Last week I was sipping a Chic-fil-A Diet Coke while glancing through the stories in Time Magazine’s May issue – The 100 Most Influential People – looking for sentences exactly like this one about Jeff Bezos of Amazon. It stopped my reading and my sipping.

“Nobody else reinvests almost every cent of profit in growth, as Bezos still does. Amazon is immensely valuable today, and almost all of its value comes from the future.” (Peter Thiel)

I put down my drink, grabbed my highlighter, marked the article, then folded the magazine and put it in my backpack. I had caught a glimpse of how I want to live, how I want to be known, and I needed time to think about it.

Thiel’s description of Bezos is how we should all live. Our value should come from our future, and that only happens if we invest heavily in our own growth.

How do we do that? We must master the gifts God has entrusted to us. We can’t depend entirely on past glory or ancient skills, whether they are writing, teaching, music, engineering, cycling, running, sales, parenting, or whatever. Go to schools, go to workshops, learn the best practices, and adapt them to your own life and ministry.

One Bible verse that means more to me the longer I teach and write is Matthew 13:52. Jesus was speaking to His disciples when He said, “Therefore every teacher of the law who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven is like the owner of a house who brings out of his storeroom new treasures as well as old.” (NIV)

We need new treasures as well as old, new stories as well as old, new lessons to teach as well as old, new skills and habits as well as old, new insights as well as old. We have to learn new things if we want to change the world.

Back when I was in city government I was saddened by how few of my fellow councilmembers took the time to attend state-wide conventions and workshops. How did they plan to learn new things? How could they know if our city was being smart? Did my colleagues think they were already as smart as they ever needed to be? To be honest, I hope I never become that person. I hope I’m never as smart as I need to be. I hope I’m always learning new ideas and concepts, always open to change and ready to grow.

Another part of adding value to our future is laying down our past successes. It’s too easy to coast for years using that great Bible story you worked up ten years ago. So it was a great lesson and it still makes sense – move on and learn a new story. Stop leaning on the one book you published so long ago. Of course it’s still a good book and you still believe everything you wrote, but talk about what you’re learning today. Stop playing that same tired guitar solo, and learn something new.

Invest your time and energy in growth. Your value comes from the future. Your best days are ahead of you, not behind you

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

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Every morning last week Cyndi and I woke up to the sound of birds. Loud birds. Our bedroom, if you call it that, had only one wall and the rest was open to the world. We couldn’t help but experience the chorus.

It was obvious even to non-birders like us the overly ambitious bird just outside our “bedroom” was calling, or warning, more of its own species on the next ridge, and they were responding in kind.

They didn’t seem to care about all the other birds calling around them. They knew exactly which voice was the correct on, and were interested only in that.

I sat in my lounge chair writing in my journal while listening to birds and thought about how quickly I can recognize Cyndi’s voice in a crowded room. We’ve invested over 35 years learning each other.

And yet, I have to admit I’m still learning my own voice. Finding that voice is the life struggle for any artist, certainly any writer. I’m always surprised when readers tell me they hear my voice when they read my writing, because I’m never certain. I don’t think we develop or learn a voice from scratch as much as discover and deepen it. But it takes a lot of writing, a lot of copying, a lot of reading, for our true voice to find its way out.

For me, the biggest influences in finding my voice has been teaching and reading.

In teaching I’ve learned how to bring my far-flung abstractions into focus so others can follow what I’m saying. There are moments when I’m teaching in Compass or Iron Men when I realize I said something in my authentic voice, and it’s sobering. I often retreat to the corner after class, seeking quiet and solitude because, I can’t believe what just happened.

As a writer I never witness the active response of my readers, but when teaching I am constantly aware of the responses of listeners. Teaching has made me a better writer, and has helped me find my voice.

And reading certain authors has shaped my writing voice. Calvin Trillin has taught me than anything can be funny. Austin Kleon taught me to let people in on the writing process and not just the finished product. In reading Donald Miller I’ve learned to love my readers and trust what I’ve written matters to their lives. Erwin McManus has encouraged me to stop fretting, sit up straight like a man and be the artist, and to wear my creativity on the outside where it shows.

But none of those have crafted my voice as much as a lifetime of knowing God.

In his book, The Artisan Soul, McManus wrote, “When we hear God’s voice, we finally find our voice. When we find our voice, we discover we finally have something to say, and that when we speak, our words have power.”

If we want our true voice to speak or write words that matter, we have to first hear God’s voice. It’s God that gives us something to say that has lasting value.

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

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What is your heart’s desire? That should be an easy thing to know about yourself, but the desire of your heart is surprisingly elusive.

Tuesday morning I read in my Daily Bible from Psalm 20 … “May He give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.” (20:4, NIV)

Most of us know the right answer – what we think we should desire most – because we learned it in church, but this verse implies something less generic, more specific and personal. The margin of my Bible on the May 6th page has become a timeline of my search for my desire of my own heart.

I wrote this in 1998: “The desire of my heart is to make a difference, to be significant; possibly through politics and government; hopefully on a national level. Yikes! That is the desire of my heart, but it’s scary to commit to ink where I’ll read it every year.”

I’m not surprised I wrote this only four days after winning a campaign for reelection to my City Council seat. It appeared government was my best shot at being a world-changer.

The campaign was hard on me, pushed my introverted personality to the edge and consumed my entire mental RAM. However, I won the election with 86% of the vote, so as it turned out I didn’t have to work so hard, but I took nothing for granted. I was pumped and ready to move on up.

In 2005 I wrote: “Now I’m considering a run for mayor.”

Seven years after that first note, I was getting a lot of encouragement to run for mayor, especially since the incumbent was stepping down. Cyndi and I went on a spiritual retreat at San Angelo specifically to find clarity on this issue, and I heard God telling me to step back from mayor but stay in government. I realized the mayor idea was someone else’s desire for me, not my own.

In 2008, I wrote: “Out of government, working on my book.”

I lost a city-wide election six months before I wrote this, bringing my twelve-year adventure in government to an end. Because I lived the problems and solutions of city government for twelve years, I always wondered how I’d relax once my turn was over. As it turned out God freed me. Almost immediately after my last Council meeting the daily concerns and pressures disappeared completely. It was a shock, actually, that it happened so quickly. It was a gift from God, and confirmation He was still looking out for me. But still, I was confused about where my significance would come from.

My friend Carol Ann recently shared this with me, “There’s a saying in India that a dog walking through a cotton field doesn’t come out wearing a suit of clothes.” It was clear to me, after the election, I had more work to do to understand the desire of my own heart. It wouldn’t just reveal itself because I walked through the field of government.

In 2009 I wrote: “Still my desire to have significant impact on a national scale – maybe through writing or teaching rather than politics.”

In my search for the desires of my heart, I realized the core desire had not changed even if the particulars had. I still wanted to change the world. I just didn’t know how.

In 2011 I wrote: “Two books out, working on third.”

I knew the only way I would learn to write books with significant impact was to keep writing and publishing and perfecting my craft. I had to learn by doing. God was training me for whatever He had next.

In 2013 I wrote: “Learning the true desire of your heart takes time.”

I was finally old enough to understand this. Only fifteen years after I first started writing in the margin.

On the same page of my Daily Bible, about two inches lower, is Psalm 25. “Show me your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths; guide me in your truth and teach me.” In 2013 I wrote in the margin: “This is the desire of my heart.”

And this year, 2014, I wrote: “The desire of my heart is to be this; more importantly, give it away every day.”

My desire, or at least what I can understand of it today, has moved away from those expectations of huge results and toward giving away what I’ve learned. How do I give myself away every day.

I wonder what I’ll write next May 6th?

QUESTION: How about you? What is the desire of your heart? What does it look like from where you are right now?
“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

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One Thursday afternoon in March I drove over to White Rock Lake with the intent to run for two hours. I briefly considered running nine miles around the lake. I had plenty of time available, but I didn’t want to get caught on the far side of the lake and my knees fall apart and no shortcuts back to my car.

We were in Dallas for four days. Cyndi had a training workshop and I came with her so I could hang out around town reading, writing, and running. It worked out great for both of us.

The thing is, I hadn’t run for two hours at one time since the Rockledge Rumble 50K in November 2010. This was March 2014, 40 months later. And my knees were stiff and sore because I was at the end of a six-month Synvisc cycle. I had no business running so far.

But I couldn’t resist.

Since I had five hours until I was scheduled to pick up Cyndi from her workshop I had plenty of time no matter my pace. I knew I could sit for the rest of the day and the next day to recover. And I am always inspired to run at White Rock Lake because of the beauty, because of the other runners around me, and the expectation born from so many epic adventures there.

Which all means, I couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste. I parked my rental car on the hill at the northeast corner of the lake off Mockingbird and changed into my running gear in the front seat. Then headed south with plans to turn around after one hour.

I knew it would be rough and slow. I also knew I would walk stiff-legged for several days afterward. So, why did I do it? Why was it so important?

I don’t know. Except that it was.

Maybe the bigger question is, how did running become a big deal for me? If you’d known me in high school you would never have predicted I’d run for 36 years. How did something like running become a spiritual thin place for me? And why did God put something in my life I’ve never been very good at and probably never will be?

Who knows? Who cares?

I finally settled with the wisdom I don’t need to know God’s total end game for my life. I just have to trust Him, that He has it working, which means I have to keep doing my part.

As I ran alongside the lake through the trees I thought about the other trails I’ve followed. Mostly mountain hiking trails. It wasn’t a random connection since I’ve been meditating and ruminating and journaling a lot lately about trails and rock cairns and trail markers and how they speak to spiritual life, teaching, and mentoring.

It occurred to me I’ve been marking trails, stacking rocks, for a long time.

Whenever I tell the same story again and again, whenever I revisit a place to renew my memories, I’m stacking rocks to mark the trail so I won’t get lost. Whenever I tell the same old stories to Cyndi over and over, the stories about our early days together and how we found each other and how we fell in love, I’m building rock cairns to show the path we took so we won’t forget, and maybe so others can follow.

The running trail around White Rock Lake gets lots of traffic and is easy to follow, but the trails of life are not so simple. We have to work to keep them open.

One of the reasons we all need mentors is because it’s so easy to get lost along the way. And we serve as trail guides for others so we won’t get lost ourselves.

As it turned out, I ran for two hours and fifteen minutes. I was so proud of myself I celebrated with a vanilla milk shake. I can’t wait for my next time on the trail. Maybe next time I’ll be brave enough to run three hours.

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

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It used to bug me that I couldn’t pull an all-nighter training session and run a marathon the next weekend. No, I had to set aside weeks, months, of consistent training. I had to keep working it.

I wanted it to be more like my university days when I passed Economics class with a couple of strategically-timed all-nighters. Of course, just because I passed the class doesn’t mean I remember much about economics. Anything I learned in those all night sessions has frittered away except for “guns and butter” and “no free lunch.”

Why can’t I become a faster longer runner right away, like in the Matrix. Just plug the cable into my neck and upload endurance and speed. And why can’t I become a better cyclist using the same technique.

Why can’t I morph into skinny-yet-strong flatbelly overnight? Why does everything I want to do, at least everything of value, take so long?

Erwin McManus wrote (The Artisan Soul), “For our lives to be a work of art, we need to allow a lifetime of work. We must press close to God. We must be willing to take the time and risk the intimacy required for creating an artisan life.”

If we want to be valuable to God and to the people around us we have to keep putting in the work to improve. George Sheehan wrote, “Training is not like money. You cannot put it in the bank and save it. You have to go out continually and fight again and again for the desired improvement.”

It turns out this is also true about relationships. Even the closest relationships die without constant attention. The most heartfelt “I love you” fades away from memory if it isn’t repeated regularly.

It doesn’t seem fair. Why is life that way? Because humans leak. Just like the tires on my bicycle, which lose air slowly and will be completely flat if I don’t add air each time I ride, we humans leak our hard-earned fitness, we leak our fought-for endurance, we leak knowledge about economics, and we leak the assurance that we are loved. And not only do we leak, but because we live in a fallen and broken world, we are constantly under attack by the voices that tell us to sit down and give up.

But here’s the thing … it is the work itself that changes our lives. It is the long training sessions that change us from couch potato to athlete. It is the deep conversations with those we love that change our heart.

In a couple of weeks I will hike Guadalupe Peak with a busload of Iron Men, and it will be a hard day. The hike is eight miles roundtrip, with a 3,000’ increase in elevation. And since the trailhead is above 5,000,’ we are out of breath just getting off the bus.

I’ve made this hike at least fifteen times, and about halfway up I usually remember that there were early plans to build a tram to the top. So anyone could ride the tram to the highest point in Texas and enjoy the view without having to complete the difficult hike. While I’m hiking and trying to protect my knees and struggling to breathe, the tram proposal seems a pretty good idea. But in fact, if we rode to the top, all we’d get for the day would be the view. We wouldn’t experience the life-changing friendships born of shared struggle, or the strengthened self-image from a hard job well done, and we certainly wouldn’t have any stories to share on the drive home.

Again, from Erwin McManus, “Artists understand that the process of fermentation cannot be rushed or hurried. They know that the products they are committed to creating will not happen if they take short cuts or circumvent the process.” (He was comparing our lives to baking bread.)

The coolest part of this, I no longer see this idea of long-term training requirements as a bad thing. It doesn’t frustrate me (as much). Because I know that if I keep working … working at running and cycling, working to improve my writing, working to be a better supporter and lover to Cyndi Simpson … I will be. For all of us, it means our future can be better and deeper. If we get to work.

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

You can find more of my writing at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Cyndi worked on her closet this week. The reason I know what she did is because she has a pile of clothes in the middle of the floor two feet high and three feet in diameter. And the reason I know about the pile on her closet floor (we have separate closets, one of my three requests when we built this house (the other two requests: no lawn to mow, and a library)) is because walking through her closet is the most direct route to the laundry room and I had to negotiate my way around the pile without dropping a basket full of clothes and adding to her pile.

Thinning the volume of clothes in your closet is not a simple task. As for me, I convince myself I’ll wear it or use it someday, and before I realize what’s happened its two years later and nothing has changed. Except now I’ve accumulated two more years of stuff.

Cleaning, like Cyndi was doing, with the intent to discard, is one of those projects that’s hard to start but gains momentum. As you proceed, as the pile grows, the air gets cleaner and your spirit gets lighter. It’s liberating, whether clothes from the closet or trinkets from a desk drawer or old Christmas decorations or even unfinished projects form the garage.

And so, as I contemplated a Cyndi-like exercise of my own, I listened to a podcast that spoke to my piles of stuff, an interview with British author Penelope Lively, from NPR Fresh Air. Ms. Lively is 81 years old, and she recently published a memoir titled Dancing Fish and Ammonites, which she describes as “the view from old age.” She wrote that she’s no longer acquisitive, but now tries to reduce her possessions. She doesn’t want more stuff.

The interviewer, Terry Gross, asked Penelope Lively about all the books she owns and what does she do with them. Gross said, in her own house books were stacked everywhere, on tables, on the floor, on couches, and she complained, “It’s way too much.” She wondered what Lively did with her own lifetime accumulation of thousands of books and why she kept them knowing she wouldn’t reread or refer to most of them.

Lively gave a great answer: “They chart my life. They chart everything I’ve been interested in and thought about for the whole of my reading life. They identify me.”

Listening to her describe her relationship with books helped me understand why it is easy to clean out some places but hard to clean others. Some of that clutter defines us, charts the path of our hobbies and activities and interests.

So as I follow Cyndi’s lead and start my own Spring Cleaning project I have another tool for deciding what to keep. Does it say something about me, is it tied to memories, does it have a story, is it part of my timeline? If so, I’ll keep it a bit longer.

I should add, this isn’t just about being neat. While I would say I am neater than average (doesn’t everyone say that?) I don’t live my life straightening up. I have piles everywhere, and I often use my piles as physical to-do lists.

No, my desire to clean out and reduce has more to do with creating margin so we have space for whatever God brings next. I think we often have to make room for the next thing before we learn what the next thing is, and I want to be ready.

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

You can find more of my writing at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

I was reading a story from my Bible. from the book of Ruth, when I noticed s phrase that pushed me straight to my journal. It said, “Don’t embarrass her.”

The story begins with a woman named Naomi who moved with her family to another country, Moab, to escape a famine. They were climate refugees, looking for a better opportunity. They never intended the move to be a permanent reloation; in fact, the story says they went to live “for a while.”

And then, all the men in Naomi’s family died; her husband and both sons. The story went from hope to disaster in two paragraphs. Naomi and her two daughters-in-law were alone in a time and place that offered nothing to single women. All Naomi could do to survive was return to her home and hope for some sort of miracle.

Ruth was one of the daughters-in-law, and she accompanied Naomi. The two women fed themselves by gleaning, the practice of collecting leftover crops from farmers’ fields after the harvest. The farmers left the corners of their fields unharvested as an early form of welfare.

A landowner named Boaz noticed Ruth gleaning in his field, learned her story, and told his men, “Even if she gathers among the sheaves, don’t embarrass her.”

Can’t you imagine Boaz’s men yelling across the field, “The boss said to leave some out for her,” pretending to help but being loud enough everyone knew what they were doing.

But Boaz told them, don’t inhibit her, or scold her, or embarrass her, even if she gathered from among the sheaves (the previously harvested wheat). Leave her alone.

When I read that story I wondered how often I embarrass someone when I’m helping them. How often do I make a big deal out of helping because I don’t want bystanders to think I’m like those poor people?

Probably I don’t do it on purpose; more likely I crack too many jokes to show my superiority. It’s easy to embarrass someone while pretending to be clever.

Bob Goff told us “love doesn’t keep track of how many times it helps. Love stops counting offenses, infractions, and the cool stuff it does.” It says in 1 Corinthians 13:5, “Love does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.” (NIV)

Love helps people. Love keeps its mouth shut. Love doesn’t embarrass.

Love doesn’t brag to the boss at the end of the day, “We let Ruth gather ten baskets.”

Love doesn’t say “I love you so much I turned your closet light ten times this week.”  Love keeps quiet about what it does.

Love doesn’t bellow, “Do you still need money, because I can help.” Love helps quietly.

Love doesn’t keep a balance sheet. Love helps because that’s what love is. Love moves on, forgetting how many times it helped, not expecting a thank-you, and not anticipating a notice or head nod. Love helps because that is what love is. Love does not embarrass.

What a cool story. It starts out in disaster and ends up in grace, because Boaz was generous. Not only with his wheat, but with his acceptance.

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

You can find more of my writing at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson