The Journey

Catch-22

I glanced at my phone as my friend's text came through:  "Dude, I forgot to mention that I need you to be an usher.  We'll talk later." 

Seeing as how the wedding is on Saturday, I suppose we better talk soon, though there isn't much to worry about in terms of the job function.  By now, asking the question "Bride's side or groom's side?" is about as automatic as a fast-food worker asking someone if they "want fries with that?".  Escort the women, young and old, down the aisle and find a suitable place for them to sit and see the action.  Make small talk and ask where people are from, or if they're friends or family or family friends.  Stand in the back and be ready to help out where needed, and threaten to bounce unruly guests, jokingly, sort of.  Loosen the tie only after the bar has opened and all of the formal pictures are done.

At last count, this will be the 22nd wedding in which I have been an active participant.  The joke, of course, stems from the movie "27 Dresses," and though I don't have 22 ties, I do have quite a few memories.  I've been in weddings from Minnesota to Texas, from Nashville to Los Angeles, and all points in between.  I've stood with high school friends, college friends, work friends, and friends for life.  Some I talk to daily and some I haven't spoken to in years.  I've been an usher in about half of the weddings, a groomsman in roughly the other half, and twice I've stood on the bride's side.  Seriously.  I stood with my sister when she got married since her best friend couldn't make it to the wedding during the holidays.  I also stood on the bride's side for one of my best friends at the request of her and her husband, though I insisted I wouldn't wear a dress and I would be referred to as a bridal-attendant.  I did get to help host her bachelorette party, serving wine and lasagne to a dozen girls (minus my shirt) so in that scenario I really was "the best man."

I could make jokes, and I will, or I could be sad, wondering when it will ever be my turn to invite people to help out at my wedding, but I won't.  Instead, I look at it and think that 22 times I've been asked to participate in one of the most important and memorable events in a couple's life.  Twenty-two times I've been asked to stand as an active witness for two people who are committing their lives together before God, family and friends.  Standing there is like being an embassy guard, saying that their marriage I will honor and defend.

As I think about all of the people I've supported in this capacity, I'm glad to know that if any couple from one wedding were to meet another couple from another wedding, they'd all know me as the same person.  Yes, many of my perspectives have changed.  I've learned some hard lessons and been refined.  But I can confidently say that if my friends from the very first wedding I was in were to meet the couple that I'll support on Saturday, I would have nothing to fear as I if I had ever been two different people.  Consistency is really the only gift I can give back to them, consistently. 

More than anything, I am humbled to have, and to have had, so many friends.

Onward.

JRH

Late Winners

On Saturday, I felt the sweat sting my eyes as I tried to focus on how my feet were hitting the track while I ran the fastest mile I've run in a decade.  I felt like a clumsy 14 year old kid again, struggling to go fast, while falling in and out of my new form.  Moments of speed were interrupted by 35 years of bad muscle memory.  Afterwards, I went to the fence and hung on, trying not to lose my breakfast.  I was miserable, but that meant I'm growing again.  The Houston Marathon is 8 months away and I'm only up to 1 mile. 

My dad always had a saying that he liked to pull out when I got down and compared myself to others.  "Early winners, late losers," he'd say.  Once the given endeavor got to the point where the easy points, miles, reports, money, recognition or whatever had been gathered, those who put their heads down and kept going would continue to reap rewards long into the future.

Somewhere, though, in the midst of life, I'd settled into that point of being good enough.  Growing meant work, and work meant trials, and trials meant pain, and that frightened me because I don't like to fail.  I'd been resting on my natural ability to run, solve problems, and just live life.

Recently, it seems that all of my friends have launched their own athletic resurrections.  I've watched each one of them do the work necessary to break lose from the routine of an easy daily life and find out what they're capable of accomplishing.  My friend Daniel out in Nashville went from a couch surfing musician to doing 100 mile bike rides on the weekends; my high school friend Cynthia in Colorado is preparing for her first half-Ironman triathlon; my life long friend Jeff in Houston, who always made a pretty good backline digger in volleyball, erupted last weekend at Ironman Texas to finish the 140.6 mile race in under 12 hours.  Each of them have weighed heavily on my mind.  Without trying, they have challenged me, and I am more grateful to them than they can imagine.

Each of them has answered the question that has haunted me for the past few years.  A girl I went out with once asked me, right before Ironman Arizona 2008, "What could you do if you really tried?"  I failed to finish that race, falling less to heat exhaustion, and more to my own lack of hard work (and she broke up with me the next day.  Good times.)  My friends are finding out, and I realized that despite past success, I never really embraced the question, until now.

So, like with everything else in my life right now, I'm starting from zero, literally learning to put one foot in front of the other.  Step by step.  I had early success based on one formula, but scrapped it all.  With faith that God will show me, usually through other people, I want to know how to really live.  How to manage my finances, how to love people, how to build a business, and how to discern God's direction in everything I do.

I'm learning how to walk.  Eventually, I'll learn to run.

Onward,

JRH

Plant Manager

I was given a plant a few months ago when I moved into my new apartment.  I’ve never owned a plant before.  I once had some moldy bread, so that’s kind of like having a really low maintenance plant, but it’s not the sort of thing people give to one another as a housewarming gift.

My friend’s mom once told him that he’d be ready for a relationship when he could keep either a plant or a pet alive.  A few weeks later he proudly declared that he was ready for a relationship because he’d gone out and bought… a cactus.  Aside from moldy bread, that’s probably the greatest low maintenance organism possible.  Well played.

Plants are harder in some ways than pets.  A puppy will howl when it wants out of its kennel, it pees on the carpet and requires your attention, and begs when it’s hungry or sees my food.  It provides obvious feedback and I must react.  I may not react properly, but I have to do something.  A plant is much more subtle.  It doesn’t say anything.  It doesn’t move unless the fan is blowing on it.  It will never complain.  It will never tell me what I’m doing wrong.  It will just show me, but I have to look for it.

So, I have owned my plant for several months, and while it grew a small amount, it didn’t flourish by simply being in my presence the way I had imagined it should.  Vain and narcissistic?  You betcha.  Selfish?  That’s me.  Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Plants require good soil.  I needed to put it into a big pot with plenty of room to grow, with gravel in the bottom for the proper drainage, and good soil where the roots can spread out.
2. Plants require sunlight.  It’s a sunless palm, but it’s not a mushroom.  It needs to be kept in a prominent place to get the light it needs throughout the day.  Light is a good thing.
3. Plants require attention.  I have to keep my eye on the plant, checking to see if it’s growing or not, admiring the new growth, and pruning the dead or dying chutes.  I know how I’m doing only by seeing if it’s growing or dying.
4. Plants requires that little something extra.  I bought some fertilizer because even good soil needs a boost.  Being inside, it was only going to get that boost from me and not from nature.  I had to make the investment.  It was only $10 for a bottle of mystery nutrients, but that means that’s one less time I can go out for dinner.  The investment was coupled with worthwhile sacrifice.  Keeping that plant alive is more important than me eating a gourmet hamburger (with bacon and jalapenos).
5. Plants require consistency.  For the plant to grow, I needed to turn it periodically to face the sun.  I needed to set up a schedule to water it and not just do so when I happened to think about it or saw a bunch of dead leaves and once again try to resurrect it.  Once it got back on track, I had to keep doing the same things that got it growing in the first place.

I suppose I could sing to my plant as some people recommend, but like I said, I'm not trying to kill it.

It’s the same for friendships and relationships, and it reveals my ignorance.  People respond to me when I invest in them, just as I respond to people who invest in me.  Some plants, and friendships, are hardier than others, but those are the rare exception.  The vast majority require investment, consistency, attention, room to grow, and exposure to good things.  The best ones get that little something special. 

The plant gives me almost nothing in return, yet I invest in it.

I’m 35 years old and it is taking a plant, a small sunless palm, to teach me selflessness.

 

Growing.

JRH

Silent Treatment

In math class I was taught that if you have two data points, you can begin to form a trend.  The more data points, the more likely the trend, and one can more confidently discern the "voice" of the system being analyzed.  I like to think that I can discern a trend after one data point, but I'm usually wrong in those cases.  With data and feedback, we can turn the knobs and adjust how the system behaves.  Without data and without correction, we're left to guess and which way to turn the knob, hoping that our efforts will still yield positive results.

Recently, I started collecting data points, though I wasn't looking for any.  An acquaintance from church sent me a note saying he'd stumbled across my blog and encouraged me to keep writing.  I barely know the guy, but I thanked him for his feedback.  That's one.  My mentor in Dallas pulled me aside at a conference we were attending and said, "You need to keep writing about what you've learned."  That's two.  Others have asked me to let them know the latest, as 2010 was another crazy and unpredictable year on this path, and 2011 is well underway.  The problem was that they had to ask me for feedback, because I wasn't giving any, and wasn't looking for correction.

2010 seemed to last forever.  When you're working, it seems one can look down on Jan. 1, then look up on July 4 and say, "Where has the time gone?"  When you're not working, or are looking for work, you're praying to get to 7 PM so that you can tell yourself you've done all you can for one day.  In the midst of the job search, I grew frustrated.  "What do you want to do?" was the question I most often faced when I met people, be they new friends or old.  I never had an answer for them that I believed.  Life became just like Groundhog's Day, only without the groundhog. 

Wake up at 6:30 AM.  Run.  Shower.  Coffee.  Quite time.  More coffee.  Listen to voicemail.  Check e-mail.  Look for a job.  Lunch.  Look for a job.  Find a reason to run an errand.  Look for a job.  7 PM.  Dinner, followed by episodes of "Pawn Stars."

I'd been doing this off and on for three years and never seemed like I was getting closer to any sort of breakthrough.  Friends, a mentor, and even a high priced career coach all tried to help, but I resisted because I didn't want to say anything, then have the future turn out different from what I'd told them, and then look like I didn't know anything.  So, with a desire to control everything, coupled with embarrasment that my search has taken so long, I went silent.  I quit writing.  I quit returning e-mails.  I quit returning phone calls.  I quit initiating activities.  When I get frustrated, I pull back to regain some sense of control over things.  It is always the wrong thing to do.

Back in February, I told my mentor (PhD physicist, business consultant, Bible scholar, and on and on) how I had pulled back from a relationship.  Instead of telling me how smart I was, he righteously tore me a new one.  He told me to apologize to the one I'd hurt, and to get on my knees and repent to God for my independent living.  I've done what I want, when I want, where I want, how I want, with whom I want for most of my adult life, and while the world tells us that the ultimate goal, it's absolutely wrong.  We are meant to live in community, and I've learned that I don't do well when I'm not living in community.  Where would I be today had I listened to those who've tried to help?

I'd once written about being pruned like a vine, and allowing others to correct me.  What I have learned is that the process is continuous.  We might get stripped down in one season, but if we don't allow others to help us and guide us, that which regrows is unlikely to be any more productive than what previously existed.  You can't prune a grape vine one season and assume it'll be OK on its own after that, or even better each year.  It requires constant maintenance and correction to fulfill its purpose, and so do we.

So, I apologize.  The breakthrough finally came, and since October there have been almost daily revelations, but before then I was embarrased, ashamed, and tired of saying that nothing had changed, so I went silent.  In reality, a lot changed, but I stopped writing and stopped sharing what I was seeing and learning.  I stopped allowing others to see my struggles and my searching, and thus, hindered opportunities for growth.  No more.

Onward,

JRH

 

 

Extra Moist

Each week, the Travel Channel has some show highlighting the best BBQ restaurants in the country.  The controversy between pork and beef will never die, but within Texas, beef is the champ.  Within that category, all things BBQ are measured by the quality of brisket.  It's a lower-grade cut of beef overall, but cook it for several hours over a low oak fire and I'd guess that even manna from heaven would have a hard time competing.

If you go to any grocery store in Austin, you'll find brisket in 10 lb. slabs, roughly 12" wide by 18" long by several inches thick.  It's an impressive thing to behold, almost Fred Flinstonian in its appeal.  Depending on the cut at the restaurant where it's served, one can get extra lean or extra moist, depending on how much fat you want in the meat.  So, each time I go to the store, I like to swing by the meat section to look around.  Specifically, I'll take a few seconds to check out the briskets.  Truthfully, it's a spiritual exercise.

When I started this journey, I was over 220 lbs.  One of the really fantastic and wonderful side-effects of being on Prozac can be unexpected weight gain.  Having been around 180 lbs. for most of my adult life, I'd gotten medicine in order to just function at work.  Before long, my pants didn't fit anymore.  I felt even worse.  I'd trained for several Ironman races over the years, and in the midst of all those miles I'd gained weight at a surprising rate.  Yes, I was in my 30's, but I was as active as ever. 

So standing in front of the big meat bin, I reached in and picked up a 10 lb. brisket.  Then another.  Then another.  Then another.  I know it's not an exact comparison, but it's hard to figure out where I put 40 lbs. of extra weight on my 6' 2" frame.  Between the cold temperatures of the meat and the sheer weight, I got uncomfortable pretty quickly and put the meat back.  Thank God those days are done, I thought, then moved on to buy my short list of staple items.

After everything I've seen and dealt with, I simply tell people that what you see now is merely an external representation of what's happened on the inside.  In walking things out over the years I've had to lay down an awful lot.  A banner of rejection that I'd picked up along the way, never intended for me, had to be put down.  The curse of an unfulfilled life had to be rebuked.  Fear that I couldn't trust people hung on a chain around my neck, as heavy as one of those briskets.  It's taken a long time to work through it all, but God is faithful and kept driving me forward.

This morning I tipped the scales at 175 lbs. and ran an easy 7 miles with a friend from church.  In the middle of the run he revealed many of the things he's had to face in life, but how he felt "lighter" after having gotten to the root of the issues.  He knows a lot about my story, so I told him to go to the store and just hold a few briskets.  It'll provide a pretty meaty perspective.

Carefully trimmed,

JRH

Mug Shot

On the days when I'm not running or cycling early in the morning, my routine is well established.  Working or not, my alarm goes off at 6:30 AM.  I get up at 6:40 AM.  Shower.  Dress.  Get a cup of coffee.  Pray.  Read.  Journal.  This has been standard for years with one exception. 

Right before Christmas of 2007, a buddy and I made an impromptu trip to Cabela's.  He'd gotten permission from his wife to go shopping for a new pair of expensive binoculars.  He and I agreed that it was truly a miracle that he'd survived in this world for so long without them and he was glad to set things right.  Crisis averted, and he tossed in some fishing lures for good measure.

I had no intent of buying anything, but sitting on a shelf I found a mug that needed to come home with me.  It was slightly over-sized, though not obnoxious, with a picture of John Wayne on the side.  Who wouldn't like that?  Inside of the mug, below the lip, read the words:

"Courage is being scared to death - but saddling up anyway." - John Wayne

Sometimes words just sort of press on your heart.  Back then, I knew change was coming.  I prayed for it.  I wrote about it.  I'd already written my resignation letter earlier in the year, but didn't feel "released" to go yet.  I knew it would be soon.

I bought the mug, wrapped it up, and gave it to myself for Christmas.  When my family saw what I had done, they understood.

Now, each morning when I take a sip, that quote is right in my face.  It's a daily reminder.  My friend Scott Dannemiller defined courage as faith divided by fear.  It's an equation.  Which is greater, the numerator or the denominator?

In the past 27 months I've moved into a rental house, moved out of the house, moved in with friends, and put everything in storage.  I've since given away most everything I own.  I've lived in a factory.  Now I sleep on a cot in a friend's spare bedroom.  I got off Prozac, lost 45 pounds, raced Ironman in Idaho, and rode my bike all over Texas.  I lived in Italy, picking grapes and olives.  I've been all over this country, from California to Pennsylvania.  I've done work for a friend's investment company, two  mortgage companies, laid sod and spread compost, volunteered for one thing or another, tutored a college student, managed my friend's factory, set up a business system, did statistics on a poultry farm, and on and on.  Parts is parts.  I've seen countless people demonstrate nothing less than Christ-like generosity, asking nothing in return.  I've worked hard, played harder, and prayed every step of the way, finally facing demons I never thought I'd be rid of.

Regrets?  None.  Am I still scared?  Every day.  Do I know what's next?  Nope.  Do I have faith that it will all be OK?  Yes.

Saddled up.

JRH

Free Speech

The words flowed out of my mouth and echoed in my ears as though they'd been spoken by someone else.

"I want to do what I did in Brownwood, but not in Brownwood."

My friend nodded his head politely, then went back to drinking his third can of Pearl Light beer.  I paused, contemplating what I'd just said and its gravity.  For 27 months, I'd recoiled at the question, "what's next?"  I dodged it.  I ignored it.  I got defensive.  I retreated from friends for fear of being asked the question.  Becoming a master of misdirection was never an intended consequence of my journey.  This time, I spoke with confidence.

I'd spent the last two years, and many miles, soul-searching, trying new things, seeing different parts of the world, and testing different industries.  Professionally, what have I learned during this time?  In short, I'm a good engineer.

But what may have been intuitively obvious to the casual observer, I was willing to challenge and lay down for a long season.  No pride.  No past.  No title.  It was a chance to start completely over and make sure that was really my calling.  This time, I know it is.  It's more difficult than you can imagine having a conversation with a nice girl that goes something like this:

Nice Girl:  "So, what do you do?"

Me:  "I'm doing it right now."

Nice Girl:  "What's that?"

Me:  "Nothing."

Nice Girl:  (gives polite smile while slowly backing away...)

I told a friend the other day that the further I get away from my experience in Brownwood, the better it was.  I was so overwhelmed by my loneliness (as evidenced by my lack of writing) that I didn't appreciate what I was doing daily.

So, what was so great?

1.  I served a friend.  There is no higher level of accountability than working for someone with whom you have a friendship.

2.  I had authority.  Admittedly, I like being in charge.

3.  I had the freedom to invent and really get creative.  It was like "Apollo 13."  I had limited data, a small budget, little to no equipment, but had to figure out how to create a new product in four months.  No bureaucracy.  No meetings.  I stressed.  I lost sleep.  I loved it.

4.  I was unique.  I was the only degreed engineer out of everyone, so it was a far cry from being surrounded by 1,000 people just like me.

5.  I had the perfect blend of office time, factory time, and field time.  Some days, I closed my office door and worked on a cost model or did statistics and asked to be left alone.  Other days, I was on a ladder with a maintenance guy troubleshooting why we'd lost exhaust, or asking my team lead how she'd improved product quality.  I got to travel to another company to learn a new technology, then had freedom to make it happen in my friend's plant.

6.  I left a legacy.  No matter what you do, the testimony of a job well done is measured in the effectiveness of people after the person driving the change is gone.  Few things made me happier than solving a problem with other people, involving them in the decision making process, even if the answer was obvious to me, so that they could solve problems after I was gone.  "Empowering others" is a really a fancy way of saying "I trust you."  It's a lousy manager who guards his or her power by not telling others what they did.  I shared everything.

What I absolutely love is working with groups of people whose mission is to provide a tangible product or service.  To wander into a mess, raise my hand and say, "Give me six months and the resources I need and I'll get it fixed."  Making products or providing services that people use daily lets me know that I helped others.  I'm not into weird electronic sub-components, but rather, things I use myself.

So, that's the mystery answer and the ability to articulate this nearly makes me cry.  Our culture says we can do whatever we put our minds to.  That's not true at all.  I tried.  Instead, I found out what I was uniquely, purposefully, and fearfully made to do.

I don't know what's going to happen next so I'm casting a wide net, looking for consulting opportunities or small companies that want to grow.  If you have ideas let me know.  I pray hourly that God will open the door to the next assignment that He's already prepared, so that I can pursue things I've purposely delayed for a long, long time (i.e. relationships and other adventures).  But now, in everything, I can say I'm available.  Have calculator, will travel.

Onward.

JRH

Yellow Bus

Day One:  100 miles via bicycle from Houston to LaGrange, TX.

Typically, this isn't too difficult, especially if you're in your early 30's, have routinely ridden century (100 mile) rides on a bike, shrug in an "aw shucks, it's no big deal" manner when people ask about past Ironman races, and have been down that stretch of road several times before.

It's a very different game when you're 62 years old, haven't exercised with much appreciation since junior high, think colorful Spandex clothing is for those "flat-bellied" people, and can't figure out why someone would ride a cotton-pickin' bicycle when a car with an internal combustion engine is a fine invention.

But there was my dad, rolling into LaGrange, battered and beaten, but victorious.  Late last year, while he and I were enjoying some really epic anxiety attacks regarding our careers, I said, "Dad, we need an adventure.  The rules are: 

1.  We have to train for it.  Unlike fishing, we can't just show up and do it.  The preparation is part of the fun.

2.  Success cannot be guaranteed, otherwise there's no adventure."

He agreed, and I signed us up for the MS-150 ride from Houston to Austin.  It's set for two days, with an overnight stay in LaGrange, then a finish line celebration in Austin behind the Capitol building with 13,000 of your closest friends and fellow riders.

April came and we hit the road.  With 100 of our newest friends from Taco Deli, like two-legged lemmings we started our annual migration from Houston back home.  200 yards into the ride, he forgot to shift going up a hill, couldn't unclip, and fell over.  Hmmm.  This could be a long day, I thought.  He swore quietly, righted himself, and pressed on.  After nine hours on the road, we hit LaGrange, where we'd eat more tacos than allowed by law and try to get some rest.

The next day, though, revealed that Day 2 would be tougher in every way than Day 1.  Shortly after starting out, I noticed Dad was rather focused.  His knee was binding on him due to an old ACL unjury and our pace was getting dangerously slow.  At the first rest stop 10 miles in we pulled over.

"Dad, what's wrong?"

"My knee really hurts.  My ACL is flaring up and I can't seem to get comfortable.  I'm in bad shape."

"Let's pull it."

"No.  I didn't come here not to finish."

"You didn't come here to go home injured, either."

We decided to catch the bus and ride it back to Austin.  The day would be done.  However, the bus volunteer indicated that the only bus we could ride would take us and our bikes to the next stop, 10 miles down the road.  Good enough, let's just head toward Austin, we thought.  A few stops later, I found the lunch tent while Dad found the first aid tent.  The nurse wrapped his knee with the last bandage she had, and his spirits lifted.  I found a volunteer to get info on the bus going home.

"Right there," he said.  "White bus takes you back to Austin.  No finish line.  No pictures.  Yellow bus takes you to the next water stop, and you ride home from there."

It's in those moments that you're faced with a choice.  Suffer for victory, or cut your losses.

"Dad, it's your call.  Can you ride 10 more miles?"

Pause

"Yep.  Let's take the yellow bus."

We jumped on the yellow bus and bounced our way across Texas to the last stop outside of Austin where they dropped us off.  Dad clipped in one more time.  Weaving our way through east side neighborhoods, we finally crossed under I-35 and into the University of Texas campus.  Cruising through campus, I knew he was in pain, but I smiled like a fool.  Coming up the backside of the capitol, I yelled above the crowd noise, "This is what it's about!"  He just smiled.  We rode 120 miles across Texas, with the finish line in doubt, accepting help and encouragement along the way.

Now, I have a great picture of he and I in our colorful Spandex, crossing the finish line.

I love that old man.

Onward.

JRH

Dangerous Prayers

Here's another post that I delayed.  Maybe sharing it is a form of self-encouragement.  I know how this part of the journey turns out, so I'm anxious to figure out the next part.

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A few years ago, a wise friend once asked, "Joel, do you ever pray dangerous prayers?"  I wasn't sure what she meant, but she wouldn't elaborate.  I pondered the thought.  Why would I pray a dangerous prayer?  Wouldn't that mean that I'd be asking God to make me uncomfortable?  That sounded kind of stupid and not really what faith today is all about, right?  I wasn't about to ask to be sent to war or put out on the street.  I was pretty sure I could learn from the examples in the Old and New Testaments about God's love, provision, and plans to prosper me and not harm me, without really doing any heavy lifting of my own.  No "dangerous prayers" for me, thank you very much.  Besides, I already had plans for the weekend.

Earlier this spring, I'd begun the weekly commute between Austin, one of the best cities to live in in the country as rated in every magazine possible, to, well, Brownwood, TX.  Each Monday (or Sunday night), I point my truck due north on Hwy, 183 and take a nap for the next 2-1/2 hours until I get there.  On Fridays I make the same drive, only in reverse.  In addition, technically I am still homeless, as I do not have an address with my name on it.  I'd always figured that at 34 years of age that I'd have a decent home, with a shop for building stuff and a good yard to maintain.  Walking around the factory at night to throw something in the dumpster reminded me I am pretty far from my original plan.

So what did my friend mean?

I knew that when I left my old job that it would be an adventure.  However, like some sort of modern-day prodigal son, spreading compost wasn't on my original agenda.  Don't pray for humility.

The contract job was turning from what I thought to be a two month assignment, into something much greater.  How long could I keep going?  Can I figure out how to deal with some of these people?  The answers aren't coming as quickly as I need them to feel comfortable.  The long drive is really getting old.  Don't pray for patience.

Between staying with my ultra-generous friends and living in the factory, I have no idea what's going to happen next.  When will I get my own place to live?  When will this assignment be done?  Is this going to turn out OK?  What's going to be next?  Don't pray for faith.

Daily, twenty-two people, often more, need me to fix something, look at something, answer a question, figure something out, or make peace.  At the end of each day, I am exhausted.  Don't pray for endurance.

See where this is all going?  Trust me, the best chance to avoid such trials is to stay where you are doing exactly what you're doing.  There's no guarantee of happiness or avoidance of boredom, but as a pastor once said, "Don't pray for a miracle, because miracles require miracle situations."

Praying dangerously.

JRH

Small Talk

This is an old entry that I wrote in August of 2009, but for some reason chose not to post.  I decided it was time.

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As the music at church reached the calm transition point between songs, Margie pointed a crooked finger at my chest and said, "Joel, I need you to sit with me.  None of my friends are here today so I'm all alone."  I told her to save me a seat, and that when I was done with my usher duties, and getting her some fresh Kleenex to replace the nasty used ones she crammed up her shirt sleeve, that I would come sit with her.  When a 79 year old woman who's as frail as an eggshell tells you to sit by her, you do it.  There just might be some wisdom waiting.

Since April 20th, I'd been making the long drive from Austin to Brownwood, where I've been managing part of a friend's printing company.  As the only non-computer related engineer here, I have a lot of freedom and I am loving what I do.  I deal with personnel issues, scheduling, quality, production, maintenance, purchasing, invention, and whatever else gets tossed through the door into my office.  More often than not, the hours go by with little notice, except around lunchtime, and I generally feel like I have gotten something accomplished and provided value to not only the company, but also to my friend who hired me for this season of life.

The toughest part, though, of this assignment is that working in Brownwood is "socially inconvenient."  Those of you who've been consultants know what I'm talking about.  Whether it's Brownwood, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, or Austin, if it's not your home and your friends or family aren't there, then there will always be something missing.  So when a friend from church started recruiting me to interview with the company he works for back in Austin, I started planning my triumphant return, but only for a moment. 

On Wednesday, plans for my immediate future crystallized.  Looking over the project schedule, I realized I needed to stay.  To the end of the year.  To get my projects done, to introduce the new products, and have the catalog ready to ship by December would require me to stay.  I sent James a note saying that I was committed to finishing this thing out.  Me leaving would be detrimental to his company, but more so to our friendship.  He took a chance on me, and for me to leave and go back to Austin without finishing the job wouldn't be right.

Thursday was rough.  I spent most of the day mired in the thought of spending six more months away from friends, and continuing to make the long drive each week.

I finally came back and grabbed the seat next to Margie.  The pastor worked his way through what I'm sure was a good sermon about living in community, but that's not what I remember.  About halfway through the sermon, Margie leaned over and softly said, "Joel, Thursday was a tough day for you, wasn't it?"

I swallowed hard and said, "Yeah, Margie.  Thursday was a tough day."

My mind swirled.  I've been in this situation before, but I never expect it.  A few minutes later, Margie leaned over again and said, "But it was the decision you made on Wednesday that made it tough, wasn't it?"

This time, there were tears.  I whispered back to her.  "Yeah, Margie.  Wednesday was a tough day, too.  I'll let you know what's going on after the sermon."

Margie doesn't know me outside of the four walls of the church.  I've seen her only once, when she had some heart trouble and I visited her in the hospital.  Until that moment I never even knew her last name.  But here she was, reading my mail, as it were.  I explained to her that I liked what I was doing, but was really lonely.  She said she'd pray.

So what's the point?  There's always a bigger plan, and if you listen carefully, you'll get the acknowledgment that someone knows right where you are.

Encouraged.

JRH