“What are you doing early Thursday morning?” asked my Dad. “Are you busy?”

“I’m teaching my Iron Men class at church. It’s our first session of 2016, and we meet at 6:30 AM.”

“OK. I guess you’re busy.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I need a ride to the hospital at 6:00 AM.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I’m having surgery on my carotid artery. You know the one they’ve all been worrying about because of my high blood pressure. They’re going to do a Roto-Rooter on it.”

“You asked if I was busy before telling me you’re having surgery? Don’t you have that backwards?”

“Well, maybe.”

We had this conversation on our way to Saturday lunch at Rosa’s with Cyndi. Over our enchiladas we worked out a satisfactory plan where Cyndi would drive Dad to the hospital at 6:00 and I would come as soon as I was finished with my class.

I asked, “Have you told your Sunday School class you are having surgery next week?”

“No, I don’t want to be one of those people who have something wrong with them every week.”

“Have you mentioned anything before now?”

“Well, no.”

“I think you’re safe. But you’re going to get into trouble if you don’t mention it. They want to take care of you because they love you. That’s the job of Sunday School classes, to take care of each other.”

“OK.”

It’s our family way to fly low under the radar, to not complain, to keep our problems to ourselves. Not because we are especially tough or because we are martyrs – we just don’t want to be a lot of trouble. And we don’t need much attention to feel accepted and loved.

I had to learn how to let other people take care of me. It took a deliberate change in my thinking to allow people to serve me. It didn’t come naturally. I thought, as a leader and teacher, serving was my job. I was uncomfortable on the other side of service.

Even last summer after knee replacement surgeries I tried doing everything myself before asking Cyndi for help. I don’t think it was because I was so stubborn, but it simply didn’t occur to me that I shouldn’t try it myself first. After all, how else would I learn my own limits?

Cyndi and I have both had to learn to let other people help us. Allowing other people to serve us is a significant part of leadership, a step forward in spiritual maturity. We’ve had to stand down and relax. It hasn’t been easy.

I learned this lesson myself a few years back during a Guadalupe Mountains backpacking trip with David Nobles. It was the first day of the trip and we were carrying our heavy packs up Tejas Trail, which is four miles long and climbs 3,000’ in elevation. For some reason, I started falling apart about halfway up, getting short-winded and faint and sick to my stomach. I was taking way to many long rest breaks, so David hustled up to the top of the ridge, dropped his pack on the ground, then came back to help me carry mine. I had done the same for other men on several occasions, but I’d never needed that sort of help myself. It would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t been so grateful.

Here’s the thing: If all we do in life is carry for others, never allow them to carry for us, that really isn’t relationship. If all we do is give, never receive, we have to wonder about our motives. Are we truly serving the needs of others, or feeding the needs of our own ego? We must be willing to receive if we expect to know the grace of God. Only empty-handed people can understand grace. Only vulnerable leaders can understand grace.

So this morning I visited my Dad about an hour after they finished his surgery, when he was just coming around from the anesthesia. A nurse followed me into the room and said, “Mr. Simpson, I need to take a blood sample.”

“You’ll have to ask the last nurse who was in here. She got the last of my blood.”

That’s another family trait that I learned from my Dad, there is always a joke.

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

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“It wasn’t for you,” is what I heard inside my head. Feeling lighter, I quickened my pace immediately.

I was about 2/3 of the way into my evening walk, alongside the Black’s significant fence beside Mockingbird, about halfway between Alysheba Lane and A Street, when I heard the voice of God say, “It wasn’t for you.”

I had been listening to a podcast about trail running and why our fear of failure controls so many of our thoughts and actions when I recalled the story I’d been telling myself since 1986, “You weren’t good enough.” It stemmed from a promotion and transfer I received from my employer, which was later yanked away for reasons that were never explained to me and left me to assume I didn’t measure up in the eyes of senior management. I wasn’t good enough as an engineer.

Since 1986 I’ve outgrown much of the resentment that came from that career-changing incident. I’ve learned to look back at the changes in our lives that wouldn’t have happened had we made the move, the ministries we wouldn’t have that are so important to us today, and the effect on people around us that probably would never occur. All the time I spent in city government would not have been possible had we made the move. In my rational mind I had redeemed the story of 1986 and been thankful for our life today.

But then, while listening to that podcast about fear of failure, I could still hear the old story, you weren’t good enough, ricocheting in my head. I knew that at a heart level it was still haunting me.

“What does God’s voice sound like?” is a reasonable question to ask someone like me who claims to hear God speaking to him. And for me, his voice always sounds exactly like my own voice inside my head.

So what does Satan’s voice sound like? Unfortunately, it sounds the same. It sounds like my own voice in my own head.

Yet, even though the two voices might sound the same, it is easy to tell them apart. Satan’s voice is condemning and shaming, and it comes with a long list of reasons why I shouldn’t act in faith. God’s voice is reassuring and enlightening and opens my heart to move forward.

“It wasn’t for you.” And in that moment, in that instance, I finally realized that the real story from 1986 was not the one I’d been telling myself for 30 years. I had not been held back by a short-sighted employer as I thought, but I’d been set free by God. The promotion, the opportunity, might’ve been a good career move, but it wasn’t right for me. It wasn’t right for the future God had in mind for our family.

Why wasn’t it for me? The fact is, if the job had worked out, I would probably be a mid-to-upper level manager today in a major oil company, pulling down big dollars, living in a giant house, and spending lavishly on my lovely wife. But what would be the effect of our lives besides oil and gas? Where would our lasting impact be?

The true story isn’t that “I wasn’t good enough,” but that God had a better plan. The corporate climb might be God’s will for some, but it wasn’t for me. He wanted me to stay in Midland for a long time and invest in the people he brought to us, not invest in a corporate career. I could never have made that decision on my own, I needed God’s intervention. I needed to be set free.

How about you? What are the lies Satan whispers into your ears? It isn’t the only story – God has the true story of your life and he wants you to know it.

The Bible says, you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free (John 8:32 NIV). Whenever I get a piece of the truth like the bit I received Tuesday night, it feels like freedom. I want more.

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

I would’ve missed my chance for Christmas caroling this year if not for the hard working musicians at my church who hosted a community carol singing downtown in Centennial Plaza last Sunday night. I thought it was wonderful. The attendance was short of what we’d hoped, but it takes a few iterations to train people how to celebrate, so I hope we keep doing this in the years to come. It is too important let slip away.

It was fun to stand in the cold and sing (well, I was actually sitting and playing my trombone with the ensemble, but I think that counts) and sip hot chocolate, next to the giant Christmas tree and lighted decorations. But here is the real reason I loved it. We were singing outside.

Christmas caroling is one of the few moments in our world when adults, especially men, sing aloud outside. Besides the National Anthem at ball games or college fight songs, we seldom sing. That’s not a good way to live.

I was fortunate to grow up with a dad who sang. He was a worship leader in our church and I saw him sing every Sunday, so in my world singing was something grown men did all the time. That’s a big reason why music is still part of my life.

Cyndi and I used to host a Christmas caroling adventure every December for our adult Bible study group. We would hook a flatbed trailer to my pickup and string lights, then fill it with parents and kids and blankets and go caroling around town. We only had time to make three or four stops, but the singing went on even as we drove from place to place. It was usually cold, at least for Texas, but we learned the colder it was the better the kids behaved snuggled under their blankets.

We haven’t gone caroling for the past three years and I am sad about that. I am disappointed in myself for not making it happen. We get so busy and distracted in December, just thinking about doing one more thing can be exhausting. But we should do it anyway. It’s worth the trouble. It is an old tradition that will fade away and be gone in a generation if we don’t keep doing it.

Back when our son and daughter were in high school we used to go caroling with three trombones. People were quite surprised when they opened their doors and found a trombone trio. Even that was a repeat of something we did in high school, when a group of us band kids would go out caroling.

I miss those times. I need another caroling ensemble to play with. I get plenty of opportunities to sing and play carols in church or at home, but caroling has to be outside.

Here’s the thing. If you are reading this and live in Midland and you’d love to go Christmas Caroling (either singing or playing), you have my permission to bug me about it next fall. I don’t want to miss another season.

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

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Last Sunday night we watered those deep roots again, attending a concert in Dallas, “Christmas with Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith.” It was our second time for this annual concert – the last was in the late 1990’s when both our kids were in high school.

I don’t remember details of that previous concert so I can’t compare, but what I liked most about this concert was, well, I told Cyndi: This is a very grown-up concert. They aren’t trying to win us over. They’re just singing about what is important to them.

Amy Grant acknowledged the thousands of long-time fans who’ve traveled with her through life’s joys and disasters when she said: We are all here because we’ve logged miles together through music. She sang:

          All of us, travelers, through a given time.

          Who can know what tomorrow holds

          But over the horizon surely you and I will find

          Emmanuel, God with us

During the concert I scribbled on a 3×5 card from my pocket: “We have long threads running through our lives, and when you pull on one of the threads, stories fall out. The best stories – our favorite stories – the stores that paint our values and connections and hopes.

For example: I’ve been hot for the same woman since 1974, in love with her since 1977, and happily married to her since 1979. We were high school friends for three years, but finally discovered each other at a concert in Denton, Texas (the One O’clock Lab Band with guest Bill Watrous). Music has been one of the most trustworthy roots in our lives together ever since. It’s one of the things that binds us together.

Nothing tells the joy of our lives, and the weight of our hearts, like the music that holds us together. Almost every morning, as we get ready for our day, Cyndi and I end up discussing songs and lyrics. It is more than a shared ritual; it’s one of the ways we know each other best. Many of our happiest memories and meaningful conversations were born from sharing music with each other.

I’ve always loved the strength that comes from longevity. It’s the reason I save all our family calendars in a file folder, and keep my running/cycling logs in a binder, and write notes in my Daily Bible, and play the same trombone since 1970. I want those long threads and deep roots that produce a weighty life.

My point is I am blessed to have deep roots in significant things. Even more, I have the privilege to share those same roots with Cyndi. Knowing we have these long, consistent strings brings peace to my life; more than that gives me courage and strength. The fruit of those roots is the obligation to give myself away to my own kids and grandkids, for the sake of their kids and grandkids.

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

I remember the first time I used a computer spreadsheet. I remember the color of the room, the lighting, the chair where I was sitting, the direction I was facing (east). It was amazing.

I went to engineering school during the final days of the key-punch card era, and computers were not a pleasant experience. We worked for hours punching out our programs, loading them into the card reader, then waiting around for the answers to come spitting out of the printer. Usually, they were mostly error messages.

I assumed my computing days ended with graduation. I thought I’d hand my work to some mysterious computer processing person and they would bring back the answers two days later.

But that day when I was playing with Lotus 2.0 for the first time, I realized I didn’t have to wait for answers. The spreadsheet calculated as fast as I could type. I saw a new future, and it was brilliant. I can still hear the angels singing and see the bright light filling the room.

In the beginning I used my computer as a fancy typewriter, producing prettier reports and clearer writing. Then I used it as a powerful calculator, solving problems and making predictions that would’ve been impossible with graph paper and pencil. Then my computer became my telephone – beginning with email, which allowed me to publish my writing to family and friends, and then to websites, which opened my writing up to strangers, and then to Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and all that. Social media opened up the greater world to this once cave-dwelling introvert.

Some people complain that social media takes over our lives and replaces old-fashioned face-to-face conversations. Not for me. I wasn’t having those conversations before, I wasn’t talking on the phone (something I still avoid), I wasn’t checking in on people and maintaining relationships. Instead I lived under a rock in my cave and I was happy that way.

But now I have regular digital conversations with people around the world, and I’ve discovered I am even happier.

Until Sunday night when Windows decided to push the November Update to me with no warning. By the time it was finished, I couldn’t find my files, my photos, or my music. And the update appeared to delete my most-used aps, including the entire Microsoft Office Suite (Outlook, Word, Excel, etc.).

It was heartbreaking. Microsoft not only did me harm, they did it with no warning or permission. And they did it with a smile on their face. The screen announced: “You will be happy with the changes.” Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

So I spent two days standing on the ledge deciding what to do next. Should I reinstall Office and hope for the best? Should I do a clean install of Windows 10? Or should I revert to Windows 7 and rest in the peace of a well-known and reliable, if ancient, operating system?

Now this is the point when all my Mac-using friends start firing up their emails to tell me to switch and my problems will be over. I did that already, for a year, and I was never happy during that experiment.

My friend, Vern Hyndman, one of several friends who talked me down off the ledge and convinced me to put away my sharp knives, said, “Whether you go Mac or PC you have to buy into a set of irritations.” He’s right. We find the irritations that we can live with and move forward.

The big question I have to ask through all of this, the big question we all have to ask every day, is this: Who do you trust?

Sometimes the person, or the company, we trust turns on us suddenly and without warning and we are left staring at a stupid message streaming across our screen.

We say we trust God but there’s always that fear that he will delete our favorite aps and leave us standing on the ledge with a restructured and unfamiliar life.

Trusting anyone requires a buy-in on our part; a conscious decision.

How do we learn to trust God? Here are two ways that have worked for me: (1) Pray “Teach me to trust you” every day, and (2) Stay close to godly friends who can pull you back from the edge and steer you back toward God.

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

I always hesitate when people ask me what I write about. And since I’m deeply embedded in structural work of my next book, I’m more sensitive to the question than I might be otherwise.

It feels too presumptuous to say I write memoir; who writes memoirs except famous or exception people. And since I am not famous, who am I to write one?

Except that the most influential memoirs on my bookshelf are meaningful to me precisely because of the ordinariness of the story rather than the previous fame of the writer. When I read memoirs of famous people, like Martin Short, Steve Martin, or Billy Crystal, I’m searching for insight into creativity, but I never relate personally to the writer.

However, if I read memoir by Cheryl Strayed, Jon Krakauer, Peter Matthiessen, John Lynch, Lane Belden, Lauren Winner, Gordan McDonald, and on and on, I find myself deep into their lives because I can see my story in theirs.

Maybe it’s similar to those Drugs-to-Jesus testimonies I used to hear at youth rallies when I was a teenager. I never related to the stories because the outlandish life of the speaker was so far from my own. But when someone simple, quiet rule-follower, stood up to talk, I listened. I knew that life.

The Bible tells us that “we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” (Ephesians 2:10)

Those stories we tell aren’t merely a recounting of random events, but a description of God’s work in our lives. The reason good memoir works is because telling the stories of our life helps others recall their own stories, and it is in that connection that we find common truth, purpose, and meaning.

So why is it so hard for me to identify as a memoir writer? Why do I think I have to earn the title through something besides writing?

Maybe I would feel better saying I write “personal stories,” except I’m not trying to merely tell the story of my life, but find the meaning in all our lives. That motivation springs from one of my core strengths: I see patterns where others simply see complexity. As far back as I can remember I’ve been able to find the story, or joke, buried in the chaos. I believe finding meaning among the clutter is my defining skill as a writer and teacher.

And once I find the story, once I understand the punchline, I am compelled to repeat it to everyone I know. Those of you who spend time around me know this to be true. I can’t keep quiet about what I’ve learned.

So I should get over my reluctance to call myself a memoir writer and just blurt it out. To quote a line from the movie, Chef, “I may not do everything great in my life, but I’m good at this. I manage to touch people’s lives with what I do and I want to share this with you.”

QUESTION: What do you do to touch people’s lives? Write? Cook? Serve? Listen?

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Do you enjoy practicing? As in, music, or dance, or sports … those are the categories I think of most when I hear the word practice.

Maybe none of us enjoy practice as much as we enjoy the results. Erwin McManus wrote (in Wide Awake), “You can’t just sit back and hope that the life you long for will simply come to you.” Anything worthwhile is hard work and inconvenient.

When I was in college I fell in with a group of leaders and students that taught the value of spiritual practices. It was what I needed to hear and do, so I joined right it. At the time, for me, that meant scripture memory, bible study, teaching, and group worship.

As I got older my list expanded. To my surprise, running became a spiritual practice even though spiritual pursuit had no bearing on why I started running in the beginning. It’s as if God saw me doing something on a regular basis, in a systematic way, and decided to join me. In my new post knee-replacement era I’m walking instead of running; I expect walking will become a spiritual practice in the same way that running did, but only time will tell. Maybe cycling, also.

And my list of spiritual practices has continued to grow. Most of my hiking and backpacking is in pursuit of God, and I expect to hear from him on the trail.

Writing has certainly become a spiritual practice for me, helping me learn what God is telling me, setting it in my life, allowing me to work out my theology and understanding. Writing also allows me to tell the story and share the lessons I learn. It is in those stories that I see the real work of God.

But there is more to this than modifying our behavior and reshaping our heart. The Apostle Paul wrote: “But I discipline body and make it my slave, so that, after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified.” (I Cor. 9:27, NAS)

What specifically did Paul mean when he said he disciplined his body? I doubt Paul went to weight lifting classes. I think he probably was a runner at some point in his life because he referenced it so often in his writing. He also mentioned boxing in the verses just before these; do you thing he was into boxing? In the NLT translation of the Bible, the verse says, “I discipline my body like an athlete, training it to do what it should.”

We don’t know what disciplines Paul engaged in, but he was a man who believed in spiritual practices.

But even more mysterious than Paul’s workout discipline is this: what did he mean that he would be disqualified?

Disqualified from what? Preaching? Writing? Traveling? Mentoring? Was he afraid he might lose his turn, or people would stop listening, or maybe he’d die too soon?

It’s unsettling that I could be disqualified from teaching because of the way I take care of my physical body. I don’t want to be disqualified because I was too soft or too lazy to treat my body like an athlete, training it to do what it should. So I keep practicing.

Here’s the thing. I’ve learned that if I do the practices: read from my Bible every day, read spiritual books, pray, find time for solitude and searching, share and teach what I’ve learned, memorize and meditate, get around other believers and let them influence me, listen to good teaching and preaching … and all that; well, if I’m true to the practices, the truth comes to me. Through constant practice, Christianity makes sense beyond my rational mind; it makes sense in my heart and soul.

Spiritual practices don’t earn us an audience with God, or mark us as serious disciples, but the process of repetition changes us, changes our heart, changes our motives, and changes our character, to be more like Jesus. Spiritual practices don’t attract God’s attention, but they focuses our own attention toward God.

How about you? What are your regular spiritual practices? How do they help you know and understand God?

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Yes, I am a planner. I like to plan things out, knowing that plans always change. I’m fully aware well-made plans rarely work out the way you thought they would, but I’d rather have to re-plan on the fly than depend on random luck.

Yes, I even plan out vacations. I make a spreadsheet calendar to ensure we have time and opportunity to squeeze in all we want to do. I also include lots of downtime and free time. I’m not trying to stay busy; I’m trying to stay organized.

I enjoyed planning our trip to Italy last May. It was nerve-wracking, for sure, because I didn’t want to make a mess for everyone else, but I loved looking through guide books and maps, looking for places to run or bike, planning what books to take, watching movies to get in the Italian mood. I even loved building my spreadsheet with ideas for each day.

Calendars are great visual presentations of data. They’re like time-maps, and I love maps. I crave the big-picture, high-altitude view of everything. I want to see it all, all at once. As a result, I don’t like calendars that make you turn the page at the end of each month since no one lives their lives like that. I want my calendars to flow, week after week after week, like a continuous river of time, like an endless map.

I’m not alone enjoying the planning process. Psalm 139:16 says, “You saw me before I was born and scheduled each day of my life before I began to breathe. Every day was recorded in your book.”

So God is a planner, a calendar-lover, too. Can’t you picture him holding a calendar in one hand and a pen in another, making entries for our future, all while closely watching each of our complex parts forming up into a baby?

Is that the level of attention God pays to us? It sure seems that way when I read Psalm 139. It sounds very hands-on and detailed.

When I think about our future I’m happy to know God has scheduled every day. He even schedules times when we should stop and rest. Knowing God has taken that level of concern, down to the day-by-day detail, gives us confidence and hope for tomorrow.

At a recent men’s retreat we looked at Ephesians 1:5, which says, “He predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—.” (NIV)

Typically when reading this verse we skid to a stop at the word “predestined” and start arguing and fighting. But this time we considered the same verse from The Message translation: “What pleasure he took in planning this!” And that’s when I started smiling. I loved the notion that God took great pleasure in planning us.

It made God happy to plan our life, the people he would pull into our circle, the words he would give us to speak and teach and write, the wake we would leave behind. I wonder if God went around showing off his spreadsheet (like I do) because he was so proud of his planning.

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

I need your help. The primary reason people read these articles is because people like you share with friends, so please do. And thank you. Also, you can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

Last week, Thursday night, I got to play with the big boys.

I played trombone with the Midland College Jazz Band, and we shared the billing with – get this – Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra (JLCO). It was amazing.

Since the JLCO was the feature of the evening, they set up their own gear on the giant stage, and we used it. This, for me, meant a chair, music stand, microphone, and two music clips. It felt as if the kids had snuck onto the stage when the big boys weren’t looking and made themselves at home.

My daughter Katie posted this on Facebook: “Can’t wait to hear the stories and see the pictures of my dad, getting to rock out with his Silver Sonic trombone while opening for jazz royalty Wynton Marsalis tonight!!!!!”

But the meaning of the evening went even deeper. My brother Carroll posted this: “Music is strong in my family, and that is powerful. We may not be the best at it, but that’s not at all the point. What is the point is that it is a bond, a glue, a presence, even a bragging right sometimes. It doesn’t even have to come up that often, because when it does, we circle the wagons. Tonight is one of those nights, and I could not be more excited for my brother.”

I was 12-years-old when Carroll was born and I started college the year he started first grade. And so, we had very little in common. I grew up with 60s rock-and-roll, Richard Nixon, the Viet Nam War, and wore bell-bottomed Levi’s. Carroll grew up with 80s rock inspired by MTV, Ronald Reagan, and wore zippered parachute pants and Vans.

Through the years the thing we had between us was music. I played trombone and loved music, Carroll played drums and loved music. I’ve always been a utility player, able to handle my parts but never a soloist. Carroll has always been a percussion prodigy, earned his living playing for many years, and he is the finest drummer I’ve ever played with.

I don’t know how far back music goes in our family; what I meant is, I don’t how many generations were musicians, but I credit my dad with the fact I am a musician today. He never pushed or pulled me into music, but he certainly inspired me. Because of my dad I grew up knowing music was something grown men did regularly. It was a manly pursuit. So I pursued it.

And just like my Dad, I married a musician. Cyndi played melodic percussion (bells, chimes, xylophone, etc.), and we play together in various church ensembles as often as possible.

Playing my trombone, something I’ve done consistently since 1968, is not only fun, but it is completely physical. I use primarily my arm, lungs, and chops, but truly my entire body is part of the action. Especially my heart, which is the most important part. Music is a full-body experience. (Maybe that’s why electronic dance music leaves me cold … there aren’t enough body parts used to create it.)

Not only do I appreciate the physicality of playing music, and the deep family connection, but I love the tribal impact it has had on me. I once asked my music mentor, Rabon, “When we are together, I can play rhythms and hit high notes that I’m not good enough to play any other time. Why is that?”

He just laughed and shrugged his shoulders in his non-analytical way, as if to say it was all a mystery and it was all joy and maybe I should just let it happen.

Not willing to leave any thought unanalyzed, I said, “I think it’s because when we’re together I’m braver, and bolder; I’m a warrior standing beside my band of brothers and I can do more than I ever imagined.”

Rabon just nodded his head to agree.

Here’s the thing. I spent a weekend at a men’s retreat in the Colorado Mountains, and surprisingly, one of the things I left with was a renewed and reinvigorated appreciation for music in my life. Maybe because my roommate was a guitar player and worship leader and we talked music the entire weekend.

And then, four days after my retreat, I played an outdoor jazz concert with Wynton Marsalis and the JLCO. Although our skills were markedly different, we all, both bands, played our best, and there was music in our hearts. It lit me up, once again.

So much that I’ve been practicing my trombone at home, not a lot, but more than I have in twenty years. And I’ve been listening to J. J. Johnson and Jack Teagarden in my office. Who knows what will happen next. I’ll just have to follow the changes and try to keep up.

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.

We were eating dinner at the neighborhood clubhouse across the street from my house and listening to a friendly police officer talk about neighborhood watch, when Amber looked at the scars on my knees, both the old one – six weeks old – and the new one – two weeks old. She said, “I’ve got scars five years old that aren’t as smooth as that.”

I pointed to my left knee and said, “The curious thing is, I am almost 60 years old, and it takes all my willpower to keep from picking the scabs off this scar. Why am I still addicted to such a childish thing?”

Scabs are an important protective mechanism used by the body to prevent bleeding and infection (and deserve a nobler name). We should leave them alone. Especially as adults. And yet, we don’t.

Picking scabs is like pressing bruises, touching painful teeth, or rubbing a sore elbow. It’s almost instinctual. As if we were born unable to leave well-enough alone.

And even worse, our tendency to pick isn’t limited to physical wounds. During the past two months we’ve had controversial and painful changes in our church. This is the church we’ve attended for 33 years, that helped us raise two children, and comforted and nursed our family through multiple layoffs and crises. The changes left a lot of people hurt, feeling removed and unappreciated. Our church is now in the process of navigating through the debris field, and we have a long way to go before we’re clear.

I’m in a unique position since I serve on the church governing council. It gives me insight into the process and background of the controversial decisions, yet I’m not part of the committees that actually had to make those decisions so I still have a thin layer of separation. As a result, I get lots of questions from friends who want my thoughts about the situation. I’m happy to help.

In addition to the questions, I get emails from well-meaning church members who see conspiracy and manipulation behind every decision, and now are standing on the ramparts at full-alert watching for the next bit of news that might confirm their theory.

The fact is, and it is a fact that is hard to accept and understand, but good people who seek God daily, who have dedicated themselves to serve others and live in grace and love, often end up on the opposite sides of decisions. How can that be? Shouldn’t godly people think alike?

But often, they don’t.

Why can’t we disagree without assuming the other side is deceived, or worse, possessed by evil?

It takes constant vigilance to avoid becoming a cynic; cynicism is simply too easy. Cynics seldom solve problems. They might point them out, but that is never as helpful and they think. Being a cynic is nothing but lazy thinking. It requires no faith, no imagination, and no trust to talk about the worst of the worst.

So this morning as I read yet another scary email about the underhanded things afoot, I thought about my left knee.

I decided to stop picking scabs. I vowed to let healing occur, stop picking and poking and pressing, and let Jesus heal my knees, and heal my church, in His own good time.

I don’t mean to belittle the pain we’ve all felt, or underestimate the loss and hurt we’ll live with going forward. I don’t mean to say I’m completely comfortable with all the decisions that have been made (to be truthful, I’m not comfortable with many of my own decisions, especially during my twelve years as an elected member of city government).

But all I have to do is walk down the hall with my cane to remember that healing takes a long time. Maybe years. And not all healing is complete. Sometimes we move with a limp even after all the scars are gone. There is nothing easy about healing deep wounds.

But I want to live the rest of my life allowing people and churches and knees to heal. I want Jesus to show me patience through the debris, give me hope for clear sailing ahead, and the wisdom to spread that to everyone around me. I hope and pray that will be your life as well.

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

I need your help. If you enjoyed reading this, please share with your friends. You can find more of my writing on my weekly blog, read insights on Tumblr, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook.