I have been reading a book (I know,
big surprise), a father-son memoir by Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez titled, Along
the Way.

I picked it up because of their
movie, The Way, the story of a father walking the Camino de Santiago
in Spain to connect with his deceased son. They wrote the book a couple of
years after making the movie, and I read it because I wanted to go deeper

This sort of thing happens to me a
lot. I’ll see a movie, hear an interview, or listen to a podcast, and then go
hunting for more information. I don’t think it’s more detail or more history
that I want, just more insight and understanding. If something causes my heart
to vibrate or my brain to ruminate, I naturally want to go deeper. Who doesn’t?

So, back to the movie. After their
visit to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, the traditional end of the Camino,
the story follows our pilgrims into an office next door. They are entitled to
receive a diploma certifying they have completed the 500-mile hike, joining
other pilgrims who’ve been making this journey for more than 1,000 years. One
of the requirements is to answer a question for the official record: “What is
your reason for walking the Camino?”

This, by the way, is not the same as
asking, “What is your quest?” That’s a destination question. “What is your
reason?” is a motivation question.

In the movie, Tom, played by Martin
Sheen, stammered a bit before saying something like, “I needed to travel more.”
He was a bit embarrassed that his answer was so trivial and that he couldn’t
articulate his real reasons. Sheen later wrote that he was personally confronted
with the same question once he got back home to Malibu, after the movie was
finished. “What is your reason …?”

I think it was the most important
question of the entire memoir. Maybe THE QUESTION of all memoirs. Of all
writing.

Well, as it turns out, I cannot read
a memoir without putting myself into every story. Maybe that’s too self-serving
to think about myself while reading someone else’s book, but isn’t that the
point of all memoir writing? An author tells his personal stories hoping the
reader will connect with their own stories, and so author and reader learn
together?

That’s certainly why I write.

When I read the question in Along
the Way, I knew that for me it was about life and loving and God, my
journey with Cyndi, my changing relationship with my dad and my mom, my years
as a writer and a teacher, my decades as an engineer, my role as father and
father-in-law and grandfather, and even my current stint as Uncle Hub. Those
are all parts of my own personal pilgrimage, my Camino.

And my immediate answer to the
question, without thinking or blinking, an answer that surprised me in its
simplicity and clarity, yet made complete sense as the words rolled through my
brain, was this: Further up and further in. It’s a phrase from The Last Battle, C. S. Lewis’s final book
in The Chronicles of Narnia.

I don’t know how Lewis intended the
phrase to be interpreted, but I think of further up in regards to knowledge and
wisdom, and further in in regards to relationships. I want to go further up –
learn more, know more, experience more, live more, and study more. I want to go
further in – love more, feel more, and understand more. I want more of both.
That’s why I’m walking.

But that can’t be the end of it. As
Erwin McManus wrote, “Your life can never be simply about you.”

So, my real reason? To bring a crowd
as we go further up and further in together. To pull back the curtain and show
a bigger, wider, deeper, and longer view of God’s world. To enjoy the
companionship of fellow travelers.

As the movie tagline says, “Life is
too big to walk it alone.” It make me happy to know many of you are walking
alongside.

QUESTION: What is your reason? What
is your Camino?

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

by Berry Simpson

“To give anything less than your best
is to sacrifice the gift.” Legendary American track star and Olympian, Steve
Prefontaine, said this about running, but the sentiment applies to anything we
are called to do.

I’m sorry to admit, I doubt I’ve
ever committed my absolute best to anything. In fact, maybe I don’t even know
my best when I see it. I hope I will, someday, when I finally grow up.

On the other hand, it is part of my
personality to learn as much as I can digest about anything I undertake,
whether writing, teaching, running, cycling, marriage, or theology. In fact,
knowing that about me is one reason I hesitate before taking on a new project;
I know how much time and effort it will cost. It usually surprises me when
other people don’t feel the same way.

For example, I once served twelve
years as an elected city official, and I was continually baffled that not all
my fellow councilmembers would make time to go to conferences and training to
hear what the most innovative cities were doing. How could they hope to serve
people if their only government wisdom came from what they already knew? No
wonder we often ended up with small-minded solutions. To be uninterested about
learning seemed lazy, at best, arrogant and self-serving, at worst. It’s
sacrificing the gift.

Sorry. I started this by writing
about calling.

God's calling (or assignment, or gifting, or special talent) is not a
ticket for a free ride, but an obligation to go to work. But when we work hard
to develop the calling God has given us, it isn’t onerous. It might be hard,
but it comes with joy and fullness.

To have a special gift as a teacher,
for example, doesn’t mean teaching will be easy, it means we have more to live
up to. It isn’t a free ride; it’s a noble obligation. Not because God needs our
help to make sure he gets the results he wants, but because we owe God our
best. How dare we toss something out there half-baked and expect it to be OK
because “it is for God.”

Simply making a joyful noise is not
enough. I want to play the right notes, in tune, with joy in my heart. I want
to write the best books and essays that I can. I don’t want to meet God someday
only to find him holding one of my books, saying, “I gave you those great insights
and the desire to write them out and publish them, but you blew it with bad
grammar and tacky typesetting. What were you thinking?”

There is a Bible story about the aging King David, who was giving advice
his successors. He told his son, Solomon, "Be strong and courageous, and
do the work. Do not be afraid … He will not fail you." (1 Chronicles
28:20 NIV) The phrase that stopped me in my tracks was "Do the work."
Just like Solomon, we have to do the work, take the training, practice the
craft, risk rejection, and cultivate expert opinions, every day.

Social researcher Brene’ Brown
wrote, “It was clear to me that living a wholehearted life included engaging in
what many people I interviewed called meaningful work. Others spoke of
having a calling. We all have gifts and talents. When we cultivate those gifts
and share them with the world, we create a sense of meaning and purpose in our
lives.” (The Gifts of Imperfection)

She also wrote, “Squandering our
gifts brings distress to our lives. If we don’t use the gifts that we’ve been given,
we pay for it with our emotional and physical well-being. When we don’t use our
talents to cultivate meaningful work, we struggle. We feel disconnected and
weighed down by feelings of emptiness, frustration, resentment, shame,
disappointment, fear, and even grief.”

Here’s another thought, from Wide Awake, by Erwin McManus: “The world
desperately needs the power of your life fully lived. You have no greater
responsibility than to live the life God created you to live … your life can
never be simply about you.”

So in the spirit of vulnerability, here
is what I believe in my heart. I believe I have books in me that will change lives,
which will draw readers into a closer relationship with God, and encourage
readers to pursue their love. What I don’t know is which book will do all of
that. Maybe I have to publish a dozen books, clearing the slate and opening my
mind, before I’m smart enough and skilled enough to get down to the book God
will use.

Therefore, I feel obligated to read
the clever writers, study the best writing advice, learn about publishing and
marketing, and recruit professionals to help me. To do anything less would be
to sacrifice the gift.

How about you? Using your gifts and
talents to create meaningful work takes a tremendous amount of commitment,
because in most cases the meaningful work is not what pays the bills. Most of
us have to piece it together. But we all have to do the work.

QUESTION: What skills or projects do
you feel compelled to improve? Do they add meaning to your life? Does improving
them bring you joy?

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

by Berry Simpson

“To give anything less than your best
is to sacrifice the gift.” Legendary American track star and Olympian, Steve
Prefontaine, said this about running, but the sentiment applies to anything we
are called to do.

I’m sorry to admit, I doubt I’ve
ever committed my absolute best to anything. In fact, maybe I don’t even know
my best when I see it. I hope I will, someday, when I finally grow up.

On the other hand, it is part of my
personality to learn as much as I can digest about anything I undertake,
whether writing, teaching, running, cycling, marriage, or theology. In fact,
knowing that about me is one reason I hesitate before taking on a new project;
I know how much time and effort it will cost. It usually surprises me when
other people don’t feel the same way.

For example, I once served twelve
years as an elected city official, and I was continually baffled that not all
my fellow councilmembers would make time to go to conferences and training to
hear what the most innovative cities were doing. How could they hope to serve
people if their only government wisdom came from what they already knew? No
wonder we often ended up with small-minded solutions. To be uninterested about
learning seemed lazy, at best, arrogant and self-serving, at worst. It’s
sacrificing the gift.

Sorry. I started this by writing
about calling.

God's calling (or assignment, or gifting, or special talent) is not a
ticket for a free ride, but an obligation to go to work. But when we work hard
to develop the calling God has given us, it isn’t onerous. It might be hard,
but it comes with joy and fullness.

To have a special gift as a teacher,
for example, doesn’t mean teaching will be easy, it means we have more to live
up to. It isn’t a free ride; it’s a noble obligation. Not because God needs our
help to make sure he gets the results he wants, but because we owe God our
best. How dare we toss something out there half-baked and expect it to be OK
because “it is for God.”

Simply making a joyful noise is not
enough. I want to play the right notes, in tune, with joy in my heart. I want
to write the best books and essays that I can. I don’t want to meet God someday
only to find him holding one of my books, saying, “I gave you those great insights
and the desire to write them out and publish them, but you blew it with bad
grammar and tacky typesetting. What were you thinking?”

There is a Bible story about the aging King David, who was giving advice
his successors. He told his son, Solomon, "Be strong and courageous, and
do the work. Do not be afraid … He will not fail you." (1 Chronicles
28:20 NIV) The phrase that stopped me in my tracks was "Do the work."
Just like Solomon, we have to do the work, take the training, practice the
craft, risk rejection, and cultivate expert opinions, every day.

Social researcher Brene’ Brown
wrote, “It was clear to me that living a wholehearted life included engaging in
what many people I interviewed called meaningful work. Others spoke of
having a calling. We all have gifts and talents. When we cultivate those gifts
and share them with the world, we create a sense of meaning and purpose in our
lives.” (The Gifts of Imperfection)

She also wrote, “Squandering our
gifts brings distress to our lives. If we don’t use the gifts that we’ve been given,
we pay for it with our emotional and physical well-being. When we don’t use our
talents to cultivate meaningful work, we struggle. We feel disconnected and
weighed down by feelings of emptiness, frustration, resentment, shame,
disappointment, fear, and even grief.”

Here’s another thought, from Wide Awake, by Erwin McManus: “The world
desperately needs the power of your life fully lived. You have no greater
responsibility than to live the life God created you to live … your life can
never be simply about you.”

So in the spirit of vulnerability, here
is what I believe in my heart. I believe I have books in me that will change lives,
which will draw readers into a closer relationship with God, and encourage
readers to pursue their love. What I don’t know is which book will do all of
that. Maybe I have to publish a dozen books, clearing the slate and opening my
mind, before I’m smart enough and skilled enough to get down to the book God
will use.

Therefore, I feel obligated to read
the clever writers, study the best writing advice, learn about publishing and
marketing, and recruit professionals to help me. To do anything less would be
to sacrifice the gift.

How about you? Using your gifts and
talents to create meaningful work takes a tremendous amount of commitment,
because in most cases the meaningful work is not what pays the bills. Most of
us have to piece it together. But we all have to do the work.

QUESTION: What skills or projects do
you feel compelled to improve? Do they add meaning to your life? Does improving
them bring you joy?

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

As runners, “We never know what is
going to be our Last Best Day. The race that turns out to be our Last Best Day
can’t be recognized in the moment, it can be seen only in retrospect.” That’s
what I read last weekend from John
Bingham’s most recent book, Accidental
Athlete. It probably applies to more than running.

My Last Best Race was a race I
didn’t actually finish. I dropped out. In fact, it’s more accurate to say the
race director pulled me off the course because it was obvious I couldn’t finish
before the time cutoff. It was the Rockledge
Rumble 50K; a trail run in Grapevine that I did with Chad in November 2010.
I made it about twenty-two miles before being encouraged to stop.

Why would I say a race I couldn’t
finish was my Last Best Race? Because it was so much fun. I loved running
through the trees and on the uneven dirt trails, the uphills and downhills, and
winding in and out. I simply loved it. Other than the discomfort from running
so far, I was happy every step of the way. It made my heart happy and I wanted
more. Even though I didn’t finish, I ended the day invigorated.

As a man firmly entrenched in my
50s, I’ve come to grips with the fact that, at least as a runner, my
improvement days are behind me. Oh, maybe I could do something to make my knees
work better, like replace them with a bionic pair, but I doubt it would get me
another 3:52 marathon, my personal best from twenty-five years ago.

I’m not complaining. I don’t mind
the limitations of age. I’m happy to be running and moving as well as I do.
And, in fact, getting older takes some of the pressure off. Now I can simply
take the miles as they come and enjoy myself, settle in and have fun moving
down the road.

So back to the Rockledge Rumble. I
didn’t resent being pulled off the course that day. The race director did the
right thing. But what bothered me on the drive home was the possibility that I’d
waited too many years to try running a 50K trail run, waited until both knees
hurt from arthritis, and that I wasted all those younger years because I was unprepared,
too slow, or too heavy. In my 20s, 30s, and 40s I was afraid of the wrong
things. I should have been more worried about not squandering my youth.

Of course, I can’t get any of that
back, but neither do I have to accept that my best days are behind me. I can still
do better. I can go further. And I have one big strategy to make my knees feel
better that will cost me nothing. Lose weight down to 175 pounds.

I don’t know if that is even
possible. I haven’t weighed 175 since 1974, but that’s where the height and
weight charts point me for maximum performance, so I think I should try.

The reason I think it will help is
that I feel the added strain on my knees whenever I walk across the training
room at Gold’s Gym with weights in my hand. I can feel it with every step. That
tells me I should reduce the strain even more by losing twenty-five pounds.

There is no way to know if losing
twenty-five pounds will translate into further or faster, or even less pain,
but it would be a shame to look back twenty years from now and wonder why I
never tried and why I squandered the youth of my 50s.

I should mention the reason I am
writing about this. Normally, if I have a goal as un-hide-able as losing
twenty-five pounds, I’ll keep it to myself. I would rather no one know what I
was doing until I have successfully completed the goal instead of everyone
watching my progress, or lack of progress.

But John Bingham’s book wasn’t the
only book I read last weekend. I also finished The
Gifts of Imperfection, by Brene’ Brown, and her
call for living vulnerably made sense to me. The first vulnerable action I
could think of was to make my goal public and risk the scrutiny and judgment
from the outside world. So, here I am.

Two last quotes, one from each book:

“Running has become an act of faith.
Running allows me to believe that there is something better out there for me.
Running allows me to believe that I can be not just a better runner but a
better person.” (Accidental Athlete)

“Recognizing and leaning into the
discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude, and grace.”
(The Gifts of Imperfection)

So that is my plan. To be a leaner,
lighter, and better person who lives with joy, gratitude, and grace. Care to
join me? Maybe we can run out Last Best Race together.

QUESTION: When was your Last Best
Race? What goals are you nervous to make public?

PS: Check out Brene’ Brown’s TED
talks, from June
2010 and March 2012.
They are life changing.

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

by Berry D Simpson

Is it always bad to worry about
stuff? People say that 90% of what we worry about never happens, but isn’t that
an argument in favor of worry? As for me, I worry about things all the time.
It’s just that I do my worrying on the inside, to myself, so it isn’t obvious
to everyone else.

I recently attended Pantego Bible
Church with my daughter and son-in-law, Katie and Drew, and in their Community Group
(I would call it Sunday School), we talked about our tendency to worry, and
about Jesus’ admonition from Matthew 6.

 “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about
your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more
than clothes? Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry
about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (from Matthew 6:25 and
34, NIV)

The problem I have with this verse
is that I don’t know how to stop worrying on command. To tell me to stop
worrying is like Cyndi telling me to “just relax” when we’re dancing. If I
could relax on purpose I would be relaxed already. Likewise, if I could simply
stop worrying, I would. I need a strategy, an activity to do, in place of
worry. Maybe it’s the same for you.

So the very next Monday morning I
read a great follow-up to our Sunday discussion about worry, from

Jesus
Calling, by Sarah Young: “Sit quietly
in My presence while I bless you. Make your mind like a still pool of water,
ready to receive whatever thoughts I drop into it. Calmly bring matters to me …
then simply do the next thing.”

Sarah Young gave two good strategies
for handling worry, the first was contemplative meditation. She said that instead
of trying to solve all the problems and work it out myself, I should settle my
mind and let God drop his thoughts inside. Wait for him to speak.

Here’s how it works for me. When I’m
buried by worries I often find myself praying, “Lord I don’t know what to do
with this, my attitude stinks, so I’m asking you to speak to me.” Then I start
writing in my journal, creating a dialogue, even argument, with myself, going
over all the worries I’ve had, and listing my own crazy solutions.

It’s important for me to physically
write these down on paper. Just thinking about them, or even talking about
them, doesn’t do the same thing. Over and over God speaks to me while I am
writing, while I have my pen in my hand scratching on paper. When I finish I’ve
written out ideas and solutions that had never occurred to me before I started
writing.

Another thing that happens: Sometimes
I hear from God directly. I would say I hear an audible voice but that’s too spooky
to put into print. But it happens in the most unlikely of places, such as in
the stairwell at my office, or cycling down Highway 191, or running on the dirt
roads near my house, or even in the shower at Gold’s Gym. It never comes all at
once and the solution is never what I expected, but there is no mistaking God
as the source.

Those two scenarios (writing in my
journal or hearing God’s voice) have happened so often I’ve grown to expect
them. Instead of worrying on my own, I’ve learned to relax into the process and
trust that God will indeed, speak to me again.

Curiously, this reminds me of when I
started reading Tom Clancy. With the first book, Hunt for Red October, I fell
into a predictable pattern: (1) I struggled through the first third of the book
trying to learn the characters and keep up with the threads; until (2) I
realized Clancy would remember the characters I needed to know so I relaxed and
enjoyed the middle third of the book; but (3) I would lay awake in bed half the
night trying to solve the rest of the puzzle and save the world. Eventually I
reminded myself that Clancy was better at figuring out the solution than I was,
and besides, he had already written the book. So I got out of bed and finished
the last third of the book that night. I let the expert tell me his story
instead of trying to figure it out myself. Instead of losing sleep worrying, I
lost sleep reading, which was much better.

And while you might think I would
remember this solution with the next Clancy book and avoid the sleepless nights,
I never did. I repeated the same entire sequence of trying to do it myself before
letting the expert handle it. At least a dozen times.

This is how I’ve learned to trust
God. When I find myself paralyzed with worry over an upcoming choice or
conversation or confrontation, I have to remind myself to trust the expert. God
has already worked out the story. Just let him tell me the details in his own
good time.

I wish I could say I remember this whenever
a new problem comes up, but I don’t. I repeat the same sorry sequence of trying
to do it myself before, finally, writing and listening and letting the expert
handled it.

Back to Sarah Young’s advice,
“Calmly bring matters to me (God) … then simply do the next thing.”

This is the tricky part. If I ask
God to speak to me, and I ask him to change my heart, I’m obligated to step
gingerly through the next opening, next idea, next pattern, or next attitude.
Seeking God only works if I’m willing to step through his openings into his
solutions.

QUESTION: How about you, how do you
cope with worry?

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

by Berry D Simpson

Not sure if you’ve noticed this, but I don’t need a lot of change in my
life. For example, I just bought a pickup and gave my old one to my son. The
new truck is a red Toyota Tacoma, exactly like my first one except newer and
with fewer miles. My pens and books and tie-down ropes and fleece jackets (for
Cyndi) all fit in exactly the same places. A new truck exactly like my old
truck … made me very happy. Like I said, I don’t need a lot of change.

Another example? I tend to leave things alone. I’ve never done much
remodeling in the places where I live. I might become obsessive while designing
a space, going over the details and options for way too long, but once the
space is built and I’ve moved in, I’ happy to leave it as it is from now on. That’s
true for houses, my work space and desk, my closet, my pickup, and true for my
yard and landscaping.

It isn’t that I am afraid of the process. I built a wall in our garage
in Brownfield, creating a nice utility room, and I built a wall and changed
closets in our house on Whittle Way, providing more useful space for both Byron
and Katie. But that’s about it for home remodeling. I haven’t needed or wanted
to change anything else.

Regarding landscaping, I’ve only changed our yard once, when we replaced
turf grass with ground cover in 1998. I suppose I did recreate our back yard
once, but that was more recovery than remodeling since our pet rabbits ate all
the grass down to the dirt and we had to start over.

All that is to say, I like things, in general, the way they are. Which
is usually the same as the way they were.

However, I’ve also learned to embrace the energy that change brings.
For me, one of the joys of aging is that I don’t resist change as much as I
used to. I may not initiate it, but I look forward to it. I’ve finally grown up
enough that I like to try new things and learn new skills and new ideas. I
don’t want to become that cranky “you kids get off my lawn” guy.

Granted, my personal vision of life change is mostly made up of
slightly newer versions of what I am already doing. Nothing radical. I’m hardly
an early-adopter. And certainly, I don’t make changes simply for the purpose of
changing. I need a better reason than that.

But even the few things I’ve changed aren’t such a big deal. Living
space is just wood and concrete, landscaping is just plants and trees, new
exercise programs are just more opportunities to sweat and buy new gear.

The reason I’m writing about something I don’t do much of, is, the
title of my next book, which should be out this fall, will be Remodeled: Stories from a Changed Heart.
Because of the title, I have been playing around with the notion of remodeling.
And the remodeling I’m most concerned with is the reshaping of my heart.

Each time I tell my story to the guys, something I do a half dozen
times a year, I’m more aware of how Jesus has remodeled my heart, making it
into his home. Not with hammer, nails, or sheetrock and paint, but with
adventures and tragedies and writing and teaching. And with Cyndi. The biggest
tool Jesus has for remodeling my heart into his image is the influence of Cyndi
living alongside me.

In fact, I’ve changed more than I thought I needed to. Having grown up
in church among a devout and faithful Christian family, I assumed if my heart
needed changing it would be only small increments. I never figured I’d need serious
remodeling.

This week I noticed the remodeling project going on at the Burger King restaurant on
Andrews Highway
in Midland. Have you seen it? The sign out front says “Closed
for remodel,” but all that is left of the original structure is a pile of
broken concrete. They are remodeling the building all the way down to the dirt,
stretching the word “remodel” way beyond its original meaning.

Is that how Jesus remodels our hearts? While we are cruising along
through life thinking all we need is a small touch-up, does Jesus notice our
foundation is shot and he has to start over from scratch? I don’t know if it
always has to be that severe, but I’m sure I wouldn’t change at all if Jesus
didn’t make it happen.

So here is my challenge. Ask Jesus to remodel your heart into his
image. Give him access to all your hidden closets and attic space and
landscaping. Know that it will be messy and dusty and, like all remodeling
projects, take longer than you expected. Trust that in the process of being
changed his grace will flow through you into the lives of your family and
friends. Be brave. Embrace the change.

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

Journal Entry 083012: Remodeled

by Berry Simpson

Last weekend, while wrapping up my third book, I took a
break and watched the movie “The Way.” Before the weekend was over, I’d watched
it three times.

The Way, released in 2010, is a collaboration
between Martin Sheen and his son Emilio Estevez. It tells the story of Tom Avery, an American ophthalmologist who comes
to St. Jean Pied de Port, France to collect the remains of his adult son,
killed in the Pyrenees in a storm while walking the Camino de Santiago, also
known as The Way of Saint James. In a surprising combination of grief and homage to his son, Tom decides to
walk the ancient spiritual trail where his son died.

In a flashback scene we witness the strained relationship
between Tom’s adult son, Daniel, who wants to travel and experience the world,
and his father, a widower, who wants his only child to get serious, settle
down, and choose a life similar to his own.

Daniel said, “You don’t choose a life, Dad. You live it.” I
liked that line right away even though I mostly disagreed with it.

I think we do have to choose a life. We choose every day whether
to follow God, or love our wives, or live healthy and nutritious. We choose
whether to follow God’s calling. We have to choose our path and our direction.

For example, all the pilgrims in the movie chose to walk the
Way of St. James. Including Daniel. They had a variety of reasons, but none of
them ended up there accidently. Even Tom Avery, who hadn’t planned to walk,
made a conscious choice.

What Tom didn't choose
was the profound effect this trip would have on him. An inexperienced trekker, he
soon discovered that he would not be alone on his journey. On the Camino de
Santiago, Tom met other pilgrims from around the world, each with their own
issues, each looking for greater meaning in their lives. Tom learned that it
was better for his own heart to travel with a group than tackle the journey
alone.

He also learned that the journey itself was most important,
not just the destination. In the beginning he walked as fast as he could, just
to cover the ground, get it over with, and finish as quickly as possible. He
was just doing his duty. But as his pilgrimage progressed, he slowed down and
enjoyed the trip with his friends. He allowed his heart to change.

What I realized at the end of the movie, and the reason I
watched it over again and again, was this: we may choose the journey, but we
can’t choose the meaning. We choose our path, but not the message, the lesson,
the impact, or the changes that will come from it. We choose a life, but we
then have to live life as it comes. We have to live out the changes in our
heart.

Maybe we choose to let Jesus make his home in our heart,
giving  him permission to remodel our
heart to his liking … but we don’t get to pick the stories he’ll use, the
adventures he’ll take advantage of, or the person we’ll become. We have to
trust him with the changes he’ll make in our heart.

So during this past year I’ve spent a lot of time inside
Ephesians 3:17-19, working on my book. The verses conclude with this promise, And so at last you will be filled up with
God himself.

I spent most of my Christian life assuming that being filled
with God meant I would have some sort of spiritual superpower, greater insight,
or even magical teaching skills. I was certain the reason God wanted to fill me
with himself was so I could perform better. I didn’t appreciate that he wanted
to fill me with himself just to be together with me, to take me further down
the way. While I have been intentional about choosing a life, I had no way to
anticipate the changes Jesus would make in my heart.

I pray that you will choose the path God has laid out before
you, and that you will allow the changes he wants to make along the way. Let’s
choose our life, and let’s live our life.

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

Journal entry 082312: Choosing the way

by Berry Simpson

Being in love is not something that casually happens to us; We do it on purpose. Falling in love may be pure emotion, random and unpredictable and unexpected, but staying in love is an act of the will, intentional and specific.

This July marked the 33^rd anniversary for Cyndi and me. We were married July 28, 1979. A few years ago it occurred to me that instead of expecting gifts on our wedding anniversary, I should make it a habit to give something away. The anniversary itself, the fact that we are still together after all these years, is gift enough for me. (I learned this from my friend Fred Walsh. At least, I’m giving him credit.)

So I decided to give away love songs. I figure that if listening to love songs reminds you how to be in love, well then, we all should listen more often. In fact, for that very reason I have been a collector of love songs for decades. My iTunes “love song playlist” is gigantic; you’ve probably heard some of it if you’ve been to our house for any kind of party. Music is a social medium and it should be shared. In fact, it must be shared to have its full impact, so giving away some of my favorites seemed the appropriate thing to do. This is my 6^th collection of love songs to give away since I started, and I expect there will be many more

I am aware that a couple of these might not meet the strictest criteria for love songs, but they make me smile when I hear them, and that’s close enough. I hope at least one of these songs will speak to your own heart and push you closer toward your own true love. If you would like a CD containing this collection, send your mailing address to berry@stonefoot.org.

And another thing – I intend to stay with Cyndi for many more anniversaries so I'll be cobbling together another collection for our 34th in 2013. Since I don’t hear a lot of current music unless they play it on NPR or at Gold’s Gym, I need your suggestions. I’ll add them to my big playlist

There is my 2012 playlist:

1. This Time It's Real, Tower of Power, 1973. OK, it’s not as if I had a long history of being in love before Cyndi. Maybe once. But I’m convinced that this time, it’s real. (And I can’t resist the horns about 3:15. Nothing says love like kickin’ horns.)

2. I'm Into Something Good, The Bird and the Bee, 2010. This is the sweetest version of the old Herman’s Hermits song I’ve ever heard.

3. Echoes of My Mind, John Rivera, 2011. While on the Island of Kauai in July, we heard John Rivera playing in the farmer’s market at the Kukui’ula Village Shopping Center. He sang this Harry Nilsson song, and I couldn’t resist the line, “Going where the weather suits my clothes.” It reminds me of Cyndi, who always wants to wear warm-weather clothes.

4. That's Life, Paul Thorn, 2010. I like the line, “You’re in my prayers every night, enjoy the journey that’s life.”

5. Someone Like You, Doris Day, 1945. Doris Day appeared on Fresh Air for her 88th birthday, and I loved this song.

6. The Best Things Happen While You're Dancing, Kurt Eling, 1998. I don’t remember dancing more than once before I married Cyndi. Of course, she lives to dance. Her eyes become electric, her smile contagious, and she rises tall with confidence. She takes over the room. How can I not be part of that? In spite of my lack of skill, I dance with Cyndi whenever I can. Like the song says, “Even guys with two left feet come out OK if the girl is sweet.”

7. Rhythm of Love, Plain White T's, 2010. This was simply too contagious not to use. You must smile, and move, while listening.

8. Everybody, Ingrid Michaelson, 2009. A Pandora discovery, from the Love Song station.

9. Zoo Be Zoo Be Zoo, Sophia Loren, 1960. This song had a rebirth this year because of the TV show, Mad Men. It’s a reminder of how simple love can be.

10. Just You and Me, Zee Avi, 2010. Here is another Pandora discovery. I couldn’t resist a song that references Kierkegaard.

11. Nice 'n' Easy, Frank Sinatra, 1960. Sinatra didn’t treat women, or love, like he should’ve, but he sure did sing it well.

12. Right Down the Line, Bonnie Raitt, 2012. I cannot resist Bonnie Raitt, especially singing Gerry Rafferty.  My favorite lyric: “I know how much I lean on you, right down the line.”

13. Love, Matt White, 2007. This song came from Katie (Simpson) Noss. It makes me happy.

14. Lifening, Snow Patrol, 2011. Another song from Katie (Simpson) Noss. I liked it even more when she told me her favorite lyric. (You’ll have to ask her yourself.)

15. When We're Together, Mark Harris, 2011. From the movie, “Courageous.” Listen to it and dance with your daughters. Don’t waste those moments.

16. Romance in the Dark, Catherine Russell, 2012. I heard this song on a Fresh Air podcast while cycling down Highway 191; it was all I could do to keep from turning around and going back home to Cyndi.

17. Love Makes the World, Carole King, 2001. One of the books I read this year was Carole King’s autobiography, “A Natural Woman.” I had to include one of her songs.

18. From Here to the Moon and Back, Dolly Parton, 2012. This is from the movie, “Joyful Noise,” about a love that lasts longer than life itself, which is exactly what I’m hoping for.

19. Just for You, Sam Cooke, 1957. It’s the reason I make these CDs year after year. It’s the reason I do anything and everything.  It’s just for you, Mrs. Simpson. Just for you.

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

I know, I know, I may have to turn in my Man Card for saying this, but I enjoyed shopping with Cyndi at Ikea. There. Done.

In fact, we spent about three hours in Richardson, Texas, trolling the aisles at Ikea. Fortunately they have arrows painted on the floor so you won’t get lost, and also to ensure shoppers get a chance to see everything they sell. We saw it all at least once, but my favorite parts of the store were the examples of living in small spaces. Very small, as in 500 square feet.

While they were extremely small and compact, at least for this westerner, it was amazing how Ikea fit everything you needed into the tiny spaces without feeling overly cramped. You could understand how something that small might really work. Of course, you couldn’t own more than 18” of clothes or more than two pairs of shoes.

I told Cyndi, “I can imagine living like this if I hadn’t gotten married.” Not that being married demands so much more space, but my life would be very small without her influence. I doubt I would live a large life, be pulled into the larger story, or even long to be around so many people, if I didn’t have 33 years of Cyndi in my life.

I know we could live simpler and more efficiently if we had to, but I’m glad we don’t have to make that choice. I am happy that we don’t live such tiny lives.

However, living space isn’t my real concern. Mother Theresa had little if any personal space and she lived a huge life. Like her, I want Cyndi and I to leave a large footprint in the world, a huge wake, a lasting impact. Even at my most introverted I still want moments when I’m surrounded by a houseful of friends. Leave No Trace is a fine goal for backpacking, but I don’t want that to be said about our lives.

As Cyndi and I walked through Ikea, I reminded myself that we intentionally designed our own house with a mind to fill it up with people. Even more, so we could bring people along with us. We want everyone, not just those inside our house, but people living alongside us, joining us on this journey to know and love God better. Not as a band of disciples or followers, but as fellow travelers, as brothers on the trail.

Maybe I was extra-conscious of our house and our lives because of Ikea’s inspiring vision – “to create a better everyday life for the many people” – or maybe it was because I’ve been working on my next book, which will be about home and space.

It wasn’t until Cyndi and I started designing the floor plan of the house where we now live that I came to appreciate the sacredness of space. I wrote:

I was too young to understand all of that before. I had thought of space as mostly utilitarian; I never imagined it was connected to our hearts.

I expected to develop a relationship with these rooms. I expected them to become knowledgeable witnesses to our dreams. I expected the shape of this house to shape my future life and behavior, even guard my identity and help me remember who I am. Maybe I’d write a book sitting in this very room I was standing in. Maybe we’d sit with close friends in that other room, watching a great movie and talking about our lives. Maybe Cyndi would stand in the kitchen, cooking S’mores with grandchildren and creating lifelong memories. Maybe I’d chase Cyndi into that room, and that one, and all the rooms. Maybe someone in our family would live awhile in some of these rooms, finding in them a safe haven in a world of uncertainty.

It wasn’t that space itself had magical spiritual qualities. I know that some consider certain geographic locations to be holy places, but I don’t believe the holiness is in the rocks and trees and air. I believe the holiness comes from people doing holy things in those places, and from pilgrims having expectant hearts when they visit. Places are sacred because of the time we invest in them. They become sacred because our hearts are there. Cyndi and I were putting as much of our hearts into this space as we knew how, making it as sacred as we could.

Since moving in about three-and-a-half years ago, we’ve had 60+ people in our house on several occasions, eating soup, or eating hamburgers, or eating fresh corn on the cob (seems to be a theme). Having so many people interacting and laughing makes me happy; the fact that they mostly entertain themselves and I don’t have to work the crowd, even happier. And even better than that – we don’t have to squeeze into 500 square feet of space.

Oh, and in case you were worried about that Man Card thing, don’t bother. It’s too late. I pulled it out and laid it face-down on the table while watching the Olympic gymnasts perform on the rings. Seeing them made me feel like a little boy more than anything Ikea could muster.

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

Physics was one of my favorite classes in high school. Especially physics lab. I remember simulating transverse waves using an extra-long Slinky stretched 30 or 40 feet down the hallway between classrooms. Of course, we made it a contest to see who could keep the most waves in motion at the same time, but it was hard to keep an accurate count of waves moving in both directions simultaneously. Curious students walked past as we were wave making and asked, “What classes are you in and how do I get to play with a Slinky at school?” When we answered, “Physics,” they shook their heads and kept walking.

This was decades before geeky became cool. Even so, I was always surprised that everyone didn’t consider physics fun.

In physics, you have to be OK with not knowing everything you want to know. The first step in solving any problem was to disregard the factors we weren’t smart enough to calculate, like friction or wind resistance or static electricity effects. The standard joke, funny to all us baby physicists, was, “Why don’t we just disregard the whole problem and go to lunch?”

The thing is, physics is only a tool; it isn’t the whole truth. Physics, as with all the sciences, is only an approximation of how the world really behaves. When an experiment finds disagreement between theory and the world, the theory has to go. It is the true behavior of nature that matters, not our approximation of it.

Yet, it spite of so many questions we cannot answer, we know enough, or approximate close enough, to put men on the moon six different times, and enough to send two Voyager spacecraft on 35-year missions that are still ongoing and are approaching the edges of our own Solar System.

Last month I read a book about one of my heroes, physicist Richard Feynman, titled Quantum Man, by Lawrence M. Krauss. Krauss quoted Feynman, “People say to me, ‘Are you looking for the ultimate laws of physics?’ No, I’m not. I’m just looking to find out more about the world.”

I like this quote because Feynman is so grounded. For him, it wasn’t the abstract study of physics that really mattered, but the study of the world.

It was easy for physicists chasing the Nobel Prize to be captured by the search for a Unified Theory – one theory that tied together all the competing and conflicting ideas – gravity, electromagnetism, quantum forces. Feynman said he wasn’t after one theory that ruled them all. He just wanted to know more about the world.

Krauss wrote, “Nature, like life, takes all sorts of stray twists and turns, and most important, it is largely insensitive to one’s likes and dislikes.”

He was reminding us that nature doesn’t care about our physics. It is up to us to get it correct, not up to nature to conform to something we can easily understand. For physicists, that can be disappointing when they have a beautiful idea that nature chooses not to exploit.

I can understand all that, even as a Bible teacher. It’s easy to be captured by the search for a Unified Theory – one theology that ties together all the competing and conflicting ideas – grace and judgment, free will and sovereignty, even creation and end times. Like Feynman, I don’t want to chase after all that. I just want to know more about living God’s life today.

As Bible students, we have to be comfortable not knowing everything we want to know: not because we aren’t smart enough, but because that’s how God intends it. In the Bible God never revealed everything about himself. Even when he agreed to show himself to Moses on Mount Sinai, he only showed his back. Full knowledge of God was too much for a human to handle, even for a superhero like Moses.

It took me a long time to settle with partial knowledge. I kept waiting for secret memo to show up, tucked in some obscure part of my Bible, the memo that spelled out everything. Instead, all I got were more questions.

Maybe all we know about God is an approximation, but the more we study and experience him, the closer our approximations can become to the God who really is. And learning about things we’ll never fully understand, like physics, like God, can be the best part of the journey.

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