What a Ride...

It was July 22, 1976.

For this seventeen-year-old, recently graduated from high school, it began much like any other summer day. Yet beneath the surface lingered the question that confronts nearly every young person standing at the threshold of adulthood:

What comes next?

What would unfold in the ensuing days, weeks, and months—let alone the years and decades ahead?

Would my path lead to higher education? Would I enter the workforce? Perhaps I would join the military. Each was a possibility, but nothing was settled. After thirteen years of education, would any of it prove worth the effort?

About the only thing I knew for certain was that nothing was certain.

At the time, my friendships seemed to fall into three separate pockets.

The most recent were those from Canyon High School. Because I had arrived there as a junior, relatively few faces were familiar—and even fewer were immediately friendly. Ken Lukondi, a neighbor and self-appointed bodyguard, was one of those friends. Every teenage boy ought to have a friend who is willing to serve as his bodyguard, whether he actually needs one or not.

My closest friend at Canyon, however, was our catcher for the Canyon Cowboys, Mr. Roy Ingram. Roy's on-field character was often as Elvis Presley. We became buddies as well as ballplayers, sharing the kind of friendship that grows from practices, games, bus rides, victories, defeats, and yes, a fair amount of teenage foolishness.

The second pocket consisted of friends from Lawndale High School—young men I had known since fifth grade, when I first took a seat in the classroom of Dr. Schneider. We affectionately called him “Colonel Sanders.” Had you seen him, you would understand. I only wish I had a photograph to prove that we were not exaggerating.

Among those friends was Mark Valencia, one of my closest companions, along with Danny Stoneking, my fellow paper-route warrior. Delivering newspapers may not have built great wealth, but it certainly built character—and strong throwing arms.

The third pocket came from 167th Street in Lawndale, California: the Darlings, Jack Donnelly, Bob Reed, Bill Fitzgerald, the Leirans, and many others whose names and faces still carry fond memories.

Rick baptized by Dr. Humphrey

Each of these friends influenced my life. Yet none would have a greater eternal significance than the young people I met through ABC Church—Allied Brethren Church, as I remember the name. If my memory of the location is correct, it stood near 119th and Acacia in Hawthorne, California. The building is now associated with St. Joseph’s Church, but for me it will forever remain the place where the entire direction of my life began to change.

A young woman I had recently met, Janet Watson, invited me to attend her youth group.

Why not?

It was the mid-1970s. Long hair, bell-bottoms, beards, guitars, and looking “cool” were all in fashion. Some of us succeeded better than others.

I remember walking into a large room filled with perhaps sixty to eighty young people. Some were standing, others sitting, many talking, and a few playing guitars. They ranged in age from high school freshmen to young adults in their early college years.

What struck me most were the smiles, the laughter, and the hugs. There was a joy in that room that felt unfamiliar to me. Over the next several years, some of those young people—Dave, Mike, Bob, Kerry, Kevin, Dennis, Velbert, and others—would become dear friends.

That evening, for the first time, I truly heard a message about a man named Jesus Christ.

I had heard the name before, but mostly when it was spoken carelessly or used as a curse. Until that evening, I do not know that I had ever seriously considered that Jesus was a real person—much less that He was the Son of God and the Savior of the world.

Yet something was different in that room.

There was a joy I did not remember ever experiencing before. There was warmth, acceptance, and something deeper that I could not explain.

Was this real? More importantly, was He real? Three days later, on Sunday, July 25, 1976, I attended church.

The preacher spoke words that were both troubling and strangely hopeful:

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
—Romans 3:23

That part I could understand. I did not need a theological education to know that I had sinned. I had already accumulated enough evidence.

Then he continued:

“For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
—Romans 6:23

Did my sin truly lead to death? Was eternal life actually a gift? Did Jesus Christ truly want a relationship with me?

I did not understand everything. In fact, I understood very little.

My heart began pounding—perhaps faster and harder than it ever had while playing center field and chasing down a deep fly ball. The preacher then shared words that have become familiar to millions, but on that morning they were entirely new to me:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
—John 3:16

There were questions—many questions.

But there I stood, somewhere between my high school years and whatever adulthood might hold. I knew that I needed someone I could trust. I needed forgiveness. I needed direction. I needed a foundation stronger than my own limited understanding.

Jesus?

I knew little about Him, but He seemed worthy of believing. More accurately, He was already drawing me to Himself.

That morning, July 25, 1976, I placed my faith in Jesus Christ and began the journey of following Him.

Now, fifty years later, I find myself asking: What has transpired since that moment?

And perhaps the more important question: Am I still following Christ?

~ My BEST Other Half ~

By the grace of God, the answer is yes. Not perfectly. Not without detours, questions, disappointments, failures, and seasons when my faith was stronger on paper than it felt in practice. There have been mountain peaks and deep valleys. There have been moments when God’s direction seemed unmistakable and others when I wondered whether He had misplaced the map.

Yet He has remained faithful.

As Paul wrote:

“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
—Philippians 1:6

The First Twenty Years

The first twenty years of that journey brought marriage, three children, coaching, and opportunities to
work with young people through church youth groups.

For a young man who had not grown up with a strong biblical foundation, two years of Bible seminary became an extraordinary gift. Thank you Ernie & Fern! Those years did not provide answers to every question, but they gave me a foundation upon which a life could be built.

They were formative years—years of family, faith, responsibility, growth, mistakes, forgiveness, and learning what it meant to follow Christ not merely for a Sunday morning, but through the ordinary demands of everyday life.

Then came the next thirty years. And all I can say is: 

Wow!

Mexico and an Enlarged Family

Over the years, I have been privileged to make numerous trips to Mexico, frequently focusing on the state of Sonora.

Those journeys began with construction projects and eventually grew to include baseball camps with our Xolos ballplayers. What may have begun as service projects developed into lasting relationships.

~ Rick & Xolos Ballplayer Felipe ~

The Vega and Ruiz families—my nieces and nephews—have been part of my own family since 1998. Somewhere along the way, the language of “mission trip” became inadequate. These were no longer simply places we visited or people we served. They became family.

That is often how God works. We begin by believing that He is sending us somewhere to give, only to
discover how much we are going to receive.

Training Across the World

Sri Lanka EMT Students

Beginning in 2001 and continuing through the end of that decade, I had the privilege of serving with Northwest Medical Teams, now known as Medical Teams International. Through that organization, I had the opportunity to assist in developing and teaching emergency First Responder and EMT courses in Uzbekistan, Honduras, and Sri Lanka. Thank you Ron Hays!

Each journey became an adventure of its own.

There were unfamiliar foods, unfamiliar customs, unfamiliar roads, and occasionally unfamiliar interpretations of what constituted a reasonable schedule. Yet every trip provided the opportunity to meet remarkable people and share skills that could be used to preserve life.

Among these experiences, none has remained more personally significant than Sri Lanka—the teardrop-shaped island beneath India—and my continuing friendship with an extraordinary firefighter named Asanka.

The courses eventually ended. The friendship did not. Some of God’s greatest gifts are people we never expected to meet in places we never imagined we would go.

~ Rick with Team Rubicon ~

Responding Through Team Rubicon

Then came Team Rubicon and the opportunity to respond to communities affected by disasters.

These experiences brought me alongside people facing circumstances they never requested and could never have prepared for: storms, fires, destruction, displacement, and loss.

Becoming a heavy-equipment operator and sawyer with Team Rubicon added new skills and opened additional doors for service.

Apparently, retirement meant learning to operate bigger equipment and sharper tools. Yet beneath the equipment, chainsaws, mud, debris, and hard work was a far greater privilege: standing beside people during some of the most difficult days of their lives.

Christ calls us not only to speak of compassion, but to practice it:

“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.”
—1 John 3:18

Captured by Faith

~ Stitch in Time Brothers ~

Most recently, I have had the privilege of completing a project that required a decade of patience, prayer, perseverance—and more editing than either of us could have imagined.

My dear brother, Dr. Misambo Pierre Asabi, and I first served together as caregivers in West Darfur, Sudan. That meeting grew into a friendship, and that friendship eventually led to the telling of his extraordinary story.

After many years of work, his book, Captured by Faith: A Journey Through Trial, Sustained by Faith, was finally brought into print in May of 2026.

What began in the harsh and uncertain conditions of West Darfur continues today through weekly conversations, shared prayer, friendship, and our efforts to make his testimony known.

His life is a reminder that faith does not prevent every trial. Rather, faith gives us Someone to hold onto within the trial.

And sometimes we discover that, while we thought we were holding tightly to faith, it was God who had been holding us all along.

Not Boasting, but Giving Thanks

I share these experiences not to boast.

The Apostle Paul wrote:

“Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.”
—1 Corinthians 1:31

On July 25, 1976, I could not have foreseen any of this.

I could not have imagined marriage and children, Mexico and Sri Lanka, Uzbekistan and Honduras, West Darfur and Team Rubicon, baseball camps and disaster zones, firefighters and physicians, books and ministry partnerships.

I did not have a master plan. Truthfully, at seventeen, I was still trying to determine what I would do the following week. Yet God saw the entire road.

Today, on July 25, 2026, I look back upon fifty years of following Christ with gratitude—not because every year was easy, nor because every decision was wise, but because through every season, the Creator and Redeemer has been weaving His purposes into the fabric of my life.

The threads have included joy and sorrow, successes and failures, arrivals and departures, friendships and farewells. From my perspective, some threads seemed tangled or misplaced. But the Weaver has never lost sight of the design.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
—Romans 8:28

What Might Yet Lie Ahead?

Should I still be alive on July 25, 2036—or 2046—or, oh dear, perhaps even 2056—what might God yet choose to do?

By 2056, I would be ninety-seven years old. At that point, “slowing down” will no longer be a choice but a full-time occupation. Still, as long as God provides breath, there shall remain a person to encourage, a story to tell, a prayer to offer, a young man to mentor, a book to write, and a life into which He allows me to speak. 

And perhaps—even then—there may still be a motorcycle left to ride. Hope springs eternal on that one. After all, I may be willing to slow down, but I am not yet prepared to surrender the road :)

... Enjoying the back roads of Oregon

 Perhaps the years ahead will include additional journeys. Perhaps the boundaries of ministry will continue to expand. Or perhaps the greatest work will occur much closer to home—in quiet conversations, faithful friendships, family relationships, and opportunities that may never be seen by a large audience.

Only God knows.

Jabez prayed:

“Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me.”
—1 Chronicles 4:10

I do not necessarily pray for a larger territory in the sense of greater recognition or accomplishment. Rather, I pray that God might enlarge the reach of whatever life remains—that He might increase my capacity to love, serve, encourage, teach, write, listen, and faithfully represent Him.

The measure of a life is not merely how many miles were traveled, countries visited, projects completed, or stories published. The greater question is whether Christ was honored along the way.

There will undoubtedly be struggles ahead. There will be questions for which answers do not come easily. There likely will be disappointments, loss, physical limitations, and doors that close.

This life will continue to slow. But slowing down does not necessarily mean becoming less useful. Sometimes God accomplishes His deepest work not through speed, strength, or activity, but through patience, wisdom, presence, and faithfulness.

The road ahead may look different from the road behind me, but the One who leads remains the same.

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
—Hebrews 13:8

So I look forward to the individuals, opportunities, and circumstances He will place along my path. Some may arrive as blessings. Others may initially appear to be interruptions. After fifty years, I have learned that God often disguises His appointments as interruptions.

I do not know how many more miles remain. But I know the One with whom I am traveling. And that has made all the difference.

To the One Who Does Not Yet Know Christ

Perhaps you have read these reflections and recognize something of yourself in that seventeen-year-old young man from 1976.

Perhaps you have questions. Perhaps you have heard the name of Jesus throughout your life but have never truly considered who He is—or what He might mean for you personally.

You do not need to understand everything before coming to Christ. I certainly did not.

You do not need to repair your life first, become religious, or somehow make yourself worthy. Salvation is not a reward for those who have managed to become good enough. It is a gift offered to those who recognize that they cannot save themselves.

The Bible tells us:

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
—Romans 3:23

That includes every one of us. Yet it also tells us:

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
—Romans 5:8

Jesus Christ died for our sins and rose again. He offers forgiveness, reconciliation with God, and eternal life—not because we have earned it, but because He loves us.

“If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.”
—Romans 10:9

If you have never placed your faith in Christ, you can do so today. There are no magic words, but you might pray something like this:

“Lord Jesus, I know that I have sinned and cannot save myself. I believe that You died for my sins and rose again. I ask You to forgive me, become my Savior and Lord, and lead me from this day forward. I place my faith and my life in You. Amen.”

A prayer does not save because the words are perfectly spoken. Christ saves the person who sincerely turns to Him in faith.

Fifty years ago, I knew very little. I simply knew that I needed someone I could trust. Jesus Christ proved worthy then. He remains worthy today.

To God Be the Glory

What a ride it has been.

A seventeen-year-old young man walked into a youth gathering with no understanding of what God might do with his life. Fifty years later, I look back and see a road filled with people, places, trials, friendships, service, grace, and purposes I could never have planned for myself.

The journey has not been perfect. The traveler certainly has not been perfect. But the Savior has been faithful.

Whatever years remain, may they belong fully to Him. Whatever opportunities remain, may they be used for His purposes. Whatever influence remains, may it point others toward Christ.

And when the final mile has been traveled, may the testimony of this life remain simple: God was faithful. Christ was sufficient. Grace was greater. And the journey was worth it.

To God be the glory—great things He has done!

 

Early Significant Song... by Randy Stonehill 

 There is no way to pick ONE song, one tune, one set of lyrics to stand above all the amazing songs throughout time. Thus... this song speaks to my hearts desire.

'When It's All Been Said and Done' by Robin Mark...

 

When Communication Fades, Gratitude Often Follows

There is a pattern that reveals itself in relationships—whether in families, friendships, ministries, or teams. Sometimes it begins quietly, with small misunderstandings left unspoken.

But other times, it begins much more directly. With conflict. With sharp words. With something said that should have been addressed—but wasn’t.

In those moments, the path forward matters greatly. Because conflict itself is not the greatest threat to a relationship. In many cases, it can actually strengthen it—if it is handled with honesty, humility, and direct communication.

But when conflict is not addressed—when it is avoided, minimized, or quietly excused—something else begins to take root.

Enabling.

 

Instead of going to the source, people talk around it. Instead of clarifying truth, they accommodate distortion. Instead of addressing what is wrong, they choose what is easier.

And what is easier in the moment often becomes far more difficult over time. Because unaddressed conflict does not disappear—it expands.

It gathers assumptions. It invites agreement from others who were never part of the original issue. And slowly, a narrative forms that may bear little resemblance to the truth.

In that environment, communication does not just fade—it fractures. And where communication fractures, gratitude often fades with it.

What was once appreciated becomes overlooked. What was once understood becomes questioned. And what was once shared begins to be rewritten.

It is a subtle shift, but a powerful one. Because when gratitude is lost, perspective is lost with it.

Scripture speaks directly into this kind of moment: “Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” (Colossians 4:6, NIV)

There is wisdom here that is both simple and demanding.

Go directly. Speak truthfully. Do not involve others prematurely. And perhaps most importantly—do not avoid what needs to be addressed.

Because when this principle is ignored, relationships rarely remain neutral. They drift—often toward misunderstanding, division, and misplaced blame.

It is deeply difficult to stand on the receiving end of that drift. Especially when attempts at communication are absent, and conclusions are formed without conversation. To be seen not just as mistaken, but as the sole cause of a problem that was never mutually addressed, can feel both heavy and unjust.

Yet even here, there remains a steady ground to stand on.

Not every conflict will be resolved. Not every misunderstanding will be corrected. And not every relationship will return to what it once was.

Communication requires willingness on both sides. And where that willingness is no longer present, there are limits to what can be restored.

But there are no limits to how we choose to walk forward.

We can still choose integrity over reaction. We can still choose truth over narrative. We can still choose gratitude—even when it is no longer extended toward us. And we can choose not to participate in patterns that avoid truth for the sake of comfort.

Because in the end, the strength of a relationship is not revealed by the absence of conflict… …but by the
willingness to face it honestly.

And when that willingness is missing, we are not called to force what cannot be forced. We are called to remain steady. To speak when given the opportunity. To refrain when it is not. To stand in truth without striving to control how it is received.

And to carry forward with a clear conscience—anchored not in the shifting responses of others… …but in the quiet, unchanging call to walk in truth, to act with grace, and to remain grateful nonetheless.

Miko Kuma… Our Friendly Bear ~ Be Careful What You Ask For

Miko Kuma… a most excellent name for a most excellent dog. Miko—like amigo—means friend. Kuma—Japanese for bear.

And indeed, Miko Kuma was our friendly bear.

By far the smartest pet we ever owned. There was never a fence… yet he faithfully remained in his yard. He responded to hand signals—sit… lay down… and, most impressively, he would put his toys away before bed. One by one. By name.

There was Skunk… Rope… Ojos… and—since he was Karen’s dog as well—a dozen others, each somehow known and remembered. Not just a dog… but a tidy one, too. (A trait we briefly considered teaching to guests.)

Our Miko Buddy ~ Puerto Vallarta

His voice? A language all its own. From his least appealing note—an ear-piercing, fully committed whine when guests arrived—to the softest, most endearing growl he reserved for only one occasion: the group hug.

 

         Yes… a group hug.

He always knew when one of us was leaving. How? We never quite figured it out. Some instinct… some awareness beyond explanation. And in those moments, he alone was permitted to jump up, joining the embrace as if to say, “Not yet… stay just a little longer.”

Even in his final weeks, when his strength was nearly gone, he gave us one last gift. The day I left for Mexico, he gathered himself—summoned whatever remained—and joined us… one final group hug.

Miko was also a strategist.

When Karen was in the living room and I was upstairs, he stationed himself at the hallway between us. If I was outside, he guarded the kitchen doorway. If we were both upstairs, he took position on the second landing—perfectly placed to watch the front porch through the window.

A little dog? Yes. But a great protector of his people. Always.

One year, we cared for a friend’s black Labrador named Trigger—a dog whose very existence revolved around retrieving. Watching him fetch… and fetch… and fetch again (for five, ten, even fifteen minutes without pause) revealed something profound.

Dogs truly live their names... Trigger retrieved with relentless joy. Miko… not so much.

~ Not 'Trigger', but a friend nonetheless ~

Three to five throws—that was his limit. Occasionally, with encouragement, he might stretch it to nine or ten. But mostly, he would stop, look at me with that thoughtful, slightly puzzled expression, and seem to say:

“Rick… it’s just a ball.”

Another glimpse of his intelligence came during our walks. Rarely on a leash, Miko walked with me as a companion, not a captive. Yet he had one habit I could never quite break—he liked to walk just a foot or two ahead.

I had a signal—a gentle tap on my pant leg—and he would fall back into place. For a moment. Then, inevitably, he’d drift forward again, as if leading the expedition.

It wasn’t until our final walk, when his strength had faded, that he finally mastered the command. Only this time… he lagged ten feet behind.

And I remember thinking, with a quiet ache… Be careful what you wish for.

Yet one of his most remarkable traits was his calm indifference to distractions. Other dogs, people, noise—it didn’t matter. When he walked, he walked with purpose. If we stopped, he was friendly as ever. But in motion, he was focused… steady… present.

We miss him dearly. And I suspect we will for quite some time.

I miss my little buddy—my camping companion. My kayaking partner. Though, to be clear, Miko loved the idea of water more than the experience of it. Not like a retriever who plunges in without hesitation. No… Miko preferred to ride on the water.

Perched proudly on the bow of the kayak.

I remember one trip across Devil’s Lake in Lincoln City. We launched on a calm Monday afternoon from the west side. But midway across, the wind rose—five to ten miles per hour. Nothing dramatic for most boats… but for a kayak, low to the water, it was enough.

Waves began to lap over the bow… and onto Miko.

He endured it, of course. But if he could have spoken, I’m quite certain his words would have been:

“Rick… I know this is fun for you… but the sooner we reach land… the better, don’t you think?”

Though Miko was black in color, he was truly a dog of many colors—
intelligent, strategic, loyal… a traveler… a quiet guardian… and a faithful friend.

More than a pet… He was our buddy.

And always will be.

 

 Miko... chasing butterflys? ... But, Surely... 'Boxelders' Ha!

 

Run For The Wall — Why This Ride Matters

There are motorcycle rides… and then there are rides with purpose.

Sometime around 2010, as I was toying with the idea of getting back into street riding, when I first heard about Run For The Wall (RFTW). At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what it was—I just knew it involved motorcycles, long distances, and a whole lot of meaning.

Fast forward to today, and here I am—five motorcycles later (because there is so little time... and so many motorcycles), including two Honda Goldwings—the Cadillacs of the motorcycle world. With those bikes, I’ve logged over 100,000 miles—crisscrossing Oregon more than a dozen times and riding across the United States twice.

And now… a third cross-country ride is on deck. This time—with RFTW.

---

So… What’s the Draw?

~ I will be riding for... Derek W Jones ~

It’s simple.

Purpose.

Run For The Wall is not just about the ride—it’s about why we ride.

Their mission says it better than I ever could:

“To promote healing among ALL veterans and their families and friends, to call for an accounting of all Prisoners of War and those Missing in Action (POW/MIA), to honor the memory of those Killed in Action (KIA) from all wars, and to support our military personnel all over the world."

A Cold War Air Force veteran myself, I have always been grateful for the opportunity to serve—and for those who served before me and continue to serve today. Military service runs deep in my family: grandfathers in the Army, my father in the Air Force, and a son and granddaughter in the Navy. I’ve long believed that service is a vital part of a meaningful life. And now, on this side of retirement—ReFirement, as I like to call it—service simply takes on new forms. The opportunities to live with purpose through service and volunteering are nearly endless. We need only follow that spark… the one that sets our soul on fire. 

 Only six weeks until KSU—Kick Stands Up! And just like that, the countdown has a heartbeat.

As an FNG—Fine New Generation—I’m stepping into something far bigger than a motorcycle ride. This isn’t just throttle and highway. This is purpose on two wheels.

What do I expect?

Highways that stretch like open invitations… Events that remind us why we ride…
New friendships formed somewhere between fuel stops and shared stories… And experiences that, if I’m honest, probably won’t fit neatly into words.

There will be laughter—no doubt about that... There will be miles—plenty of those.
And there will be moments… the kind that catch you off guard.

The quiet ones... The emotional ones... The ones where a flag waves a little differently… where a handshake lingers a little longer… where you realize this ride carries stories far heavier than the saddlebags we pack.

When my friend Brendan and I roll out on May 10th, heading south to Ontario, California, where RFTW begins, I’m not just chasing pavement—I’m chasing presence.

My goal? To soak it all in.

Every sunrise over the highway... Every conversation at a gas stop... Every veteran honored... Every child waving from an overpass... Every opportunity—to bless, and to be blessed.

Because somewhere between the rumble of engines and the rhythm of the road… something meaningful happens.

Something that reminds you why you ride in the first place.

So yes…

Is it May yet?

Not quite.

But it’s close enough now that you can almost hear the engines warming… almost feel the road calling... almost see the horizon waiting.

And when that day comes—

Kick stands up.
Hearts open.
Let’s ride.

With Appreciation... Ricky Dee 

 

Run For The Wall ~ Click here to follow, or better... Join!

  

Humor • Honesty • Heart

Tom Roth… my best friend.

Dugout Canoe on the Rio Coco

But then I pause. And if I’m honest with myself, I suspect there are more than a few people who would also claim that title for him. This man—this firefighter, this brother in Christ, this husband, father, and grandfather—collected “best friends” the way some collect challenge coins. So yes—he was my best, and certainly one of my top three best friends of all time. And so I ask: What makes a best friend?

I met Tom in 1986—forty years ago. I’ve known no other man longer, nor done more adventures with any other man than with this man. Maybe that’s one definition of a best friend: the one who says “Yes” to life with you.

Among those adventures were two backpacking trips—one with his sons, Ryan and Aaron, along with Jon & Nathaniel Parsons. It should probably rank as one of the worst youth backpack trips ever attempted. Jefferson Park in the rain. Mud everywhere. Adults carrying gear for the youth. Youth carrying who-knows-what mentally. The trip was a circus of wet socks, soggy Pop-Tarts, and questionable decision making.

Now, memories are funny things. If I polled the boys, they might remember it differently. But three of them were still youth—so we can safely discount their testimony. (Kidding… mostly.)

What I remember is Tom handling that trip in classic Tom fashion: calm, determined, and with a plan. And afterward—laughter. Lots of it.

There were a couple of years when life pulled us in different directions, but around 2010 something shifted. Bible studies. “Greek Coffee.” A student of Scripture. A student of the Greek New Testament. A brilliant mind. A pondering mind. A man who loved great dialogue. We could talk. We could disagree (rarely). We could challenge one another. We were “iron sharpening iron.” We each took turns being the other’s Timothy.

~ Splangkna ~

Then came Mike Mellison, and later Jim Krieg. Suddenly I found myself with Tolkien and Lewis while I was more like the silent hobbit scribbling notes. Still, there were frequent times when Jim and I would catch each other’s eyes and smile as Tom and Mike dove down some Greek rabbit trail—sometimes tangent, always interesting, never argumentative.

It was brotherhood. Brothers in Christ discussing Scripture the way I believe Christ intended: humbly, curiously, joyfully. We are not God. He is. What is He saying?—that was Greek Coffee.

When the news of Tom’s death came, we already had Greek Coffee on the calendar. That day—and ever since—we’ve met in a Missing Man Formation. We told stories. We laughed. We wept. We remembered. And the only Greek we managed that morning was one word: σπλάγχνον—deep affection.

Paul said Christ had σπλάγχνον in Philippians 1:8. Colossians 3:12 says, “Put on σπλάγχνον”—compassion, tender mercy, “bowels of mercy” if you prefer the King James (Tom preferred this rendering). There are four other virtues listed in that passage, but I suspect they all fit inside that single word.

Luke 15:20 says the father of the prodigal had σπλάγχνον—and ran to his son. 1 John 3:17 warns against shutting up the σπλάγχνον—closing compassion when we have enough and see another in need. Tom never shut off σπλάγχνον.

Catchers Gear for the Mayor

He saw need. He saw children. He saw brothers. He saw mission. Nicaragua, Diriamba, Waspam, Krinkrin… and finally Ukraine—every location soaked in σπλάγχνον.

When Karen and I traveled to Vallarta for three months, it was Tom who drove down and served for two weeks—helping to build a women’s shelter, helping launch Xolos Baseball. A couple years later, it was my turn to travel to Nicaragua with Tom. Xolos Baseball, round two. And though Nicaragua knows baseball—note the honor given to Roberto Clemente—the Waspam and the Miskito Indians had never seen anything quite like our camp. Tom’s σπλάγχνον once again was revealed as he quietly served, supported, and encouraged... And in the years since, Tom and Julie have continued to be among the greatest supporters of Xolos Baseball. Why? σπλάγχνον.

Kisalaya Swing Set ~ Kids LOVED it!

The ministry in Nicaragua went far beyond baseball. There were Legos for the kids (thanks, Julie). Heavy-duty chain, hardware, seats, and finally lumber to build an incredible swing set. The joy—oh the joy—of watching children soar through the rain on those swings, refusing to come down even as the heavens opened. That was σπλάγχνον with a smile. Add to that a trip down the Rio Coco, a visit with the Lees, and more σπλάγχνον for more children. That was my friend Tom.

~ The art of Kidding Around ~

Around 2017, a different kind of adventure began. We took to the highways of Oregon—often joined by Craig Ellison. Once joined by Aaron. And yes, Julie—cover your ears—we may have tested the land-speed record at a remote Oregon airfield. Someone’s Yamaha may have won. Tom’s Bumblebee—well—let’s just say it brought up the rear with dignity.

On one of those rides we became eight-year-old boys all over again. It was Willowcreek, Oregon... we spent two hours touring an automative dairy farm—smartphones out—no concern for cow privacy—taking pictures like giddy schoolchildren. I’ll never forget Tom laughing that day.

Another time, heading west on US-20 toward 395, Tom was leading. Craig and I turned. Tom didn’t. A few moments later—returning—slowing down—laughing—he said, “I was focused on traffic!” There was no traffic for ten miles in any direction. Just Oregon trying to hide its corners from us :)

Tom... on 'Tom Road' Ha!

During our second week-long trip, I heard him tell strangers at least five times, “I’ve lived in Oregon sixty-two years, but with this guy I’ve seen more in the last two years than in the first sixty.” Thank you, brother, for saying yes. Even there—σπλάγχνον rode with us.

We dreamed about Ukraine—youth camps, prisons, discipleship—never made it there together, but the desire was there. The σπλάγχνον was there. He was simply a vessel ready to be poured out.

Julie… Aaron… Ryan… grandkids… family… Tom… Your husband… your dad… your grandfather… he was a man of σπλάγχνον.

Tom—my brother—I miss you. I hope the Father has prepared a Bumblebee for you. I’ll show up on a Goldwing when my time comes.

Until then—thank you for being a real-life example of σπλάγχνον. Wherever the road led, you brought σπλάγχνον with you—and into our world.

Forever in our hearts.
—Rick 

 

 This song... Love Now... is a favorite of mine from Steven Curtis Chapman. The chorus, 

"Love fierce, love brave, love first, don't wait, love now" ... Yep... that was Tom :)

 

                                                            For those of you who knew Tom...                                                                      If you wish, please leave any thoughts that you have of Tom in the comments.  

Plus... If you would like to leave a donation for Mercy Projects, for which Tom was ministering along side, please so do with the following link: Mercy Projects 

Grandpa Tom

 

The Road That Waited: Willamette Falls, 1955–2025

The Trip I Didn’t Take

He picked me up early, the Iowa morning still undecided about the day. The red Cadillac—top down, white interior bright as fresh cream—sat idling at the curb in Red Oak. Ray X Williams behind the wheel.

Just the letter... Not Xavier. Not Xander... Just X.

Even at twelve, I knew that made him special. A man confident enough to carry a single letter and let the rest of the world wonder.

Hat on. Cigar already lit. The smell of leather, gasoline, and tobacco mixed with the July air.

“Well,” he said, glancing over his sunglasses, “you ready for Tulsa?”

I nodded like a boy who didn’t yet understand how few times life asks a question like that.

As we rolled south, cornfields slipping by in long, patient rows, I thought of Mazie—the great-grandmother I knew. Not Mamie, who had passed a couple years before I was born, but Mazie, who carried herself with quiet authority and kept the house running like a well-tuned engine. I wondered, not for the first time, if Gramps had a theme when choosing wives—strong women with names that sounded like they belonged to another era and yet somehow fit perfectly.

Ray drove with one hand, the other holding his cigar out the window so the ash wouldn’t land on the seat Mazie had warned him about more than once. He smiled when I brought it up.

“She’s right, you know,” he said. “A man can love his car, but he’d better love his wife more.”

The road hummed beneath us. After a while he said, “You ever notice how people always ask what the X stands for?”

I shook my head.

“Good,” he said. “Means you’re not wasting time on the wrong questions.”

We stopped late morning for breakfast—though for Ray, any good day of travel started with something warm and familiar. He ordered coffee and talked about food the way farmers do, like it’s part of the calendar.

“August comes around,” he said, “and there’s only one thing that tastes right.”

I already knew the answer.

Oyster stew.

Every August... Every birthday... A ritual as steady as the seasons.

“I love it,” I said.

He grinned. “Good. Means you’ve got good sense.”

We talked about farming—how patience isn’t passive, how waiting is work. About being mayor in Griswold, how listening mattered more than speaking. About knowing when to act and when to let things unfold.

Somewhere near the Kansas line, he laughed quietly and said, “A cigar doesn’t make a man important. It just reminds him to slow down.”

By the time we crossed into Oklahoma, the land had opened wide. The sky felt bigger. Tulsa rose out of the horizon with a promise that smelled faintly of dust and oil and adventure.

The rodeo lights came on like a second sunset.

Horses burst from gates. Riders fought gravity and fear in equal measure. Dust hung in the air like memory. Ray leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright.

“That right there,” he said as a bronc twisted free, “is courage mixed with foolishness. World runs on that combination.”

We cheered. We winced. We laughed together. He explained the rules, the risks, the reasons men keep getting back on after they’ve been thrown.

Later, walking back to the Cadillac, he rested a hand on my shoulder—steady, sure.

“Remember this,” he said. “If you think you should do something—really think it—then you do it. Don’t second-guess yourself. Life doesn’t give rain checks.”

On the drive home, under a sky stitched with stars, he hummed an old tune. I didn’t ask its name. Some things are meant to remain just as they are—unexplained, but true.

---

The Truth

The story above is imagined.

The drive never happened. The rodeo... it happened, but... We never made it to the World Championship Rodeo. And the conversations...  They live only in longing of faded memories.

In 1971, less than a year before his death, my great-grandfather Ray X Williams invited me—his great-grandson—to attend the World Championship Rodeo in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I was twelve. I chose instead to stay in Red Oak, Iowa, to play with my cousins.

We had fun. I’m sure of it. But I have carried the regret of that decision ever since.

Ray X Williams—born December 10, 1890—was a farmer most of his life, later the mayor of Griswold, Iowa. He is buried in Oakland Cemetery in Oakland, Iowa. I remember the Red Cadillac, the White interior, the joy of a cigar, the ritual of oyster stew every August and on his birthday. I remember Mazie, my great-grandmother, and the quiet strength that filled their home.

Only months after that missed invitation, Ray X would suffer a stroke. Then, on June 22, 1972, my great-grandfather died. I never again had the chance to join him in such a grand adventure.

~ Four Generations -- Dec 10, 1970 ~

Forty-one years later—to the very day—I would hug Ronnie Williams one final time. I eased out of the driveway on my Yamaha and waved, just as I had decades earlier. Ronnie, like Gramps, was someone deeply precious to me. June 22nd is a date etched in time—one that refuses to fade.

Time indeed has a way of circling back on itself.

One of my favorite sayings comes from that regret, shaped by the trip I didn’t take:

“If you think you should do something, you have to do it.”

Don’t second-guess yourself... Don’t postpone what matters... Some invitations never come again.

This is my story... This is my regret. And this—finally—is my remembering.

Epigraph for the Willamette Falls Photograph

Some journeys are taken by road. Others are taken by memory. And a few—if we are paying attention—are taken across generations.

Willamette Falls
March 1955 – March 2025

Accompanying Reflection

Just a few days before June 22, 2013—the last day I would hug my Uncle Ronnie and say goodbye—we took one more drive together. Aunt Barb, Ronnie, and I headed to Harlan, Iowa, to visit cousins and to spend time with Aunt Irma, then in her early nineties. There were snacks and drinks, but mostly there were stories. Stories about my dad. Stories about cousins. Stories about two good-looking brothers—Richard and his kid brother, Ronnie.

We looked through hundreds of old photographs, nearly finished, when Aunt Irma reached for one last handful... “I’m sure I have your dad and great-grandfather in here somewhere.”

She did.

As the photos passed through my hands, a sudden recognition stopped me cold.
“I know this place.”

I had driven past it a thousand times.

Willamette Falls.

There they were—my great-grandfather Ray X Williams and my father—standing at the very spot, frozen in black and white. Like so many old photographs, the corner was stamped simply: March 1955. Spring break. My father’s sophomore year. A westward journey I’d never known about until that moment.

A few days later, on June 22, 2013, I said goodbye to Ronnie for the last time. He would pass that December—one hundred and three years and three days after the birth of Ray X. Time, once again, quietly closing a loop.

In March of 2025—exactly seventy years after their travels west—I drove thirty minutes from my home. I wore a blazer. A hat. Held a cigar. Simple props for a quiet reenactment. Standing where they once stood, I took the photograph you see now.

The images are blended... The years are bridged.

I never made it to the World Championship Rodeo with Ray X. That regret remains. But the memories I do carry of him—the farmer, the mayor, the man with the single-letter name, the red Cadillac, the August oyster stew—those are precious beyond measure.

Some journeys we miss.
Others, we find later—waiting patiently for us to notice.

 

 

This song is in tribute to Lane Frost 10-12-1963 ~ 7-30-1989