William Tyndale: A Life Extinguished, a Word Unstoppable

 Five Hundred Years Later — A Debt of Gratitude Written in Blood

 Every October 31, much of the world celebrates Halloween. Costumes, candy, pumpkins, and perhaps a few questionable decisions involving too much chocolate. But for followers of Christ, October 31 also marks something of extraordinary historical and spiritual significance.

Reformation Day.

On October 31, 1517, a German monk named Martin Luther challenged the practices of the Roman Catholic Church by presenting his Ninety-Five Theses in Wittenberg, Germany. That event became a defining moment in the Protestant Reformation, forever changing the course of Christianity and much of the Western world.

Yet, while Luther's name is familiar to many, another reformer, his contemporary, deserves our attention.

His name was William Tyndale.

And this year, 2026, we have two particularly meaningful reasons to remember him.

Five hundred years ago, in 1526, Tyndale published the first complete printed English New Testament translated directly from the original Greek. And this October marks 490 years since his brutal execution in 1536, condemned for heresy after years of defying religious authorities through his teachings and determination to make God's Word available in English.

Think about that for a moment.

Today, I can purchase a Bible in any number of English translations, open my phone and access dozens more, or listen to Scripture while riding my motorcycle. Yet, five centuries ago, a man was hunted, betrayed, imprisoned, and ultimately executed for convictions that included making that very privilege possible.

Why? Because he believed ordinary people should have the opportunity to read and understand God's Word in their own language.

A Bible for the Common Man

In sixteenth-century England, church and state were deeply intertwined, and religious disagreement could carry severe consequences. The Scriptures used in the established church were principally in Latin, a language most ordinary English men and women could neither read nor understand.

There had been earlier efforts to translate the Bible into English. More than a century before Tyndale, John Wycliffe and his associates had produced an English Bible translated from the Latin Vulgate. These, however, were handwritten manuscripts. Tyndale would undertake something revolutionary: translating the New Testament directly from Greek and making printed copies available to ordinary readers.

His desire was not merely to produce another religious book. He wanted farmers, laborers, tradesmen, and families to discover God's Word for themselves.

According to the historian John Foxe, during a disagreement with a learned clergyman, Tyndale declared that, if God spared his life: "I will cause a boy that driveth the plough to know more of the Scripture than thou dost."

What a remarkable declaration! Not a king, bishop, or university professor, but a boy driving a plow. Tyndale believed that knowing God through His Word should not be a privilege reserved for the educated and powerful.

And he was prepared to devote his life to making that possible.

Two Scholars, One Extraordinary Desire

Before following Tyndale, across the English Channel, another important figure deserves recognition: Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam.

Erasmus was a brilliant Dutch scholar who remained within the Roman Catholic Church. In 1516, he published an edition of the Greek New Testament accompanied by his own Latin translation. His work would provide an important textual foundation for both Luther's German New Testament and Tyndale's English translation.

Although Erasmus did not embrace the Protestant Reformation, he shared Tyndale's desire for ordinary people to have greater access to the Scriptures. In the introduction to his Greek New Testament, he expressed this beautiful hope: "If only the farmer would sing something from them at his plow, the weaver move his shuttle to their tune..."

He went on to envision travelers passing their journeys with the stories of Scripture. Imagine that picture: farmers, weavers, and travelers, not merely hearing about Scripture from someone else, but knowing it personally.

And notice the remarkable similarity between these two men. Erasmus dreamed of a farmer singing Scripture behind his plow, while Tyndale dreamed of a boy driving that plow who would know the Scriptures for himself.

Two scholars, two expressions of the same extraordinary desire: that ordinary people might know the extraordinary Word of God.

Twelve Years of Exile

In 1523, Tyndale traveled to London seeking permission and support to translate the Scriptures into English. He approached Cuthbert Tunstall, the Bishop of London, but his request was rejected.

Why would anyone oppose making God's Word understandable to the very people it was intended to teach? The answer involved religious authority, political power, concerns over doctrine, and fear of independent interpretation. But to Tyndale, the matter was far simpler: God had spoken through His Word, and the people needed to hear Him.

Unable to accomplish his mission safely in England, Tyndale crossed the English Channel in 1524, beginning twelve years of exile. He would never return to his homeland.

Working primarily from the Greek New Testament prepared by Erasmus, Tyndale completed his translation and arranged for its printing. In 1525, printing began in Cologne, Germany, but authorities discovered the undertaking, forcing him to flee. He escaped to Worms, where his complete English New Testament was finally printed in 1526.

Five hundred years ago.

Copies soon began making their way secretly into England, hidden among merchandise and carried through the networks of sympathetic merchants. Religious authorities confiscated and publicly burned them, including copies collected under the direction of the very bishop from whom Tyndale had originally sought support.

Imagine the irony. The Word of God, translated into English so ordinary people could read it, was being deliberately destroyed by religious authorities who believed they were protecting the church.

Yet the Scriptures continued to spread. The printing press had changed everything, allowing hundreds of copies to be reproduced and circulated. Once those words entered the hands and hearts of readers, stopping their influence became increasingly difficult.

A Shipwreck and a Determined Scholar

Having completed his New Testament, Tyndale turned toward translating the Old Testament, a demanding undertaking requiring his growing knowledge of Hebrew.

According to Foxe, while traveling by sea toward Hamburg, Tyndale suffered a devastating setback. His ship was wrecked, and with it went his money, books, and precious translation manuscripts. Although some details of this account remain uncertain, imagine losing months of painstaking work while your very life was endangered by the project you were attempting to complete.

Gone!

Some might have regarded such a disaster as a sign to abandon the undertaking. Perhaps the opposition was simply too great, or perhaps God had other plans. But Tyndale did not view his difficulties as permission to surrender. He began again.

With renewed determination, and assistance from fellow translator Miles Coverdale according to Foxe's account, Tyndale continued his work. In 1530, his English translation of the first five books of the Old Testament—the Pentateuch—was published, followed by Jonah in 1531.

What extraordinary perseverance! And what a reminder that the purposes of God are not necessarily defeated by the difficulties of men.

Betrayed — A Life Given for God's Word

For years, Tyndale avoided capture while continuing to revise and translate the Scriptures. By 1534, he was living in Antwerp, in present-day Belgium, under the protection of an English merchant named Thomas Poyntz.

But danger was drawing closer. A young Englishman named Henry Phillips gradually gained Tyndale's confidence, only to betray him. In the spring of 1535, Phillips arranged for his arrest, and Tyndale was imprisoned at Vilvoorde Castle, near Brussels, for approximately sixteen months.

Consider the circumstances. Here was a gifted scholar who might have pursued a comfortable life through teaching or academic recognition. Instead, he had sacrificed security, homeland, and freedom to translate God's Word. Now he sat in a prison cell, awaiting trial for heresy… The penalty would be death.

In October 1536, traditionally commemorated on October 6, William Tyndale was led to his execution at Vilvoorde, in present-day Belgium. Condemned for his religious teachings and writings, including his unauthorized translation work, he was tied to a stake, strangled, and afterward his body was burned.

Pause for a moment and consider that reality. A man whose great desire was for a child working in a field to read and understand the Bible was executed after devoting his life to making that possible.

He had not led an army, sought a kingdom, or accumulated wealth and political power. He had translated the Word of God.

And according to Foxe, his final prayer was: "Lord, open the King of England's eyes."

What an extraordinary expression of faith. What an extraordinary sacrifice. And what a debt of gratitude we owe this man.

The King Who Finally Opened His Eyes

But Tyndale's story did not end at the stake in Vilvoorde. What happened next may be one of the most remarkable ironies in the history of the English Bible.

Remember his final prayer?

"Lord, open the King of England's eyes."

In 1537, less than one year after Tyndale's execution, a complete English Bible known as the Matthew Bible appeared. Assembled by his associate John Rogers, it incorporated Tyndale's New Testament, his Pentateuch, and additional Old Testament translations, with the remaining portions drawn principally from Miles Coverdale.

In other words, Tyndale's work formed the foundation of this remarkable Bible.

And here is the extraordinary part. King Henry VIII permitted its circulation under royal authority! The very king whose government had opposed Tyndale's translations now permitted an English Bible built substantially upon his work.

And it didn't stop there. In 1538, the royal government ordered English Bibles to be provided in parish churches. The following year, the Great Bible appeared, another translation deeply indebted to Tyndale, becoming the first officially authorized English Bible for widespread use in the Church of England.

Think about that!

For years, authorities had confiscated and burned Tyndale's Scriptures, pursued their translator across Europe, and condemned him to death. Yet within just a few years, English Bibles based substantially upon his work were being placed in churches!

Certainly, Henry VIII's motivations involved politics, his break with Rome, and royal authority rather than an embrace of all Tyndale's theological convictions. Nevertheless, the reversal was extraordinary.

Tyndale never lived to witness it. But I cannot help wondering what he would have thought had he known that the very Scriptures he had risked everything to translate would soon be permitted in his homeland.

The boy driving the plow might finally have the opportunity to read them.

A Legacy That Could Not Be Silenced

And Tyndale's influence did not end there.

Seventy-five years after his execution, in 1611, the King James Bible appeared. Although produced by a committee of scholars drawing upon the original biblical languages and earlier English translations, its dependence upon Tyndale's work was unmistakable.

Scholars commonly estimate that approximately four-fifths of the wording of the King James New Testament reflects Tyndale's translation, although the percentage varies according to how the influence is measured.

Consider the significance. The man condemned for producing an English New Testament had supplied much of the language that would eventually appear in one of history's most influential English Bibles.

Generations would read words shaped by the labor of a man whose name many would never know.

What began as a forbidden translation became an enduring spiritual and literary inheritance.

What Man Intended for Evil

As I reflect upon Tyndale's life and death, I cannot help but think of Joseph's words to the brothers who had betrayed him: "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good." — Genesis 50:20 (ESV)

Those words seem particularly fitting. Tyndale's enemies confiscated his work, burned his books, pursued him across Europe, and eventually took his life. Yet they could not extinguish the Word of God.

The very translation they sought to suppress became the foundation of English Bibles that the government itself would soon permit and encourage.

Tyndale's body was consumed by fire, but the Scriptures he translated continued to spread. Five hundred years later, we are still reading the Bible in a language profoundly shaped by his work.

What man intended to destroy, God, in His providence, could use to accomplish something far greater.

They silenced the translator, but they could not silence the truth he had translated.

The Bible on My Shelf

As I sit here five hundred years after Tyndale's extraordinary undertaking, I cannot help reflecting upon something both encouraging and deeply convicting.

I have several Bibles. In fact, I suspect many of us have more than one. Perhaps a favorite beside our chair, another on the nightstand, one in the office, and several translations available on our phones.

We can read the words of Jesus, study the letters of Paul, and gather with friends and family to explore the Scriptures without fear of imprisonment. And yet, I wonder. Have we become so accustomed to having the Bible that we have forgotten just how extraordinary that privilege really is?

Tyndale spent twelve years in exile so ordinary people could read the Scriptures. He endured hardship, opposition, betrayal, imprisonment, and ultimately death. And here I sit, five centuries later, with God's Word readily available.

I don't have to cross an ocean to obtain it, conceal it beneath my clothing, or worry that opening its pages might cost me my freedom. I simply reach for it. What an extraordinary gift. And what an extraordinary responsibility.

And that brings me back to the farmer and his plow. Erasmus longed for the farmer to sing the Scriptures as he worked, while Tyndale longed for the boy driving that plow to know the Scriptures for himself.

Five hundred years later, their hopes have been fulfilled in ways neither could have imagined.

The question is no longer whether we can obtain the Scriptures. The question is whether we will treasure them enough to open them.

This October, as we remember the Protestant Reformation, the 500th anniversary of Tyndale's English New Testament, and the 490th anniversary of his martyrdom, may we do more than acknowledge a remarkable moment in history. May we remember the sacrifice, appreciate the privilege, and become men and women who read, study, believe, and live according to the Word of God.

Because the greatest tribute we can offer William Tyndale is not simply to remember the man who helped give us the Scriptures in English, but to treasure the truth for which he was willing to die.

Five hundred years later, the Bible remains within our reach. May it never become distant from our
hearts.

 

 In the video below Gavin Ortlund has provided a very gracious, honest, and historically accurate account of William Tyndale and those who followed his teaching.

 

October 8 — A Perfect Day for Baseball

Seventy Years of Baseball History—and a Birthday Worth Celebrating 

 There is something about baseball.

I've loved the game for as long as I can remember... The smell of freshly cut grass, the crack of a bat, the sound of a baseball popping into a catcher's mitt, and the anticipation of what might happen with the very next pitch.

Unlike football, basketball, or hockey, baseball doesn't have a clock telling us when the game must end. There are twenty-seven outs, and until that final out is recorded, anything can happen. 

Perhaps that's one reason I love it so much.

And speaking of remarkable happenings, yesterday was October 8. Not just another date on the calendar, but the seventieth anniversary of something that happened only once in World Series history.

Twenty-Seven Up. Twenty-Seven Down ~ On October 8, 1956, the New York Yankees faced the Brooklyn Dodgers in Game Five of the World Series. On the mound stood twenty-seven-year-old Don Larsen.

Now, Larsen wasn't exactly the fellow you would have expected to make baseball history. Just three days earlier, he had struggled against those same Dodgers, lasting less than two innings before being removed from the game. 

Not exactly the performance that makes a manager say, "Now there's my guy!" But Yankees manager Casey Stengel gave him another opportunity. And what an opportunity it became!

For nine innings, Larsen faced twenty-seven Brooklyn Dodgers. And all twenty-seven returned to their dugout without reaching base. No hits. No walks. No errors. Nobody reaching first base.

A perfect game!

And not just any perfect game—the only perfect game ever pitched in the World Series. Consider the competition. Among those Dodgers were Jackie Robinson, Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, Roy Campanella, and Gil Hodges. Five future Hall of Famers, and not one could reach first base!

Then came the ninth inning. Two outs. Dale Mitchell stepped to the plate. The count reached one ball and two strikes. Larsen delivered.

Strike three!

Ninety-seven pitches. Twenty-seven batters. Twenty-seven outs. And baseball history was made.

The celebration that followed produced one of the game's most iconic photographs—Yogi Berra leaping into Larsen's arms as the pitcher walked off the mound. Two grown men celebrating like little boys. That's baseball!

What's With the Number Twenty-Seven?

Now, here's something I find particularly interesting. Don Larsen was twenty-seven years old when he pitched that perfect game. And, as you might have already noticed, there are twenty-seven outs in a nine-inning baseball game. Well, twenty-seven just happens to be my favorite number! And for those of us who appreciate a little John Denver music, perhaps you'll remember the opening words of Rocky Mountain High: "He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year."

Now, I'm not suggesting John Denver was writing about Don Larsen, or that the number twenty-seven has some magical baseball power. But I do find the connections rather entertaining. Twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven batters. Twenty-seven outs. Maybe I've been onto something with my favorite number all these years!

Why I Love This Game

Rick playing for the LAwndale Dodgers... :)

Perhaps what I love most about baseball is its unpredictability. A rookie can become a hero. An aging
veteran can have one final moment of greatness. A struggling hitter can deliver a game-winning hit. And a pitcher who couldn't get out of the second inning three days earlier can return to pitch the greatest game of his life.

Baseball is a game of failure, perseverance, patience, and unexpected triumph. Think about it. A batter who fails seven out of ten times can still be considered one of the greatest hitters in the game. Imagine succeeding thirty percent of the time in most other professions! I suspect my fire chief might have had something to say about that.

Yet baseball reminds us that yesterday's failures don't have to define tomorrow's opportunities. 

Don Larsen finished his major league career with 81 wins and 91 losses. More losses than victories. Hardly the statistics of an all-time great. But on one remarkable October afternoon, he was absolutely perfect. And seventy years later, nobody has duplicated his World Series accomplishment.

Passing Along the Love of the Game

Perhaps that's also why I've enjoyed being involved with our Xolos baseball camps. There's something special about watching young players learn the game, develop their skills, build friendships, and discover that baseball offers lessons extending well beyond the diamond.

Through our camps, we have opportunities not only to teach baseball, but also to encourage character, teamwork, perseverance, and faith in Christ. Not every player will become a major leaguer. In fact, very few ever will. But every young person can learn something valuable from this wonderful game.

Sometimes the greatest victories aren't recorded on a scoreboard.

And who knows? Somewhere among those young ballplayers might be another Don Larsen, waiting for his opportunity.

A Little Something Else About October 8

Now, I should probably confess something. I've always had a particular fondness for October 8. Not simply because of Don Larsen, the Yankees, or one of the greatest moments in baseball history. You see, October 8 also happens to be my birthday!

That's right. Of all the days on the calendar, Don Larsen chose my birthday to pitch the only perfect game in World Series history.

Now, I wasn't around to see it. I arrived a couple of years later. But I certainly appreciate the gesture! I mean, some folks get a birthday cake. Others receive a few presents. I got one of the greatest achievements in baseball history attached to my birthday. And seventy years later, it's still the gift that keeps on giving.

So here's to October 8, Don Larsen, Yogi Berra, the number twenty-seven, and this wonderful game I've loved for a lifetime.

Baseball reminds us that we don't have to be perfect every day. We simply need to keep showing up, keep working, and be ready when our opportunity comes. Because sometimes an ordinary day becomes extraordinary.

And sometimes, just sometimes, everything comes together. Twenty-seven batters. Twenty-seven outs. One perfect afternoon. And one pretty terrific day to have a birthday.

Forty Seven Seasons

This morning I found myself standing quietly in our entryway, looking through the window toward the porch and the neighborhood beyond.

Nothing particularly remarkable was happening outside. The sun was shining. The trees were still green. An American flag hung from the porch. Cars sat along the street, and another ordinary day was beginning.

But upstairs, I could hear Karen singing.

She was in her craft room, working away on a diamond dot picture of horses and sunflowers. She has been working on it for quite some time and, truth be told, I think she is more than ready to be finished with it. Yet there she was—placing another little dot, listening to some of the Christian women whose music she enjoys, and singing right along with them.

And I simply stood there and listened. Something about that moment touched me.

Perhaps it was the simplicity of it. Perhaps it was hearing the voice of the woman with whom I have shared nearly forty-seven years of life. Perhaps it was realizing that after all these years, joy can still sneak up on you in the most ordinary places.

Whatever it was, a little moisture found its way into my eyes.

This has been a difficult year for us. We said goodbye to our little buddy, Miko, and there remains an empty place in our home—and in our hearts—that we still feel deeply. We miss him. I suppose we always will.

And yet, standing there this morning, I was reminded of something. Joy and sorrow have an interesting way of living in the same house.

Over forty-seven years, Karen and I have known both. There have been mountaintops and valleys, laughter and tears, beginnings and goodbyes. There have been grand adventures, certainly—but some of the sweetest memories have come from moments that would hardly seem worth mentioning to anyone else.

A song drifting down the stairs.

A project spread across a craft-room table.

Sunlight coming through an old window.

A little dog who once followed us everywhere.

A cup of coffee. A shared laugh. A hand held. A prayer whispered.

The little things.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of growing older together. You begin to realize that life isn't made beautiful only by the great moments. More often, it is made beautiful by a thousand ordinary ones that we were fortunate enough to notice.

On September 29th, Karen and I will celebrate 47 years of marriage.

Forty-seven seasons of discovering that even in the midst of hurt, there is still beauty. Even after loss, there is still laughter. Even when life doesn't look quite the way we hoped it might, there are still countless little gifts placed along the road by a gracious Creator.

Sometimes you simply have to stand still long enough to notice them.

Karen, thank you for joining me through these forty-seven seasons. And perhaps that is my prayer for whatever seasons remain before us:

Let's keep discovering the simple beauty our blessed Creator has so graciously given.

 

A Day That Changed the World

Reflections from the Firehouse: A Day That Changed the World

It’s September 10th, 2001—just an ordinary ‘B’ shift at the firehouse. Truth be told, I can't recall a single detail from that shift. Nothing. Nada. Just another routine day of checking equipment, answering calls, and debating whether or not we should trust the leftover chili in the fridge. That all changed the next morning.

September 11, 2001—A Morning Like No Other

At approximately 6:00 a.m. on September 11, the loudspeaker crackled to life, shaking us from whatever semblance of rest we had managed to steal.

At Portland Airport Fire & Rescue, our emergency calls came from one of two places: Fire Dispatch or the PDX Control Tower. And when the Tower called, there was no mistaking it. The sound was distinctive—almost like a telephone receiver being lifted from its cradle.

We knew immediately. The Tower.

Normally, what followed would be an Alert 1, 2, or 3—each level indicating the seriousness of an aircraft emergency. An Alert 1 might involve a relatively minor problem. An Alert 3 meant the unthinkable: an aircraft had crashed, was on fire, or both.

But this morning, the Tower wasn’t calling to send us anywhere. There was no aircraft emergency at PDX. No engines starting. No apparatus rolling out of the station. Instead, the voice coming over the speaker was alerting us to something happening nearly three thousand miles away.

The controller’s voice was calm and measured. “A plane has crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City.”

For a moment, that was all we knew.

Still groggy, we absorbed the news as best we could. A plane crash? Into the Trade Center? We assumed it was some tragic accident—a mechanical failure, a pilot's mistake, an error in navigation. But within the next hour, three more planes crashed, and the grim reality hit us with the force of a five-alarm fire. This was no accident. This was intentional.

The world watched in horror as the towers fell, as smoke and ash blanketed the city, as lives were forever changed in an instant. We, like the rest of the nation—and the world—were left stunned, silent, and numb at the sheer devastation.

We would later hear of the tragic end of United Airlines Flight 93, which crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

In the hours and days that followed, we learned that several passengers had been able to make phone calls to loved ones and others on the ground. Through those conversations, they discovered what had already happened in New York and Washington—and began to understand what the hijackers intended for their own aircraft.

One of those passengers was Todd Beamer, who spoke at length with GTE Airfone operator Lisa Jefferson. As the passengers gathered what information they could, a small group made an extraordinary decision: they would attempt to retake the cockpit.

They knew what that decision might cost them. Yet they moved forward anyway.

Their courage, and ultimately their willingness to surrender their own lives, prevented Flight 93 from reaching its intended target in Washington, D.C.—very likely saving countless others on the ground.

Their final act was not one of helplessness. It was one of courage.

A Deafening Silence at the Airport

I had worked at airports for more than twenty years, but I had never experienced anything like the eerie stillness that followed.

Portland International Airport, like airports across the country, came to a complete standstill. No aircraft taking off. No engines roaring down the runway. No familiar hum of air traffic overhead.

Just silence.

And for the next three days, that silence settled over the airport in a way I had never known.

Only once more in my career would I witness PDX come to such a complete stop—during the major ice storm of 2004. But even that was different. An ice storm could shut down an airport.

September 11th seemed to shut down the world.

343: A Brotherhood’s Ultimate Sacrifice

There were moments at the firehouse when we would pause to pray—usually at dinner, when someone would muster the courage to say grace before an audience of hungry firefighters.

But that day was different.

As I stood in the firehouse and looked around at my brothers, I felt compelled to ask a simple question:

“Can we pray?”

I don’t remember the words of that prayer. But I remember the weight in my chest, the anguish in my heart, and the quiet understanding among us that nothing we could say could make sense of what we were witnessing.

In time, we would learn the full extent of the loss—343 FDNY firefighters who gave their lives in the line of duty, running toward danger while thousands of others were trying to escape it.

Their courage and sacrifice cannot be overstated.

If you ever visit New York City, take time to remember them. Visit the FDNY Museum. Stand before their names. Consider the lives behind those numbers.

Their legacy is not defined only by how they died, but by how they lived—and by the courage, duty, and selflessness they displayed when it mattered most.

2,977 Lives… A Call for Peace

The final count would stand at 2,977 lives lost on September 11, 2001. But numbers can never tell the whole story. Each one represented a name. A family. A story. A life interrupted far too soon.

In the years since, I have often reflected on that day—on the terrible loss, the extraordinary courage, and the resilience of those who stepped forward when everything around them seemed to be falling apart. I think of the firefighters climbing those stairs, the passengers aboard Flight 93, the police officers, paramedics, ordinary citizens, and countless others who chose courage in the face of fear.

And I am reminded that this world desperately needs peace. Not simply the absence of war or conflict, but something deeper. Something the world cannot manufacture through prosperity, power, or policy alone.

More than two thousand years ago, the angels proclaimed over Bethlehem: “Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.”

That message still matters... The peace I have come to believe in is not found in surrender to fear, anger, or hatred. It is found in surrender to the Creator and Redeemer—the One who offers a peace that reaches beyond circumstance, beyond tragedy, and even beyond our understanding.

Might you consider His peace, His love, His purpose in your life this year?

A Stair Climber’s Tale

In February 2012, I took on one of the most demanding physical challenges of my life—the Empire State Building Run-Up. The course climbed 85 flights and 1,576 steps to the 86th-floor observation deck.

My legs screamed. My lungs burned. Somewhere along the way, I began questioning my life choices.

And still, I kept climbing.

Why? Because sometimes, as firefighters, athletes, and simply as human beings, we take on difficult things not because they are easy, but because there is something in the struggle itself that calls us forward.

Those five days in New York were unforgettable—cold, sunny, and filled with adventure. But nothing from that trip affected me quite like my time at the 9/11 Memorial and its reflecting pools.

Standing there was different. The noise of the city seemed to fall away. The names surrounding the pools, the endless movement of the water, and the enormous empty spaces where the towers once stood created a silence all their own.

It is one of the most powerful memorials I have ever visited. 

If you ever have the opportunity to visit New York City, make time for it. Stand beside those pools. Read the names. Remember the lives behind them.

And if you cannot make the journey, even seeing the annual Tribute in Light offers a glimpse of the solemn beauty of remembrance—a reminder that while the towers are gone, the memory of those lost still reaches into the sky.

Twenty-five years have passed since September 11, 2001, yet the weight of that day has never fully left us. Time has softened some of the edges, but it has not erased the images, the names, the courage, or the sacrifice. We remember those who were lost, those who ran toward danger, those who carried strangers to safety, and those who went home afterward forever changed. For me, the lesson of that day is not only that life is fragile, but that courage, faith, compassion, and service still matter when the world seems darkest. We cannot undo what happened that morning, but we can choose what we carry forward from it. May we refuse hatred. May we seek peace. May we serve one another well. May we speak the names and tell the stories. And may we never forget that even from the deepest grief, God can still call us toward hope, toward love, and toward the light. 

 

YouTube: … Tribute in Light

 Though I wrote a similar blog many years ago, the approach of the twenty-fifth anniversary of September 11—and watching the movie 'United 93' for the first time—compelled me to return to that story and tell it again.

Twenty-five years have passed, but some stories should never be allowed to fade with time. This is one of them.

It is a story of heartbreak and loss, but also of courage, sacrifice, faith, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things when the moment demanded it.

It is a story that still needs to be told.

And remembered.

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.

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.

~ Rick with Team Rubicon ~

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

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.

~ Stitch in Time Brothers ~

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.