about faces

At age 17 Nick Clifford was a pretty fair ball player. It was still the Great Depression, and jobs were scarce, especially in South Dakota, where the building of the faces on Mt. Rushmore were all the news. Under the management of Lincoln Borglum, son of famous sculptor and designer of the project, Gutzon Borglum, Lincoln was looking for another ballplayer for their state baseball league team. He heard about Nick, and after seeing him play, offered him a job working on the faces-he would eventually work on the face of George Washington. The condition was he would play on the baseball team. Dangerous work, skilled work, but high paying work, Nick accepted, on the condition he would play for their team, which would be a state champ one year with him. And he would be trained to use explosives, he already knew how to use a jackhammer, and the stories he would come to tell, eventually writing a book, “Mt. Rushmore, Q & A.” And some 71 years later our paths would cross.

We were on a 37 day ride across America, which would have us visit 31 states over 11,000 miles. A dream trip, we were planning on going to Mt. Rushmore, our first visit in 33 years. After various stops for construction, most 30-40 miles from any town-part of the Obama $787 billion bailout, we were ready for the Black Hills. Light rain didn’t faze us, but some rude Ranger driver wouldn’t let us pass, intent on maintaining 25mph no matter the speed limit. But taking the extra time, meant more photo ops for Theresa, so I guess it all evened out. Since our last visit, they had enlarged the Visitor Center, and the amphitheater. After looking at this most impressive monument, we wandered the book store, where Nick was answering questions, and signing his new book. Now not too many 90 year olds have the energy Nick has, and listening to him was captivating. He was actually there, had pictures and pieces of the work to prove it, and even his old baseball uniform. surprised it hasn’t shown up on e-bay, but his generation’s values go deeper than resale value. After we were able to visit with him, and get our picture taken with him, to some just a chance meeting, but to us thankful God had arranged it. After more viewing, we left for our motel in Custer-stay anywhere but Custer, free advice that should be taken, and wound back down the hill. Now the faces seemed more alive, and we saw things we didn’t know to look for before. Now that we had met Nick, the faces seemed to come alive, and have personality all their own. Nick had not only been a witness, but participated in their building, he was history, and I would highly recommend reading his short book before going. Like having our own guide, now we knew the whys and hows, and felt like we had been there. All because a 17 year old had baseball skills. And at over 90 still wanted to share his story. And we got to meet the author...that made the difference in the trip.

It is common for many to complain about not understanding the Bible. They study, study more, memorize, take classes, and maybe even attend Bible college, get a degree, but still never get it. Until they met the author, Jesus Christ. Scripture tells us that it is the Holy Spirit that reveals the mysteries of the Bible, and without knowing its author, many words have no meaning. Many fall back on only the Word, running to it without asking God first to intervene, and never get its full benefits. After all the book is all about God, why not get to know the author? Rather than a Trinity of Father, Son, and the Word, take advantage of the true Trinity-Father, Son, and Holy Spirit! And remember Jesus is the Word! What do you do when no Bible is available? What do millions do who do not have access to one? The spirit is always there-just waiting for you to respond, encouraging you to seek Him-what will your answer be?

Along those same lines, religion has painted Thomas as a doubter, which is never mentioned in the Bible about him. The night after Jesus’ resurrection, when He walked through the walls of a locked room, where the other remaining disciples were hiding, we know where Thomas wasn’t, but not where he was. Based on previous scripture about him, it is possible he was out on the streets-not hiding. Yet when told how they had seen Jesus-he wanted the same. He would believe if he could touch Him and His wounds. But when confronted by Jesus in the same setting the next week, Jesus showed up just for Him. And when told the same words He had said about Jesus, recognized Him as Lord and God. Never touching Him! You see Thomas had seen the miracles, the healings, the 5000 fed twice, and heard the parables. He was with Jesus for over 3 years, but the others had seen the resurrected Christ-He wanted to also. And when He did, he believed! He was and is a witness of the risen Christ, and a witness can only tell what he has seen or heard-and Thomas now was that witness!

So get to know the author of the Bible, and watch as your life comes alive in Christ. Just like after meeting Nick the Four Faces now had a personality, and we felt we knew them, let the Spirit guide you into all understanding. Educated people don’t get into heaven, saved ones do. Ask Jesus into your life today, ask Him to show more of Himself, and to reveal Himself in the scriptures. Get to know the author-and become a witness. See things, and hears things, and instead of wanting to touch Jesus to believe, let Him touch you. God the Father, Jesus the son, and the Holy Spirit to guide and make it all more personal. You’ve heard of the book, now meet the author. And remember the words of Jesus after His encounter with Thomas-“you have seen and believe, blessed are those who have not seen and believe.” That’s us. Be blessed today. Witnesses wanted, apply to Jesus. He’ll show up for you.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

amber waves of grain

“Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain...” begins the beautiful song America. Representing more than 1/3 of America, this fly over country as it is referred to for many is a boring area. “Nothing there but fields and farmers, I think I’ll just read,” while flying over it. But when on two wheels, the ground takes on a new beauty all of its own. From North Dakota south to Kansas, my artificial lines of demarcation, the first times across were at 55 mph, a distance you can measure in dog years. And in a car, windows up, AC on, and CD player blasting, set the cruise today for 80 and it goes by quickly, or at least not as slow. But get off the interstate on two wheels, and you begin to see the song writers words come true. The skies do seem to go on forever, no end to the horizon, it seems to never move, giving credence to the flat earth believers. But the smells, alert the senses to another story. Early morning dew still glistening, and the sun heating up the tarmac, and soon the heat waves are seen rising from it, creating another smell competing with the land. Small towns dot the horizon, some seen from 50-100 miles off, with only the old billboard ads giving time and distance any meaning. Small towns, of maybe 500-5000 people, a place that for a 100 mile radius farmers and their families do their business. The farmers bring their harvest to town, where huge silos store it until processed and taken further to market by hundreds of semis. Where no Walmart has yet encroached on civilization, and moms buy shoes and clothes for their kids at family owned businesses. Where grocery stores still carry the family’s groceries out to the pickup, and much business is discussed over coffee and breakfast at the diner. No Denny’s here, this is real food, for real men, who work real hard.

My first real farm breakfast was in a little town in Kansas, on a Sunday morning. Sitting at the counter, I was mesmerized by listening to men talk of their crops, and the prices they hoped to get for them. The cost of their loans keeping them afloat until the harvest was in and sold. The price of gas that effected them directly, and each penny increase multiplied many times came right out of their profit. They discussed politics, and how the world seemed to be invading their world, how Washington never listens, and how they could care less about pretty boys sending young men to war, when the war being fought here was taking its toll. All the same issues we discuss, they discussed, too. And I was amazed at how they got up day after day, and went to work. No welfare for a farm family, no unemployment checks when the winter winds blow, and work is impossible. No sick days, as every day is a work day, except Sunday in some cases. Benefits-I got a family to feed. They plant, they water, and God provides the growth. But in between, the work never stops. And so the work of a farmer never ends. And they are both farmer, businessman, negotiator, father or mother, tractor operator, county representative, consumer, and producer-all at once. They don’t concentrate on corn futures, they are corn, wheat, grain, and dairy products today, whose every day delay to market can spell failure from spoilage, or losing money while waiting out time for the harvest. A tough life, but when challenged, would accept no other. And my hat and helmet goes off to them.

Another time in Wisconsin I learned while these small town diners serve breakfast all day. Stopping in Iola,Wisconsin, with less than 1000 people, I had what was a late breakfast for me. The diner was filled with farmers, and the mood was festive, the waitresses busy, and the food looked great. Even though it was 1000am, it was still breakfast time, and even though the menu spelled breakfast, this was the second meal of the day for many. Their first breakfast was at 400am, before the cows were up and the roosters were still waiting for the sun to rise to give their wake- up call. Our traditional breakfast was for them a morning snack, with this late morning breakfast a feast. As I found a seat at the counter, between two large men in overalls, boots covered in mud, there was no doubt I was the stranger in a strange land. Through the window they could see my California plates on the Tiger, and I am sure they wondered how I had wandered so far from home. Listening as their eyes checked me out, I ordered the Farmer’s Special-3 eggs, 3 bacon, 2 sausage, ham, potatoes, and pancakes. Enough to feed a small family, for men at work this would have to last until dinner when the sun went down. And as the waitress brought me the three platters of food, these two men who surrounded me watched as I ate. It was possible the eggs were from one of their farms, the butter they were fried in theirs, the bacon from their pigs, and the buckwheat in the pancakes from their fields. I had given thanks, and as they continued to consume cups of coffee, a pot was set in front of each one, foe the next 20 minutes I consumed, until I was about to bust. And they boht looked to me, smiled, and extended the hand of friendship. This California boy had cleaned his plates, maybe he was not so bad as they thought. Not so different after all. Thoughts mirrored by me. And we talked, of their fields, my trips, problems with kids, how the government cannot be trusted, and if they ever got to California places to go. But mostly, what was it like on a motorcycle? And the look in their eyes showed a respect and admiration for my ride. Following me out and wishing me well, not ever letting on that it would be almost two days and three states until I ate again. Excuse me, BURP!

I had been a stranger, and been welcomed. And made to feel welcome. Two different environments could have crashed that day, but left friends, admiring each other. Jesus tells us of how we were once strangers, and He took us in. Something to remember when dealing with homeless, skateboarders, yuppies, and bikers. Those who look different, or worship different. We are all different, but Jesus loves us all the same. It took some getting used to me eating three platters of food, but it was a compliment to them and their profession. Seeing someone enjoying the fruits of their labor. The fruit of Jesus’ labor is reflected in love, joy, peace patience, goodness, kindness, meekness, and long suffering. The character of God, shown in our actions. And welcoming a stranger is a big part of it. When someone looks lost at church, ask them to sit with you. Don’t give directions, walk them to where they need to go. Extend a hand of friendship, ask them to lunch after. Take the love outside of the church when you leave, helping the mom with more kids than hands, the hungry needing food, the thirsty needing drink, the naked needing clothes, and those in need. Welcome the stranger, for we were all once strangers. Nothing like being welcomed in a new environment. We call it discipleship. God calls it love. That morning in Iola it was called breakfast, today it may be lunch. Holding the door open for someone, smiling at one who is down. How many Lazaruses you step over today is your choice. Just like there is fly over country, there are fly over people. Show the love of Jesus today, become an evangelist of love, become a friend. For every farmer I meet I have a new friend, someone to listen and someone to listen to. Share the gospel today, when needed use words. They may just be waiting for someone to wave to them so they can wave back. An opportunity I don’t wish to miss. Best seen from the seat on a motorcycle. Why we ride...

love with compassion,

Mikematthew25biker.blogspot.com

if I were king for a day

We all have a point where we break, a line in the sand that when crossed, we react. We have a limit to what we can handle, and then we demand change. Some 250 years ago men and women began to act on the dream of a new country, conceived in liberty, we call the US of A. And we prospered. Russia some 100 years ago also had a rebellion, and Joe Stalin boasted “give me the children for a generation and I will change the world.” And we did, and he has. Two countries born in rebellion, but both reaching different ends. One based on the state taking care of all your needs, Communism, the other based on taking care of yourself and your neighbor. And we have seen how looking back in history how both have fared, how one based on God has prospered, while the other based on self and no God has seen God’s grace, but never prospered. Which upsets many, gets them involved in politics, and end up following a man, rather than the Man of Jesus Christ. We used to play a mind game, “If I were King for a Day,” and today may be a good day to vent, to be a king, for the day. If only in a kingdom of one.

As much as I hate rules, I would set some up immediately. First rule is obey all rules. Simple enough, worked in Mayberry. Second would be enforcement of all laws. All citizens would be required to carry a handgun, and would have to obtain a permit after rigorous examination to not carry one. Anyone caught driving while texting or on a cell phone would be mandatory loss of license, for one year. Second time, life in prison. Death if involved in an accident. All helmet laws would be abandoned, but those of us who choose to wear one would get a huge insurance break. Drivers and riders would have to pass a rigorous test to show they can drive, not just point and steer. Speed limits would be based on a graduated driver’s license, much like in racing. If you want to drive fast, you should be able to prove it.

English will go back to being our language. NO bilingual signs, if you are here, obey our laws. And find that a generation that has been held hostage by the bilingual atrocities, now can get out of the gutter by just learning English. Look how many fail because they don’t know the language. We have been deceived long enough. Schools would require Bible teaching, a time of prayer, and arithmetic, gym, language arts, and science. No special Latino, black, or other minority classes. We are all Americans, enough division in the name of equality. We would protect and enforce our borders. And to become an American be instructed on how when you lose something, you gain even more when you become one. You don’t bring your troubles for us, leave them behind. After all didn’t you come here for the American dream, or to perpetuate your nightmare? Governments-from local to federal would be required to stay within their budgets. If not, all responsible from the top down, face jail for 8 years. No more than one term for each elected official, and Congress and the President would be on a no salary, no benefit wage. Armed forces would have their salaries doubled, and held accountable-by the enlisted man, instead of the generals. Put some brass in the firing line and see how fast things change.

We would cheerfully want to find out about any government problems, and remember first and foremost we are Americans, rather than conservative and liberal. Whoever divided us by saying unity in diversity lied. Vote by your convictions, not what is good for you. Be willing to sacrifice for the common good, not turn for more welfare. We will be required to be responsible for our own actions, and all ill gotten gains will be taken away, and spread among the poor. All honest riches would be taxed evenly, with the emphasis on not over taxing the rich, but incentives given to want to be one. Rewards would be given for productivity, and life can be pointed back to a Jimmy Stewart movie setting, where we all are neighbors, and our brother’s keepers. Manners would be taught, and used, because we want to. The proper answer to thank you is you’re welcome. Not no problem. No slow cars in the fast lane, police will ticket anyone impeding the flow of traffic. BTW, it is the law now.

Church once again will be a place of worship, and open 7 days a week. Freedom OF religion, not from it. Jesus will be welcome in schools, look what has happened since God has been removed. Sundays would be days off, to rest. Go riding, or to visit. Nativity scenes would flourish at Christmas time. Christmas and Easter breaks will no longer be called spring and winter breaks. They are what they are for a reason. Men would treat women like ladies, and they would respond like one. And my list would go on and on. We would become a nation again of respect, of ourselves and each other. Laziness would be a felony...a lot of laws for one who doesn’t like laws, huh?

But it can be stated simply enough, as Jesus did. Love the Lord with all your heart, and love your neighbor as yourself. Imagine that one being enforced. And someday it will be, in heaven. No laws, only love. No divisions, they will be left behind. No cops, helmet laws, plea bargains, or taxes. It will all be paid in full. And heaven doesn’t have to begin when you die, but it starts when you let Jesus into your life. You get all the things of heaven here, ON EARTH, AS IT IS IN HEAVEN! So why don’t we follow Jesus now, and avoid the rush? Let the blessings fall where they may,and look out, the skies will be full of them. Take some time today and start the process. Let someone cut in front of you. Hang up your phone. Smile at someone while opening the door for them. Give a motorcycle some extra room. Go shooting. Welcome the stranger, show them the love of Christ, without words. Make them welcome by showing love. One simple law can replace all the man made ones. Remember, the more laws, the more chance to break one. So make love your only law, and practice it now. Don’t wait for some one else, start a new trend. Demand the truth, it will set you free. His name is Jesus. Make your first rule to obey His first rule, His only rule. If it works in Mayberry, SHAZZAM!

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

to all Roys everywhere

I really didn’t care for te term “Old School,” until I considered what “New School” is, and suddenly I am glad I am “Old School.” But what about those who are older than “Old School?” Who are just “School?” That would be a guy Vnny I used to know. Vinny was from Brooklyn, grew up in the same neighbor hood as Gil Hodges, when he was still the first baseman for the then Brooklyn Dodgers. He would tell stories of seeing Gil walking up the street after getting off the subway after a home game at Ebbets Field, or an away game with the NY Giants at the Polo Grounds. He can remember Gil talking with his neighbors, and going off to work in the off season, where ball players sold cars, insurance, or worked in clothing stores, a far cry from the so called “professional” athlete of today. But Vinny , some 45 years later, and not the same teen anymore, still lives in 1955 Brooklyn. The year the Dodgers beat the hated Yankess in the World Series, and next year became this year for all the loyal Dodger fans. Who only a few years later would lose their beloved team to Chavez Ravine, aka Los Angeles, and the Giants would no longer be the cross town rivals, but the cross state rival in San Francisco. Life as Vinny remembers it, or as he conducts it today is all based on the National League of 1955, interpreted from Brooklynese into American, his second language. A world best described by one John Kruk, a first baseman of the Padres in the 90’s. He was approached one time at the airport by a woman who thought she recognized him, “Aren’t you an athlete?” she asked. “No man, I’m a ballplayer.” And suddenly Vinny’s outlook on life isn’t so warped, but provides a brief respite from the world of today, where ballplayers are entertainment figures, and would never sell insurance, but hype it on TV for you to buy. Welcome to Vinny’s world.

Now Vinny was a simple man, and in conversations he would tell how his mother raised him. Fathers went to work back then, mothers stayed home and raised the family, ran the apartment, and had dinner for dad each night. So Vinny’s mom had a great influence on him. And any conversation would end up in 1955, end in 1957, the last year for the Brooklyn Dodgers, and hear of his parent’s lament. Now Vinny was no big deal as a career man, he worked for the airlines, made a great wage, more than he was worth due to the union, and was able to squeeze, three, sometimes four hours of work into an eight hour shift. But his most endearing, or annoying habit was he called everyone Roy. Young, old, male, female, boss, or co-worker, they were all Roy. Which at first gave the impression he was either stupid or not paying attention. But as he would call across the shop “ROY!” the right person, or right Roy would always turn. Quite a communication system, one the FBI would have had fits with. Roy who? Who are all these Roys? Is this a code? In a way yes, but really it was just Vinny and why Roy no one asked. I could see Gil, he adored Gil Hodges, maybe a sacrilege to his favorite ex-Dodger, but the only Roywas Roy Campanella, who everyone called Campy. So the mystery continues in Vinnyland. You might say schools out on that one, just “School” to Vinny.

God refers to us in many ways. We are always the same person, but in different situations we can go from sinner to saint. Lost to saved, from child to adult, and from foe to friend. All in one decisive move, called salvation. And names mean something to God. I laugh when someone starts praying and identifies themselves to God. After addressing Him as “almighty Father, Heavenly Host, blessed redeemer,” and other adjectives, or names for God, they go on to introduce themselves and the situation. Just in case the lines got crossed, and in Vinnyese another Roy is praying. Then they go on and ask for things, help, and then cut Him off from the answer. And although it can sound intimate, many times it is just based on how we were taught, and reflects more of our relationship than we care to admit. So Jesus tells us to call Him Abba, or Daddy-make it that personal. We all have fathers, but not all are dads. And our Heavenly Father wants that and more. So get personal with Him, not just in prayer, but during the day in psalms, songs, and thought involve Him. Don’t wait until you drift off into “now I lay me down to sleep...”and you do. Talk with God, but listen also. Why ask if you don’t want to hear the answer? And His title is God, Heavenly Father, Almighty, but His name is Jesus. And we can be on a first name basis with the God of the Universe! Even if your name is Roy, and He knows each Roy by name! And maybe His answers will make more sense since now you allow them to be personal. One to one. Intimate, just like talking with an old friend who knows you, and all about you, and loves you anyway. Call Him Dad, thank Jesus, and let the Spirit guide your words, and when you can’t find them, He will intercede where words fail. That’s prayer, that’s Jesus. Stop and try it now.

Or end like I did one day with Vinny. I messed up some things he had sorted out on his work bench, and I heard he was mad. He was mad at Roy. So going back to apologize, and not finding him there, I decided to leave a note, saying it was me who had messed up is bench, and I was sorry. I was just starting my car, when the thought hit me I had signed the note Mike. He would never know who Mike was, so I went back, wrote another, and signed it Roy. He’ll know which one, and never have to wonder who Mike is. Just School, and just Jesus. The way things ought to be. No further intros needed, visit like old friends today. Before time slips away and you wonder what happened. No one ever thought the Dodgers would leave Brooklyn, today Ebbets Field is a housing project, the projects as they are referred to. Be yourself in Jesus, it is hard enough being yourself anyway, why not let God make your day better? And if He asks “who sent you?” Tell Him Roy, He’ll know who. Just school. Now you do too.

love with compassion to Roys everywhere,

Mike aka Roy

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

the parable of the gum balls

At the corner of Terrill Road and South Avenue used to be a grocery store called FINAST an acronym for First National Stores. My mother would shop there occasionally, and as a kid we got to know where the toy aisle was, how to look pathetic and get a free donut at the bakery, and where the gumball machine was, so when leaving you bought a penny gumball as dessert and a reward for being so good while your mother was shopping. Or more realistic, to shut you up until you got home, because you hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, and made sure everyone knew it. Guilty as charged. But as we got older, and were given an allowance, we got to be as wise as our mothers when it came to making purchases, we knew where the best candy was, where it was freshest, The Sweet Shoppe, not Crestwood Cupboard, and also where kids were tolerated, at least until our 15 cents ran out. And since kids sans mothers were forbidden in grocery stores, we rarely frequented them on our own, but still were always scouting the aisles for bargains so that we would inform our mothers that we couldn’t, and she shouldn’t pass up such a great deal.

We were about 10 years old, when my best friends, brothers named Bruce and Barry, made the big trip along South Avenue, via the railroad tracks we were told to stay away from. We got to see the back side of many businesses, including some small industrial factories along the way. After being systematically chased from most, we stumbled upon one where we found a pile of scrap, metal circles punched out in the size of a penny, a lot of money as a kid. So grabbing a handful, we headed to FINAST, and the penny candy machines. One wouldn’t work, although the diameter was right, but when inserted three deep, the machine took them for a real penny-a we were in gumball heaven. So going back we filled our pockets, returned to FINAST, planning to raid the machine of free gumballs. And it worked for a while, until some mother must have ratted us out, and soon the manager, confronted us, and wasn’t as impressed with our plan as we were. and we were thrown out, told never to come back, and they took our names, the same as being arrested when you’re a kid. But to us we had pulled off he crime of the century, even our friends were impressed when we supplied these free contraband gum balls to them. We were heroes, at least until the next Friday night, when Bruce and Barry’s parents went shopping, at FINAST. In a small town, people know each other, and when the manager saw their parents, informed them of their crime. Now Mr. Van Doren was never one for words, he was a hitter, and when I went by Saturday morning was told they couldn’t come out, and I couldn’t come in. We were busted, they were bruised, and I was scared. My Dad was, also a hitter, after the threats wouldn’t work, but this went beyond words. And it was months before my mother ever shopped there again, even longer for us to go with her. But after a few days, all was forgotten, but not forgiven, and we were out again, looking for things to do. But never did we ever pull that trick again, for we were assured our names and photos, along with our parents-a bigger no-no, were on every grocer store hot sheet in the Metro area. We even swore off gum for a while until we felt the situation had cooled down. A life of crime, nipped in the bud at age 10, before any further damage could be done. And I still try to avoid those gumball machines to this day, just in case the statute of limitations hasn’t expired from some 50 years ago.

Counterfeiting is not a new thing, almost from Day 1 in the Garden of Eden Satan tried to counterfeit the truth. And still does today, when reading your Bible note how much is devoted to counterfeits, false doctrines, and even false messiahs. Just because the coin works in the machine, doesn’t make it right, or even correct. And we are always looking for the easy way, or less expensive way, and our society today is out to blame every one except ourselves. Must be your fault, my kids would never do that. Yeah, but their parents would, and have, and may be today. Sometimes unaware, but sometimes using the old kid excuse, everyone does it. Which of course led to more spankings as a kid, because we did all do it, and our fathers did all spank us. But yet when faced with choice, knowing it may involve punishment, we still choose the wrong one, hoping today is the day God isn’t looking, or looking at someone else. But He better be there when I call!

When Eve had succumbed to the serpent’s wiles, and tasted of the tree, she would readily admit it later when God asked her. But when she offered it to Adam, his choice was different. He had to choose between God and Eve, between the creator and the creation. And when he chose to go with his wife, sinned against God, and the rest is history. Setting the precedent we still follow today, choosing the creation over our Creator. “Hey Adam, want a piece of gum?” See how close we can come. Born into it, we often choose the wrong way, as opposed to God, and suffer the consequences. But not all decisions are easy, I know of a woman who suffers from a disease for which there is no cure, but medicines are available to ease the pain. Yet she chooses to refuse them, waiting on God for a miracle. When I suggested the drug can be the miracle, she denied it. My thought being if I had a headache, would I deny an aspirin? And when it took away my headache, isn’t that a miracle? Particularly if I had never heard of them? Tough decisions we have to make every day. Yet we have an advocate in Jesus, to guide us by His spirit into ALL truth, so we don’t have to guess. But sometimes those counterfeits look so good, just ask Eve, or Adam.

It was our choice to enter the criminal world by using counterfeit coins-slugs. And we paid the price. Today you have been warned, what will your choice be? Choose Jesus, and when problems come fall back on God, or limp through life without Him. When an angel of the Lord touched Jacob’s hip, causing him to limp, who did he lean on? Who do we lean on? Some limping is more noticeable than others, some can be cured. Some are just the symptom of a larger problem. Today you may be wrestling with a decision, waiting for a touch from God. So was Jacob, in fact he demanded it. But not quite the answer he was looking for. Make sure you know of whom you are asking, the fakes are everywhere, and hard to determine. Only in Jesus do all things work out for good for you. Make the right choice today...for only a few cents I was willing to buy into a life of crime, limping through life I find it easier to lean on Jesus.

Jesus Christ guilty as charged, so we won’t be. Anyone for a piece of gum? Wait a minute, didn’t the Adams Company used to make gum? Should have seen that one coming.

love with compassion,

Mike

mathew25biker.blogspot.com

riding alone-only 13 more inches on the map left to go

On the map, it is only 13 inches from New Orleans to Albuquerque, or about 1250 miles, or a long 3 days @ 55mph. I was that close, and would spend the next night, uneventfully in Corsicana, Texas, my first night in a motel. After a good night’s sleep, I was off into cold, but sunny skies, more US 287 with another 500 mile ride ahead across Texas to Amarillo. All went well, but boring, a ride I now do in 7-8 hours easy, would turn into a nightmare. Any sane person would have pulled over, any even saner person would not have been on a motorcycle in late November in the first place, but I was and in the late afternoon, the temperature dropped 40 degrees in an hour, the winds hit in the 40mph range, and I rode sideways, freezing, and hanging on for life into Amarillo. I learned that tumble weed hit hard, as when I took off my boot that night, my left foot and lower leg were purple. Since Holiday Inn had been so good to me the night before, I chose the one in Amarillo, just before all hell broke loose. Ironically the same one that we would use in Torches Across America, they still liked bikes and bikers 30 years later. It had also started snowing, so much for the yet to be invented Weather Channel, I was riding into a blizzard. I was glad to have found Amarillo, it was right where the map said it would be, and in this pre-GPS, Internet, and cell phone world, I had made it just in time. And they were very cool, even letting me park my bike in the lobby, so it wouldn’t blow away. A good thing because that night the wind knocked my sliding glass doors off their rails in my room. It had taken a few hours to get warm, and the weather outside said no riding tomorrow when I woke up. But I woke up to cold, clear, non-windy skies, and with only 287 miles left, a ride I have no taken too many times, I was off. It would take all day, with the major stop in Tucumcari to eat, three bowls of vegetable beef stew to warm me up, then the last 200 miles to Albuquerque.

Now I-40 was not complete yet, and Tucumcari was all that the history books say it was. Busy, neon lit, even in the middle of the day, and signs before and after warning you of its presence. “TUCUMCARI TONIGHT” the signs beaconed, but Albuquerque tonight was my destination. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I was in an America where things still closed down for holidays and Sundays, and with so much space between exits, I found few places to stop, only the cold telling me I needed fuel and hot chocolate long before needed. I had travelled across much of America, three time zones worth, in November by motorcycle. And the old saying the closer you get the longer it takes was true. I wasn’t sure what Albuquerque looked like, was it tee pees and huts? How big was it? I knew nothing of its altitude, the same as Denver, or of the Sandias, the beautiful mountains to the east. I was travelling Route 66, which had not been decommissioned yet, and I was living history on it. I had no recollection of the Joads and others heading west to find their fortune, all my attention was on me, and my fortunes, and what lied ahead. History would have to wait, I was making it.

As I rode through Dead Man’s Curve in the dark, I was greeted by the bright lights of a big city, Albuquerque was huge! And it took me about 10 minutes to cruise across to I-25, then north to Montgomery, to 4401 NE-my new home. It was dinner time, I was hungry, and I arrived to an empty home, just like I had on my return trip a few months earlier. But John had left word with the couple downstairs, who warmed me up and welcomed me to New Mexico. I was home-I had made it, and tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I had much to be thankful for.

This would be my first Thanksgiving without family, and we ate up on the Crest, taking the Tram to the top of the 10,000+’ mountain. No seconds, no extra pie, but I was home, my new home. And I was thankful like never before. I had John, to share Jesus with, he taught me to pray, and we started attending Grace Church, where I actually got to hear Ray Stedman speak one Sunday. All was fresh and new, and our view from the apartment of the mountains covered in snow made me glad my ride was over.

I had reached my destination. I had finished my ride. I was home. It would be almost two years until I finally made it by motorcycle to California, and ironically on a BMW R100S, whose motor later would self destruct. God’s timing would be perfect, in that I would meet the girl of my dreams, and we would ride together, never alone, for the next 35 years, and we still do today. We were married in Albuquerque, and when I was life flighted their last summer, Theresa’s prayer was our marriage wouldn’t end there. And through the miracles of God, it didn’t, I’m still alive. So it is easy to see why Albuquerque has a special place in my heart.

I was 21 when I was saved, and took my initial trip across the US. And I rode across it three months later all based on faith. Guided by the spirit of the Lord, almost in ignorance, at least compared to what I know today. Today you may be asked to pick up your cross and follow Jesus. Not knowing where it will lead, but be assured it will all work out for you. When the blind man who received his sight, was asked about Jesus, he replied, “I don’t know if He is good or bad, all I know is that I was blind, and now I see!” See life through His eyes today, and never look back except to share your testimony. Find out how really good Jesus is. My ride was over, but the journey continues.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

riding alone, but never lonely inside the beltway

True to form, I had ridden 400 miles my first day out, arriving in Washington, DC only 200 miles away. I was staying with my friend Paul Sears, a world class drummer, whom I met thru Stu. They had met in college, and had talked Stu’s dad, a dentist, into supporting their dream for a year, while dropping out of school. Neither ended up going back, Paul moved back home and played locally, and Stu and his dad got arrested in one of the largest drug busts on the East Coast. And both did time. God’s timing on my leaving was great, as I knew many of those arrested, and may have gone down with them by being a known associate. This was a big deal, as it made the front page of the NY Daily News, and the drug pipeline from Florida to New York was interrupted for weeks. Paul had moved back in with his parents, and sister, Marianne, and they lived in this huge old house where their side of the street was Chevy Chase, Maryland, and the other side Washington, DC. The trip was boring except for being paced by a cop in Baltimore, who pulled me over and tried to bully me for going 58 in a 55. When I asked for his sergeant, he got upset, and like I told him, “we both were there, I’m sure he would like to hear why you waited so long, and were traveling over the speed limit yourself.”

From a 30 degree morning leaving, I would spend the next day in DC riding around on bicycles in the 80’s. It was beautiful, and Paul took me all kinds of places tourists don’t get to see, and we even got in to see the pandas at feeding time, who were on loan from China. Great day, great time, and great friends. But I found out the next morning why they call it Stormy Monday, and why Tuesday can be just as bad. We had stopped for donuts before I left, and when I came out, the bike would go into gear, but not move, and it made some horrible noises. And in the era of bike shops closed on Monday, it would be Tuesday until I could get it to Capital Cycles, and almost a week later until I would head south. The driveshaft bolts had come loose, which could have happened at speed, but didn’t, God again was watching out for me. But I spent that night out drinking heavily, with Marianne, in her new Chevette. And got very sick from it. The drinking. No way to impress a pretty girl who next year would be in Playboy, July 1976. But she was kind and took care of me, while my bike was nursed back to health. Paul was a real friend, good people we used to call them, and I heard from him for a while after I left. If ever again in Washington....

Now the I-95 corridor wasn’t completed yet, it was more like the Jersey Turnpike, I-95, IS 1,17,301, and I-16 corridor. So it was slow going, and my destination that night was Gainesville, Florida to see my old girlfriend. But a new section of 95 had just opened-no cops or any traffic, and I raced along at over 100 for a while. Speeds the road and my R90S were both designed for, just not legal. And I made the 810 mile ride in great time, including a late lunch at South of the Border. Pedro sez...and I was off.

Now Paula and I had been boyfriend and girlfriend for four years, then broke off when she went to school. And we reconnected after I got saved, and she fell in love with the new, improved Mike. She had an apartment with some other girls, but I was welcome, on the couch, my choice, not hers, for the two nights. It was odd watching them get high without me, but I had no desire, and while they studied, I sat on the sofa and read my Bible. The next day while she was in class, I went by the local BMW shop, where they informed me Butler and Smith knew about the engine problems, and were repairing them under warranty. Good luck getting my money back, besides Jersey was in my rear view mirrors, not ahead over the handlebars. It was nice and warm, as Florida should be, and the weather down had been comfortable, but the next day would be my last day of good riding weather. So saying our good byes, we would keep in contact, but we would never see each other again, my new life headed west.

Now Florida is almost like two different states, snow birds and blue haired old ladies south of West Palm, and rednecks across the panhandle. I was going west on I-10, when I was stopped in DeFuniak Springs for speeding. Seems the revenue enhancer who stopped me saw my Pennsylvanian plates and wanted to add to their coffers. Also I was scared, as we had been forced to leave Fort Lauderdale the year before, when our apartment was raided. I was clean, but what would the record show? I was let go with just a ticket, and told to appear in court on November 31st. When I wrote the court from Albuquerque that no November 31st existed, I never heard back. Either the cop had goofed it, or done it on purpose, either way I was clean, clear air to New Orleans.

Now having been in New Orleans in extreme heat and humidity just three months earlier, I was expecting Florida weather. Hey, I was still on the Gulf, and it was pleasant until the sun went down, and all the humidity turned to fog and a biting cold. I was staying with another friend, Ronny Cohen, a medical student at Tulane, and his girlfriend’s parents were planning a big dinner for me. Now start with a new area, in the dark, add fog,and the accent of his girlfriend, William David Parkway sounded like Wiggin David, and I was late, by only an hour and a half, trying to find Wiggin David. So close, yet so far. But they were gracious, the roast beef hot, and Ronny showed me New Orleans much like Paul had shown me Washington. I ate a Po’Boy, beignets, café au lait, and came within inches of meeting Paul McCartney and his band Wings. They had done a concert the night before in Fat City, and when we went to breakfast, parked in back of a limo. Smiling faces waved from inside, and we nodded hello back. Inside all the talk was that an ex-Beatle , Paul had just left in the limo out front. Paulie had waved to me, for him just “A Day in the Life,” for us conversation for the meal. After a great two days with the future Dr. Cohen to be, I was heading towards Houston, and then head north on US 287 to Amarillo. No more friends until Albuquerque, I was riding alone in the cold, but never lonely. I had been inside the Beltway, inside the limo, a college campus, and done the Big Easy. Texas weather would change everything... good thing I knew God, and He was with me.

to be continued.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com