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.
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.
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.
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...
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… 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.
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.
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.
"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
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