Freedom Ride: Dreams, Dignity, and a Dose of Horsepower

 Most of us—if not all—have dreams. Some big, some small. Some are born in childhood treehouses and others over a cup of strong coffee during midlife. But here’s the real question: How many of us actually pursue those dreams?

Of those, how many give up halfway? And for those who reach the mountaintop, how many find the view a bit... underwhelming?

So—are dreams even worth it?

Or maybe we should all just settle into the comfy recliner of routine: job, bills, decent coffee, and reruns of NCIS. Most people do. And honestly—there’s nothing wrong with that. Stability has its perks. Like warm socks.

But let me throw another question at you like a wrench in the spokes: What’s the difference between a dream and a goal?

Maybe goals come with checklists, calendars, and deadlines. Dreams? They often show up without an appointment and whisper, “What if…”

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Got Dreams? Then Let’s Talk

If you’re still reading this (bless your heart), take a minute. Think about your own dreams. I’m guessing you’ve got at least one or two tucked away.

Did you ever go after them? If so, how’d that turn out? If not… what stopped you? (Be honest—it was fear, wasn’t it? Or was it Netflix?)

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Back in the Day…

Let’s rewind to September 1977.

I was one of the first “post-draft” volunteers to join the U.S. military. I walked into the Air Force recruitment office and signed that all-too-famous dotted line. (Yes, it really exists. It’s just... not as intimidating as the movies make it look.)

I chose a delayed enlistment, arriving at Lackland Air Force Base in June of 1978. A guaranteed assignment as a Firefighter was more than I could have imagined.

Those four years weren’t flawless—there were bumps, bruises, and the occasional personality clash—but they brought immense satisfaction. Oh, and a wife. (Fun fact: no one tells you a spouse might be part of your GI benefits. I got lucky. Thanks, Air Force!)

Before the Air Force, a stint with the Forest Service had already planted the seed: I wanted to be a firefighter. The cherry on top? Becoming a Paramedic.

Firefighting and emergency medicine weren’t just careers. They were callings. Now, almost five decades later, another dream has started revving its engine.

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The Dream: Freedom, Wind, and Wheels

I'm not exactly sure when this new dream took shape. Somewhere in the last five or ten years, it rolled into my heart—quietly at first, like a motorcycle idling at a red light.

Fast forward to July 2023, and I had the honor of volunteering at the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) Wheelchair Games. The experience lit a fire.

Two years later, the dream has a name, a mission, and—miraculously—not just sticky notes, but actual plans. The vision? To build a motorcycle with a sidecar adapted for wheelchairs—a ride for veterans who can no longer ride themselves due to injury or age.

We call it:

Freedom Ride
"Offering a two-wheeled experience of wind, motion, and memory—through a specially designed sidecar. A small gift of joy and dignity for those who gave so much."

Simple. Beautiful. Meaningful.

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Mission: Possible

Our mission statement says it all:

“Providing a Two-Wheeled Experience of Honor and Healing for Our Veterans.”

This bike won’t just be a mechanical marvel—it’ll be a rolling tribute. It will show up in parades, events, or even just sunny Saturdays, offering free rides to veterans who thought their riding days were behind them.

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Reality Check… and Hope

Right now, I’ve got:

• A few brilliant engineer friends

• A willing builder and painter

• Some rough design ideas

• And even some self-funding

But will it actually happen? Will we find the right designer? Will funding shift from hopeful to helpful? Will I follow through when it gets hard? Will this idea get out of the garage and into the hearts of veterans?

That’s where you come in.

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So, What’s Next?

This blog might just be the next step toward reality. You—yes, you, reading this with your second cup of coffee—might be the connection, supporter, encourager, or mechanic we didn’t know we needed.

So I ask again: What are your dreams? And maybe… just maybe… how might you become a part of Freedom Ride?

Let’s give some heroes the wind in their hair again—even if it’s just a breeze on the back of a bald head.

Because freedom should ride.

 

 

This very morning (July 25, 2025) I came across the 'Gary Sinise Foundation', that states, "We serve our nation by honoring our defenders, veterans, first responders, their families, and those in need. This song, 'Arctic Circles' was composed by Gary's son Mac & Oliver Schnee. I can hear Mac's album called 'Resurrection & Revival' playing through the speakers of the motorcycle & sidecar as it rolls down the highway. Simply beautiful!

My 'Nancy Davis' ... Still, Saying Yes!

 Was it the plaid short-sleeve shirt? The five-foot-two frame? Those lovely blue eyes? Or maybe that sweet, mischievous smile tossed across the gymnasium like a paper airplane of hope?

Honestly… I’m not quite sure what first drew me to her.

The next morning, I walked into church — one of those big services with more than a thousand in attendance — thinking only about the message or maybe where I’d sit. Not a single neuron in my brain fired off the thought: “Hey, maybe that cute girl from last night will be here too.”

And then... as if scripted by divine providence, I lifted my eyes — and there she was.

Brunette hair, curled beautifully atop her head like whipped cream on a sundae (you know, the fancy kind with the cherry on top). A full-length yellow dress — bright as the Alaskan summer sun — draped over her slender frame, catching not just the light ... but my attention.

I couldn’t tell you what the sermon was about that day. Just that somewhere between the opening hymn and the benediction, I found myself captivated by the girl in the yellow dress. Would I talk to her? Ask her name? See her again? All great questions. Zero answers.

Three months later — yes, just three months — her mother and baby brothers were visiting Alaska from New England, and watched her two young children. We went for a walk. Not just any walk — up Bodenburg Butte, just a short climb from her home in Palmer.

Had I considered asking her to marry me?

I think I had. But come on — three months? That’s either romance or a head injury. The more I thought about it, the faster my heart pounded. Did she even feel the same way? Would this be the last time I’d see her? Was she thinking what I was thinking?

Three months. Two kids. One wild idea.

The snowcapped Chugiak Mountains gave us a backdrop worthy of a postcard or proposal — or both. I doubt anyone had ever used that exact spot to pop the question... but I did:

“Will you marry me?”

Her answer came faster than I expected—no dramatic pause, no deep breath.

“Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

Three months after that — September 29, 1979 — Brandi, Josh, my mother, and a few witnesses celebrated a wedding most would have called “whirlwind.”

Now, nearly forty-six years later, I still find myself deeply attracted to Karen Yvonne.

Struggles? Oh, yes. Many. But as I sit here once again at 35,000 feet — somewhere over the 300,000-miles of travel — I marvel at how blessed I am.

It took both a departure from Querétaro and a layover in Dallas to finally finish watching Dennis Quaid's excellent portrayal of President Ronald Reagan. And yes — tears welled up. Because somewhere between the Oval Office scenes and the private moments, I realized:

Karen is my Nancy Davis Reagan.

As Nancy was unwaveringly supportive of "Ronnie" — his anchor and encourager — so Karen has been to me. From that first missions trip to San Luis, Sonora, in 1998, to now over forty adventures across the U.S. and around the globe, Karen has consistently said yes.

Yes to the call.

Yes to the chaos.

Yes to the crazy man she married.

We could never have foreseen what would unfold — over thirty years of firehouse life intertwined with nearly three decades of goodbyes, airports, and separate weeks.

These past couple of years — age, circumstance, and creaky knees — have made each new trip a little more complex. And yet, it’s as if Karen says yes before I even ask the question.

I don’t know if this trip will be the last. Maybe we’ll have one more. Maybe ten. But I do know this:

Karen Yvonne Williams has been, and still is, my 'Nancy Davis'. My constant. My calm in the whirlwind.

Still five-foot-two.
Still eyes of blue.
Still that sweet smile.

The brunette curls have gracefully shifted to beautiful white waves. And though life has brought challenges — some deep — the support and love Karen has poured into my life has always run deeper.

For that … I am forever thankful.

 

 With all my love, and the deepest appreciation —
Her still-crazy, still-grateful husband,

Rick

 

 Forty-Six years in June ... I popped the question. Obviously ... She said, "Yes"!

 

 

Good Will in the Shadow of Absence

 My biological father left us when I was six years old.

From that moment on, our home—our lives—were marked by a quiet resilience. My mother, left to raise four children on her own, never voiced bitterness. She never spoke ill of the man who gave us life, yet gave little else. I can only imagine the ache she must have carried—especially in moments when our table was bare, and mouths still needed feeding. I, the oldest, witnessed her resolve, her silence, her strength.

My father was not absent in the absolute sense. We had contact—six to ten times a year, scattered throughout seasons. But his support, his presence, his fatherhood... was minimal. As a child, I craved more than brief visits or occasional calls. I needed a protector, a provider, a father in the fullest sense.

And yet—despite all he lacked, I choose not to live in the shadow of ill-will. I have come to believe that one of the most disrespectful things a man can do is not something visible, but something painfully absent: the failure to provide for his own children. To be physically alive but emotionally and practically unavailable is a quiet form of betrayal.

But God, in His mercy, has given me a gift: the capacity to remember good will. To choose good will.

I choose to hold onto seven moments—seven simple, sacred events my father gave me. Seven memories that break through the heavy fog of disappointment and allow shafts of sunlight to pour through. They are not perfect, not even sufficient—but they are mine. And I treasure them.

I remember building and exploring in a dune buggy with him, laughter echoing as we bounced through rivers and over dunes ~~ I remember the honor of receiving batting lessons from Babe Dahlgren—yes, the Babe Dahlgren who succeeded Lou Gehrig. ~~ I remember my very first backpacking adventure into the Sierra Nevada, up to Silliman Pass in Sequoia National Park—a moment of wonder, of majesty, of connection to something greater than myself.

And there were more—perhaps quiet, perhaps small—but each one a thread in the fabric of a complicated relationship. A fabric I could easily rip apart in anger… but instead, I choose to mend with gratitude.

Thank You, Father in Heaven, for these memories. Thank You for helping me hold onto these moments—not because they erase the pain, but because they remind me that good will is a choice. One I make not because my earthly father deserved it, but because You, my Heavenly Father, poured it into me.

Where ill-will should have reigned, good will rises instead. That, too, is a gift—a reflection not of him, but of You in me.

 Should I not ... Because of His undeserved Goodness ...                                             Should I not ... Return goodness to others

 'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
With my life laid down, I'm surrendered now
I give You everything
'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me

 

 

                                    And ... this song by an old time favorite ... Keith Green ...                                       'Make My Life a Prayer to You' ... Indeed!

 

Finding "Good Will"—at times, it feels almost impossible to imagine.
And yet... it’s often tucked within the folds of another’s life, quietly waiting to be noticed.
More often than not, it’s there—if only we are willing to look beyond the momentary distractions,
beyond the noise, the wounds, the unmet expectations.
Good will may not shout. It rarely demands attention.
But if we are still enough… open enough… humble enough…we just might find it—
not in the grand gestures, but in the quiet mercies.
A memory … A gesture … A simple act of presence once offered.
And sometimes, that is enough to carry us through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Boy a Ball, and a Dream

Sometime in the mid-sixties, the world was shifting in ways I couldn't yet understand. Most in the United States were focused on Vietnam—the images of war flickered across the black-and-white television screens in living rooms across the country. But for a seven-year-old boy in Los Angeles, the battlefields of Southeast Asia were distant and abstract. My world was much smaller, yet no less consuming.

Baseball became my life.

There was no questioning where my loyalty lay. In my mind, there was only one name that mattered—Sandy Koufax. He wasn’t just a pitcher; he was a magician, an artist with a baseball in his hand. The way he wound up, that high leg kick, the snap of his wrist as the ball spun toward the plate—it was poetry in motion. I watched him whenever I could, trying to memorize his every move, every pitch, every perfect moment on the mound.

And so, in the backyard of my childhood, I became Sandy.

The garage door was my catcher, its panels bearing the scuff marks of countless fastballs, curves, and sliders—at least in my mind, they were sliders. With each pitch, I imagined the cheers of a packed Dodger Stadium, the roar of the crowd swelling as I struck out batter after batter. I worked tirelessly on my windup, pausing at the peak just like Koufax, then exploding toward home plate. Sometimes, I'd shake off an imaginary catcher’s sign, just like I imagined Sandy did, before hurling the ball with all the strength my seven-year-old arm could muster.

Each time the ball smacked against the garage, it was as if I had just thrown the winning strikeout in the World Series. I could almost hear Vin Scully's voice echoing my triumph, announcing to the world that this little boy from Los Angeles had just done the improbable. 

The game was never just a game. It was a dream

  — a dream to be like Koufax, to stand on that mound in Dodger blue, to hear the crowd chanting my name. And so, I kept throwing.

  

"But tonight ... September the ninth, 1965" ~~ "To see the only pitcher in baseball history to hurl four no-hit ~ no run games. He has done it four straight years. And ~ now he capped it, on his fourth no-hitter, he made it a perfect game! And Sandy Koufax ... whose name will always remind you of strike-outs ... did it with a flourish. He struck out the last six consecutive batters. So when he wrote his name in capital letters in the record books ... that 'K' stands out even more than the O U F A X ..." Vin Scully 1927 ~ 2022

Forty Years of Life .... Forty Years of Hope

 Zachary Alan: A Birth of Hope

It was the winter of 1985, forty years ago this very month. The chill in the Oregon air was heavy with rain, occasional snowflakes, and the deep quiet that only a winter season can bring. Yet, within our hearts, a different kind of anticipation stirred—a hope that could not be dimmed by either the cold or uncertainty. We were preparing to welcome our son, Zachary Alan, a child we prayed for, cherished, and longed to dedicate to God from the very start.

Expectation and joy filled our days, but those feelings were met with a challenge when the doctor informed us of Zachary’s Fred Astaire-like dancing feet. A “footling breech,” they called it—a precarious position that meant our son would not make his entrance into the world as planned. Instead, a Cesarean section would be required. In those days, such news felt more foreboding than it might today, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and birth. The realization weighed on us, yet through it all, the promise of our son—our Zach—remained like a flame that could not be extinguished.

We prayed. And as we waited, God planted a seed of purpose within our hearts—a desire to dedicate this birth to Him, to let our son’s arrival signify something greater. As though divinely timed, we soon discovered a brand-new organization had been founded in our community: the Salem Resource Center. Only twelve years had passed since abortion was legalized, and here stood a mission that sought to protect life—to offer grace and compassion to preborn babies and the mothers facing crisis pregnancies. This fledgling organization and its mission of hope aligned perfectly with our own prayer: that Zachary’s life would begin with a dedication to God’s grace and the preservation of life.

When Zach finally arrived—his tiny feet making their entrance through careful, prayerful hands—we saw not just our son, but a miracle. The cold, wet Oregon winter could not touch the warmth we felt in our hearts that day. Our hope had been fulfilled.

Indeed ... There is a Story

Now, forty years later, we stand amazed at God’s faithfulness—both in Zachary Alan’s life and in the ongoing work of that small seed of hope planted so many years ago. Today, that once-new organization has grown into what is now the Hope Pregnancy Clinic, a thriving testament to God’s love and provision. Just as we prayed for Zach’s life to bring hope, this clinic brings that same hope to every young woman who walks through its doors, often overwhelmed and despairing, only to find grace, charity, and the courage to choose life.

Hope is sustained in many ways. Through monthly and corporate donors, through community events like walk-a-thons (Zach in stroller, was at the very first), swim and bike gatherings, banquets, and other fundraisers, the clinic continues its mission to be a lighthouse of hope. Each day, they stand as a reminder of the beauty and sanctity of life, and the joy that comes when a young woman leaves those doors with a newfound desire to bring her child into the world—a story of redemption written anew.

In celebrating Zachary’s fortieth birthday, we also celebrate forty years of hope. His life and the ongoing work of the Hope Pregnancy Clinic are deeply connected—a symbol of God’s grace at work, no matter the odds or the season.

As one who was born to a sixteen-year-old mother, I can personally attest to the power of that hope. I am living proof of what happens when a young woman—though unsure, scared, and facing obstacles—chooses life. It is only by God’s grace that I live this day, and it is by that same grace that I pray hope will continue to manifest in the lives of countless others.

To Zachary Alan—the child of winter, the child of hope—your life reminds us that every birth is a miracle. And to the Hope Pregnancy Clinic, may you continue to be the hands and feet of Jesus, offering love and light to every mother and child who enters your care.

Forty years of life. Forty years of hope.

For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to Him. – 1 Samuel 1:27 (ESV)

 

Mark Schultz 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... The birth of a child often brings circumstances out of our control. Regardless .... the miracle of birth is just the beginning of 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... Enjoy!

 

"The Legacy of Forgiveness … One Friend, Twice Saved"

    Years past … there were two best friends, Maya and Lila. They had been inseparable since childhood,
their bond forged in laughter, shared dreams, and endless games of soccer on the neighborhood field. Maya was fiery, driven, and unstoppable—a natural leader on and off the field. Lila, quieter and gentler, was the heart of their friendship, always there to encourage Maya and keep her grounded.

But Maya had a shadow inside her: a quick temper that burned hotter than the sun. Lila had seen it flare up before, but she always stayed patient, calming the storm with her steady presence. Until one day, during an intense high school soccer match, Maya’s temper exploded in a way that shattered everything.

It was a close game, and Maya’s team was losing. Lila, trying to help, accidentally stepped into Maya’s path, causing her to miss the winning goal. The whistle blew. The game was over. Maya spun around, her face twisted with rage.

“Why do you always ruin everything?!” she screamed, her voice echoing across the field. “You’re useless! I don’t even know why I put up with you!”

Lila froze, her eyes wide with shock. Tears welled up, but she didn’t say a word. She simply turned and
walked away, her shoulders hunched, her heart breaking. Maya stood there, too angry to chase after her, too proud to apologize.

Days turned into weeks, then months. Maya buried herself in soccer, winning games and earning accolades, but something was missing. The friendship that had been the anchor of her life was gone, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she missed Lila deeply. She thought about calling her, about apologizing, but the words never came. And soon, years had passed, and they were strangers.

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Maya’s life, once so promising, took a turn she never expected. Injuries ended her soccer career, and without the sport that had defined her, she felt lost. She drifted from job to job, struggling to control the anger that had alienated so many people. One day, sitting on a park bench with eviction notices in her lap and tears streaming down her face, she felt like the world had swallowed her whole.

“Maya?”

She looked up and froze. There, standing before her, was Lila. Older now, but still with that same gentle smile, that same warmth in her eyes.

“Lila,” Maya whispered, her voice trembling. “What… why are you here?”

“I heard you were going through a rough time,” Lila said, sitting beside her. She handed Maya a cup of coffee, as though no time had passed.

Maya took it, her hands shaking. “Why would you help me after everything I said? After the way I treated you?”

Lila smiled softly. “Because I forgave you, Maya. A long time ago. Carrying that anger wouldn’t have done either of us any good. And… I never stopped caring about you.”

Maya broke down, the weight of years of guilt and shame finally crashing over her. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I was horrible to you. I let my anger destroy the best thing I ever had.”

Lila placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maya, we all make mistakes. What matters is what we do next.”

From that day on, Lila became Maya’s lifeline, just as she had been years ago. She helped Maya find a job, encouraged her to seek therapy, and stood by her as she rebuilt her life. Slowly, Maya learned to control her anger and rebuild the person she wanted to be.

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But life has a way of testing us in ways we never expect.

One evening, as they walked together after dinner, a speeding car came careening around the corner. Maya froze as the headlights bore down on them. In an instant, Lila shoved her out of the way, taking the full impact herself.

Maya screamed, "Lila, no!" She rushed to her friend’s side. Lila was conscious but pale, blood pooling beneath her. “No, no, no,” Maya cried, cradling her. “Stay with me, Lila. Please, you can’t leave me.”

Lila’s lips curved into a weak smile. “Maya,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “you’ve always been the stronger one, more than you think. You don’t need me to save you anymore. You’ve found your way.”

“I need you,” Maya sobbed. “I can’t do this without you.”

Lila’s hand brushed Maya’s cheek. “You can. Promise me… you’ll help someone else the way I helped you. Don’t let my leaving be the end of this.”

And with that, Lila’s hand fell limp. Maya held her as the life slipped away, her heart breaking into pieces.

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Years passed. Maya never forgot Lila’s final words. She built a life she was proud of, honoring Lila’s memory in everything she did. But her greatest calling came one day when she met a girl named Sophie.

Sophie was fiery and talented, just like Maya had been. But she had the same anger that had once consumed Maya, and it was driving people away. Maya saw herself in the girl—the anger, the pride, the loneliness—and she knew what she had to do.

Through patience, love, and persistence, Maya became a mentor to Sophie, teaching her how to channel her anger, how to forgive herself, and how to let others in. As Sophie grew and thrived, Maya felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years.

One day, as they sat together after practice, Sophie turned to Maya and said, “Why do you care so much about helping me?”

Maya smiled, her eyes misty. “Because someone once cared enough to save me when I didn’t deserve it. And now, I’m paying it forward.”

Sophie frowned. “Who was it?”

Maya looked up at the sky, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow. “Her name was Lila. And she taught me that forgiveness can change a life.”

As Sophie ran off to the field, Maya stayed behind, whispering a quiet “thank you” to the Lord of heaven and earth. Lila was gone, but her legacy lived on—through Maya, through Sophie, and through the countless lives that forgiveness had touched.

 Stories ... Our lives are FULL OF STORIES ... This blog is in fact the story of my life. This story along with the incredible song by Matthew West, is a story that is able to change a life. ~~ That said, the greatest story of all is about a man ... His story is of Love ... of Humility ... of Sacrifice ... He died on a cross to bridge the brokenness of our lives ... with His very own life. He Loved us so very much ... that He humbled Himself ... and He sacrificed His life upon a cross, shedding His blood for our sins. 

I hope this this kind of Love ... Humility ... and, Sacrifice ... might always be the model illustrated in my life. ~~ I asked you ... Where are you? ... What is your brokenness? Will you, as Paul ask in Romans 10 ... Call upon the name of the Lord? ... He can ... He will set you free & change your life!

 

Borders ... An Uzbek Adventure

The borders of the rising sun spill over the eastern mountains of Uzbekistan, bathing the wondrous city of Tashkent in a golden light. The borders of daily life emerge as a woman sweeps the walk around the fountain park, her quiet work a stark contrast to the chaos of the world around her. Poverty emerges with unyielding persistence—its hand extended, its face pleading for mercy.

The borders of traffic press uncomfortably close, with Damas vans darting through narrow gaps, squeezing past with mere inches to spare. Their speeds are astonishing, their movements reckless.

Abdulvahob all Smiles

The borders of labor are relentless, stretching across six days a week, ten to twelve hours a day. These lives ache for rest, for renewal, for the Lord of the Sabbath to bring them peace.

Our mission in Tashkent was clear: to teach an Emergency Medicine First Responder course to police, fire, and military personnel. In a nation bridging past and future, we sought to impart knowledge and skills to those tasked with saving lives. From classrooms to practical demonstrations, we watched as our students absorbed every detail with eagerness and determination. It was a humbling reminder of how borders of understanding can be bridged with patience, compassion, and the desire to serve.

There are the borders of hospitality—a warm Russian welcome on a Thursday evening. Toasts of vodka flow freely. “Men drink vodka in Russia, don’t you know?” she says with both determination and laughter. The room is alive with smiles, camaraderie, and warmth. What a difference eleven years can make in a land once cloaked in Soviet oppression. Now, the borders of Uzbekistan slowly open, embracing a new way of life, a cautious but hopeful freedom.

On Friday evening, the borders of Uzbek hospitality take center stage. Pilaf is served, Nurullo extends friendship, and the floor becomes our table, where conversation, laughter, and stories are shared. Photographs capture these cherished moments, snapshots of lives intertwined for a brief but meaningful time.

The borders of their minds are radiant, their intellects sharp. Their hunger for education is palpable, their eagerness to apply new skills inspiring.

The borders of the market burst with vibrancy, offering a kaleidoscope of sights and scents: fruits and nuts, meat, and the unmistakable aroma of bread. Spices are bartered for, eggs exchanged, and melons savored for their splendorous taste.

Children of Uzbekistan

Yet, amidst this cultural richness lie the borders between two distinct worlds—the Russian and Uzbek cultures, each with its language, faith, and personality. Their coexistence tells a story of adaptation and, at times, tension.

There are deeper borders still, those within the hearts of men—prejudice, sin, and darkness. These are the borders I have encountered on this remarkable journey. These invisible walls surround us all, no matter where we are. We live within the bounds of a universe so wonderfully created, and yet we constantly invent new borders—barriers that grow into walls, walls that prevent the love of our fellow man from reaching our hearts.

Might I be so bold as to say I know the answer to these borders? He is the Creator, the one who declared, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” He came to tear down these barriers, to provide a new and perfect way.

May my life be free of borders—open to my family, my friends, and my neighbor, even those halfway across the globe.

 

This felt like a beautiful anthem to showcase a life without borders ...