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

What do you do to soften your life? Do you have any regular practices that round off the sharp edges and fill in the cracks?

Jonathan Katz wrote about his experience with Tai Chi, which his teacher, Scott, said was about softening life.

Maybe Katz was right. However, when I’ve watched Tai Chi practitioners do it, it looks like one more thing I am not coordinated enough, or flexible enough, or strong enough, or patient enough to do.

I know, I know, that’s probably incorrect. Everything is hard until you learn it, and nothing that comes easy is worthwhile. But still …

But still, Katz’ point made sense to me. He wrote, “Our lives are hard, fast, filled with edges – bills, bad news, technological problems, worries about work, a bombardment of too much edgy information, things we have to answer, react to.”

Katz says that for him, softening “is required every day, several times a day in our fragmented world, so filled with argument and sharp points, the left and the right, anger and judgment. It grounds me, though, as meditation does, prepare me for the bombardment of things that is life in our time. Silence is not built into our lives, there is always something to do, check, fix, respond to, absorb.”

Lately I’ve been walking around the pond in the park across the street from our house every evening. Sometimes with Cyndi, sometimes alone. I started this practice after reading Natalie Goldberg’s book, The True Secret of Writing. She wrote, “Practice is something you choose to do on a regular basis with no vision of an outcome; the aim is not improvement, not getting somewhere. You do it because you do it. You set up to do something consistently over a long period of time, and simply watch what happens.”

So I decided to start walking around the pond. Not to put in my mileage log, and not even for exercise, but to see if doing this daily practice will change me in some way.

During a walk last week, I remembered the softening effect our dog, Lady, used to have on me. I walked in the park with Lady at least once a day, often twice. In her final years, instead of pulling me down the sidewalk, she slowed my pace to walking meditation.

Lady was the most introverted Labrador in the history of dogs. She needed very little personal attention, she didn’t care to play or get a belly rub or fetch a ball; she was content to be by herself and on her own. When we walked through the park I would talk to her the entire time, but she never gave a sign that she heard me or even cared. She softened my life.

And then, after she died in August 2010, I stopped walking in the park. I no longer had a need.

But every day, when I drove past the pond, I was a little embarrassed that I lived across the street from a premium walk and I wasn’t taking advantage.

I started walking again to reacquaint myself with the park and to slow down my pace. Now, instead of talking to Lady as I walk, I focus on my breathing and I pray about relationships and projects.

How about you? Does softening your life sound attractive? Is it something you need more of?

Or maybe you don’t want to soften your life. Are you too soft already and need more definition and structure?

Me, I have plenty of structure, and I create more all the time. But I want to soften those rigid thought patterns in my brain, soften my know-it-all judgmental tendencies.

I doubt you can soften your life as an act of will. That seems oxymoronic, actually. But you can add practices to your life that will have the effect of softening. I added walking.

One more thing: It occurred to me as I was writing this, that maybe my fallback prayer, “change my heart,” should become instead, “soften my heart.” Soften my heart, soften my fear, soften my mind, soften my words, soften my pace, soften my judgments. Soften my life.

What do you do to soften your life? I’d love to hear.

“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 is the scariest thing you’ve done lately to loosen up your life? For me, it was a massage in a Japanese spa. I realize that doesn’t fall very far down the scary-thing spectrum, but, well, now you know the kind of guy I am.

A few years ago, when Cyndi and I still lived on Whittle Way, sometime before 2008, we asked our world-traveling friends to recommend a getaway vacation spot for exceptional pampering. They suggested Ten Thousand Waves in Santa Fe. We looked it up online, and to be honest, we were overwhelmed. At least, I was. And maybe a little frightened, too. The degree of Japanese-ness was surprising, and the choices of treatments were so varied and unknown we had no idea what to choose.

As it turns out, we didn’t go, but I don’t remember why. Maybe we were simply too broke that year to do anything cool.

So during our recent Santa Fe visit, on one of my exploratory drive-abouts, I passed by the entrance to Ten Thousand Waves. That evening I mentioned it to Cyndi, who wasted no time scheduling appointments for both of us – two therapeutic massages.

When we arrived at the front desk they handed each of us a tightly-rolled bundle of cloth about 12” long and 6” in diameter, and said, “Here’s your kimono.” Then the desk guy showed us around the beautiful facility, especially the men’s and women’s changing rooms.

The thing is, I hate going into any situation as a beginner, which usually means one of two things: (1) I do way too much research before starting, or (2) I simply miss out on a lot of cool stuff. When I do decide to give it a try, as in Ten Thousand Waves, it takes my full concentration to relax and enjoy, and I’m in data-gathering mode the entire time so I’ll be more ready next time.

Of course, none of this bothers Cyndi. She says it does, but I don’t believe her. She just dives headfirst into the moment with little forethought. For her, the end result trumps all weirdness and fear. For me, I can’t see around the weirdness to even imagine an end result. So I was tiptoeing, internally, at least, beside her through the Ten Thousand Waves property, wary of disaster.

Our courteous guide showed us two communal pools, which were actually more like large hot tubs, and mentioned we might want to try them out since we’d arrived early. The pools were clothing-optional, and that’s why there were two of them. One was for women only and the other for men and women. They didn’t seem to need a men-only pool. Not enough demand, I suppose.

Cyndi and I went to our respective rooms and changed into our kimonos. The lockers were equipped with programmable digital combination-style locks; apparently it’s still important to lock up your valuables (phone, wallet, keys, shoes, pants) even in this calm and peaceful place.

Since I’m still not allowed to submerge my wounded hip in water, I opted for the warm foot bath instead of the clothing-optional communal pool. Cyndi tried the women-only pool but didn’t stay very long because it was too lonely and because she knew I needed her beside me to feel safe. She joined me in the foot bath.

Then our two masseurs, or bodyworkers, Adam and Montana, called us up. They took us downstairs to a room with side-by-side massage tables and mind-numbingly peaceful new-age Japanese music.

Let me just interject here and state that this wasn’t my first massage. I have had at least three before this, but one of those was a hand-and-foot massage in Dongying, China. (I will never let someone pull on my toes again. It was not pleasant.) The other two massages were in Midland and in both cases I enjoyed them more than I expected to.

Still, I usually have to be talked into getting a massage, and I have to psych myself up for it. I know that more frequent massages would probably extend my running and cycling years, but they seem too indulgent for someone as practical as me. Yet professional runners and cyclists get massages regularly for injury prevention and muscle recovery, and they don’t think it indulgent. If getting a massage means eating less to offset the expense, well, I eat too much as it is. So, double good to me.

Adam and Montana worked on Cyndi and me for eighty minutes and all I can say is, it was amazing. I asked if they would arrange for someone to drive us home since I felt too Jell-O-y to drive, and both bodyworkers gave their resort-worker-who-has-heard-every-possible-joke polite laugh.

They suggested we move to the Relaxation Room after the massage, but that seemed redundant. I couldn’t be any more relaxed. Like in the movie Spinal Tap when Nigel Tufnel defended the totally black color of their album by saying, “It’s like, how much more black could this be? and the answer is none. None more black,” I couldn’t relax any more than I was relaxed. None more relaxed.

Afterward I told Cyndi I was willing to commit to more massages in the future, and she seemed happy to see me take another big risk. “Maybe they’ll keep me fit and moving for a few more years.”

And it occurred to me that since this experience worked out so great maybe I should try a few other things I’d been avoiding because they made me feel like a beginner. I should loosen up.

At least I have my very best asset by my side, fearless Cyndi. She always makes me braver; especially when she drags me into things.

“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

One morning I read from Joshua 1, when God said to Joshua, “Moses my servant is dead. Now then you …” For some reason, what caught my attention that morning was how quickly the situation changed for Joshua. Maybe it was because I was going through a job transition of my own, but the suddenness of Joshua’s promotion surprised me. He went from assistant, to leader, just like that, between sentences.

As in, “The king is dead, long live the king.”

As in Tom Clancy’s novel, Debt of Honor, when the Japanese pilot crashed a jet liner into a joint session of congress, killing the President and most of the Cabinet, Supreme Court, Congressmen, and Senators. Vice-President Jack Ryan was in the basement of the Capital, and when the Secret Service agent got a phone call, he switched, in mid-sentence, from calling Ryan Mr. Vice-President, to Mr. President.  Just like that.

As In Lyndon Johnson becoming President of the United States the moment the doctors pronounced John Kennedy dead. Swearing in, while important, was a formality. Johnson was  automatically promoted to president in that instant, just like that.

As in, Moses is gone; now then you.

At least Joshua had time to prepare for this transition. He knew God had already appointed him successor to Moses, and he knew Moses was about to die, so it wasn’t a total surprise.

Still. Transitions always surprise us. The speed of the moment, when it finally happens, can be too fast and too much to comprehend. Even when, like Joshua, we know it’s coming, we aren’t completely ready.

Back in 1995 I thought I was ready for city government. That is, until my first City Council meeting and my first agenda item requiring a vote. Not a secret ballot, but a raise-my-hand-in-front-of-the-entire-world vote. In an instant I realized I was over my head, voting on important issues I knew very little about. I was not ready.

Another example. In 2004 I was not ready to lead a men’s ministry. In fact, it was the last thing I had in mind. But I agreed to teach one class, which much to my surprise kept going, and going, and going, and it still continues to this day, almost ten years later. The thing I did right was this: I didn’t let being not ready keep me from jumping in, even though I had no idea what I was jumping into.

A few weeks ago, Cyndi lost one of her most important relationships when her Aunt Teena Atchley lost her war with cancer. For twenty years Cyndi spent Tuesday mornings having tea with Teena, talking about life and family and Jesus, and absorbing each other’s life.

I told Cyndi, “You are Aunt Teena, now. Find someone who likes tea. I wonder who they are.”

So many times we are called to step forward into leadership roles long before we think it is our turn. It happens just like that, before we think we are ready.

So many times God gives us what we want, even what we’ve been looking forward to, but we won’t step forward because we don’t have the courage or the faith. Or because we don’t have a clear picture of the finished product and we are afraid of uncertainty and ambiguity.

When Joshua’s moment came, he could have balked, said no, or simply faded away over the horizon, but he didn’t hesitate. He did what Bob Goff recommends, he cannonballed into the moment.

And so, when our moments come, what should we do? Like Joshua, cannonball into the moment. Be strong and courageous. Take the step forward.

As John Acuff wrote, “Ready doesn’t exist.” So know this: if we want to change the world, we won’t be ready. We have to just jump in, just like that.

When is it time to step forward? Sooner than you think.

“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

By the time Cyndi got home from Mansfield, where she attended our daughter’s baby shower, as well as returning our granddaughter to her rightful owners after a fun-filled week at Grand and Pop’s house, it was about 9:00 PM Sunday night.

Unfortunately, I didn’t feel well. I had deep chills and had to concentrate not to shiver in front of Cyndi. And my joints were beginning to ache. I felt way too bad to enjoy my reunion with Cyndi in the way I’d been hoping for all day.

And it was my birthday. It didn’t seem fair.

Cyndi said my skin was almost too hot to touch (another problem in my planned reunion), even as I huddled under the covers to stay warm. She was grabbing for cool, free air. It was a complete role reversal for us.

I doubt I slept more than 30% of the night, although they say you always get more sleep than you think you do, even among all the tossing and turning. All night long I wondered what was happening to me. Was I getting sick? I had weekend plans to attend a retreat in Michigan, something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. Surely I wouldn’t get sick.

Monday morning as I was dressing for work, I remembered the last time this happened, in September 2003.

On that occasion the problem began when I was out running one Tuesday evening. I could feel my heart pounding and a tight pressure in my chest. It was scary. Later, when I met Cyndi at Rosa’s for dinner, I couldn’t eat because I was so worried. I didn’t know how to tell her what I was feeling since I’d rather die of a heart attack than let her think I was a hypochondriac.

I slept fretfully all night, and whenever I woke up, all I could think about was spiritual attack, as if God was warning me there was more to this. I was headed to Colorado to attend a Boot Camp, where I fully expected to meet with God. I didn’t want to be sick or hurting.

And now, ten years later, the story felt all too familiar. Was this another spiritual attack? Do they always come like this?

I don’t know enough about spiritual warfare to answer a question like that. But I do believe there will be more mystery and uncertainty on my pilgrimage than I expected in my early years.

There is a great story in John 9 about mystery and clarity, about Jesus and a man who had been blind since birth. Jesus healed this man, but He did it in a very unchurchy, undignified way. He spit on the ground to made mud, and put that mud on the man’s eyes.

I don’t think Jesus politely smeared a faint brown smudge across the man’s eyelids, I think Jesus made a handful of mud and put a gob of it right on the man’s face. That takes a lot of spit, and it must have been a shocking sight to see. I wonder why no one ever painted a picture of Jesus spitting on the ground to make mud?

But the man was blind, so he didn’t know about the spit or the mud. Also, He trusted Jesus completely. How do I know this? Because of what he did next. Jesus told him to go to the pool of Siloam and wash his face, and the man did it. He just did it without questioning. He was still blind, his prayers had not been answered, but he followed Jesus’ instructions.

Erwin McManus (Seizing Your Divine Moment) wrote, “When Jesus commanded the man to go to the pool to wash, to leave with his prayers unfulfilled, with his needs unmet, with his questions unanswered, in many ways he left in a worse condition than before. He was a blind man with mud caked on his face moving further away from the only One who could help him. If he had refused the journey, he would have lost the miracle.”

McManus asked, “How many of us are sitting in front of God with mud on our faces waiting for God to heal us? How many of us have said to God, “Heal me first, and then I’ll go”?”

I’m not the guy who sees spiritual attack behind every misfortune, and I hesitated before writing this story. I suppose I expect to skip happily along my spiritual path toward God, which means I’m always surprised when attack comes.

Maybe Jesus is sending me on a journey where things will become muddy before they become clear, where I’ll spend uncomfortable sleepless nights before finding clarity. Or maybe He simply wants me to trust Him before He heals me again.

Well, two days later, I feel much better. I have my stuff packed and my journal and Bible and projects gathered. Who knows, I may get sick again, but my heart is ready and my soul is hungry.

QUESTION: Have you felt a spiritual attack before a big weekend? How did you know what it was?

“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

“Never forget that your vocation is a sacred one.”

I read that sentence in Ian Morgan Cron’s novel, Chasing Francis – A Pilgrim’s Tale. It was from a conversation in which Liam was trying to convince Carla, a world-class cellist, that not only was her profession noble and worthy, but it pointed people toward God.

But what happened to me when I read that sentence is something that happens often – I end up reading my own personal story instead of the story in the book. In this case, what I read was “Berry, never forget that engineering is a sacred vocation.”

I stopped reading, grabbed a pen, and started scribbling in the margin of my book. (I’ve learned to act quickly when I receive ideas like that.)

I have always thought of the writing and teaching and mentoring part of my life as sacred. After all, those are the primary ways I tell the stories of Jesus and his Gospel. But I didn’t think of engineering that way. I saw it as merely the funding source for the sacred parts of my life.

So while reading Chasing Francis, it occurred to me, maybe the sacred part, is bigger than I thought.

Before retreating to my book that evening, I had been working on a project identifying a collection of pictures that I hoped would capture my own life message and purpose. It was for a workshop retreat I would attend the end of June. I used a couple of my own photos, but the majority came from a random image presenter that I found online. One of the images I found showed a flat cable of wires (like an old hard drive connector) that became unraveled and wild. Only I saw it as a mixed up mess that came together into a useful and recognizable pattern.

When I showed the image to Cyndi, it was her favorite. She said, “That’s what you do all the time, you bring order out of chaos.”

So when I read the sentence from Chasing Francis about sacred vocations, I still had order and chaos on my mind, and when I started scribbling in the margin of my book, it all came together. As it does.

My life as a writer, teacher, and an engineer are not so different as I’d thought. I bring order out of chaos. I bring meaning out of scattered data, whether from the Bible, or movies, or books, or running, or oil production plots, or wellbore histories.

It was a big insight for me. My vocation is sacred. Just as sacred as my ministry. In fact, it is ALL ministry.

I’ve known from the beginning of my career that writing made me a better engineer. I could never sell a project to management if I didn’t tell the story well, and I could write the story better than most.

What I didn’t understand until last night was how much my engineering mind has made me a better writer. I write better because I solve problems for a living.

Here’s the truth. For decades I’ve dreamed that one day I would be so successful as a writer I wouldn’t have to work as an engineer any longer.

However, in the past couple of years, I’ve seen how quickly I run out of ideas if all I do is write. For some reason I need to interact with people to have new thoughts. Cyndi once told me, “Berry, sitting around and writing is not enough for you. You need to be solving problems for people or you won’t be happy.” She’s a smart girl.

It turns out – it’s all sacred, and it’s all bigger than I thought. I should’ve known this already. What I read the other night wasn’t my first hint.

Once, in 2008, on a cold May night in Colorado, God gave me a clear message about calling, and my response was to repeat over and over, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how big it is.” At the time I thought that meant I had underestimated the effect of writing by focusing too much on book sales. Now I think God may have been telling me “it” was broader than I thought.

So, I have been thinking about life themes (one of those projects writers cannot leave alone), and now I wonder if “Order from Chaos” is the biggest part of mine. Maybe my purpose has never been writing or teaching or mentoring or engineering, but bringing order from chaos in whatever form that may be.

I’ll have to keep working on this idea. If you have any similar thoughts, let me know. I need more input.

“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’s one thing I’ve noticed. Whenever my wife Cyndi talked about her Aunt Teena, her eyes lit up and she smiled. How could I not notice something like that?

Aunt Teena (Ruby Forrestine Atchley) lived in Odessa for the past twenty-five years, about twenty minutes from our house in Midland. We made the trip back-and-forth often for birthday meals and celebratory BBQ dinners at the Rockin’ Q. For almost all of those twenty five years we were the nearest family either of us had.

And for twenty of those years (TWENTY YEARS!), Teena and Cyndi met every Tuesday morning at 5:30 AM to share a cup of tea, pray together, and talk about life and school and family. I happen to know that sometimes they prayed for me. It is a powerful thing to know someone is praying for you by name. Teena was one of Cyndi’s biggest spiritual anchors and a significant contributor to the strong woman Cyndi is today.

One of my favorite things about Cyndi is when we talk at length and in depth about spiritual things, about ministry to couples and men, and retreats and sermons and podcasts, and about music. I’m glad we have that sort of relationship. And that is why I know that Teena was one of two women who became major influences in Cyndi’s life. That also means she was a big influence in my life as well.

How could I not notice and appreciate that? Anyone who makes the love of my life stronger and deeper and more grace-full does me a favor.

Teena once gave me a hand-made birthday card, and on the cover she had drawn a Menger Sponge. It was amazing. A Menger sponge is a three-dimensional fractal curve that simultaneously exhibits an infinite surface area and encloses zero volume. She had heard me describe a math book I’d just read and she witnessed my excitement when trying to explain something so mysterious and cool, and she made a card just for me. It’s the only hand-drawn fractal curve birthday card I ever received. I still have it in my collection at home.

I tell that story because it made me happy the way Teena engaged me in my own obscure theories and wild ideas. She would just smile and listen to me go on and on, and grin at Cyndi, and know that somehow it was all related to my search for God.

How could I not notice someone like that?

During the past months Teena was battling her second round with cancer. She survived her first round and seemed to be doing well, but this second hit took her down. She was miserable most of the time. I only know that because she told Cyndi, not from observing Teena. She always smiled at me and shared the grace of the moment, no matter how bad she felt.

I knew when Teena asked Cyndi for help, to take her to the doctor, or even to drive her to Las Cruces, NM, for special cancer treatment, it was a big deal. This is not a family known for asking help. They like to do things themselves, their own way. (Maybe that’s why I fit in so well.) When she asked Cyndi for help, she was sharing her life once again, and there was grace even in that.

I never resented the time Cyndi spent with Teena in Las Cruces, or wherever, because I knew any time with Teena made Cyndi stronger.

Here is what I know. My own life is richer because of Teena’s influence on my wife, Cyndi. My understanding of God is deeper and my grasp of grace is firmer because Cyndi spent so much time with Teena.

How could anyone not notice a gift as great as that.

Teena didn’t care about Menger Sponges, but she cared about me. Thanks Teena. I am a better man, and a more consistent follower of Christ, because of 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 sat on the edge of the examining chair and held out my right arm, palm facing up, while the fine gentleman nurse put the blood pressure cuff around my arm and pushed the start button. As he watched the numbers climb, he asked,“What do you think – up or down?”

“Well, I feel good,” I replied. “Maybe it’ll be lower this time.”

“Why do you say that? You’ve been coming here for treatment every Monday for a month-and-a-half. You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“Well, not so nervous since you don’t have the scary pictures on the wall.”

The Wound Management Center at Midland Memorial Hospital recently moved around the corner to a new set of rooms, which means they haven’t found places for everything yet, which means they haven’t hung the poster with photos of scary diabetic ankle sores, which means, I’m sure, my blood pressure and heart rate will be lower since I won’t be worrying about my ankles.

I told the nurse, “if I keep coming back long enough you’ll have me convinced my ankle looks like that.”

I am always amazed at what a doctor puts on the walls of an examining room. You would think it would be pictures of people living healthy lives, or beautiful scenery, or those warm family-friendly paintings everyone loves. It seems those would be more conducive to the healing process, a goal to move toward.

But maybe what they have in mind is closing the sale, convincing the visitor there is really something wrong with them so they will feel good about their visit. “Oh look, I have that, and that, and that, wrong with me. Good thing I came to the doctor, today.”

I have a friend who is an “eyeball doctor” (his terminology) and one time I went to his office and he had photos of sick and diseased eyes. I once told him, “This makes my eyes all watery just looking at these photos.”

Another time, about ten years ago, I was in my doctor’s office for, you guessed it, to have my blood pressure checked and recorded (a reoccurring theme it seems), when I noticed an old Time Magazine on the counter. Well, it wasn’t old by doctor’s office standards, but old for you and me. And on the cover was a photo of Charles Manson and his haunting eyes. He is still scary, even in a grainy photograph, even after all these years.

“I don’t think it is a good idea to leave Charles Manson laying around the room while you’re checking blood pressure. I am sure that photo alone is worth 10-15 points,” I said.

“At least we don’t have Helter Skelter playing over the sound system,” said the nurse who was too young to have owned the White Album.

Much to my surprise, my blood pressure was better in spite of the Charles Manson effect. Maybe the scary pictures on the wall and on the magazine actually comfort patients rather than frighten them. Patients think, “Well, at least I am not that bad.”

I am in the middle of teaching the Old Testament book of Job in our young adult Bible study class, and one thing you notice when reading Job is how much bad advice and unhelpful counsel there is. Causes me to wonder, how often do I think I’m helping someone when actually doing the opposite? Do I have any scary pictures on my wall that it’s time to take down?

“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 been working on a commissioned article for LifeWay’s Deacon Magazine, about serving in city government. It hasn’t been easy.

For some reason, I’ve always resisted writing about my government days. And even when I tried, it’s been a struggle. The piece for Lifeway, for instance, went through at least two dozen iterations before I simply had to send it in to meet deadline. Yet, I can write about running a marathon or dancing with Cyndi or playing with my granddaughter in an instant. Why is writing about government so hard?

I don’t know.

Serving on the Midland City Council dominated my thoughts and my time for twelve years so you’d think I would have plenty to write about. Reading through some of my old journals preparing for the magazine piece stirred up a few painful memories that were so fresh I had to put it all down and go walk around the park to clear my head.

But in fact, the painful moments in government were rare. During the years I served we did some great things that made life better for thousands of people. We rebuilt neighborhoods, created parks, and countless other projects only government is willing to do, and I’ll always be ready to brag about those projects.

So, again, why has writing about government and politics been so hard for me?

I suppose I’ve been wary about using my writer’s insights to tell government stories. I was afraid it might cheapen my other writing, my spiritual writing. Even as a teacher I have been overly-cautious, according to some, about mentioning politics or encouraging a particular political message. I remember something my former pastor, Dr. James Denison, once said, “When pastors combine preaching with politics, politics eventually takes over every time.” I have been so concerned about that happening to me I’ve intentionally avoided any political discussion or writing unless I see a joke.

And I never wanted to limit my readers to people who agreed with my politics. I think the evangelical church has alienated too many people from the Gospel of Jesus by aligning itself so closely with one wing of one political party. The harder we preach a political viewpoint the more people we scare away from Jesus. Shame on us.

So, hoping to avoid scaring people away, I’ve avoided political writing. I need all the readers I can get; I don’t want to frighten any away.

I think another reason I’ve avoided writing about government and politics is that it’s hard to tell stories without putting myself on the moral high ground and painting my opponents as evil. Almost all of the people I met while in government were honest and sincere, and even when we disagreed over difficult decisions I could trust them to be true to what they believed. I’ll admit I knew a couple of council members who cared only for their own interests and fame, but they were the exceptions, not the rule.

I suppose another reason I avoided writing about government was, well, it’s hard to tell the story accurately. Success in handling community issues often hinges on the subtlest of points, and writing about nuanced decisions sounds flaky. And it is boring.

But maybe the real reason I never wrote much about government or politics was that it wasn’t the biggest story I had to tell. Political arguments, which results from almost all political writing, tends to drown out all reasonable discussion and creative thinking, and I didn’t want to spend my time fighting. I’d rather write about something else. I’d rather find a spiritual insight in a long run, or a cycling crash, or a family wedding.

So how about you? What stories are hard for you to tell?

“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