EPILOGUE / MINNEAPOLIS TO MISSOULA



Over seventy days ago Rick and I brushed the wet sand from our tires as we pulled them out of the Pacific and started toward to the Atlantic.  So after all of those days on the road we would  finally be coming home.  So I'm sitting in the Minneapolis airport awaiting our next and final flight that would restore me to my family, house, Oogie (Hogg Island Boa), and Baylie, my flop-eared doxie.

 

 

 

 

  Nothing extraordinary about the flights with one exception:  five foot four Yana.  Yana happened to be our flight attendant for the Minneapolis run.  This fiftyish attendant was not extraordinary in her appearance.   Rather average, the kind of woman you would see but not behold.  Someone you'd pass over on your way to look for someone else. 

It's what she said that caught my attention.  She greeted boarding passengers with a generous helping of Amens!  and you're blessed. 

 

Who is this apostle of blessing, I wondered as I devoured my serving of blessing casserole.  Yana's cheerful countenance and joyous belly laugh was clearly contagious to these early morning boarders.  And her antics--she was tactile; she'd throw her arm around someone even as she laughed and blessed them.  It's like someone shook a Coke can and then opened it.  Lots of overflow.  Seems that whomever was in proximity to the overflow benefited and got just a bit of her joy. 

 

One older man had arrived late holding a cup of coffee that he'd gotten for his wife.  So Yana trailed the guy like a stalker all the way to the back trying to find the missing wife.  I'm sorry you lost your wife, sir.  But don't you worry.  We'll find her! 
 

Toward the end of the flight Yana the Attendant stopped by Dixie and me and when she found out that I'd bicycled from the Pacific to the Atlantic, she dramatically stood up and proclaimed to God and passengers this man is my hero; he's bicycled across the country on a sit down bike.  I apparently had been the first person she'd met who had done such a crazy thing. 

 

 I'm juggling two huge carry-ons down the narrow aisle when Sistah Yana once again stopped me.  Actually, yanked me into a side walkway to give me her card.  You are saved by Jesus, aren't you?  Thought so.  I assured her that we were serving the same Lord.  And that shook the Coke stewardess up again.  She fairly bubbled her response:  I'm a pastor too!

 

So we parted ways with hallelujahs and amens and promises to keep in touch.  Only as I walked toward the parking lot did I read her business card:

 

Yana (You Are Never Alone)

Servant and Empty Vessel for the Lord

Psalm 11:6

Daniel 12:3

Philippians 3:12

 

Yana's whole being embodied her business card.  She had truly been a joyful witness for the Lord.  I had been immeasurably uplifted, spiritually caffeinated, and blessed by a passing sistah, Yana (You Are Never Alone).

 

Praise the Lord.  Hallelujah.  Amen.

 

 





 

 

 

 

 

BACK STORY

For years I had been salivating at the chance to pull off a sea to shining sea bicycle tour.  I had come close in 2010 with a solo and unsupported 2,000 mile tour from Missoula to San Angelo, Texas,  But the big tour would span oceans.  What a way to celebrate my boomer generation age--by pedaling from the Pacific to the Atlantic.  I began in earnest the search to find another half-crazed cyclo-enthusiast to travel with.  Lots of hmmmmmms, I'llthinkaboutit,  and letmegetbacktoyou reactions to my invitation.  Then one day a different response came:  Hey, Rick you wanna cancel all your summer plans, jump on a bike, and pedal from the Pacific to the Atlantic with me?   Silence.  Then an unqualified, let's do it!  

So began Tom and Rick's big adventure.  That adventure has included crossing the Columbia, Missouri, Mississippi, and St. Croix rivers, going around Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, through two Canadian provinces and twelve US states, gracefully answering the questions of a thousand on-lookers (doesn't that sit-down bike hurt your back . . . HOW many miles have you gone? . . . isn't it hard going up hills? . . . you're crazy), sleeping on pews, in choir lofts, around altars, and in church youth rooms, dodging roadkill without becoming roadkill, stopping at a hundred McDonald's, Tim Hortons, or cockroach diners, and generally, taking in some of the most breathtaking sights immaginable.

Through all of this Rick has been a true blue friend, pedaling colleague, subtle  humorist, ribald humorist, and salty humorist.  His lyrical poetry (on par with, I'm a poet and don't know it)  and warm southern charm has made this trip enjoyable beyond expectations.  Rick has spoken hope into desperate lives, prayed for others, and listened with the ears of a parent.

The tour is done.  We go our own ways and each of us try to segue back into the old normal, yet with the deep soulful truth that we have been stretched and changed, we have beheld and heard and we will never be completely the same again.

So thanks, Rick, friend, for a great team effort.

RIP

It's 93 degree hot.  A hill.  Climbing at a slow walk speed.  I notice something very strange in my peripheral vision.  Is that what I thought it was?  "Rick, we gotta go back to that cemetery we just passed."  So we turned around and there it was . . . a mausoleum with the door ajar!  Yikes!  Had I missed the rapture?  The Second Coming?  (My only solace was that whatever I had missed, so had Rick.)

I know I shouldn't have, but I entered through the open door.  Three crypts filled the room.  I was respectful, quiet, and greatly sobered in that room.  I wondered what bodies were next to me mouldering in those boxes.  What kind of life had they lived?  Had they lived rich, fulfilling lives?  Were they still remembered?  Or were they forgotten over the century and a half since their demise?

I walked through the cemetery and looked at other gravestones.

James Miller

Born September 6, 1845

Died March 6, 1890

Emma Miller, James' wife would survive him by two decades, but on November 4th of 1910, she too would join her husband in death.  Something about persons who lived and died well before I was born, struck me with reverence and mystery.  Sobered me.  Made me feel vulnerable and finite.  I continued to read the stone markers . . . 

Harry H. Beerwort

Died Nov. 17, 1871

48 years & 9 mos.

Capt. Gilbert Bush

Died Aug. , 1875

Aged 81 yrs & 5 mos.

Wife: Lovicy Smith

Died Aug. 8, 1874 & 20 days

I wondered what Captain Bush was like?  British loyalist or American patrtiot?  Did he go to church?  Did he a vital relationship with God?  Did he love his children?  

Most old grave markers usually have a Scripture that describes the hope of the deceased--their hope of the resurrection and everlasting life with God. This cemetery was unusual that way.  Nothing on the stones described any faith and hope beyond the grave. 

Except one:  Martha Ann.  No big sermons on her life or what she did.  You'll not discover whether she was in the church women's sewing circle or if she was a Sunday school teacher.  But at the end of her life, two simple words described her faith . . . 

Martha Ann

Gone Home

Wish I could have known Martha.  I would have asked her about her faith and life.  I would ask her about her favorite hymns and Bible verses.  But I can't because Martha has gone home.  

That's what I want my marker to say someday . . . 

Tom Hall

Gone Home

So everyday I try to live my life as if today I'm going home.    How about you?          

AMAZING ALACRITY

So we're coming off a loss.  Toronto was a closed door experience as far as gaining any safe lodging in churches was concerned.  Too dangerous.  What denomination you from?--We're not that.  I can't make a decision (as if the decision to help another pastor was too risky).  I was still disruntled and whiney when I entered the Cartona Goodies in Port Hope, Ontario.   Nevertheless, grace reminds us that things can turn around.

I no sooner had slid into a chair in a local cafe when the Asian owner, Tony, and his wife--and cook-- Carman, and their daughter, and the head waiter (the only waiter) Kanen, came over to welcome me.  They smiled when Tony said, we have been opened for two months.  

During the next two hours each of them showed such over-the-top care and kind attention to me that it was as if God had stuck me back in the story with the three strangers for whom Abraham threw caution to the wind in his attempt to welcome and show them hospitality.  He treated the strangers as if they were angels.  (Actually, they were even more than angels.)

More coffee sir?  The sign may say only one refill, but you can have as many as you want.  And when I orded Meso soup, the crew made up a fresh batch of the Japanese delicacy because, according to Tony, Miso doesn't taste as good unless it is freshly made.  

We have wifi, please use it as long as you want.   So I decided to make Cartona Goodies my office for the day.  Three hours in my office time and Tony put on his artist-hat and proudly showed me the pictures that hung on the walls of his cafe.  These are all local artists, Tony began with the relish of a Louvre curator.  The one with the three flowers was painted by a fifteen-year old.  And the one above it was done by an octegenarian.   Tony, the restauranteur, the art museum lecturer, the proud family guy had unknowingly lifted my spirits and put me in touch with generosity.  I had been stuck on stinginess, God brought me back to generosity through another specially-sent friend.

And when you leave, please, you can have any food we don't sell.  

Thanks, Tony  

NEAR TRAGEGY

I heard it before I saw it.  Thick traffic in Kingston, Ontario.  A young woman turned into the lane right behind me.  Cars were bumper to bumper, university students just out of class had formed their own traffic flow.  Horns.  Lights. Then the accident.

She was a fifteen, maybe sixteen year old young lady.  A block later I heard that thud and scrape sound.  You don't want to look back, but you know.  I suddenly felt nauseous.  I pulled the brake levers, stopped abruptly, and looked back all within a second.  The gal was sprawled spread-eagle on the pavemnent, her bike laying to the side.  Then I saw the driver jumping out of the car, saying, Oh my God!  What have I done?  Are you all right . . . are you all right . . . are you hurt!  

 The hit cyclist got up slowly.  I looked for the appearance of broken bones, Rick and I ready to assist.  But she got up, oblivous to the driver and the gathering crowd, and stumbled off the road.   I think she was in shock.  So was the driver.  I have never seen such a pathetic, fear-filled face than the driver's.  It was a close call.

No matter how insulated we are or how unrisky our days are, we are never more than one mistake away from tragedy, from today being the final day of our life.   That's sobering, for sure.  And when you are on a bicycle, the risk goes up exponentially.  We don't have air bags, seatbelts, or doors to protect us from tons of metal hitting us.   Unfortunately, the girl had not signaled when she turned left. That one tiny omission of not putting her hand out could have been fatal.

So when you get up each morning, make sure that you know who is walking with you into the new day.   For me, I have never forgotten Stewart Hamblin's old tattered phrase, I don't know about tomorrow, but I know who holds my hand.

Hope you do too.

MY HEROES

While I have been pedaling my brains out and avoiding being roadkill in traveling from the Pacific to the Atlantic, a small, select team has been quietly changing the world.  I am so proud of them.   The dream team that just signed off on "mission accomplished" included a teacher, six high schoolers, two financial investment reps, and a surgeon.

Each of the team raised at least $3,000 each, put their summer activities on hold, said good-bye to friends, family and vacations and travelled 11,000 miles from home in order to lay bricks and slap dugga on walls under a hot African sun side by side with new South Africans and Afrikaan friends.  In the end, another family has been offered a hand-up, not hand-out toward a more productive, empowered life.

What a great team.   By comparison to the all-too-often ho hum summer same old, these missioners have been extraordinary.  Hats off to you, Drew and Dan and the entire Montana Mission Team for changing the world this summer.

HE HAD A FACE

Speaking of Jesus, Frederick Buechner once remarked, he had a face.  Of course, no palestinian artist sat him down for a quick sketch, or tried to catch emotion in his face.  Yet pictures of Jesus have proliferated through the centuries from the great Flemish painters with a very Dutch-like Jesus to the Caucasian Jesus that romantically holds a lamb while leading sheep somewhere.

I guess it's a good thing to keep changing out the theological art that keeps Jesus on canvas over the baptismal tank or font.  Recent Jesus art has done just that . . . tried to capture some of the compassion, some of the joy and happiness, and some of the empathy that the gospels allude to.

The pictures I've inclued in this blog were hanging through the halls of a large church in Michigan where I spent the night.  Such fresh images of Jesus triggered my imagination.  Yes, he did register hurt when he caught tragic news.  Yes, he did emote pained concern when someone came to him with an injury or hurt.  And yes, he was a good listener and coach when people needed advice.  

So when you read the Jesus of the Gospels, our Redeemer, open your mind to holy imagination--just like this artist has done.  For when you see compassion, empathy, concern, or laughter on the face of the Savior, you might just catch yourself with those same emotions and faces when you face the brokenness of your world.

EVER BEEN TO EVART?

I think they spell it, EEE-vart.  Evart is one of those towns you imagine well before landing on its main street.  In our case, Evart was a relief for two frozen, numbed bike guys.  The morning had passed in 41 degree chills that reduced my feet to two stumps of numbness.  I sometimes encourage the troops by making up lyrics--helps take our minds off the cold and hill climbs.  But with a name like EEE-vart, your lyrical options are limited.  Best I could come up with was the marine melody that the sargeant sings to frightened recruits as they march in formation . . .

We are going to EEE-vart

Don't eat beans or you will ________.

Anyway, we weren't expecting much from Evart--we'd been through hundreds of small towns before.  But no sooner had we coasted down a slight hill and into the main drag  when two smiling gals, a kid brother, a sad-looking dog, a tall man in a bright yellow shirt and disarming smile, and a confused guy wearing "Mexico" on his shirt accosted us in the street.  The cheerleader types flashed cardboard placards that read, "STOP AND SAVE" and "CASH MOB."  An I-Phone hooked to an amplifier boomed out Beetles tunes.  The Mexican guy did nothing just swayed, his eyes closed.

The mob befriended us, stuck fake gangsta dollars in our hands and said we could use the money if we ate at the diner they stood in front of.  So we did.  I have never seen a diner so filled with human bodies.  Apparently, this hodgepodge team had worked their PR magic on the whole town of Evart.  We finally managed to grab two stools at the counter.

I'm finishing up my reuben on rye when Mr. Yellow strides in with his clipboard.  What's this all  about?  I asked him.  "We love our town--so we encourage people to discover it.  Each week we do something special with one of the businesses in town.  We want folks to get excited about our town and invest in it.  Our whole community participates in one way or another and everybody wins."  Clearly, the guy was electric with energy and enthusiasm for his little town.   And when he learned that we were headed further east, he pointed us to the Rail-to-Trails bike path that was right behind the diner and promised that it would take us nearly all the way to our day's destination.  Then he shot me an infectious grin. "We're a great town; and we're doing our boy scout duty of telling others about it!"

Couldn't help but but overhear another Evart that happens under our noses every weekend. I wonder what would happen if we were as passionate and excited about worship as EEE-var-ites are of their little town.  Sometimes I've observed folks attending worship as if they were doing their religious duty.  As if God should be pleased because they had suffered through another dull service.  Annie Dilliard once said something to the effect that if we really became aware of the powerful, even dangerous presence of the God we worship in such a ho hum way each week, we'd install seatbelts in the pews.

So this Sunday pull an EEE-vaarts.  Put your big hitter greeters out there in their cut-offs jiving to jazzed up Amazing Grace while flashing cardboard signs that say, "WHOA!  YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT'S HAPPENING INSIDE!  and "OUR GOD ROCKS!"  Then have the ushers doing their own polka jig of joy as they welcomed confused, stunned, estranged people into their worship service.

Now that would be worship worth checking out.

MEAN ORNERY COFFEE GANG MEMBERS OF SOMERSET

When you're on the road as a two-wheeler, two gas pumps with an attached junk food store are your friends.  So at 6:20 am this morning we wheeled into one of those places and ran right smack dab into an infiltration of the Mean, Ornery Coffee Gang Members of Somerset.  

Apparently, Hell's Angels hadn't been through Somerset in two decades and cyclists were rare as hen's teeth.  So when we walked in the store, the first of the MOCGMOS (Mean Ornery Coffee Gang Members of Somerset) eyeballed us silently from head to toe from the safety of his side of the room.

Amazing how a couple of gulps of bitter coffee can warm the cockles of one's heart.  Soon we were able to engage Rich the Basher (real name withheld to protect his family from his orneriness) in pleasant conversation--he's an immigrant from Minneapolis and spent his life bossing people around in a warehouse.  (Didn't dare ask him what mysterious illegal contraband he was loading on to the trucks.)

Soon three more members of the MOCGMOS barged in.  Big dudes, tough and meanlike.  So they all faced one side of the narrow wall and Rick and I on the other.  Showdown at the OK Corral and Super Mart.

What could have turned into an ugly gang fight between cheesehead and Vike fans, instead turned out to be a bunch of good ole boys and two cyclo-tourists.   We laughed and teased and made fun of each other and asked directions and got good travel advice plus hot coffee and some warm local hospitality.  How good is that?

So remember, just because they're big and look ornery and nasty doesn't necessarily mean they dislike you.  Sure, they may think you're strange, not-one-of-the-gang, and look questionable in spandex and bright colors, but deep down they may be only a coffee gulp away from making a new friend. They just need a little help from you.

How many times have we pre-judged people based on body language, bib overalls, smell, or blank stares to our smile?  Instead, engage others.  Bless them.  And in blessing get ready to be blessed by God through new friends.

Open Hearts, Open Minds, Open Doors

Open hearts, open minds, open doors are nearly akin to those red-lettered sayings of Jesus in our Methodist psyche.  We can rattle off that line faster than our email address.  And for good reason.  If we really mean what we're mouthing, then we're saying a heap.  We're saying that we are generous with our wallets, welcomes, and heart-felt worship.  We are also saying that our minds are open--we can multitask viewpoints, even opinions that don't jibe with ours.  And for two guys pedaling their brains out, open doors means, well, open doors, open church libraries, open accomodations.

Rick and I have put the open doors part to the test.  True, there have been a few OHOMOD churches that have kept the door closed (We're not set up for that  . . . or you can't stay in our church, we might be liable if something happens . . . or no one is around to unlock the door), but for the most part we have been overwhelmingly surprised by all of the open doors that have been opened to us.

Why sure, you and Rick come on over to our church.  In fact, be our guests and enjoy our pig roast on Saturday night.  So when we pulled up to Main Street UMC in North Branch after a terrible, horrible, no good, bad day of flat tires, 50 degree chill, and baptism by sprinkle, splash, and soak from day-long rain, Pastor Phil welcomed us and personally gave us the grand tour of the church.  We have a shower in the women's restroom, he whispered.  So after everyone leaves, have at it. 

And when the hog roast preliminaries began, we felt so welcomed, Rick and I jumped right in and became certified pork pullers, teasing the roasted meat off the bone.  And so the evening went -- eating pulled pork and being welcomed and blessed.

The entire congregation lived and exuded generosity in welcoming the community to their roast.  Way beyond what I'd experienced in other churches.  What's their secret, I wondered.  We're learning to be generous with our lives--that means our building, our wealth, and our time, Pastor Phil responded.  Not bad.

Open hearts, open minds, open doors.

Sacraments of the Holy Bike Journey

As we continue on our P2A Tour, we are entrenched behind handlebars with thigh muscles pumping 25-30 revolutions a minute for six to seven hours a day.   Isn't that boring?  Well, sometimes it is.  Long hours in slo-mo can be boring no matter how gorgeous the scenery.  So what to do during the monotony?

Here's what I do every day as I pedal down the road.  I hold three objects--a key, a piece of water buffalo's horn from South Africa, and my rearview mirror.  As I caress the water buffalo's horn between thumb and index finger, I pray for our mission team--ten teens and adults who will soon fly 11,000 from family and home and help build a house for a family that, as I write, live in squalor and call a corrugated tin shanty with no toilet or running water or furniture the only home they've known.

The key hangs around my neck in a necklace.  Dixie wears the rest of the necklace--a heart with a key-sized hole in it.  So I pray for the one wearing the other part, for Dixie, then for my entire famly.

And my bike mirror.   Sometimes my riding partner, Rick, comes into view.  Sometimes I see people on cell phones, trucks on a mission to drop off their goods.  So I pray for safety and no mistakes.  That Rick and I will be kept safe on the road for another day.

What objects might compel you to pray?  Maybe some of the most common things in your life--a picture, a cufflink, or polished stone may become the very sacrament that will bring you to another place for others.

Heroes of the Plains

In the course of a day we may meet and speak with fifty folks--farmers, table servers, donkey peddlers, gas attendants, tattoo artists, or unassuming passersby ("Where in the heck is Washington Street?").   But of the hundreds of folks we've been honored to meet, there is one subset of people that rise like cream to the top of the milk (an archaic agricultural image).  They are my heroes of the plains.  They are the pastors.

Pastors were among the first to follow homesteaders into the dry, waterless lands of eastern Montana and western North Dakota.  They prayed with families in need, shared their food, blessed and spoke hope into bereaving families saying goodbye to yet another family member who had succumbed to small pox or the flu.  They did their best at preaching even while trying to tease their own acreage into crops.

So Rick and I have have an up close and personal encounter with these pioneer-spirited pastor types.  And with every pastor or leader I've met, I have asked them the  same question:  "How can I pray for you?  What one thing do you want me to pray for you as we depart?"   Pastor Dave spoke most eloquently for his prairie colleagues:  "Pray that we will be able to lead our congregations back out into mission . . . that they will be the church outside the church in our communities."

So pray for these brave soldiers, these prairie hopegivers, these stand-in-the-gap folks who have followed Jesus down, not up, the ladder in order to minister to the remnant of folks who still eke out a living on the plains.

Hi, I'm Bruce and I'm Walking Across America

I-94 is the last place you'd want to take a stroll on a Saturday afternoon.  The Peterbilts, RVs, and harried vacationers zoom past creating back drafts and decibels of noise and exhaust pollution.  Yet Saturday afternoon on I-94 somewhere between Sterling and Steele,  Bruce showed up.  At first neither Rick nor I could make heads or tails of the movement five hundred yards in front of us.  Broken-down Harley biker?  Someone in need?   To our astonishment, it was Bruce pushing a jerryrigged cart he called "Sam."

Bruce walks.  A lot.  Started walking in 2010 when his world suddenly unraveled--his company folded, his wife, brother, and mother all died.  In just twenty-four months he lost everything.  So he began to walk.  Did I mentiion that Bruce is 79 years old?  There are lots of kinds of walks--walks in the park, cake walks, walk the dog walks and then there is the Bruce-Walk.  He has walked from Vancouver, Canada to Los Angeles to Key West then north along the Atlantic Coast and west to Chicago and when we ran into him, Bruce was walking--pushing Sam--diagonally across the nation back home.

Though he carries deep pain and sadness, he also told me that he was sick and tired of being sick and tired.  "So many of my friends have retired and just sit around waiting for the memorial service to happen.  Not me.  I want to walk till I drop.  I want to stay active and in motion until my last breath."

I listened to Bruce's rather complicated philosophy about lymph nodes and movement, and avoiding cancer, but I had to admire a 79 year old guy still walking for what he believed in.  How much passion do you have?  How much passion do I have about anything in life that would cause me to inconvenience myself to that degree if called on to show it?

So Brucey, you keep on walking and find what you're really looking for.  Tom, you keep on biking and find what you're really looking for.  And you--don't ever give up your passion and vision just because it's difficult.

A Well Near the Hebron Cafe

The last fourteen miles had seemed like a dream--moving along at 14 to 20 mph.   Pretty heady when you're loaded to the gills and been pedaling for over forty miles.  We curved off I-94 and down a two-mile runway that opened to an isolated town called Hebron.   Rick and I surveyed the land for two things--a diner and a cool, avant garde, wifi-accessible espresso bar.  We settled for one out of two and sat down for lunch.

That's when Mark, the local crazy guy on a bike blindsided us with a shower of excitement and childlike wonder at our machines.  He looked a little goofy and clownish and drooled some when he talked too fast.  And he had the world's largest tooth gap framed by fangs on either side.  He proudy showcased his own version of a recumbent--a homemade tadpole trike.  "I'm an engineer, and I have my own shop around back.  I got French-made bikes and Schwinns and old vintage bikes."

Our food had arrived so we applauded and praised Mark's cool trike then went back into the diner.  But he wasn't done.  Like a faithful dog, Mark waited outside until we came out.  And then he began talking non-stop.   "Yeah, I moved here from Mott in January and so I have this bike shop."

What bothered me about Mark was that there had been no mention of family or friends in his life.  So I took a risk.  "Hey, Mark, do you have a family nearby?"  Mark squinnied his face into serious wrinkles.  "My mom died in January.  Me and her was really close.  And she was dead in three days.  We ran a thrift shop together and then she died."

The pastor in me took over and I probed a bit more and offered my condolences.  I thought he was going to cry and sob right there in front of the diner.  I could only listen and speak a bit of hope into Mark.  But I did connect Mark with the pastor in whose church we were staying in.

I think a lot of folks look at the Marks of this world as being a nusiance, too much to be bothered with.   Or maybe off-putting because of their appearance.  Not always, but sometimes it takes a simple gift of an ear to listen, and then to offer a short prayer on their behalf.

May God gift you with a toothy, energetic, even eccentric soul that you can begin to see through Jesus eyes and heaven's love, a human being who has value and worth though mixed with pain.

Entertained by Royalty

Americano with two shots, please.  She shoved the cup across the bar and I settled in for some good brew when an old woman jumped betwix cup and lip.  "I saw you at the museum," she chirped. Well, yes.  Great museum-loved the section on cowboys of the old west and homesteading pioneers.  "Oh yes, those are my favorite sections too."

I was tired, sweaty, and in my cyclo-spandex clothes.  So I guess she couldn't help noticing I an out-of-towner.  "Let me introduce you to our mayor who has really moved our little museum forward."

That's when I met Lyn James, a nine-year veteran in the mayor's chair.  "Mighty fine to meet you, sir," Lyn said in a drawl that more belonged to San Antonio than Bowman, North Dakota.  Didn't take long to catch her joy of job and pride of town.   "I'm in meetin's a lot around here, but I still help my daddy with the branding."

Love what you do and do what you love.  That's Lyn's advice to us.  Who knows?  You might find yourself one day roundin' up, separatin', castratin', and branding while still managing to influence your community for good.

All Kinds of Kindnesses

Was in Bowman, North Dakota the other day.  We had cycled an easy 50-mile day and now I had some calls out to churches to request the use of their church to sleep in to keep us from the contrary wind and rain as well as the heat.

One pastor told me, "Let me ask my elders first to see if you can stay; I'll call you right back."  Thanks, I replied.  The call-back never came.  Another minister was quick to inform me that they're "not set up for that sort of thing."  I'm thinking, "what's to set up?  Two guys pedaling through town just need a piece of floor to sleep on."  I even played my ordained UMC card.  Now I knew what it was like to be on the other end--being in need, but denied help.  Being treated like a leper because we offer nothing of benefit to the church program.

My last call of desperation went out to Pastor Dave at the Seventh Day Adventist church.  "I'm new in town--just been here three weeks," he said.  "Okay with me, but let me check with my elders."   Not ten minutes had passed and Pastor Dave was back on the phone.  "The elders want to put you up in a motel, but they're not keen on you staying in the church."  Then he added, "can I come over and meet you?"  So we met at a coffee shop on Main and began to talk about Jesus and the Kingdom of God.  It was clear that Pastor Dave had a heart for God and wanted to help.  At the end of our conversation I asked how we could pray for him in his new pastoral assignment.  "Please pray that I'll be able to lead this congregation to be church outside the church and to do ministry in the community."  So the espresso bar turned into a holy place as we began to pray for each other.  In the end we found other arrangements, but in the process, we met another brother who truly has a heart for people

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Cowboy Hospitality

God Bless Karl and Joyce Muri.  I was wallowing in self-pity and loneliness in a huge darkened church in Miles City--and doing a pretty good job of it--when big old Karl invaded my space.

"Where's the biker," he announced instead of asking.  "That would be me" I countered cautiously.  (When you don't know a soul in a desolate cowboy town, and you're wearing spandex, you learn to be cautious.)

"Why don't you come over to our home and sleep in a real bed."  I thanked him for his neighborliness and declined.  "Staying in the church is fine," I said.  I have  a couch over there and some blankets in the nursery."

He pulled out his repeater:  "Why don't you come over to our house and sleep in a good bed?" he said in that announcing instead of asking voice.  "We're just around the corner on Palmer Avenue."  This guy just doesn't give up I remember thinking.  Truth be known, I would rather have slept in a real bed after 60 miles bicycling into the wind in 90 degree heat for eight hours.  But I'm just not good at this hospitality thing.  I finally had the grace enough to receive his hospitality and away we went off to his house on Palmer Avenue.  "But only for a shower," I said.

Once I got over to the house to take a shower, big old Karl sprang his hospitality bear trap:  Joyce.  How do you say no to an energetic 98 pound woman who looks at you with her netted hair with such joy and welcome?  Exactly.  You don't.  "Why don't you just stay with Karl and me for the evening.  We've got an extra room and a fan already going in your room."

And so it came to pass in the year 2013 on the 13th day of July during the reign of Barack Obama, that Thomas Hall encountered a cowboy hospitality that just wouldn't take no for an answer.

Hole in the Wall

Great place to eat.  "Hole in the Wall," Main Street, Miles City.

This quaint western eatery lives up to its name.  The restaurant resembles an oversized shoebox that even Matt Dillion and Kitty could call home.  Ornate and highly polished cherry wood forms the bar and credenza that houses local and foreign booze.

To step into the Hole for some pork chops and brews is to step back 150 years back in time.   IHOP might have its pancakes and extraordinary server which rhymes with wedge, but the Hole has its cowboy ambiance.

Later, Pardner.