Of all of our National Holidays... Thanksgiving has been my favorite throughout my adult years. So on this Thanksgiving Day, one quarter through the Twenty-First Century... I leave you with this short story.
...
For quite some time, a devoted Sunday School teacher carried out a
small but meaningful tradition. Each week, she gathered her class of
bright-eyed children and guided them on a quiet walk through the
church auditorium. Tiny footsteps echoed softly as the children
looked up in wonder, marveling at the beauty around them.
Their favorite part of the journey was always the stained-glass
windows—towering panels of vibrant, carved glass that portrayed the
ancient apostles, those we often call saints. There stood
Saint John, Saint Matthew, Saint Paul, and others whose lives helped
shape the early church. When sunlight streamed through the sanctuary,
those windows glowed like heavenly jewels—deep blues, warm reds,
shimmering golds—casting brilliant colors across the pews.
Week after week, the teacher paused before each window, offering
simple stories about these men of faith. Though the walk lasted only
a few minutes, their lessons lingered like light in the children’s
hearts.
Then one Sunday, the teacher stopped midway down the aisle.
Looking at her little class, she asked a question.
“Children, can you tell me what the word saint means?”
Silence swept over the group as they thought. Then, with the joy
of discovery dancing in her eyes, one little girl raised her hand.
With a proud smile she answered:
“A saint is a person whom the light shines through.”
The teacher stood still, letting the beauty of that simple truth
wash over her. And perhaps today—on this Thanksgiving Day—that
truth reaches us as well.
Letting
the Light Shine Through in Troubled Times
We do not need reminding that our world is unsettled. Troubles
swirl in distant nations and in our own cities. Families feel strain.
Hearts carry hidden burdens. Even our thoughts, at times, face
storms of their own.
Yet in the midst of it all, one calling remains:
To be people through whom the Light shines.
Not flawless people.
Not people untouched by sorrow or
struggle.
But people who—despite cracks, wear, and
weakness—allow the light of Christ to shine through them.
It is often through our very broken places that His brightness is
seen most clearly.
A
Thanksgiving Invitation
As we gather this Thanksgiving—around busy tables, quiet tables,
or even in moments of solitude—we are invited to more than
gratitude for a meal.
We are invited to reflect the Light.
A gentle word.
A forgiving spirit.
A listening ear.
A
generous act.
A prayer whispered for someone unknown to us.
A
willingness to bring warmth into a cold moment.
These are the ways saints—ordinary saints—shine.
And maybe that little girl’s answer was more than a definition.
Maybe it was a calling:
A saint is someone who lets the Light shine through.
Grateful,
Hopeful, Steady
On this Thanksgiving Day, may gratitude fill your heart, may peace
steady your steps, and may the Light that no darkness can overcome
shine beautifully through your life.
And in a world longing for hope, may others see that Light—through
you.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Such beauty... Indeed, our Creator... The fount of many blessings!
Let
me ask a question… Take a few moments and think. Who are
the people in your life who made a difference? For some, that list
might be long. For others… maybe just one or two. But now, focus on
a particular aspect
— a certain season of life. Sometimes all it takes is a time frame…
a song… a fragrance… a picture… or simply, a memory.
If I said “Childhood”
or “College.”
Maybe “Career”
or “Vacation.”…
What person
immediately comes to mind?
For me — when it comes to
Motorcycle Rides
— second only to my “Bucket List” rides, that person is Curt
Frink.
I had only returned to the
“Two-Wheeled Obsession” a couple of years earlier, after a
twenty-year hiatus. Picture this: I’m walking through the checkout
at Silverton’s Roth’s IGA, helmet in hand, when Jan, with her
ever so brilliant smile, asks, “You ride motorcycles?” –
Before I could even answer, she handed me a brochure she had tucked
beside her register. The rest… is history.
That day, I became an
Oregon ABCity
Tour rookie.
It was 2014 — the letter was B.
Now, twelve years later, this two-time
Tour Champion has
ventured several times
through the most
gorgeous corners of Oregon… one letter (sometimes
more) at a time.
From JUVYZ
to K & N,
then S,
M,
D/E,
followed by W
and R.
In 2022, we chased G
and I; in
2023, it was L;
2024 brought P,
and 2025 — the letter H.
For another Happy
year!
And you know… it seems
only fitting that the first full year without Curt among us… 2026…
the remaining letters
are C
and T
— CurT!
Oh baby, tell me that’s not divine timing.
About the
Ride
Though the riders
on this Tour have never been grand
in number… those who
ride… we make
it grand.
Some are
all about the destination — get the checkpoint, grab the photo,
move to the next. –Others — well, we are
more about the journey:..
the people along the way, the quirky cafés, the stunning vistas, and
those “you’ve-got-to-see-it-to-believe-it” signs. And let’s
not forget… those twisty, breathtaking Oregon roads that made
getting there half the fun.
Three
Stories ~ that Curt
left me…
1. ~The
year was 2015 — the letters were JUVYZ.
The
destination: Vinson.
“Vinson?” you say. ABCitiers
might nod — “Been there, done that.” But truth be told,
otherwise…
not
one person has
ever
been
able todescribe
the location of this place called Vinson.
One Saturday… July of
2015… I set out to find it myself. Upon arrival — I discovered a
one sign, one house, one unnamed cemetery… along the Butter Creek
Road. ~ As my Roadstar crested the hill, lo and behold — a yellow
school bus appeared from the west! Out stepped thirty folks from the
Oregon Historical Society, complete with two old-timers telling
stories and a five-piece old-time band.
And I thought: “Except
for Curt, I would never have been here. No… never!”
2. Sulphur Springs — 2017:
“The Case of the Missing Sign”
Fast forward to 2017 —
the letter was S.
Only a few coastal towns remained on the
Tours list. Before
returning home from a
six-day ride, I stopped by Curt and Jan’s to swap stories. I
mentioned my one miss — Sulphur
Springs. Curt gave
me that look. You know the one. I asked, “No way — Sulphur
Springs has a sign?” Not
a word! Solely…
that Frink smile. A few
weeks later, a ten-hour ride… and
wala… I discovered a sign of a
Sulphur Springs, Oregon!Victory
indeed! Curt
1, Me 0… Ha!
3. Outriding
the Ride Master
Whenever I rode with Curt,
indeed the
joy was in the journey — and in the camaraderie. But the real
payoff? Hearing him say afterwards… “I’ve never been on a
couple of those roads.” To have Curt
— the man who knew Oregon like the back of his throttle hand —
say that?
Oh, I was strutting like I’d just won the MotoGP!
The Legacy
Rolls On
There are so many more
stories — and I know those who knew Curt could share dozens more.
So, as each new year rolls in… as each new letter is chosen… as
every road unfolds beneath our wheels — may we remember and
appreciate the simple gift Curt left us: The
Oregon ABCity Tour.
Because in the end, it’s
not about the miles. It’s about the memories — and the man who
helped us make them.
Thank you dear
friend…Rick
p.s.
In the Hall of Fame of the Oregon ABCity Tour… Consider ‘00’
retired!
... From backyard garages to big-league grace — how one humble superstar rekindled a boyhood love of baseball.
At
nearly seventy years of age, I’ve learned there are few pastimes
that can still make my heart race like a nine-year-old’s.
Well—other than God’s own pastime of creation, of course. But
somehow, baseball seems to have preceded even that.
My love affair with America’s pastime began fifty-eight years
ago, on a dusty little alley behind our home in Hawthorne,
California. Today there’s a Target on Rosecrans Avenue. Back then,
I had a target—a garage door that served faithfully as my
catcher. There I stood, sweat trickling down my nine-year-old brow,
squinting in for the sign from Johnny Roseboro. Every pitch was the
potential third strike of a World Series dream. And who was I? None
other than Sandy Koufax himself.
I’d go on to become a Pirate, then—be still, my heart—a
Dodger. Number 12, first base for this southpaw (left-handed) kid. I loved
scooping those low throws, or stretching for the wild throw from my third-baseman. But... oh baby... those diving catches in
centerfield... they were something special! My teenage years took me through
the ranks: a Colt, a Cardinal, and even a Cowboy. Later, as an adult,
I wore the uniforms of the Warrior, the Senator, the Angel,
and—yes—the Red Sox, with whom we won the Oregon State Men’s
Senior League title in 1993. I was thirty-seven then; they called it
“Senior League.” I laugh—Now thirty
years later... indeed, I'm a "Senior".
~ 1993 Silverton Red Sox ~
What drew me in? The smell of the leather glove. The pop of the
ball. The sweet perfume of freshly mown grass on a California spring
day. The beauty of a perfectly turned double play. I dreamt
baseball. I lived baseball. I knew the players, the rules,
and the unspoken poetry that made the game so deeply American.
More than anything, baseball taught me confidence—and
sportsmanship. Over the years, I summed up my approach to every sport
with an acronym I created:
SPORT – Say it Best, Play it Best, Offer
the Best, Respond the Best, Teach the Best. And for my
Spanish-speaking friends: MEJOR – Muestra
tu Mejor, Enseña tu Mejor, Juega tu Mejor, Ofrece tu Mejor, Responde
tu Mejor.
Then, as with most good things, life—and the world—changed.
Somewhere along the way, the game lost a bit of its soul to politics,
posturing, and pageantry. For nearly fifteen years, my connection to
baseball dwindled to a few college games—mainly my 3x College World Series Champs... the Oregon State
Beavers—just enough to keep the spark alive.
But lately, that spark is back. A handful of players have reminded
me of what baseball can be—grace, grit, humility, and joy
all wrapped in a 95 (or 100)-mph fastball. And the splitters... Yikes! So thank you, Clayton
Kershaw, Freddie Freeman, Mike
Trout, Cal Raleigh, and especially Shohei
Ohtani—perhaps indeed... the GOAT... the greatest of all time.
Thank you, Shohei, for not being Showy. For
reminding us that greatness can still walk hand-in-hand with grace.
And that’s exactly what we teach our Xolos ballplayers: play with
heart, play with honor, and always—play your best.
The only thing better for this video... Vin Scully making the call. Just saying! :)
Most
of us—if not all—have dreams. Some big, some small. Some are born
in childhood treehouses and others over a cup of strong coffee during
midlife. But here’s the real question: How many of us actually
pursue
those dreams?
Of those, how many give up halfway? And for those who reach
the mountaintop, how many find the view a bit... underwhelming?
So—are dreams even worth it?
Or maybe we should all just settle into the comfy recliner of
routine: job, bills, decent coffee, and reruns of NCIS. Most
people do. And honestly—there’s nothing wrong with that.
Stability has its perks. Like warm socks.
But let me throw another question at you like a wrench in the
spokes: What’s the difference between a dream and a
goal?
Maybe goals come with checklists, calendars, and deadlines.
Dreams? They often show up without an appointment and whisper, “What
if…”
Got Dreams? Then Let’s Talk
If you’re still reading this (bless your heart), take a minute.
Think about your own dreams. I’m guessing you’ve got at
least one or two tucked away.
Did you ever go after them? If so, how’d that turn out? If
not… what stopped you? (Be honest—it was fear, wasn’t it? Or
was it Netflix?)
Back in the Day…
Let’s rewind to September 1977.
I was one of the first “post-draft” volunteers to join the
U.S. military. I walked into the Air Force recruitment office and
signed that all-too-famous dotted line. (Yes, it really exists. It’s
just... not as intimidating as the movies make it look.)
I chose a delayed enlistment, arriving at Lackland Air Force Base in June of 1978. A guaranteed assignment as a Firefighter was more than I could have imagined.
Those four years weren’t flawless—there were bumps, bruises,
and the occasional personality clash—but they brought immense
satisfaction. Oh, and a wife. (Fun fact: no one tells you a spouse
might be part of your GI benefits. I got lucky. Thanks, Air Force!)
Before the Air Force, a stint with the Forest Service had already
planted the seed: I wanted to be a firefighter. The cherry on
top? Becoming a Paramedic.
Firefighting and emergency medicine weren’t just careers. They
were callings. Now, almost five
decades later,
another dream has started revving its engine.
The Dream: Freedom, Wind, and Wheels
I'm not exactly sure when this new dream took shape. Somewhere in
the last five or ten years, it rolled into my heart—quietly at
first, like a motorcycle idling at a red light.
Fast forward to July
2023, and I
had the honor of volunteering at the Paralyzed Veterans of
America (PVA) Wheelchair Games. The experience lit a fire.
Two years later, the dream has a name, a mission,
and—miraculously—not just sticky notes, but actual plans. The vision? To build a
motorcycle with a sidecar
adapted for wheelchairs—a ride for veterans who can
no longer ride themselves due to injury or age.
We call it:
Freedom Ride "Offering a
two-wheeled experience of wind, motion, and memory—through a
specially designed sidecar. A small gift of joy and dignity for those
who gave so much."
Simple. Beautiful. Meaningful.
Mission: Possible
Our mission statement says it all:
“Providing a Two-Wheeled Experience of Honor
and Healing for Our Veterans.”
This bike won’t just be a mechanical marvel—it’ll be a
rolling tribute. It will show up in parades, events, or even just
sunny Saturdays, offering free rides to veterans who
thought their riding days were behind them.
Reality
Check… and Hope
Right now, I’ve got:
A few brilliant engineer
friends
A willing builder
and painter
Some rough design
ideas
And even some self-funding
But will it actually happen? Will we find the right designer? Will funding shift from
hopeful to helpful? Will I follow through when it gets
hard? Will this idea get out of the garage and into the hearts
of veterans?
That’s where you
come in.
So, What’s Next?
This blog might just be the next
step toward reality. You—yes,
you, reading this with your second cup of coffee—might be the
connection, supporter, encourager, or mechanic we didn’t know we
needed.
So I ask again: What
are your dreams? And
maybe… just maybe… how might you become a part of Freedom
Ride?
Let’s give some heroes the wind in
their hair again—even if it’s just a breeze on the back of a bald
head.
Because freedom should
ride.
This very morning (July 25, 2025) I came across the 'Gary Sinise Foundation', that states, "We serve our nation by honoring our defenders, veterans, first responders, their families, and those in need. This song, 'Arctic Circles' was composed by Gary's son Mac & Oliver Schnee. I can hear Mac's album called 'Resurrection & Revival' playing through the speakers of the motorcycle & sidecar as it rolls down the highway. Simply beautiful!
Was it
the plaid short-sleeve shirt? The five-foot-two frame? Those lovely
blue eyes? Or maybe that sweet, mischievous smile tossed across the
gymnasium like a paper airplane of hope?
Honestly… I’m not quite sure what first drew me to her.
The next morning, I walked into church — one of those big services
with more than a thousand in attendance — thinking only about the
message or maybe where I’d sit. Not a single neuron in my brain
fired off the thought: “Hey, maybe that cute girl from last
night will be here too.”
And then... as if scripted by divine providence, I lifted my
eyes — and there she was.
Brunette hair, curled beautifully atop her head like whipped cream
on a sundae (you know, the fancy kind with the cherry on top). A
full-length yellow dress — bright as the Alaskan summer sun — draped
over her slender frame, catching not just the light ... but my
attention.
I couldn’t tell you what the sermon was about that day. Just
that somewhere between the opening hymn and the benediction, I found
myself captivated by the girl in the yellow dress. Would I talk to
her? Ask her name? See her again? All great questions. Zero answers.
Three months later — yes, just three months — her mother
and baby brothers were visiting Alaska from New England, and watched
her two young children. We went for a walk. Not just any walk — up
Bodenburg Butte, just a short climb from her home in Palmer.
Had I considered asking her to marry me?
I think I had. But come on — three months? That’s
either romance or a head injury. The more I thought about it, the
faster my heart pounded. Did she even feel the same way? Would this
be the last time I’d see her? Was she thinking what I was thinking?
Three months. Two kids. One wild idea.
The snowcapped Chugiak Mountains gave us a backdrop worthy of a
postcard or proposal — or both. I doubt anyone had ever used that
exact spot to pop the question... but I did:
“Will you marry me?”
Her answer came faster than I expected—no dramatic pause, no
deep breath.
“Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”
Three months after that — September 29, 1979 — Brandi,
Josh, my mother, and a few witnesses celebrated a wedding most would
have called “whirlwind.”
Now, nearly forty-six years later, I still find myself deeply
attracted to Karen Yvonne.
Struggles? Oh, yes. Many. But as I sit here once again at 35,000
feet — somewhere over the 300,000-miles of travel — I marvel at how blessed
I am.
It took both a departure from Querétaro and a layover in Dallas
to finally finish watching Dennis Quaid's excellent portrayal of
President Ronald Reagan. And yes — tears welled up. Because somewhere
between the Oval Office scenes and the private moments, I realized:
Karen is my Nancy Davis Reagan.
As Nancy was unwaveringly supportive of "Ronnie" — his
anchor and encourager — so Karen has been to me. From that first
missions trip to San Luis, Sonora, in 1998, to now over forty
adventures across the U.S. and around the globe, Karen has
consistently said yes.
Yes to the call.
Yes to the chaos.
Yes to the crazy man she married.
We could never have foreseen what would unfold — over thirty years
of firehouse life intertwined with nearly three decades of goodbyes,
airports, and separate weeks.
These past couple of years — age, circumstance, and creaky
knees — have made each new trip a little more complex. And yet, it’s
as if Karen says yes before I even ask the question.
I don’t know if this trip will be the last. Maybe we’ll have
one more. Maybe ten. But I do know this:
Karen Yvonne Williams has been, and still is, my 'Nancy Davis'. My
constant. My calm in the whirlwind.
Still five-foot-two.
Still eyes of blue.
Still that
sweet smile.
The brunette curls have gracefully shifted to beautiful white
waves. And though life has brought challenges — some deep — the
support and love Karen has poured into my life has always run deeper.
For that … I am forever thankful.
With all my love, and the deepest appreciation —
Her
still-crazy, still-grateful husband,
Rick
Forty-Six years in June ... I popped the question. Obviously ... She said, "Yes"!
My biological father left us when I was six years old.
From that moment on, our home—our lives—were marked by a quiet resilience. My mother, left to raise four children on her own, never voiced bitterness. She never spoke ill of the man who gave us life, yet gave little else. I can only imagine the ache she must have carried—especially in moments when our table was bare, and mouths still needed feeding. I, the oldest, witnessed her resolve, her silence, her strength.
My father was not absent in the absolute sense. We had contact—six to ten times a year, scattered throughout seasons. But his support, his presence, his fatherhood... was minimal. As a child, I craved more than brief visits or occasional calls. I needed a protector, a provider, a father in the fullest sense.
And yet—despite all he lacked, I choose not to live in the shadow of ill-will. I have come to believe that one of the most disrespectful things a man can do is not something visible, but something painfully absent: the failure to provide for his own children. To be physically alive but emotionally and practically unavailable is a quiet form of betrayal.
But God, in His mercy, has given me a gift: the capacity to remember good will. To choose good will.
I choose to hold onto seven moments—seven simple, sacred events my father gave me. Seven memories that break through the heavy fog of disappointment and allow shafts of sunlight to pour through. They are not perfect, not even sufficient—but they are mine. And I treasure them.
I remember building and exploring in a dune buggy with him, laughter echoing as we bounced through rivers and over dunes ~~
I remember the honor of receiving batting lessons from Babe Dahlgren—yes, the Babe Dahlgren who succeeded Lou Gehrig. ~~ I remember my very first backpacking adventure into the Sierra Nevada, up to Silliman Pass in Sequoia National Park—a moment of wonder, of majesty, of connection to something greater than myself.
And there were more—perhaps quiet, perhaps small—but each one a thread in the fabric of a complicated relationship. A fabric I could easily rip apart in anger… but instead, I choose to mend with gratitude.
Thank You, Father in Heaven, for these memories. Thank You for helping me hold onto these moments—not because they erase the pain, but because they remind me that good will is a choice. One I make not because my earthly father deserved it, but because You, my Heavenly Father, poured it into me.
Where ill-will should have reigned, good will rises instead. That, too, is a gift—a reflection not of him, but of You in me.
Should I not ... Because of His undeserved Goodness ... Should I not ... Return goodness to others
'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me Your goodness is running after, it's running after me With my life laid down, I'm surrendered now I give You everything 'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
And ... this song by an old time favorite ... Keith Green ...'Make My Life a Prayer to You' ... Indeed!
Finding "Good Will"—at times, it feels
almost impossible to imagine.
And yet... it’s often tucked
within the folds of another’s life, quietly waiting to be
noticed.
More often than not, it’s there—if only we are
willing to look beyond the momentary distractions,
beyond the
noise, the wounds, the unmet expectations.
Good will may not
shout. It rarely demands attention.
But if we are still enough…
open enough… humble enough…we just might find it—
not in
the grand gestures, but in the quiet mercies.
A memory … A
gesture … A simple act of presence once offered.
And
sometimes, that is enough to carry us through.
Sometime in the mid-sixties, the world was shifting in ways I couldn't yet understand. Most in the United States were focused on Vietnam—the images of war flickered across the black-and-white television screens in living rooms across the country. But for a seven-year-old boy in Los Angeles, the battlefields of Southeast Asia were distant and abstract. My world was much smaller, yet no less consuming.
Baseball became my life.
There was no questioning where my loyalty lay. In my mind, there was only one name that mattered—Sandy Koufax. He wasn’t just a pitcher; he was a magician, an artist with a baseball in his hand. The way he wound up, that high leg kick, the snap of his wrist as the ball spun toward the plate—it was poetry in motion. I watched him whenever I could, trying to memorize his every move, every pitch, every perfect moment on the mound.
And so, in the backyard of my childhood, I became Sandy.
The garage door was my catcher, its panels bearing the scuff marks of countless fastballs, curves, and sliders—at least in my mind, they were sliders. With each pitch, I imagined the cheers of a packed Dodger Stadium, the roar of the crowd swelling as I struck out batter after batter. I worked tirelessly on my windup, pausing at the peak just like Koufax, then exploding toward home plate. Sometimes, I'd shake off an imaginary catcher’s sign, just like I imagined Sandy did, before hurling the ball with all the strength my seven-year-old arm could muster.
Each time the ball smacked against the garage, it was as if I had just thrown the winning strikeout in the World Series. I could almost hear Vin Scully's voice echoing my triumph, announcing to the world that this little boy from Los Angeles had just done the improbable.
The game was never just a game. It was a dream
— a dream to be like Koufax, to stand on that mound in Dodger blue, to hear the crowd chanting my name. And so, I kept throwing.
"But tonight ... September the ninth, 1965" ~~ "To see the only pitcher in baseball history to hurl four no-hit ~ no run games. He has done it four straight years. And ~ now he capped it, on his fourth no-hitter, he made it a perfect game! And Sandy Koufax ... whose name will always remind you of strike-outs ... did it with a flourish. He struck out the last six consecutive batters. So when he wrote his name in capital letters in the record books ... that 'K' stands out even more than the O U F A X ..." Vin Scully 1927 ~ 2022
It was the winter of 1985, forty years ago this very month. The
chill in the Oregon air was heavy with rain, occasional snowflakes,
and the deep quiet that only a winter season can bring. Yet, within
our hearts, a different kind of anticipation stirred—a hope that
could not be dimmed by either the cold or uncertainty. We were
preparing to welcome our son, Zachary Alan, a child we prayed for,
cherished, and longed to dedicate to God from the very start.
Expectation and joy filled our days, but those feelings were met
with a challenge when the doctor informed us of Zachary’s Fred
Astaire-like dancing feet. A “footling breech,” they called
it—a precarious position that meant our son would not make his
entrance into the world as planned. Instead, a Cesarean section would
be required. In those days, such news felt more foreboding than it
might today, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and birth. The
realization weighed on us, yet through it all, the promise of our
son—our Zach—remained like a flame that could not be
extinguished.
We prayed. And as we waited, God planted a seed of purpose within
our hearts—a desire to dedicate this birth to Him, to let our son’s
arrival signify something greater. As though divinely timed, we soon
discovered a brand-new organization had been founded in our
community: the Salem Resource Center. Only twelve
years had passed since abortion was legalized, and here stood a
mission that sought to protect life—to offer grace and compassion
to preborn babies and the mothers facing crisis pregnancies. This
fledgling organization and its mission of hope aligned perfectly with
our own prayer: that Zachary’s life would begin with a dedication
to God’s grace and the preservation of life.
When Zach finally arrived—his tiny feet making their entrance
through careful, prayerful hands—we saw not just our son, but a
miracle. The cold, wet Oregon winter could not touch the warmth we
felt in our hearts that day. Our hope had been fulfilled.
Indeed ... There is a Story
Now, forty years later, we stand amazed at God’s
faithfulness—both in Zachary Alan’s life and in the ongoing work
of that small seed of hope planted so many years ago. Today, that
once-new organization has grown into what is now the Hope
Pregnancy Clinic, a thriving testament to God’s love and
provision. Just as we prayed for Zach’s life to bring hope, this
clinic brings that same hope to every young woman who walks through
its doors, often overwhelmed and despairing, only to find grace,
charity, and the courage to choose life.
Hope is sustained in many ways. Through monthly and corporate
donors, through community events like walk-a-thons (Zach in stroller, was at the very first), swim and
bike gatherings, banquets, and other fundraisers, the clinic continues its
mission to be a lighthouse of hope. Each day, they stand as a
reminder of the beauty and sanctity of life, and the joy that comes
when a young woman leaves those doors with a newfound desire to bring
her child into the world—a story of redemption written anew.
In celebrating Zachary’s fortieth birthday, we also celebrate
forty years of hope. His life and the ongoing work
of the Hope Pregnancy Clinic are deeply connected—a symbol of God’s
grace at work, no matter the odds or the season.
As one who was born to a sixteen-year-old mother, I can personally
attest to the power of that hope. I am living proof of what happens
when a young woman—though unsure, scared, and facing
obstacles—chooses life. It is only by God’s grace that I live
this day, and it is by that same grace that I pray hope will continue
to manifest in the lives of countless others.
To Zachary Alan—the child of winter, the child of hope—your
life reminds us that every birth is a miracle. And to the Hope
Pregnancy Clinic, may you continue to be the hands and feet of Jesus,
offering love and light to every mother and child who enters your
care.
Forty years of life. Forty years of hope.
For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my
petition that I made to Him. – 1 Samuel 1:27 (ESV)
Mark Schultz 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... The birth of a child often brings circumstances out of our control. Regardless .... the miracle of birth is just the beginning of 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... Enjoy!
Years past … there
were two best friends, Maya and Lila. They had been inseparable since
childhood, their bond forged in laughter, shared dreams, and endless
games of soccer on the neighborhood field. Maya was fiery, driven,
and unstoppable—a natural leader on and off the field. Lila,
quieter and gentler, was the heart of their friendship, always there
to encourage Maya and keep her grounded.
But Maya had a shadow inside her: a quick
temper that burned hotter than the sun. Lila had seen it flare up
before, but she always stayed patient, calming the storm with her
steady presence. Until one day, during an intense high school soccer
match, Maya’s temper exploded in a way that shattered everything.
It was a close game, and Maya’s team was
losing. Lila, trying to help, accidentally stepped into Maya’s
path, causing her to miss the winning goal. The whistle blew. The
game was over. Maya spun around, her face twisted with rage.
“Why
do you always ruin everything?!” she screamed, her voice echoing
across the field. “You’re useless! I don’t even know why I put
up with you!”
Lila froze, her eyes wide with shock. Tears
welled up, but she didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked
away, her shoulders hunched, her heart breaking. Maya stood there,
too angry to chase after her, too proud to apologize.
Days turned into weeks, then months. Maya
buried herself in soccer, winning games and earning accolades, but
something was missing. The friendship that had been the anchor of her
life was gone, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she missed Lila
deeply. She thought about calling her, about apologizing, but the
words never came. And soon, years had passed, and they were
strangers.
Maya’s life, once so promising, took a turn
she never expected. Injuries ended her soccer career, and without the
sport that had defined her, she felt lost. She drifted from job to
job, struggling to control the anger that had alienated so many
people. One day, sitting on a park bench with eviction notices in her
lap and tears streaming down her face, she felt like the world had
swallowed her whole.
“Maya?”
She looked up and froze. There, standing before
her, was Lila. Older now, but still with that same gentle smile, that
same warmth in her eyes.
“Lila,”
Maya whispered, her voice trembling. “What… why are you here?”
“I
heard you were going through a rough time,” Lila said, sitting
beside her. She handed Maya a cup of coffee, as though no time had
passed.
Maya took it, her hands shaking. “Why would
you help me after everything I said? After the way I treated you?”
Lila smiled softly. “Because I forgave you,
Maya. A long time ago. Carrying that anger wouldn’t have done
either of us any good. And… I never stopped caring about you.”
Maya broke down, the weight of years of guilt
and shame finally crashing over her. “I’m so sorry,” she
sobbed. “I was horrible to you. I let my anger destroy the best
thing I ever had.”
Lila placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maya, we
all make mistakes. What matters is what we do next.”
From that day on, Lila became Maya’s
lifeline, just as she had been years ago. She helped Maya find a job,
encouraged her to seek therapy, and stood by her as she rebuilt her
life. Slowly, Maya learned to control her anger and rebuild the
person she wanted to be.
But life has a way of testing us in ways we
never expect.
One evening, as they walked together after
dinner, a speeding car came careening around the corner. Maya froze
as the headlights bore down on them. In an instant, Lila shoved her
out of the way, taking the full impact herself.
Maya screamed, "Lila, no!" She rushed to her friend’s side.
Lila was conscious but pale, blood pooling beneath her. “No, no,
no,” Maya cried, cradling her. “Stay with me, Lila. Please, you
can’t leave me.”
Lila’s lips curved into a weak smile. “Maya,”
she whispered, her voice barely audible, “you’ve always been
the stronger one, more than you think. You don’t need me to save you anymore.
You’ve found your way.”
“I
need you,” Maya sobbed. “I can’t do this without you.”
Lila’s hand brushed Maya’s cheek. “You
can. Promise me… you’ll help someone else the way I helped you.
Don’t let my leaving be the end of this.”
And with that, Lila’s hand fell limp. Maya
held her as the life slipped away, her heart breaking into pieces.
Years passed. Maya never forgot Lila’s final
words. She built a life she was proud of, honoring Lila’s memory in
everything she did. But her greatest calling came one day when she
met a girl named Sophie.
Sophie was fiery and talented, just like Maya
had been. But she had the same anger that had once consumed Maya, and
it was driving people away. Maya saw herself in the girl—the anger,
the pride, the loneliness—and she knew what she had to do.
Through patience, love, and persistence, Maya
became a mentor to Sophie, teaching her how to channel her anger, how
to forgive herself, and how to let others in. As Sophie grew and
thrived, Maya felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years.
One day, as they sat together after practice,
Sophie turned to Maya and said, “Why do you care so much about
helping me?”
Maya smiled, her eyes misty. “Because someone
once cared enough to save me when I didn’t deserve it. And now, I’m
paying it forward.”
Sophie frowned. “Who was it?”
Maya looked up at the sky, the fading sunlight
casting a warm glow. “Her name was Lila. And she taught me that
forgiveness can change a life.”
As Sophie ran off to the field, Maya stayed
behind, whispering a quiet “thank you” to the Lord of heaven and
earth. Lila was gone, but her legacy lived on—through Maya, through
Sophie, and through the countless lives that forgiveness had touched.
Stories ... Our lives are FULL OF STORIES ... This blog is in fact the story of my life. This story along with the incredible song by Matthew West, is a story that is able to change a life. ~~ That said, the greatest story of all is about a man ... His story is of Love ... of Humility ... of Sacrifice ... He died on a cross to bridge the brokenness of our lives ... with His very own life. He Loved us so very much ... that He humbled Himself ... and He sacrificed His life upon a cross, shedding His blood for our sins.
I hope this this kind of Love ... Humility ... and, Sacrifice ... might always be the model illustrated in my life. ~~ I asked you ... Where are you? ... What is your brokenness? Will you, as Paul ask in Romans 10 ... Call upon the name of the Lord? ... He can ... He will set you free & change your life!
.JPG)
.JPG)
