The Journey

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