I have been working through the movie, A Good Year, preparing to use it to teach a short lesson at an upcoming men’s weekend at Bear Trap Ranch, Colorado.

In the movie, Russell Crowe played Max Skinner, an edgy bond trader that got rich taking huge risks with other people’s money. As a result of one of his successful but quasi-legal gambles, Max was suspended for a week. He spent his time at a French vineyard that he’d inherited but wanted to sell.

One day, while taking photos for his realtor, Max fell into an empty swimming pool and couldn’t get out. Not only that, he lost his phone so he couldn’t call for help. At the bottom of the pool he was invisible to passers-by, so his only recourse was to wait for someone to come along and rescue him.

This was a significant turning point in the movie; it was when Max started rethinking his life. Disconnected from the outside world, feeling helpless, he began to reevaluate his success.

Has this happened to you? Have you ever found yourself disconnected, slowed down, forced to wait for rescue, and left to assess your life? What were your own personal pool moments? How did they change you? Did you take advantage of them?

Maybe you’re in the pool right now.

I recently told one of my own pivotal pool moments while teaching Sunday School. Our class has been going through the Gospel of John, and for some reason, totally unplanned on my part, my lessons have been even more personal than usual.

OK, the truth is, I don’t know how to teach the Bible without making it personal. And by that, I mean that I include lots of personal stories. The more years I teach – I first started teaching small groups in college, about 1977, but this particular phase of teaching adults began in 1990 – the more I lean on stories to make a point instead of theology or linguistics.

I’m not sure why I’ve drifted so much toward storytelling, but it makes me happy.

So the lesson from John 4 was about a government official who asked, begged, Jesus to heal his son. And Jesus healed him.

I told a story of a time when I begged Jesus for help, when my son, Byron, was hit by a reckless, speeding driver while riding his bike. It was a Saturday afternoon in September, on Caldera street, Byron was six years old, I was about ten feet behind him riding my own bike, with 3-year-old daughter, Katie, in a bike seat behind me, when it happened.

It was terrifying, and I was powerless to help.

The white Camaro spun around in the road and its rear fender hit Bryon on the left side of his head. Byron spent the weekend in the hospital with a concussion and a giant black eye, worrying about whether he would get a new bike. He loved riding that bike and since he didn’t remember the accident, he was afraid he did something wrong and might not get bicycle.

That afternoon, at the scene of the accident, and later at the hospital, was the first time in my life I prayed to God when I had something to lose. I was begging Jesus for healing.

I’ve believed in Jesus my entire life, I’ve prayed as long as I’ve been lingual, and I believed in the power of prayer, but up until that moment my praying had been mostly about obedience and discipline. On that day, my praying was about fear and helplessness. I was afraid I would lose my little boy.

I should add that Byron is fine nowadays, and has no lasting injuries, or even memories, from that day. But that afternoon changed me.

For the first time, as a husband and father, I had to admit that I could not protect my family on my own. Even if I coached them on safety and even if we did all the right things, some crazy person could still take them away from me. It was a hard blow.

But I became a better dad because of it. Before the accident I was so full of myself and too smart. The accident and the weekend in the hospital disconnected me from all my usual resources and I had to reevaluate my understanding of what it meant to be a good dad.

Looking back, I’ve realized I needed that shock to make room for later growth.

Well, after I told that story on Sunday morning I was surprised how many wanted to tell me their similar stories. It turns out we all had much more in common with the desperate government official from John 4 than we knew.

And so I’ll repeat my questions. What were your pool moments? When were you forced to slow down and reevaluate? How did it change you? Did you take advantage of it? Are you in the pool right now?

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

Find me at http://berrysimpson.com and learn more about my books. Or find me at  http://twitter.com/berrysimpson and at http://www.facebook.com/BerrySimpsonAuthor

Uncharacteristically, I did what someone else told me to do. I didn’t do it right away; I stalled for a couple of years first. Maybe four years.

My ophthalmologist has wanted me to sleep wearing an eye patch. Why? Because since I was six years old I’ve slept with one eye open, and it has a tendency to dry out and get irritated. My doctor felt like wearing a patch over the eye would keep me healthy longer. He’s been recommending this every year for at least four years.

I knew he was right, I knew his advice was correct, and he is a good friend and I trust what he says, but I didn’t want to sleep in an eye patch. It just seemed too bizarre. Too old-mannish. Too much Captain Ron.

But several months ago, in a hugely unpredictable move, while I was at Walgreen’s shopping for first aid materials to treat my cycling wound, I added an eye patch to my kit. And the first time Cyndi left for the weekend, I tried wearing it.

And then, I wore it the second night.

And much to my surprise, those were the best two nights of sleep I’d had in, well, maybe ever. I never realized how much energy I was consuming during the night protecting my eye with my hand or my pillow. I was so used to taking care of it – it’s been this way since I was about six years old – I never realized it was causing me trouble.

So Monday afternoon when I went in for my annual checkup and contact lens renewal, I had my eye patch in my pocket to show him how obedient I’d been. And to tell him he was right. The doctor was pleasantly surprised that I had a patch and gracious about the outcome. He didn’t even say, “I told you so.” In fact, it was as if he was more concerned with helping me than he was about being right all along.

Here’s the thing. I am good at following advice I already agree with. I can follow that sort of advice with no effort, almost without listening. It’s much harder to follow advice from anyone else that isn’t like me. Or maybe I should say anyone that isn’t me.

My eye patch experience caused me to wonder how many other things in my life burn up energy and I don’t even notice because I’ve tolerated it so long it feels second nature? How much advice have I ignored because I’m determined to do things my own way, advice from people I know and respect and like, because I don’t want to admit I occasionally need help.

Sometimes I even force myself into the position of hearing from teachers who have different personalities than I do, just to open up my life. To keep it from becoming too small.

For example, in Iron Men this fall we are reading Bob Goff’s book, Love Does. It is the most nonlinear book I have ever taught. And that is why I picked it. I have all the linear reinforcement I need; I wanted to hear advice from a completely different quarter, a completely different pattern, with a completely different result. I don’t know how much Goff will pull me off my straight-line life, but I’m open to thinking about considering some possible changes.

After all, I’ve been wearing this eye patch, and once you start sleeping like a pirate, who knows what will happen next.

QUESTION: What advice is hard for you to follow?

P.S. Let me just confirm the risk I’m taking by writing about this eye patch episode. The last time I wrote about my eye problems, and my hesitation to follow the doctor’s advice, his office put a copy of my journal in MY OFFICIAL FILE. They showed it to me on my next visit just to remind me they were paying attention and that they had me on the record.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

My journey started last Tuesday when I read this quote from Yvon Chouinard, founder of Patagonia, “The more you know, the less you need.” I was hooked. Because I want to know more and I want to need less.

I’ve written about this before since it is, in fact, the backpacker’s dilemma. Every ounce we carry makes the trip more enjoyable, more comfortable, and safer. And yet every ounce we carry also makes our trip less possible, less enjoyable, less comfortable, and less safe. The more things we are afraid of the more gear we carry and the heavier our pack becomes.

After every backpacking trip I pull out my gear list and mark the items I actually used and make notes for next time, the goal being to whittle away the list to minimize my load. I’m trying to use my experience, to need less. “The more you know, the less your need.”

Then a new friend added this, from writer Sebastian Junger, “Risk increases as one’s range of options decreases.”

So the formula is more complicated than I thought. Having less, living more simply, isn’t necessarily easier. In fact, it reduces the range of options, which means taking on more risk.

I asked my Facebook friends, “Is Chounard’s quote – ‘The more you know, the less you need’ – true for life in general, or just backpacking?” Here are some phrases from the answers I received:

“I think it is true in general. I find life being simpler and simpler as I go through it. I just find I need less.”

“It takes a huge spiritual discipline to be simple.”

“As I age, my need for things, the stuff I own and think I need, is changing.”

“Graceful aging means continually throwing the excess over the side; constant winnowing.”

For me personally, the older I get the less stuff I need. One surprising result of that is I’m becoming one of those guys who are hard to buy gifts for. This is a common complaint I hear every Christmas. However, only a portion of that comes from intentional simplification. The rest is because my clothing styles seldom change and I can afford gear that doesn’t wear out quickly.

Back to my original question about simplicity and risk and knowledge. A few days after I started this journey of thought I read in my Daily Bible, from Psalm 116:6, “The Lord protects the simplehearted.” (NIV)

That’s cool. Not simpleminded or purehearted, which are more common words, but simplehearted. I asked my Facebook friends another question: What do you think it means to be simplehearted?:

“One whose emotional needs are easily met”

“Someone who doesn’t seek to complicate things”

“One who loves first, last, and always”

“Integrity of heart”

“A heart that is uncomplicated and less cluttered by life stuff”

“Unmixed motives”

“Being fully alive and optimal.” (I really liked the word “optimal.”)

I didn’t stop there. I realized my mind was locked into this idea of simplicity when I read this from Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard: “The sense of having one’s life needs at hand, of traveling light, brings with it intense energy and exhilaration. Simplicity is the whole secret of well-being”

And so, I want to live more simply, both in regards to how much stuff I need (less and less), and in regard to my heart (uncluttered and full of integrity).

Merely having less isn’t enough, though. Nobody wants to live a striped-down lowest-bidder life. We need something deeper. We need meaning.

John Maeda, in his book The Laws of Simplicity, wrote, “Simplicity is about subtracting the obvious and adding the meaningful.”

For me, one part of my life where I don’t take the simplest route is writing. I do all my first-pass writing by hand, with ink, in a paper journal. Later I type it into Word and start editing. I’ve learned if I try to simplify this process and do my original work on the computer, I’m not as creative. I’m not as original, and not as meaningful. So I appreciate Maeda’s quote … the real life goal isn’t just to simplify, but to live meaningfully.

How about you? What do you do to simplify your life? Does it add meaning?

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

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

What part of your house feels most like home? In which room do your obsessive tendencies come alive? For me, it is my library.

I used to keep most of my books in banker’s boxes in a rental storage unit because we didn’t have room in our house. Fortunately the storage unit was close to where we lived; I made the trip often, flashlight in hand, looking for a particular book.

So when Cyndi and I designed this house where we now live, having a library was one of three personal requests I made (the other two: I wanted my own closet, and I never wanted to mow the lawn again).

I’m writing about my library because with the feel of fall in the air I’m converging toward the project I’ve put off all summer – reorganizing my books. I put it off until the weather got too cool to work around the house outside, not that I have worked around the house outside that much this summer. Now, the time to hesitate is through.

I need to reorganize is because some of the categories have outgrown their original shelves. And when I say “reorganize my library,” I mean it like I might reorganize my garage. I have no intention using any of the really cool new software programs for home libraries. I don’t want to add another activity to my life that must be constantly maintained or updated. If other people used my library I would have to be more organized; but they don’t, so I don’t.

In preparation, I’ve begun to thin my shelves a little, donating a few books to Friends of the Library, and moving some upstairs to my backup shelves. Unfortunately this stage looks random and disorganized with unrelated stacks of books everywhere.

In fact, during a recent Sunday School party at our house, a friend and fellow engineer asked, “Do you organize your books? Do you have a system?” He asked because he knew I did, but it wasn’t obvious at the time.

I organize my library in broad themes: spiritual, writing, humor, running, cycling, hiking/backpacking, adventure, travel, politics, history, science and math, modern thinkers, books I’ve taught, etc. On my Bedroom shelves I keep to-read books and certain influential books that are close to my heart. Upstairs, I store the books I seldom use but feel I need to keep just because I need to keep them.

The secret to having a home library, besides physical space, is you have to read a lot. A lot. I always have at least two books going: one on my nightstand and the other in my black backpack in my pickup. The pickup-book idea started when the kids were young and I was continually waiting for soccer practice, or swimming practice, or dance rehearsal, to end. Having a book to read turned the wait into a treat.

I’ve loved to read since elementary school. I was the kid who tried to sneak one more chapter after his mom told him turn off the light and go to sleep, even during the summer.

School and college assignments took over my reading list for several years. The first books I read for my own enjoyment were The Chronicles of Narnia after I found a copy of The Horse And His Boy in a study carrel in the basement stacks of, you guessed it, the University library, and I read the entire book in one sitting instead of finishing my thermodynamics homework.

My first book after graduating from college was American Caesar, a biography of Douglas McArthur. Cyndi gave it to me for Christmas in 1979.

Jim Rohn taught me to keep a list of books I read as part of gathering wisdom, and as you might guess, my list is in Excel and dates back to 1986. (I will send it to you if you’re interested.)

I don’t necessarily treat my books well. I often take the paper jacket off while reading, but that is my only concession. Books are made to be used rather than cherished and I freely use a highlighter or write notes and questions in the margins. Another thing I learned from Jim Rohn was that my margin scribblings were the most valuable thing I’ll hand down to the next generation.

I get asked often, by people standing in my library, “Have you read all these?” It’s a fair question. I don’t expect other people to read as much as I do; we each have our own compulsive hobbies.

My answer is, “Yes, at least 90% of them.” Again, not to be snobbish, but I seldom buy books I don’t intend to read. On occasion a book won’t capture my attention and I’ll put in on the shelf without finishing, but that is rare.

Cyndi and I used to go to dinner parties at a friend’s house and I was always directed to his extensive library. Only all the books were literary classics and all the covers matched, telling me he bought them as a set. And none of the bindings had creases, telling me they were for show and were never read.  He was a gracious and friendly host and I liked him, but he wasn’t the sort of book guy I am. Mine don’t match, and there are lots of creases.

So back to my original design criteria for our house. I wanted no yard to mow because I was tired of keeping a lawn that no one played in, and I wanted my own closet because the dividing line in a shared closed moves. Both of those were about simplifying life.

But having a library is not simplifying, it’s enriching. I simply love books, and reading books has made me a better man, and having my own library makes me happy.

How about you?

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

I’ve learned that I have to be picky when it comes to spiritual influences. I am continually on the lookout for my next influences, and I pay close attention when someone who knows me well makes a recommendation. Even then, I have to be choosy The world is full of well-meaning influences that try to barge their way in, but they aren’t how I want to live. I want influences that push me in the direction of love, peace, patience, forgiveness, gratefulness, acceptance, and grace.

This summer I read a book by Ian Morgan Cron titled, Chasing Francis, and in it he quoted Thomas Aquinas, who spoke about two kinds of souls – the magna animi and the pusilla animi.

Cron wrote, “The magna animi is the open soul that has space for the world to enter and find Jesus. The pusilla animi is like a fortress. It is the defended heart. It’s a guarded and suspicious spirit that’s closed to the world. It sees everything and everyone as a potential threat, an enemy waiting to attack. It shields itself from the world.”

The curious thing is the best way to guard your heart is be open to new influences, not closed. But leaving space for Jesus to enter also leaves us vulnerable. For me, that means I find myself crying in public way more often than I’m comfortable with.

Which brings me to last Sunday morning: I sat with the church orchestra on the front row of the worship team, in front of the entire church body, and cried through the feature music. Huge tears rolled down my cheeks and onto my shirt. Fortunately it was a mostly-black shirt so the wet spots didn’t show. That happened twice, both services, even though I was prepared for it the second time.

And curiously, the music that got me was an old hymn, Softly and Tenderly, published 133 years ago. The soloist singing was Cynthia Clawson, and she was singing a “modern” arrangement of the hymn that she first recorded in the late-1970s. I have heard her sing that very same arrangement on many occasions over the past thirty years. All that is to say, I was surprised at my own emotional reaction to something and someone very familiar to me.

The song reminded me how we tend to make spiritual life so complicated, take ourselves too seriously, or focus too much on technique or style. But Jesus cuts through the chaff and distractions and makes this appeal: “All who are weary, come home.” Hearing that song by Cynthia Clawson changed the lesson I was prepared to teach that morning in adult Sunday School.

For me, that’s living the magna animi life.

I told my class: “I am a blessed and fortunate man. I have deep spiritual roots that go back generations after generation. Throughout my life my spiritual formation has been shaped as much by singers and songwriters as by speakers and authors. And one my deepest and oldest influences is Cynthia Clawson. I’ve sat under her singing for close to 40 years.”

I first heard Cynthia Clawson sing when I was in high school in Hobbs, New Mexico. She came often to First Baptist Church. The church our family attended was too small to have a youth group, so I joined my friends at FBC often. During those formative years, Cynthia Clawson was the first singer I ever heard who sang directly to me, told her stories exactly to me, spoke straight to me, and pulled me along with her. She was the first singer I heard who made ancient hymns sound like her own personal words to me.

And to be honest, she wasn’t the only one. My theology and worldview have been shaped by a long string of musicians, and mostly after I heard them perform live. I have always been vulnerable to live music.

I came home from a Steven Curtis Chapman concert wishing I could sing. Hearing Rich Mullins made me wish I could write. Chris Rice made me wish I could see Jesus in everyday things. And Cynthia Clawson made me wish I could show you my heart.

I identify with the label of Pilgrim for Christ and the notion that I will always be moving down the trail searching for God. That means I expect to be influenced. These musicians that influenced me are only a few of the many voices that have kept me moving in the right direction and allowed me to relax long enough to listen to God.

QUESTION: Who has influenced your life?

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Here is the good news: I have finally been released by the Wound Management Department of Midland Memorial Hospital after spending every Monday morning with them since April 22^nd. I hope they mail my diploma soon.

Here is the bad news: Well, not so bad, really, but not what I was hoping for – I am still grounded from running or cycling until September 16th.

The doctor asked, “Can you hold out one more week?”

I said, “I’ve been uncharacteristically patient and obedient so far, what’s one more week.” I’m still trying to act like a grown-up through all this.

My 150 Days of Grounding happened because of a bike crash on March 4, and physical healing takes a long time. I’m anxious to get back to moving again.

I’ll be the first to admit – well, not actually the first, but one of many – I am not a natural runner. In fact, I’m surprised running is still so important to me. Not one person who knew me before age 22 would have predicted I would choose to do anything physical, especially for 35 years.

Well, again, not exactly correct. I enjoyed cycling in high school; I even rode from Hobbs to Artesia, New Mexico with my friend Doug White, about 80 miles. We only did it once.

But it was running that captured my imagination and changed my heart. I started running in 1978, the summer before my last year of college, because I thought it would help me win the heart of a girl. I kept it up once I got back to OU, with a friend, Charles Calvert. And then I never quit. Running taught me how to lose myself in meditative encounters with God and I’m not the same man I would have been without it.

I recently read a great book by journalist Jim Axelrod titled, In The Long Run, and in it he described what happened when his father started running in 1976. Axelrod could have been describing me.

“The running boom was perfectly timed for him. It couldn’t have fit his personality better. Running didn’t require teammates or partners, like softball, tennis, or golf. Running depended solely upon him. Running had a simple calculus: what you put in, you got out. He needed a transaction like that in his life – immediate and dependable. Running allowed him to sweat his anxieties, disappointments, and fears right out of his system. It was also quantifiable.”

I was drawn to running by the same qualities that attracted Axelrod’s father. It was something I could do alone. Not only that, I could get lost in it. I could release my mind while running and let it shake off anxieties, burn through anger, and roam in imagination. At least 75% of all creative ideas I’ve had in my life came to me while I was running down the road. I started carrying notecards and a pen to record my thoughts until I ruined too many cards with sweat. Then I began carrying a handheld digital recorder.

And running produced a quantifiable number every time I went out. I started keeping a running log very early in my career and I have records going back to 1978. What could be cooler than that? Almost nothing. (As of my Day of Grounding, I’d run 36,721 miles in 7,345 actual days, going through 50 pairs of shoes, all but five were New Balances.)

So during this long sedentary summer I learned a few things about myself. First, my writing suffered. I don’t know if it’s because my feet aren’t moving, or my heart wasn’t’ beating as fast, or I simply missed the daily discipline, but my creative process took a huge hit. Writing has been more of a struggle than it should be.

Second, I have increased in convexity, and it isn’t a pleasant experience. I realize I should have cut back on eating, since I wasn’t burning as many calories, but it seemed like I’d already sacrificed enough in the name of wound management without giving up food, too.

And third, my knees and right foot have been even more of a bother than they were when I was running regularly. They are stiffer and ache more often in spite of all the rest I’ve given them. Apparently use-it-or-lose-it is true.

One more observation. Even during this long down time I’ve been drawn to books and podcasts about running. I have especially enjoyed listening to stories from ultramarathon trail runners, as in, people who do 100 miles or more. Rather than drift away during my down time I drifted toward. I suppose God hasn’t released me from this part of my life, yet. He still has more to say.

QUESTIONS: What is it for you? What drives your creativity? What pushes you toward God?

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

“Teach us to number our days and recognize how few they are; help us to spend them as we should.” (Psalm 90:12, TLB)

A few weeks ago a friend told me how he and his wife had been considering names for their soon-to-be-born son, and one of the names they were considering was Caleb. What a great name. From a man in the Bible who never stopped, who lived his story to the very end.

Caleb was a companion of Joshua, and at the age of 85 asked to receive as his inheritance the hill country where the scary enemy lived in fortified cities. He still wanted the hard stuff. He was not done yet. (Joshua 14:12)

And so, thinking about Caleb, I dug out my copy of Wild Goose Chase (Mark Batterson) and found this: “I want to die doing what I love. I am determined to pursue God-ordained passions until the day I die. Life is too precious to settle for anything else.”

Batterson gave an example, Wilson Bently, the famous photographer of snowflakes, maybe the first person to do so, who died of pneumonia he contacted after walking six miles in a blinding snowstorm, taking photos of snowflakes. He died as a result of following his passion.

We don’t know how the Caleb from the Bible died, but we can assume it was while he was carving a home out of the rough country.

I did a Google search on the phrase, “people who died doing what they love,” and I got page after page of articles and blogs. True, most of the people listed in the stories died doing things like freestyle skiing, BASE jumping, adventure filmmaking, mountain climbing, solo ballooning, big-wave surfing, back-country skiing, Congo river kayaking, and free-solo climbing.

Of course, there are two ways of looking at these particular deaths. You could say (1) they died because they insisted on doing something dangerous for too many years and were lucky to have lived as long as they did, or (2) they died pursuing the very passions that motivated and fueled their life.

As a safe and responsible father I should go with the first interpretation, but with respect to how I want to live my own life I prefer the second.

But to say I want to die while doing what I love, well, that might lead to traumatic consequences. Suppose I fell down dead while teaching Compass class or Iron Men. That would be great for me but would take some time for the class to recover.

Or I might die while running or cycling. If that happened I hope it would be because I finally pushed my body beyond known limits and found peace on the other side and not because some distracted driver took me out while I was safely minding my own business.

This is better. What if I die while writing in my journal (and afterward everyone agrees it was the best piece of writing anyone, ever, had written) while leaning against a pine tree near a mountain trail where only moments before I had finished a ten-mile run after spending the night in my tent at high altitude.

Oh, and I am 114 years old at the time … I’m not looking for something to happen right away. I hope to spend another 57 years holding Cyndi’s hand.

The point isn’t to schedule death, but to live life; to lean hard into our passions every day, all the way to the end. What we are doing in our last moments is insignificant when compared to what we did before. When the Psalmist wanted us to number our days, it was about living, not dying.

So Wednesday noon I was at Jason’s with Byron and Paul when a woman we all knew walked by and asked if we were discussing the classes we’d be teaching. Good guess; that was exactly what we were talking about. As she walked away she said, “I taught classes for too many years, now I’m done with that.”

The three of us agreed we hope we’re never “done with that.” There are enough people who are done with that. We need more who are willing to push all the way to the end.

As in those cross country skiers in the Olympics who give 100% of their energy until crossing the finish line and then collapse into a gangly heap of legs and skis and poles, we should stay engaged in our God-ordained passions all the way to the finish line. We don’t want to be done with that before the finish just because we get tired.

Mark Batterson wrote, “We need to quit living as if the purpose of life is to arrive safely at death. Instead, we need to start playing offense with our lives. The world needs more daring people with daring plans. Why not you?”

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

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

Do you prefer being with people most of the time, or being by yourself?

Last Sunday afternoon I told Daryl, “You would have been proud of me today. At the reception for the Koehl family I served as a line marshal. I stopped visitors from cutting in line or sneaking cookies, mostly by cracking jokes, which means I interacted with actual people for two solid hours.” He was impressed.

And what’s more, that happened only one day after Cyndi and I hosted Cornfest at our house. It’s an annual event where we cook fresh ears of sweet corn and serve them with hamburgers on Cyndi’s most excellent home-cooked buns. We had about sixty people in our house and I talked to all of them that were old enough to carry a conversation.

That means by Sunday evening, I was whipped. I had to rest my blown-out knees. I had to find solitude. To paraphrase Anne Lammot, I sneaked into the back room like an agent for Mossad, just trying to find a moment’s space, just trying to find my heart cave.

And then, after an hour or so, I was ready to reemerge and play with Cyndi.

I should mention that on most personality tests I score all the way to the edge as an introvert. And, I should add, that makes me happy.

There is a pseudo-quiz floating around Facebook these days, taken from the Huffington Post, titled “23 Signs You’re Secretly An Introvert.” I scored 22 out of 23 on their quiz. I’m pretty sure if you answer “yes” to 22 questions there is no secret about it. Everyone knows.

Here’s the thing. The introspection that comes with my personality is one of my greatest assets. It’s the source of my deepest thoughts, the heart of my creativity, the root of my spirituality, and the depth of my teaching and writing. I can’t think of one good idea or creative insight I’ve had while in a group of people. The best always come to me when I’m alone, usually while running down the trail or cycling down the road, or with my head buried in my journal.

I am a lot like Philip Yancey, who wrote he is “quite content to hole up in a mountain cabin with a stock of books for a week at a time, speaking to no one but the grocery store clerk.”

But here is something else Philip Yancey wrote about his introversion: “I keep leaving home in quest of what happens when the faith I write about in a mountain cabin confronts the real world.”

Like Yancey, I also have to come down from the mountain, unwrap myself from the cozy blanket of solitude, and see how the thoughts and ideas and insights I’ve accumulated work out for real people. I have to share my faith with the outside world.

And I’ll admit I enjoy social interaction more than I let on. I enjoy every conversation with my friend Bob or my brother Carroll; I just forget to initiate it.

Still, if you catch me after one of my solo mountain retreats and ask me what I learned, I may be speechless, in spite of all my introspection. But after a couple of days processing the data I’ll start telling stories. And once I start telling stories I won’t be able to stop, whether we are in class, or at Rosa’s, or cycling, or at work.

This is one of the deepest lessons I have learned about myself in the past few years – I have to resurface and tell what I’ve learned. After my solitude and recharge I need interaction with other people. Even when I fail to seek it out. I need their attentiveness and feedback. It is my heart’s craving to give away what I’ve learned, to share what I know, and I am not happy until I find a way to do that.

In fact, while exploring the idea of a Life Theme I have converged to this phrase: “Give myself away every day.” That is hard to do when I’m sitting by myself, so I’ve learned to enjoy my time with people.

And here is another idea about this. Just last week Cyndi told me when I spend too much time with myself, my writing gets very small. She said I need to be around people during the day in order to have significant things to share. She’s a smart woman.

I believe that is the heart of what God was telling me last June when he warned, “Don’t find Me, standing alone.”

While I prefer, and seek out, solitude, it’s hard to change the world that way. It isn’t big enough to merely be true to myself. I want to be like Jesus, and He gave Himself away to people every day.

QUESTION: How do give away what you learn?

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

 Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

How do you follow God? How do you know when to move forward, and when to go no further?

That is a hard question to answer.

I recently read this passage from my Daily Bible, Isaiah 30:1, “Woe to the obstinate children, declares the Lord, to those who carry out plans that are not mine.”

Here is the context: The northern kingdom of Israel had been conquered, devastated, and carried away into exile by Assyria. By all appearances they were gone forever, as a nation, and no one remained to rebuild if they got another chance.

Many of the leaders in Judah, the southern kingdom, were afraid the same thing would happen to them, and rightly so, since as a nation they were guilty of the same excesses that got Israel into trouble. Some of the leaders wanted to go to Egypt and form an alliance, essentially selling their freedom in exchange for Egypt’s protection against Assyria. Isaiah, speaking from God, warned them not to do it.

But the idea to ask for help wasn’t that crazy. They needed help. They had to do something.

But there is another Bible story about a time when the Israelites were trapped between the Red Sea and the Egyptian army, who was bearing down on them, and God said to Moses, “Why are you crying out to Me? Tell the Israelites to move on.” (Exodus 14:15) In other words, God told Moses to stop asking for direction and protection and do what he already knew to do.

And so, the dilemma. When to move, when to pray. I wish I had the firm conviction of my granddaughter on her first day in preschool, but I seldom do.

I can’t remember a single instance when God told me directly to take a certain job offer, or buy a particular house, or go to a specific school, or move to another town. I recognize His guidance in retrospect, but not in the moment. Most of those decisions just happened. I was praying and asking for guidance, but never saw anything so obvious as a burning bush or words painted in the street. I just did what seemed to be wise or logical, and hoped God was with me.

However, that doesn’t mean God has been silent. I can recount several instances when I knew for certain it was God speaking and I should act on it. Never in a big voice audible to everyone, but always inside my head, sounding like my own voice.

God told me to “Marry Cyndi” in the fall of 1978, while sitting at the table in my apartment in Norman, OK. Fortunately, she agreed. We married in July 1979.

God said, “You should be teaching,” while we were in the Parker’s Sunday School class, in the spring of 1990. Later, over lunch, when I mentioned to Cyndi what I’d heard, she said something to the effect of, “Duh, everyone knows that.” As if they had all been talking about it and waiting for me to make the commitment. That week I asked Marilyn Leonard if she could find a place for me to teach, and I started teaching adult Bible study class in September 1990.

God said, “You have something to say.” This was a bit more general, but definitely a call to action, to step further up and further in, to be more courageous when I teach. It was the summer of 1996. We were at Glorieta, NM, where Cyndi was teaching at Church Leadership Week and I was hanging around. Specifically, I was studying in a cabana in the Prayer Gardens when I heard those words.

God said, “Stay where you are.” It was 1995. I had been unemployed for a year and considering a major career change which would mean relocation. After attending two funerals at my church, both services crowded with over 1,000 people from all across our community, I asked God, “How can I live a life that means so much to so many.” As I walked across the church parking lot to my pickup, He answered, “Stay where you are.” I immediately changed my job-hunting strategy, determined to stay in Midland. And today, I cannot imagine the ministries we have now, had we moved back then.

I know these are old stories, but just last June God said, “Don’t find Me, standing alone.” I was sitting on Sam’s porch writing in my journal when this sentence shut me down for the next hour. God reminded me once again that my search for Him is useless unless I bring others along with me.

I have more examples, but yet none of them really answer my question: When do we move forward and when do we wait?

I guess I don’t know the answer, except for this: (1) Develop practices and form habits to pursue God every day; (2) Move in the direction your heart tells you; and (3) When you hear a word, act on it immediately.

Here is the best news – We don’t have a God who is trying to trick us or give us puzzles we can’t solve. He wants us to follow Him.

Give your heart to God, and trust your heart to tell you when to go and when to stay.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson

What was it that captured your heart when you were young, and still has a firm grip on your life? Who opened your eyes to the world, to art, to music, to transcendence? Who first touched the artist in your heart?

For me it was a rock band – Chicago – and hearing them changed my life. It was 1971.

Some of you have heard this story so many times you can repeat it back to me, but here it is again.

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

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

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

It’s often surprising how so many of the things that define me as an individual started subtly. Teaching, writing, falling in love with Cyndi, moving to Midland, local politics, even how I found Jesus, the events that made the biggest differences were very quiet at the time they happened. It’s the same with music.

And yet, because of my backyard conversion in 1971, I still play my trombone weekly. I played last Sunday, and I’ll play next Sunday. Music still impacts how I write, how I see the world, how I teach, even the rhythm of my speech.

And so, this week, Tuesday night to be specific, Cyndi and I joined our friends to hear Chicago play at the Wagner Noel Performing Arts Center. And to my joy, the first song Chicago played was “Introduction,” the first track from their first album. As soon as I heard those distinct eighth notes, bump bump, a pickup and beat one, I was carried away, like magic. “Sir, I can name that song in two notes.” “Sir, I can be bought with two notes.”

In my high school years I used to lie on my bed listening to Chicago albums while studying the Sketch Scores – books with all the musical lines written out. I was fascinated how complicated the music sounded and yet how simple the actual orchestration looked on the page. How did they know how to do that? They turned simple four-bar interludes into magic, hitting the accents and dynamics together, horns and guitar trading ideas back and forth, with percussion pointing the listener to all the right places. How could they get so much energy out of simple, syncopated, unison parts?

Some people listen to music and pick up their instrument and play along. That isn’t what I did (but wish I had – I’d be a better musician now). I studied and analyzed the structures of the songs and hoped that someday I would make something happen that would be so cool. I was analyzing instead of playing. Maybe that’s why I became an engineer rather than a musician.

Here’s the thing. I’m not really writing about Chicago at all. I am writing about the power of music. I am writing about how we let something latch on to our soul and wallow in it for decades. Maybe for you it was soccer, or dance, or math, or mountains, or the beach. For me it was music, and Chicago made it happen.

If you’ve read any of my writing you know I write mostly about God and running and cycling and backpacking and spiritual growth and family and music and loving Cyndi. I can’t separate those topics. They are permanently interwoven. And to tell the truth, I like them all tied up in a Gordian Knot. I don’t care to cut them apart.

And so, I didn’t go to the Tuesday concert just to hear the same songs I can listen to any time I want. I went to reinforce a 42-year-old life-changing experience that still influences me every day. Music is one of our tightest family ties. Music is one of my deepest spiritual truths. I don’t want to let that slip away.

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

Find me at www.berrysimpson.com, or www.twitter.com/berrysimpson, or http://www.facebook.com/berry.simpson