Walks with Barry - Profoundly Simple: A Walk Reframed

I made the decision at the beginning of this time of quarantine and closed gyms that I would walk the exact same 10,000+ step route through my neighborhood each day. If time, weather and body permitted, I would add to the walk, but I would always, every day, stay this set course. I chose this approach, not just because of my deep need to stick to set routines, but because I wanted to observe the changes that might come from day to day and week to week around the neighborhood. Little did any of us know that “day to day” and “week to week” would turn into month to month.  Today, as I made the second to last turn on my set course, I literally stopped and stared for a few moments. There, cascading over the top of an 8 ft cedar face, were flowering branches of a tree weighed down with magnificent purple beauty. The blossoms seemed to glow against the overcast and darkening skies. It was truly spectacular. The tree was in full bloom, which meant that this was no overnight phenomenon. I had m

Being a book person and avid reader, I love the fact that, if one walks the streets in this neighborhood, one will randomly find themselves at a Little Free Library.  In the little bestseller, “All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”, Robert Fulghum listed the practice of sharing as one of the foundational attitudes of a healthy, productive and purposeful life. As neighbors share their books, I like to pause from time to time to check out the titles. I then find myself trying to match the books to the people I see. “I bet that’s the young family trying to diagnose childhood illnesses.” “That person looks like a scrapbooker to me.” “That couple could easily be the bikers on the block.” And on and on it goes. A pointless exercise for sure, but in a strange way it makes me want to know my neighbors. They have shared a glimpse into who they are by the sharing of their books. C.S. Lewis wrote, “We read to know that we are not alone.” As I have grown older, I know this is true i

This is among the first sights I behold each day as I walk. It is a bit unusual in regard to the reason it catches my eye. I am usually drawn to things along the way that are new or out of place or unusual. This corner draws me in for different reasons all together.  If I’m making this turn, it means that I am well and once again out and about my business, and I am grateful. This scene is all about the flowers, and I am always interested in flowers, anywhere, anytime. But it is the relationship of the two plants, the rose bush and the yucca, that gives me pause. It seems that once upon a time, these two were planted an appropriate distance apart in their bed at the corner. But over time, the roses did what roses long to do; they rambled and spread and took over more and more space. And the yucca did what it longs to do; to stretch and stretch and reach for the sun.  Through the thorns and the shadows it pushes, and it wins the day. It still somehow finds its way to the the light and it

Obviously, one of the things I enjoy the most about walking my neighborhood is that I never know what I might find along the way. I have taken pictures of all kinds of random objects and interesting scenes, and each block of sidewalk is full of possibilities. On this day, an old discarded wooden window captured my attention.  I first wondered from whence it came. It did not match the windows of the house in front of which it lay, and appeared that it never had. Then there was the matter of the color. And the fact that two-thirds of the lights were missing. How did it get here? What purpose had it been serving, being in such disrepair? I was surprised at how intrigued I was by this lonely, discarded window. I suppose I am simply driven to know the story behind the things I see and the people I meet. Anthony T. Hincks wrote, “Outside the window is a world that beckons and inside the window is a world for which the outside yearns.” I wonder about the worlds this old window has seen. I won

On this day the streets of my little neighborhood look, I would venture to say, much like yours. And I don’t mean that they are similarly wet from the rains or sleepy with a holiday quiet. This national Memorial Day has brought out the flags. Big flags and little flags and every size flag in-between.  It is striking, these holidays that bring out the flags. As I walk from day to day, I notice the political signs in the yards and the stickers on the cars. These streets contain a little slice of the stark political divide in these strange times. But equally striking is that those from every perspective fly the same flag this day. This, in itself, gives me a glimpse of hope. Perhaps these flags, as they fly in our yards, really will remind us all of whom we claim to be as a people. Perhaps they really will draw from us a reverence for those who have the paid the ultimate price for a dream bigger than themselves. Perhaps these flags will help us see beyond our particular, individual bias -

As I approach this house each day on my walk, I have a sense of anticipation and alertness. This yard seems to always be full of bicycles. There is a basketball goal on the curb. There is an apparatus hanging in the tree where one can do pull ups and other torturous activities. There is a low net that moves around from place to place on the lawn. When this yard is alive with motion and activity I cross the street early and enjoy the show from a safe distance. But I noticed that even on the days when I find the yard quiet, still and childless, it seems to be pulsing with life. Like a trap set with a too-tight spring or a bungee chord stretched to its limit, I sense that any moment could be the moment when all the energy will be released and the day will be on, full speed ahead! These days have left quiet and still many of the spaces where our activities have usually taken place. Undriven cars. Quiet restaurants. Silent shopping centers. Dark church buildings. Still parks. Yet, like this

My neighborhood is very neat and orderly. The sidewalks straight. The lawns mowed. The driveways edged. The trees trimmed. The landscaping beautiful. The rules followed. We are scrubbed, starched and buttoned down. Well, almost. This neighbor decided to break free, to exercise their individuality. In the space between the sidewalk and the street, they scraped away the meticulously manicured sod and tossed in a mix of wildflower seeds. In amazingly short order this little section of the yard was alive and wild with color. Though I passed this way day after day, I somehow never noticed. Until today. Most of us work very hard at keeping our lives neat and orderly, which is a good thing. We follow the rules and manage very well in our scrubbed, starched and buttoned down routines. But sometimes we forget to save a little space that allows something new and surprising to grow. A few minutes of unscheduled time for reflection. A special spot in our hectic day for prayer. Maybe a block of tim

On this day I came across a most interesting scene. These three little beds, lined up straight and proper at the curb, seemed to be waiting for the night to fall once again. Though so completely out of place, there was something comfortable and natural about the moment. I stopped and took in the unusual sight. I have talked to enough parents across the years of my work to know that this scene was a bittersweet moment in this family’s life. These three little beds mark the passage of time. They represent little kids that are now big kids. These beds would no doubt be kept forever if there was room in the garage or attic because of the memories they hold and the tender moments shared among them. I remembered my own childhood spent sharing a room with my older brother. We could mark our growing up by the bed in our room. When very small, we slept in a double bed. When older, we had two twin beds. Older still, bunk beds, which were my favorite. I slept up top. (I loved the little ladder.)

This day brought to my eye a beautiful image before I ever left my own backyard. A dragonfly was floating on the surface of the water while the light played beautifully on the pool. It was so striking that it seemed unreal, more like a painting of what I imagined such a scene would look like than a photo I had actually taken. It was one of those moments that was too beautiful for words. The best things In life are often like that, aren’t they? The unexpected. The surprising. The moments that grab us for reasons beyond our consciousness and touch us deeply. Sometimes these moments, strangely enough, come to us in the hardest of times. To see a parent embrace and comfort a child that has been disappointed and left broken-hearted by a false friend or an unrealized dream, that is a glimpse of empathy and compassion too beautiful for words. To see those who quietly and behind the scenes, in ways that preserve the dignity of all, look after those who are struggling and in need, that is a gli

As I walked today, I came upon this scene in front of a house where, obviously, much is happening. What first captured my attention was the discarded door that still seemed to be trying desperately to stand upright and, well, function as a door. All the houses in my neighborhood, like this writer, were born in the 1950s. They are modest and solid and have seen much life as they have stood watch over their inhabitants and these tree lined streets. Last year, my neighbors across the street moved to a retirement facility. They had purchased their house new back in the late 1950s, raised a family, retired and enjoyed visits from the children and grandchildren in that same spot for over 60 years. We miss them. Now the neighborhood is full of young couples starting out. The neighborhood once again resembles the original neighborhood of long ago, filled with babies and toddlers and children rapidly becoming teenagers. And the houses still stand solid, keeping watch. But, the houses are not c

Every now and then as I make my way through the neighborhood, the chalk artists seem to be reappearing after a brief absence. I am glad. I hope we experience a full-blown revival of the practice. I really miss the surprises. It seemed that this simple statement used to be everywhere during the height of the chalk art period, and I had not realized how much I have missed it until it reappeared this day. A good thought to be reminded of and a good thought to share: “We are in this together”. I realized how much I have “been in” this with others. On my walks I have reconnected separately with two wonderful people I knew from a previous church. We have caught up in general and talked specifically about the death of a dear mutual friend. This would not have happened if I were not walking these streets. I shared a conversation with a neighbor who’s son loved my old Basset Hound, Beauregard. So we talked how fast kids grow up and our mutual love for our dogs. I’ve grown accustomed to seeing c

One of things that strikes me with every walk is how amazingly straight the sidewalks are in my neighborhood. With every turn I make onto a new block I am greeted with a similar view. All the houses are different. The varieties and sizes of trees are different. The cars in the driveways and parked at the curbs are different. And, at this point, I can always trust that what I stumble upon along the way will be unique and different. But the long view of my path always stretches into the distance, always disappearing from view at some point, always calling me forward. On this day I pondered the ways life seems similar to this image of these now familiar sidewalks. Life stretches out before us, calling us forward, but always disappearing somewhere on the horizon. We never can quite see the next block. We know it is there, but it always remains just out of our vision. We never really know what’s next until we get there, no matter how deeply we would like to know ahead of time. I suppose tha

As the weeks and miles roll by, I seem to come across more and more signs that things are happening in these houses I pass. The random piles of stuff placed at the curbs reveal that in these days of social distancing, online school and staying at home, kids are still growing up! Outgrown three wheelers no doubt replaced by a bicycle. Little furniture, picture books and all types of toys give silent witness to the fact that families are cleaning out and letting go of things that belong to an earlier time but are no longer useful today. Perhaps these items were simply outgrown. Perhaps they were loved, worn out and broken down like the Velveteen Rabbit. Perhaps they just don’t meet anyone’s need anymore. One thing I have learned about life is that none of us are completely finished growing up. As I walked these streets, I have received a strange and unexpected gift. I have realized that there are some areas in my life in which I need to “clean out” and “let go” of some things that are no

How interesting it was on this day’s walk to come upon two flamingos practicing social distancing. These two pink visitors appeared to be on their way to the elaborate birthday display a bit further back in the yard. I paused to wonder if the little neighbor had already seen this joyful, loving birthday announcement or if I was passing this way early enough to inadvertently be in on a fantastic surprise. I imagined that a birthday beginning in such grand style could make the entire family forget this pandemic, at least for a day. I remembered what it was like to be a little boy the age of this neighbor. I recalled what I liked to do in those days, my favorite games, the faces of my friends. Before I realized it, in my head I was having a birthday that I had already celebrated well over 50 years ago. I could almost taste the cake my momma baked for me. And I smiled. I have been reminded in these days of the power of memories. As I have walked mile after mile, day after day, I have had t

On today’s walk, I was taken, not with something I saw, but with something I heard. I had often been intrigued by the beautiful, rich tones of a large wind chime on this block as I passed by day after day, but it was often too dark to find them, either too early or too late in the day. But like Goldilocks, on this day my timing was “just right”. As I paused and enjoyed the concert provided by the gentle breeze, I began to think of how powerful certain sounds can be in our lives. The ringing of the telephone that wakes us in the middle of the night and sends our heart into our throats with the fear that bad news is calling. The sound of a parent’s or grandparents’s voice that can calm our fears and give us hope simply by saying our name. A song that transports us to a time in our youth which will always remain, in our memories, the best of times. That special laugh of one we love that can make any and every day worth the living. The sound of a gentle rain in those “in-between” moments b

This fresh work of art brightened up the entire block this day. Vivid colors. Inspiring words. Even a little cursive writing greeted all who were fortunate enough to pass this way. The word that first caught my attention was “all”. The verse the artist chose begins, “Let all that you do”. ALL that you do. Most of us are doing the best we can do just to keep up with ALL we have to do everyday. I don’t know about you, but I am at a loss to explain how I seem to have more to do under these pandemic conditions than I did before. ALL is a lot. ALL is, well, ALL. I’m struggling to just get it all done, anyway I can. I imagine we tend to think that the things in life that need to be “done in love” are the big things. Sure, I need to lovingly care for my family. I should listen lovingly to a hurting friend. The appropriate response to God’s love for us is to love God back. But how different would life be if I did ALL things in love? What if I treated with love the server who hands me my take

Hitting the streets in the rain is always interesting. I like walking in the rain. (Yes, I am singing “The Pina Colada Song” in my head.) But the rain is not kind to the work of my little artist neighbors. Sometimes it is completely erased from view, leaving a blank palette upon which they can begin again tomorrow. Sad, but full of possibility. But occasionally the rain touches the art so differently. It does not erase it, but changes it. I am not sure what this drawing WAS, but I am intrigued by the challenge of seeing what it is NOW. At first glance it appeared to me that this remnant of the rain resembled those magnificent photos taken from space into even deeper space. Stars and planets and galaxies that seem to be alive with the energy of creation. I always feel that such photos give me a little glimpse into how God sees creation. But I also see in this work the light that appears at certain times of the day during certain times of the year in the sanctuary. The light streaming t

In front of this house, I discovered that my little neighbors had gone “all in” on an extensive and elaborate sidewalk game. I’ve seen and shared about other similar works, but this one was truly phenomenal. It had a section for hop-scotch, a numbers game, a clear start and finish. But spaced evenly along this creative path were three commands that really made me think about life, about my life. “Big Jump” caught my attention. Sometimes for us to know life to the full, we do have to take a “Big Jump”. The leap of faith that opens up a new level of relationship to God can be a “Big Jump” indeed. The “Big Jump” to a new town or a new school or a new job can stress us to our limits. The “Big Jump” to a new lifestyle that holds the possibility of better health and perhaps add an extra chapter or two to the story of our lives can be a scary moment. “Dizzy” made me smile. The tight, circular path drawn with chalk would no doubt produce that result if followed with enthusiasm. Moments in life

On today’s walk, I came upon another item. This little pair of sunglasses seemed lonely as the world passed them by. I wonder when the parents of the little squinting owner realized they had been lost along the way. I wonder if they searched for them, or if it was just one more in a long line of lost glasses. I was fortunate to be born with great vision. My 20/20 was a point of pride as I grew older. Oh, in the long hours of reading and few hours of sleep days of seminary I used readers from time to time due to eye strain, but my vision always tested out the same. When I moved to Dallas, I found an eye doctor that I really liked. When in my late 50’s I tested 20/20, she said with a smile, “Congratulations! I have never had a patient your age with perfect vision.” I replied, “Do you think that was a compliment?” But then the day inevitably arrived. I now wear glasses everyday. All the time. In the church of my childhood, one of our favorite congregational hymns had this beautiful line,

There are few things like walking along on a hot Texas day and finding yourself suddenly in the shade of a large Magnolia Tree. The temperature drops noticeably. And suddenly, that unique and wonderful fragrance surrounds you and fills your nose and mind. It is a true serendipity, an unexpected gift. Science teaches us that the sense of smell is one of the strongest triggers of memory. That is one of those facts that we know even though we didn’t know we knew, isn’t it? Who has not been transported back in time by a particular aroma? For forty-two years my daddy worked in the Municipal Garage of a nearby town. I left my childhood home over forty years ago to strike out on my own. My father died well over twenty years ago. But the moment I walk into a business for an oil change or a new set of tires, that distinctive smell brings him back to my side. He is there with me. I suppose that is why it never bothers me when those duties call. That moment, every time, is a gift that makes me sm

Cats. A sleeping cat, a happy cat and a cat that appears to be very, very angry. I wonder if this is representative of the fact that these kids have three cats or if this work of art depicts the same cat as this pandemic has stretched across the weeks. I’d love to ask. I am very curious. I have never been a cat person. We were dog people in my family, never had a cat as I grew up. I have been a Basset Hound man for as long as I can remember. After getting married and buying our first house, I brought Droopy home and set him up in the back yard. He was a great dog in every way. But one thing was strange; after a year we realized we had never heard Droopy bark. Ever. For any reason. He never made a sound. One day we are watching television and suddenly the windows begin to rattle with a deep, strong bark. It took us a moment to figure out it was Droopy. He had found his voice! We jumped up and rushed onto the patio. Sitting in the middle of the backyard was a grey cat. Droopy was barking