

Some of my deepest spiritual roots come from the summers I spent with my grandparents. They invested their lives and faith in me, and I benefit from that still, fifty years later.

Spending a week with Madden and Landry is a call to action. I’m already looking forward to next time.

 
“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32
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The nurse asked if I had a Medical Power of Attorney from my dad, and I nodded my head.

“In fact, I’m using it. We’ve already started selling his stuff.”

She couldn’t stop laughing, even though we were in the emergency room, and even though my dad was lying between us on a stretcher with various hospital machines attached to him. He had been cracking jokes at the expense of the nurse since arriving and I just added to the mix.

I give my dad full credit for showing me how to find the joke in any situation, to be funny without hurting other people, and to let the other guys get the punch lines and the big laugh. It’s one of the most important things he gave me.

Dad came home from the hospital that very same day with a diagnosis for vertigo. One of his best friends says, “We’ve all had that one. It’s really a diagnosis of being old.” Everyone has a joke.

In all our years together, I don’t know if my dad gave much thought to passing along the good things he learned. What I mean is, I’m sure it was important to him, but he’s not from a generation or personality as introspective as mine, so it wasn’t something he talked about.

Me, I think about it all the time. I seldom have a thought that doesn’t run home to the idea of how do I share what I’ve learned. How do I speak to the hearts of the young couples, and the young men, God has placed in front of me? How do I give away, in the 21^st century, what was invested in me in the 1970s?

The Apostle Paul was concerned about the same thing when he wrote to his young protégé, Timothy: “What you heard from me, keep as the pattern of sound teaching, with faith and love in Christ Jesus. Guard the good deposit that was entrusted to you – guard it with the help of the Holy Spirit who lives in us.” (2 Timothy 1:13-14)

In the margin of my Daily Bible I have a succession of notes scribbled on different years that show my growing relationship with these verses:

(1998) “It’s scary to say: Do what I do.”

(2001) “The longer I teach, the more comfortable I am to say this (do what I do).”

(2005) “In fact, this has become the heart of my ministry as a teacher and writer.”

(2011) “I should not teach anything unless I believe this.”

(2013) “Teaching isn’t about providing information, but about sharing life.”

There is a progressive deepening of ownership on this. First, we hear something. Then, because what we heard is important, we decide to keep it. At some point, keeping it isn’t enough, but we need to guard it, and make sure to follow it. Finally, once we realize the information came to us not because we were lucky or fortunate, but because it was entrusted to us, we are obligated to give it away.

Back in 2008 I took my dad hiking on Guadalupe Peak in celebration of his 80^th birthday. It was not an easy day. The National Park Service website describes this trail as strenuous, and very steep, with exposed cliff edges.

But we had a great time. The day was clear and sunny and never hot – a perfect day for hiking in Texas. We had fun on the trail, telling jokes and wisecracks.

It took us about two hours to hike up to Lookout Point. My first goal of the day was to get past this point so Dad could experience the tall pine trees and oaks and junipers. I wanted him to know there was more to this hike than the harsh rocky switchbacks you see from the parking lot.

We hiked another one-and-a-half hours before stopping for lunch, just around the bend from the wooden bridge. Dad said, “This is it for me today. I think we should go back down.”

I said, “You’re right. It would be the wise thing to do.”

“I’m having a great day, and I would love to make it to the top and phone my friends from the summit, but I don’t want to be foolish about this.”

Even though I was the trail guide that day, my dad was still teaching me. You don’t have to fight all the way to the end to have a good day.

There are so many things I give my Dad credit for – things that have turned out to be fundamental characteristics of my life.

Besides humor, there was music. My Dad was a church worship leader (back then we called them choir directors, later music ministers) as far back as I can remember. Not only did I learn to love and play church music, but I also learned from his example that music was something men could do. It was a manly activity, as much as hunting or carpentry. I don’t know if I would’ve picked that up from anyone else.

Another thing I learned from my Dad was that being a consistent man of faith for an entire lifetime is a noble, worthy, and courageous way to live.

Back in my university days, in the late 1970s, I remember hearing one of my spiritual leaders, Chuck Madden, describe how he was mentored by Leroy Eims, of the Navigators. He said they lifted weights together every morning, went running, worked on writing books, and like that. There was no structure or step-by-step plan, just the rubbing off of personality and spiritual depth from constant exposure. That’s how I learned from my dad. He rubbed off on me.

And so, as I work on my next book, exploring how to give away what was invested in me, I ask you to come sit beside me and absorb what God has given me.

It’s hard to say “Follow me” without feeling arrogant, but we have to get over that if we want to change the world. We’re not in positions of influence because we reached some superior level of spirituality, but because God, in His grace, put us there. How dare we waste what God has entrusted to us.

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

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Friday morning I rented a mountain bike from Mellow Velo in downtown Santa Fe, and rode about twelve miles on the Dale Ball Trails.

They were great single-tracks, and as difficult as anything I should ever ride. There were lots of narrow tracks between trees and cactus, rock gardens that required bouncing over or maneuvering around and, of course, steep uphills and downhills.

It was great fun, but I didn’t survive unmarked. I returned with scrapes and bruises on both arms and legs. I have often said, “If you don’t have a scar, you don’t have a story; and if you don’t have a story, you didn’t really leave home.” I tested my own theory on this trip.

The good news: I didn’t have any frightening high-speed crashes. All my falls were slow topples that happened when I was tentative and hesitant. When approaching a hairpin, I’d wait too long to decide whether to dismount and walk around or speed up and try to blast through. In my hesitation I lost velocity and fell over; usually falling downhill with my bike landing on top of me. I was a pathetic sight and I was glad to be alone.

Later, on the easy bike ride back downtown, I realized I had been singing the Fleetwood Mac song, “Over My Head,” all of the morning.

The previous evening I went with Cyndi and Wes and Roni to a yoga class taught by Dean and Rebecca Lerner, two of America’s premier Iyengar instructors. It was advertised as a “mixed level” class, but the mix was all better than me. I brought down the average.

I couldn’t do anything the rest of the class did, because of my limited yoga skill and my tight inflexible body. But I’m used to making adjustments and using props. A couple of times our instructor gave an alternative move for the “stiffer men,” and I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Rebecca Lerner taught the class while Dean walked around helping people. Which means, he spent more time helping me more than anyone else in the room.

Dean was constantly correcting me and adjusting me and bringing me props, which, to be honest, pushed me further out on the vulnerability edge than I was prepared for. Allowing someone to continually correct and adjust me in a public setting where, not only is it happening in front of other people who are much more skilled, but is happening to almost no one else, without me getting embarrassed or frustrated or angry, is a big change for me. No one likes to feel like a beginner in front of the cool kids. I don’t actually mind if my skill levels aren’t up to everyone else’s, because that is a function of more practice, but I quickly bow up if I think someone is patronizing me.

However, I never felt that way when Dean was helping me. I was happy every time he fixed my pose. It never felt like a put-down, but rather like, “Here, you’ll like it better this way.”

However, I was happiest whenever he walked past me to work on someone else. At least I wasn’t the only one who needed help.

While were in Santa Fe I listened to a Ted Talk by Sarah Lewis titled Embrace the Near Win, and she said, “We thrive when we stay at our own leading edge.” Of course, I wouldn’t classify either yoga or mountain biking as my leading edges. It would be more accurate to call them my vulnerability edges. Both are way out beyond the point where I know what I’m doing

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. Brene Brown wrote, “If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.” (The Gift of Imperfection)

We have the greatest opportunity to change the world when we are willing to be open and vulnerable. Like Peter walking on water to Jesus, willing to fail in front of his peers.

But there is also this. While I intend to embrace vulnerability, I hope to improve as a yogi and as a mountain biker. It’s nice to know I have so much room for improvement.

Erwin McManus wrote in The Artisan Soul, “It’s been a wonderful realization after fifty years of life that if we work hard enough, hard work will eventually be mistaken for talent. And if we refuse to give up, perseverance will eventually be mistaken for greatness.”

How about you. Where are you pushing your vulnerability edges?

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

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I have some news to announce as it is nearly my birthday. This may not actually be “news” in the strictest sense of the word since most of you have probably heard this already, but according to my sources, and I’m happy to mention this since I am turning 58, I’ve heard that 58 is the new 57.

That’s right. 57.

That explains why I don’t feel any older than I did a year ago … except that last year I was halfway recovered from a cycling crash that grounded me for 150 days, and I was stiffer and heavier, even though the difference maybe not be obvious to most observers since I seem plenty stiff and heavy this year, too.

But besides all that, I can’t let a birthday go by without some discussion. I believe life brings us certain Evaluation Seasons every year, opportunities to evaluate our current position and ponder our future. One of those is January 1, which begs for New Year’s Goals. Another is September, the beginning of the school year, which has the feel of a new beginning even if we’ve been away from school for decades.

And then, of course, there is your birthday. It is the most personal time for evaluation.

It has been my goal as I’ve gotten older to live bigger, not smaller; more open, less closed; open-minded, not opinionated; active, not sedentary, investing, not hoarding, giving, not taking. It is my intent to NOT become narrow and exclusive. I don’t want to be one of those old men who are stubbornly set in their ways, but rather I want to live expecting and reaching out.

Jon Katz has described one of the dangers of growing older as “spiritual grumpiness: a jaded, irritable, dour view of the world, about change, the young, and the world’s prospects.” (Bedlam Farm Journal, August 13, 2013) It’s easy to become a skeptic and cynic. It makes you sound smart even when you’ve done very little thinking on your own. It’s a sad and unproductive way to live.

In his book, The Well-Played Life, Leonard Sweet wrote, “The older I get, the more complex my theology becomes, but the more simple my faith is.” That describes my journey as well. Although I’m not sure “complex” is the best word to describe my theology. I would use “broader” or even “softer.”

I am a hardliner on way fewer topics than I was ten years ago, and I’m not as afraid to be wrong or uninformed.

Don’t misunderstand me – I’m convinced in what I believe about God and Jesus and Grace and Hope, but I’m no longer afraid to listen to (and maybe learn from)  Atheists, or Buddhists, or dare I say it, Democrats. And I don’t feel compelled to argue with people I disagree with, even in my own head.

I realize I’m not bullet-proof; a well-phrased pitch can certainly lead me astray. And I’m not as smart as I let on. But I’m not afraid of doubt or uncertainty because they only take me in deeper. New insights open my world rather than frighten me. They make me stronger.

The older I get the more I believe and depend on the power of spiritual disciplines, of the “practice of Christianity.” Practices like reading the Bible every day, memorizing verses, teaching and writing, worshiping with my church, praying and meditating. It is the practice itself that has made me who I am today.

I believe grace leaves us a broader and more welcoming path than we can imagine. In that sense my faith gets simpler each year.

As so, as I approach my 58th birthday, the new 57th, which is only 14 Celsius (even less when you consider wind chill), I am searching for my next influences. For clever ideas, new writers, crooked trails, and amazing views. And I’m always begging for suggestions.

Who have you read that I should read? Where have you gone that I should visit? Where have you run, biked, hiked, that I should experience?

Because I’ll be 60 soon, and I need your help more than ever.

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

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I’ll be honest. I’m surprised it’s taking me so long to learn how to trust God. I expected to be better at it by now after fifty-plus years.

Recently, Cyndi and I were in the Dallas area; Cyndi had a workshop and I was hanging out. But she was sick all weekend and didn’t enjoy her classes as much as she should have.

She’d had a headache for a week, and I suppose other symptoms she wouldn’t mention. Neither of us is good at describing our aches and pains to each other, much less our fears or concerns. We are too afraid to sound whiney.

I wonder how many times I get worried about the future (Is there anything else to worry about?) but don’t tell Cyndi, either because I am embarrassed to be scared over such a small thing, or don’t know how to talk about it, or I don’t want to be a complainer. After thirty-five years of marriage I still want to show only my best side to her. We still have much to learn about trusting each other with our fears as much as with our dreams.

Cyndi slept all through each of our morning commutes between Mansfield and Dallas. We went shopping on Saturday after her workshop – she had energy for shopping – but she collapsed once we started driving. She woke up occasionally to remind me of an exit on the freeway, usually about ten minutes after I’d already made the move. Cyndi went straight to bed about 8:00 PM.

Before crashing, Cyndi sent me to Target to buy Pediolite (a mystery to me why it should help with headaches) and Tylenol PM. It was the only time Cyndi budged all night long, to drink and swallow.

The thing is, I always function better with more information, but I didn’t have enough in this situation. When I don’t know what’s going on I tend to assume the worst, and since I had no idea how to help Cyndi, I spent the entire night dreaming about brain tumors and devastating illness and how, sooner or later, one of us would be left alone.

In my dreams I asked myself why Cyndi and I didn’t make more time for each other in our last years. Why didn’t we go to more cool places, not just workshops or seminars or business trips. Places like the Pacific Northwest, or New England, or Europe, or more cruises.

Why didn’t I take Cyndi dancing more often (well, because it hurts my knees … but so does running and hiking and I still do those). In my dreams I went through thing after thing, item after item, all night long, asking myself why I didn’t take our life together more seriously.

When I woke up, much to my surprise, I was singing inside my head. That’s actually not a surprise since I wake up singing in my head almost every morning, but this time I was singing a song we often sing in church, rather than some hang-dog blues riff which is what I would’ve expected after being hounded all night in my dreams. I had tossed and turned over unfounded and fabricated fears all night long, and yet I woke up singing a praise song. How does that work?

As I was brushing my teeth, before getting into the shower, wishing Cyndi would join me in the shower but glad she was still sleeping in bed, about 7:15 AM Sunday morning, I was still singing the song in my head when I realized the song itself was the answer to my long night of fears:

So what can I say,
What can I do,
But offer this heart, O God,
Completely to you.
So I’ll stand
With arms high and heart abandoned
In awe of the one who gave it all
So I’ll stand
My soul, Lord, to you surrendered,
All I am is years.
(The Stand, Hillsong United)

The reason I worried about our future and fretted over our past was because I didn’t trust God with our life together.

I should do this better. My constant prayer for the past two years has been – “Teach me trust you.” So often I stand up in front of people and talk about trusting God, yet I don’t trust him with my own best stuff.

So while brushing my teeth, I prayed, “Lord teach me to trust you. I give you Cyndi, and all she means to me. I give you this time we have together that is so important to me. Teach me to trust you.”

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

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