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
He picked me up early, the Iowa morning still undecided about the day. The red Cadillac—top down, white interior bright as fresh cream—sat idling at the curb in Red Oak. Ray X Williams behind the wheel.
Just the letter... Not Xavier. Not Xander... Just X.
Even at twelve, I knew that made him special. A man confident enough to carry a single letter and let the rest of the world wonder.
Hat on. Cigar already lit. The smell of leather, gasoline, and tobacco mixed with the July air.
“Well,” he said, glancing over his sunglasses, “you ready for Tulsa?”
I nodded like a boy who didn’t yet understand how few times life asks a question like that.
As we rolled south, cornfields slipping by in long, patient rows, I thought of Mazie—the great-grandmother I knew. Not Mamie, who had passed a couple years before I was born, but Mazie, who carried herself with quiet authority and kept the house running like a well-tuned engine. I wondered, not for the first time, if Gramps had a theme when choosing wives—strong women with names that sounded like they belonged to another era and yet somehow fit perfectly.
Ray drove with one hand, the other holding his cigar out the window so the ash wouldn’t land on the seat Mazie had warned him about more than once. He smiled when I brought it up.
“She’s right, you know,” he said. “A man can love his car, but he’d better love his wife more.”
The road hummed beneath us. After a while he said, “You ever notice how people always ask what the X stands for?”
I shook my head.
“Good,” he said. “Means you’re not wasting time on the wrong questions.”
We stopped late morning for breakfast—though for Ray, any good day of travel started with something warm and familiar. He ordered coffee and talked about food the way farmers do, like it’s part of the calendar.
“August comes around,” he said, “and there’s only one thing that tastes right.”
I already knew the answer.
Oyster stew.
Every August... Every birthday... A ritual as steady as the seasons.
“I love it,” I said.
He grinned. “Good. Means you’ve got good sense.”
We talked about farming—how patience isn’t passive, how waiting is work. About being mayor in Griswold, how listening mattered more than speaking. About knowing when to act and when to let things unfold.
Somewhere near the Kansas line, he laughed quietly and said, “A cigar doesn’t make a man important. It just reminds him to slow down.”
By the time we crossed into Oklahoma, the land had opened wide. The sky felt bigger. Tulsa rose out of the horizon with a promise that smelled faintly of dust and oil and adventure.
The rodeo lights came on like a second sunset.
Horses burst from gates. Riders fought gravity and fear in equal measure. Dust hung in the air like memory. Ray leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright.
“That right there,” he said as a bronc twisted free, “is courage mixed with foolishness. World runs on that combination.”
We cheered. We winced. We laughed together. He explained the rules, the risks, the reasons men keep getting back on after they’ve been thrown.
Later, walking back to the Cadillac, he rested a hand on my shoulder—steady, sure.
“Remember this,” he said. “If you think you should do something—really think it—then you do it. Don’t second-guess yourself. Life doesn’t give rain checks.”
On the drive home, under a sky stitched with stars, he hummed an old tune. I didn’t ask its name. Some things are meant to remain just as they are—unexplained, but true.
The Truth
The story above is imagined.
The drive never happened. The rodeo... it happened, but... We never made it to the World Championship Rodeo. And the conversations... They live only in longing of faded memories.
In 1971, less than a year before his death, my great-grandfather Ray X Williams invited me—his great-grandson—to attend the World Championship Rodeo in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I was twelve. I chose instead to stay in Red Oak, Iowa, to play with my cousins.
We had fun. I’m sure of it. But I have carried the regret of that decision ever since.
Ray X Williams—born December 10, 1890—was a farmer most of his life, later the mayor of Griswold, Iowa. He is buried in Oakland Cemetery in Oakland, Iowa. I remember the Red Cadillac, the White interior, the joy of a cigar, the ritual of oyster stew every August and on his birthday. I remember Mazie, my great-grandmother, and the quiet strength that filled their home.
Only months after that missed invitation, Ray X would suffer a stroke. Then, on June 22, 1972, my great-grandfather died. I never again had the chance to join him in such a grand adventure.
~ Four Generations -- Dec 10, 1970 ~
Forty-one years later—to the very day—I would hug Ronnie Williams one final time. I eased out of the driveway on my Yamaha and waved, just as I had decades earlier. Ronnie, like Gramps, was someone deeply precious to me. June 22nd is a date etched in time—one that refuses to fade.
Time indeed has a way of circling back on itself.
One of my favorite sayings comes from that regret, shaped by the trip I didn’t take:
“If you think you should do something, you have to do it.”
Don’t second-guess yourself... Don’t postpone what matters... Some invitations never come again.
This is my story... This is my regret. And this—finally—is my remembering.
Epigraph for the Willamette Falls Photograph
Some journeys are taken by road. Others are taken by memory. And a few—if we are paying attention—are taken across generations.
Willamette Falls March 1955 – March 2025
Accompanying Reflection
Just a few days before June 22, 2013—the last day I would hug my Uncle Ronnie and say goodbye—we took one more drive together. Aunt Barb, Ronnie, and I headed to Harlan, Iowa, to visit cousins and to spend time with Aunt Irma, then in her early nineties. There were snacks and drinks, but mostly there were stories. Stories about my dad. Stories about cousins. Stories about two good-looking brothers—Richard and his kid brother, Ronnie.
We looked through hundreds of old photographs, nearly finished, when Aunt Irma reached for one last handful... “I’m sure I have your dad and great-grandfather in here somewhere.”
She did.
As the photos passed through my hands, a sudden recognition stopped me cold. “I know this place.”
I had driven past it a thousand times.
Willamette Falls.
There they were—my great-grandfather Ray X Williams and my father—standing at the very spot, frozen in black and white. Like so many old photographs, the corner was stamped simply: March 1955. Spring break. My father’s sophomore year. A westward journey I’d never known about until that moment.
A few days later, on June 22, 2013, I said goodbye to Ronnie for the last time. He would pass that December—one hundred and three years and three days after the birth of Ray X. Time, once again, quietly closing a loop.
In March of 2025—exactly seventy years after their travels west—I drove thirty minutes from my home. I wore a blazer. A hat. Held a cigar. Simple props for a quiet reenactment. Standing where they once stood, I took the photograph you see now.
The images are blended... The years are bridged.
I never made it to the World Championship Rodeo with Ray X. That regret remains. But the memories I do carry of him—the farmer, the mayor, the man with the single-letter name, the red Cadillac, the August oyster stew—those are precious beyond measure.
Some journeys we miss. Others, we find later—waiting patiently for us to notice.
This song is in tribute to Lane Frost 10-12-1963 ~ 7-30-1989
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