resurrected rides from salvage titles

“I have an FJ 1100, too,” my friend said.  And looking back at mine, I was glad to hear that someone else had made the same wise choice to ride.  Mine was to be the motorcycle that I owned for the longest time-10 years, and even when I traded it then with over 76,000 miles, the dealer gave me full retail on the trade.  To say it was well kept was an understatement, and to say it had led a sheltered life was a falsehood.  It had been coast to coast, been into the rev limiter-155 mph per Yamaha, and taken Christopher and I to Canada.  And it was the bike I rode to California when we moved from New Mexico.  So when my friend said he had one too, just a year newer, I envisioned a sister, or look alike to mine.  But when he threw up the garage door, boy was I wrong.  It was a salvage title bike, and was painted rattle can black, three different shades.  Handlebars made of ill cut metal from the scrap heap, and an exhaust customized by crash.  Too say they were worlds apart would be an understatement, even a 5 year old could see the difference, but there it was.  Mine taken care of, and maintained well, his a wreck.  And I began to wonder about his values, and his perspective on motorcycles.  But looking at his bike I began to wonder, what had the bike done wrong to end up like this?  Somewhere along the way its old owner either lost interest after crashing, or decided to take care of something else, allowing it to fall into disrepair.  Two bikes had been engineered the same, built on the same assembly line, yet had two different endings.  What had gone wrong, and what had happened?  What went on that day its old owner decided it was expendable? 

I was there when an MTV producer brought back the Speed Triple, Triumph had lent it out for a video, the arrangement was no miles, just for a background shoot.  But as the man walked around it, and inquired if he could get another, for himself, we walked around to the right side.  WHOOPS!  The right side was ruined, what had happened?  While he made excuses, it only has .4 miles on it, the truth came out.  He had shown off for a girl, and dumped it-hope she was worth it, as the bike was totaled.  Did he actually think no one would notice?  And he wanted to borrow another?  Was he a serial bike killer?  I watched as he was almost physically thrown out of the shop, and sent a bill.  He had bought a Speed Triple, new, just not what he expected.  But some 10 months later, Mick showed me the cover of a Robb Report with this beautiful black Speed Triple on it, slightly customized.  “Do you remember this bike?” he asked.  After thinking, a blank, he explained this was the same bike that had been totaled by Mr. MTV I know How to Ride stud.  It was beautiful, he had rebuilt it..  And to be on the cover of Robb Report, a high end car magazine, was a real honor.  And riding home that day I thought of the old FJ of my friend, and how two bikes, made in continents far away, but sold in So Cal, had both been crashed, and their totally opposite endings.  One skillfully rebuilt, the other a botched abortion.  And no one ever asked the bikes what they thought. 

People’s lives are a lot like this story.  Somewhere along the way we all encounter a life changing experience, and the decision we make due to it alters our life, and our future.  It comes down to choices, and bad ones lead to destruction, while one good one can turn it all around.  I know many who have been ruined by drugs, who are putout like the FJ on the world’s ash heap.  Someone comes along and tries to patch them up, maybe using them for parts, but never caring about them.  We call them programs, procedures, and processes-seeing what can be salvaged out of this once life worth living, if you do it their way.  Some try religion, and are processed through it, without the benefit of Jesus.  Do this and you can come to our church.  some have fallen from their religion, gone to jail and lost everything, and along comes Mr. Church and tells them when you get it together, you can come back.  We can’t have people like you among our flock, what would others say?  So they go on, bouncing from one weekly lesson to another, a life of the FJ, still a person, but just the shell.  Painted many colors by whoever tells them what to do, they end up in the trash, a victim of religion, a statistic of what could have been.  A life wasted because no one took the time to stand with them, to love them as they are, to care.  A salvage title is all that is left, and to the world nothing even worth salvaging.  And then there is Jesus...

The master at taking lives thrown away, and turning them into something, I am reminded of an old saying back in the Jesus Movement days of the 60-70’s.  Jesus doesn’t make people into freaks, He makes freaks into people.  Sometimes it just  takes the tiny bit of faith to trust Him, and let Him change your life.  But it isn’t what we say, or I say, it is what the Holy Spirit is telling you, that still, small voice inside calling to you, “YOU NEED JESUS!”  And until you do, the voice will continue calling your name.  No matter what you have done, or where you are, Jesus has not only been there, He is there.  Here, right now.  No need to be put together by a set of religious rules, you can have the master builder, the creator, fix you up, better than new.  Using factory parts, not aftermarket parts that say they will fit.  He is the perfect fit for you.  And He just doesn’t deal with what others see, He goes deeper to where no one can see but Him.  He sees the cracks in your frame, He sees the engine wear no one else does, and performs miracles no one else can claim.  If religion, rules, or procedures could do it, it wouldn’t be a miracle, it takes Jesus.  But the choice is always yours, touring on a cover bike, or hiding the crash in the garage.

Not everyone will make the cover of a magazine, just like it takes special bikes, and a special relationship to get on Robb Report.  But we can have our names written in the Book of Life, more valuable than any other publication.  And it takes that relationship with Jesus, which you can have right now.  Turn to Him, ask Him to forgive you and help you-then let Him!  Already accepted Him, then turn to Him.  Maybe spend some time in the shop-church and in the word, letting Him perform a tune up.  Catching a small problem before it becomes disabling.  For just like the new bikes coming off the assembly line, we all had promise when born.  But somewhere a decision was made, and we ended up with a salvage title.  Trade it in now for a clear title, fresh and clean.  What you ride reflects who you are, and what you believe makes you what you are.  There are a million stories in the big city, yours is just one of them, but the most important to Jesus. 

You are in for the ride of your life.  Make it a great one with Jesus.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

striking a pose

When BH and I first moved to our apartment in Piscataway-how’s that for a name, we lived down the street from a huge Union Carbide plant, which had an old fashioned picnic grove and park for its employees. Top notch with picnic tables, fire pits, and horseshoe pits, volleyball, and tennis courts, it was big enough for its thousands of employees at their annual picnics. So one afternoon when riding by, noticing all the festivities, and smelling the food, we stopped to ask what was going on, and the group of men explained the picnic. Never acknowledging we didn’t work there, we found another entrance and walked in, and when asked where we worked, said accounting, hoping this was a blue collar picnic, and we relatively clean shaven at the time. Upon getting in, we ate, played, and mingled with other “co-workers,” being careful to never admit who we were or how we had gained illegal entrance. We walked their walk, talked their talk, and had a great time, even calling Cooper to come join us, another non-co-worker. And we vowed to make this an annual event for ourselves, and figured if it worked here, the same ruse would work other places. Which sometimes it did, when at a huge affair at Pompano Park Racetrack in Florida, we had crashed a party, and someone was onto us. When approached by security, in tuxedoes, BH got arrogant, and threatened to call his father,who he claimed was President of the ABA, before it merged with the NBA. He sounded so convincing, we were let go, but decided to leave on our own, others knew we were posing, just not security. But we made a graceful exit, got on our café racers, and left. With some serious phone numbers form serious women, who could tell we didn’t fit in, but were in love with our bad boy image. Which seemed to make us more attractive than money-go figure.

In the biker world many posers are among us today. New shiny leathers, leather vests, and trying to act cool, when cool is not an act, and cannot be faked, they stick out like our Triumphs at a Harley rally, except our Triumphs are usually surrounded by those who remember them, cool, another sure give away of a poser, they don’t know motorcycles. 20 Grand and 20 miles doesn’t make you a biker, but somehow they mange to stay within their own peer group, a joke to some, to some irritating, because they act and dress like they think a biker does, and end up giving themselves a bad name, along with bikers. We have enough of a public relations problems on our own, we don’t need no stinkin’ posers to add to it. And posers show up in all social circles, from the fat dad who knows all about baseball and grinds his kid, who has even less talent than him, thinking that both of themselves are the greatest. The women who cannot sing and cannot understand why she is never asked to be part of a chorus, yet will sing to an audience on her on, showing them no mercy. Girls in fake leather, silicone sisters who deny their surgery, poor guys pretending to be rich by trying to impress the rich, and it goes on and on. Fed by ego, they try to go upstream socially, by putting you down if needed, just to elevate themselves. It’s like I told a heckler one time, trying to impress his date by his obvious superior breeding, questioned my background. Without getting into it, I calmly asked, “what do you do?” Proudly he answered, “I’m an accountant.” “Really,” I said, “I have one of those.” Game, set, match to me. Poser. Turn on the lights and the rats scatter, but sometimes there are more rats than daylight...like in some churches.

I have yet to find a church that is in tune with God where posers do not try to enter it and contaminate it. Most churches even have security aware of these types, and out here we know some by name, if not reputation. They talk the talk, but often just try to infiltrate a body, spreading their own gospel. Some truth in what they say, but not the truth. Most noticeably we see some hard core types, who usually sit up front to be noticed, and draw attention to themselves. They call each other Brother, Sister, and sound so pious. Yet afterwards, don’t mingle, yet segregate themselves outside, identified by a different mantra than inside, they are the ones smoking under the No Smoking sign, telling off color jokes, and when a photo op occurs, they invade it. I see them at funerals trying to attract attention to themselves, and PRIDE is their biggest asset, you can only imagine their others. But the real church can tell, even if they are lying to themselves. Sadly some know exactly what they are doing-which is even worse yet. And they can get dangerous, and some think that all Christians are like them-glad we’re not. It reminds me of when in high school, we used to go by black bars to get beer, we were underage, and they were the seedier places. One night with Bruce Hill, a State Champ heavyweight wrestler, he told us if we had any problems, just call them brother, and that was cool. But when Bruce went in to get served, and didn’t return, we got brave and looked for him in the alley, where he was found all beaten and bruised. Usually Bruce inflicted the beating, and when asked what happened, replied, “I called some guy brother, and he said you ain’t my brother, and a bout 6 guys dragged me out and beat me.” We learned our lesson that night. And a poser payday awaits those that fake it with Jesus. But for now, there is still mercy to be had.

God tells us to work out our salvation daily with fear and trembling, not getting saved again, or in fear of losing it, but to inspect who we are in Christ. To work on our witness, see if we are bearing fruit, or are we just playing church. If you don’t you can become like the two kids playing school, one was the teacher, the other was absent. And our actions will say more than our words. I hear people arguing over things that will not keep you from heaven, getting into social issues. I heard one man say he can’t wait to sit down and drink beer with Jesus, that’s not in the scriptures. He is saved, but has gotten some bad doctrine, and like I told him, his words and actions may not keep him out heaven, but they will others. If the world sees us acting like them, yet proclaiming heaven, they think they can do the same. How many have been led astray by your selfish actions and viewpoints? Is that the gospel Jesus showed us, or is it your own? Think about your smoking, cussing, and womanizing next time-someone is watching thinking those things are OK, they are not. They are sins not leading to death, only denial of Jesus is the sin leading to death. Sin is sin, always will be-is that the evangelism you want? True those things won’t keep you out of heaven, but they may others. It is times like these that you would like to strike the poser for striking the pose. Only Jesus can change the heart, has He changed yours?

The Beatles sang “We can work it out,” and we can with Jesus. So can you. Join the chorus today, learn all the words instead of just humming along.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

And we know you're a poser if... You spit out the bug that just flew in your mouth.  You spend more time shining your bike than riding it.  You're too cool to wave at the kids in the mom-mobile in front of you.  You grab for your hairbrush before your old lady.  You take your bike into the shop for oil changes.  Your $500 boots aren't scuffed from riding.  You think that a kick-starter is a mocha latte.  You set at least one mirror, if not both, to reflect yourself.  Your saddle bags say "Gucci".  You carry a lap-top in your saddle bags.  Your tattoos wash off.  You put your pony-tail back in the drawer after you get home.  You won't ride down a gravel road.  You've never seen a sunrise from two wheels.  You only ride on weekends, when you can.  You never ride to work.  All your leathers match.  There are no wrinkled, faded, creased, or scratched areas on your leathers.  You don't own a rain suit.  You've never ridden long enough to know that stock seats are never comfortable.  You've never had to replace a worn out tire.  You've had to replace your tires, but because they were too old and not too worn.  You like to ride by stores with big picture windows so you can admire your reflection.  You ride a Ducati.  Your longest road trip this year was to Hooter's for bike night.

Doug's sons buy a house

Life is full of firsts, with each one a new adventure. When you are young, your first two wheeler rides open up a whole new world, and suddenly the neighbor hood seems smaller, or are you bigger? Your first day of school, leaving your mom behind, and suddenly you are a big boy, and have a whole new set of rules, and challenges. One event and you are so grown up. Your first date, when someone actually shows you they care, and then that first holding of hands, hey that wasn’t so hard after all. Then that first kiss, and a whole new set of emotions overcomes you, you are mature! Or so your PR ego tells you. Your first drive, your first car, and your first motorcycle-all opening up places to go, with freedom to get there, and suddenly you have come full circle from that first ride on your two wheeler, except now there are more roads, and all the time in the world to ride them, in between school and work. And you learn that the freedoms you have enjoyed via all your firsts, have come with a price-responsibility. But you ride on, knowing that it is all worth it. But first...

... it is your first time moving out on your own that makes the biggest impact. For me, it was when BH and I fled Jersey for Pompano Beach, our first place together, which really was more like a four month vacation until we were forced to leave Florida under escort. But we had grown up, we were all of 20 now, and our real first place would happen that summer. Finding an apartment was harder than we thought, add the fact we were young and rode motorcycles, many no vacancies showed up. We finally found a great place on River Road in Piscataway, and another first-changing our mailing address. With help from friends, BH borrowed the shop van from VIP Honda, and Mrs. Brown gave us an old sofa, end table,and a rug. We had our own beds, a table my Grandpa had refinished, and we were styling, we just didn’t have style yet. But what we had was our own place, with all the comforts of home, including free laundry service, dropped off weekly to our mothers, some habits die harder than others. But we had our first place, our first garage, and many unforgettable moments, and memories. Free to do whatever we wanted, hoping not to get caught, hopefully we had learned our lesson in Florida.

For months Doug has been telling how his two sons were looking to buy a house, much harder than shopping for a new car. There are loans, loan officers, escrows, escrow thieves, and more paperwork to get in than to get out. But finally they have a place of their own, and be it ever so humble, they now know there is no place like home. And as the new wears off via new firsts, they have had the joy of the first night spent there, showing it off to friends, and the housewarming parties to follow. But other firsts such as the first payment, first utilities due, first grocery trip, and the first major repair-hopefully a long way off await them. All the comforts of home, with all the responsibilities of being a homeowner. Without Mom or Dad to influence their decisions-it is their house now. And priorities change...

So as Doug was telling about their new home, and two less mouths to feed at home, he told of how he gave them a new refrigerator, and washer and dryer for a house warming gift. Using the money he could have spent on a motorcycle and helping out his sons. Typical Doug as far as I could tell, doing for others, and being blessed. And setting an example for his sons to follow. And as he sits back and is proud of his sons, I am reminded of another Father who loves His son, and gave Him to and for us. He describes Him as “well done my good and faithful servant,” and what greater compliment can a father show than to love his sons, and daughters. To help and encourage them, to get them off to a good start, knowing that the values they have instilled in them over the years were not always visible, but were always there. And will be there when called upon. Too many times I encounter men who were given ultimatums, “you are out at 18, on your own,” and the kids suffer for it, when a loving guiding hand could have prevented a saga of coulda, shoulda, and woulda. Just because they have persevered the attitude is “I did it, so will they.” A sharp push out of the nest, instead of a loving hand to guide. Doug’s example showed that loving, guiding hand.

Last night at our Tuesday night Dustin Arms Bible study, two men were convinced God punishes them for their sins. They live their lives never seeing a god who sent His Son to die while we were yet sinners, and never fully enjoy the joy of Jesus. Bad teaching, from false teachers, who espouse Jesus, but add “you must do this,” or “you will lose your salvation if God catches you screwing up.” Both lies, not the Jesus I know or the Jesus of the Bible. He is love, your sin finds you out, He forgives it and forgets it. Now, will you? Will they? It is your choice.

Go back to the fist time you met Jesus-the all time first first. The best, on which all other decisions would come to be based. Did He chastise you, or did He welcome you with open arms, hands open to see the wounds, so there would be no doubt who He is and what He has done? When we changed our eternal address from hell to heaven, was there rejoicing, or a new set of rules? Would rules keep you there, or was it all about grace? Or did you find love, peace, and forgiveness, things found nowhere else but in Christ? Too many rules, they only become rules when you break them. It is easier to live in love, than in fear. Perfect love casts out all fear. We punish ourselves, it is called pride. Get over it!

A washer and dryer may not have been important to them while at home, now they find out how important they are. How cold milk with Oreos is much better. How food in the fridge gives a sense of security, and how sometimes fathers know things, and do them at just the right time. Sounds lke God, or a gift from Him. When they needed Doug he was there, and he will be again when needed. A Fathers love is like that. But only because of Jesus, who loved us first, so we can love others. To quote Pete Maravich “money can buy a fine dog, but only love will make it wag its tail,” I would like to add “money will buy a fine house, but only love will make it a home.” But never forget “money may buy a fine religion, only Jesus makes it a relationship.” A father and a son...examples to live by. You never forget your first love.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com 

the grand opening

I always knew that I would just meet someone, fall in love, and get married-and live happily ever after. And so I did, and so I have. When I met Theresa I knew she was the one for me, and with only 1000 miles between us, we fell in love, she moved to Albuquerque, and we got married, all within four months. But our whirlwind romance wasn’t over yet, as within another few months we moved to Durango, Colorado. We had never been there, but urged on by close friends who were moving there, we loaded up the truck and we moved to the mountains, unknown territory for both of us, she of the beach, and me still under the influence of New Jersey, although the symptoms were fading. Durango in the 70’s was a far cry from what it is today, but the town of my Jimmy Stewart dreams, a small town, with a great down town, a college on the hill, and secluded from the real world. A town described on t-shirts as “Durango is what America was,” and we bought into that, today knowing Durango was what America was. But a town of dichotomies, a town so beautiful, with air so clean, that the EPA had to recheck its machines because the air was so clear, but yet a tailings pile south of town was aglow, another t-shirt read “Duranglo, Coloradiation.” A town of families, small businesses, and many churches, yet the sign on the new high school proudly announced in huge letters “GO DEMONS!” And this was the Durango we moved to in June, 1978, with all of $11 to our names, no jobs, and closest family 1000 miles away. Pioneers in the truest sense of the word, we were young and didn’t know any better. Things we did then we would counsel against now, but we had no counseling, so off we went...

I had made the comment that I would clean horse manure if that was what it would take to live there, and God took me at my word. I worked at a gas station, which also serviced Trailways buses, and you guessed it, dumped their johns. A messy job, but like I said, I did, and we lived in Durango. Now among the other more glamorous jobs was pumping gas, dealing with drunks, and changing tires and fixing flats. All glamorous jobs to a 24 year old, but when it gets cold, some days we didn’t see above zero, attitudes change like the weather. But one fall afternoon, while changing a tire, the old fashioned way before the modern machines we have today, I was breaking down a tire on a huge rim off of a 4x4. The machine was not set up for it, it was older than I was, but wouldn’t give in, figuring no machine could outsmart me. One bead broken, one to go, and while forcing it, the tire iron flew off, hitting me in the mouth. Instant pain, and a stiff neck-whiplash, and knocking out two of my front teeth. Now being the chicken I am, I could feel the space with my tongue where the teeth used to be, but was afraid of looking in the mirror. So I went to the phone book, remember them, found an Emergency Dentist, and got on my Z-1 and rode to his office. Now I was sore, but was about to experience a whole new ball game of pain. Like the man who gets burned after touching the plate of Mexican food after being told it is hot, the dentist had told me to keep my mouth shut. At 40 mph, when I opened it I found our why-the pain went to my toes, and would have gone farther if I had more height, but less brains. All the stories he had warned me of were true, and I had learned a very important lesson about keeping your mouth shut when told to.

But thanks to the miracle of a lot of Novacaine, I mean lots, he gave me temporary fillings, caps, and I went back to work. Where the same guy was waiting, upset because I hadn’t fixed his tire. I made one exception to keeping mouth shut with him, he knew from my attitude it was best to go somewhere else, anywhere else, and he did. And I kept my mouth shut for quite a while.

“Be still and know that I am God,” is great advice from the scriptures. I wish I had heard that before that painful ride. But I do now, so offer no excuses. Life can demonstrate the only argument you will ever win is the one you aren’t involved in, many times actions will speak more of a massage than your words. But opening your mouth, especially when told not to like I did can have painful ramifications. But there are times you will be called upon to speak, and God knows that too, so Jesus has promised to give you the words needed when you are hauled before someone demanding answers. You don’t have to worry, just trust God, the same message you are trying to convey with your witness. And it is those times that the still voice, the calming voice of Christ ministers to you, being heard despite all the background noise. And in my case the pain. A voice so clear it is heard from within, and calms you, instructs you, and guides you-you only have to obey. I marvel today at the simplicity of the gospel, at how Billy Graham can say in 5 minutes more than most overbearing preachers can say I an hour with more results. He is saying what God gives him to say, He is just repeating it, he is only the messenger-the message is the important thing. When I opened my mouth on the way to the dentist, I had been told not to for my own good, and only I suffered for my disobedience. But harsh words spoken when they shouldn’t have powerful repercussions-if only we had listened instead of talking. But knowing God, He has made it a choice of what to speak, when and where, and to whom. We can control our speech, but not our listening, so we have no excuse, our words will convict us either way. By being still and acting in obedience you are showing He is God, not you. It is Jesus who changes hearts, not us. And it is Jesus who we should represent, not our own agendas. It takes two to argue, and as the voices escalate in volume, no one can hear because no one is listening. Are you? What do your words say, do they say much in silence as do your actions? Be still-and know WHO is God, and know God! When Jesus told us to him who has an ear let him hear, He never spoke of speaking-just listening. And He never spoke of speaking, except to repeat the words the spirit gives you, just to preach the gospel-where our actions speak more than words. Who better than Jesus would know that. Quick, what were His last words on the cross? You may stumble to remember, but you never forget what He did. Actions speak louder than words, they did 2000 years ago, and they do today. Are you listening?

Many times I was told to be quiet in class for talking too much, I was never scolded for listening. Be still, keep your mouth shut, and if possible, avoid flying tire irons. Some people only open their mouths to change feet, others are a 45 minute sentence. Jesus asks one question, “who do you say I am?” If you have been listening you know. It should bring a smile to your face-false teeth or not. For what the mouth speaks comes from the heart-maybe your words tell us more than you want us or Facebook to know. So go with the best advice from St. Francis of Assissi, “preach the word daily, when needed use words.” Hugs optional. And yes, she still brings a smile to my heart everyday.thet

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

on ramps and exits

Lately I have been talking with certain individuals who like myself, prefer the back roads of America to the freeways. We have found a certain peace riding among tree covered roads, speeding along two lanes while leaning left and right, not knowing what is around the next curve. We enjoy a hearty meal, made from scratch, without the usual microwave influence, and no matter how full, can’t resist a second helping if offered. “Just being polite,” is my excuse. But I enjoy being able to see my motorcycle while sitting at the counter, and being noticed by the regulars sitting there, who instantly identify me as a stranger, but by the end of the meal leave as friends. I enjoy the pay after you fill attitude still existing in rural America at two pumps stations, talking to a cashier who isn’t behind bullet proof glass, and having a young man ask me how fast will the bike go, after seeing the speedo marked to 200. I enjoy the fruit stands, where the farm worker’s family sells the crops he has produced, and intersections in the towns, where you get the chance to slow down and look in the windows to see what is selling that day. No chains, Walmart hasn’t invaded yet, the motorcycle shop is still in some alley, and works on all brands, and the auto parts store can fix you up with parts back to the 30’s. Thank you, and yes, sir is often heard, and they still take cash, without showing any identification. The car dealer on the corner may be staffed by the owner and his kids, he sells them, and his sons fix them, got a problem, talk to the boss, but more often than not, he has taken care of you so you won’t have any. A tech will loan you a screwdriver while he asks about your trip, and is happy to replace a bulb at no charge. Firm handshakes from hands with dirt under the fingernails-honest work, an honest ride. Where smiles say more than words, and words say welcome. If you don’t know, may I invite you along some weekend, for a real ride...

But it wasn’t always this way for my generation. When Interstate 78 went in back in the mid 60’s, we were all excited to drive on it, two lanes wide, we only had occasional four laners back then, and you could go over 65 mph, no small town local Leroy’s just waiting to ticket you. We got invited into the world of averaging 60 miles per hour when traveling, and soon Denny’s, McDonalds, Burger King, and fast food became part of our vocabulary-places you only found along major highways, that soon would be by-passed by the new interstate. Fast food, fast roads, we were in a hurry to get somewhere, so we could turn around and come back. We would eat the same food, ride the same looking road, pass by old towns in the distance, who soon would be shuttered due to the new highway by-passing them, and we got used to giving directions by exits. Get on at exit 58, go south, get off at exit 33, make a right, then the second right-and you’re home. No more start at Delabole Road, by the church, stay left at the trout hatchery, then make the second left after the big white house with pillars. We are on the left. And rarely did you get lost, and if you did, someone knew where you were going, and would guide you, sometimes with a smile and a “follow me, I am going that way...” and a wave for a thanks. And having travelled both roads, they both have their purpose. Need to get somewhere fast. take the freeway. No stoplights, but be prepared if someone gets a flat, we all must slow down to look. Or get stuck at a light controlling traffic onto the freeway. I still don’t get that one, creating one traffic jam to prevent another. But of late I have been planning my trips better, taking the old roads locally, just like I have on our cross country trips for years. Even riding the speed limits, and enjoying it, as opposed to keeping up with 80-85 mph traffic, while dodging texters, and their unfriendly smiles when they wander into your lane, how dare you get in their way? Hang up and dial 911-I dare you!

After Theresa got home this weekend from her retreat with Ramona Calvary Chapel, she remarked how a friend, and pastor’s wife told her 98% of the women there don’t get it. They aren’t paying attention, and it shows. Which is why I quit going to retreats years ago. Too many programs, processes, and procedures. Now retreats are not all bad, or all good, they are like the roads we choose to travel. Yet I personally know of too many men who are getting away from their wives, and could care less about a weekend with God. Some who use the excuse to go, some who do because the church persuades them, and some actually go to grow in Christ. Not the relationship, but the knowledge. I know many who listen to K-Love, KWVE, and know all the teachers, but miss out on the teaching. All radio buttons set to Christian radio stations, but don’t get it. They even have the trendiest books in their library, do the right things, and have kids who are the best, never sinned, and are the happiest on earth. Or so they say. They have gotten on the freeway of life, and cannot get off. Worse yet, they don’t want to. They are familiar with the signs, no threatening places to eat, and can stay locked inside their SUV world where no one can get to them, and they can’t get to us. It has become an impersonal life with Christ, except they just bring Him along for the ride. When they get off, so many times they leave Him behind, picking Him up at the next on ramp. They miss out on the blessings of life, they tend to be self sufficient, when really they are deficient in the most important thing-Jesus. And churches, and conference centers are filled with them, showing off all the trinkets, even wearing the t-shirt to show they were there. Hoping the t-shirt impresses you, because their witness won’t. But they really never got off the freeway except for fast gas and fast food. Hurry up and wait, until the next event shows up, then off they go. Hopefully the next exit is just ahead, can’t keep them waiting. Patience, “hey I have important business, don’t keep we waiting.” Sadly they are never alone. Just lonely.

Sound like someone you know, invite them along for a ride in the country. Stop and visit, meet others. Eat a real burger between real buns, and enjoy the home made tater salad, rather than more fries. A real milk shake, not just a shake as advertised, sit at the counter, listen and then speak. If the waitress calls you Honey or Sweetie, extend the visit with a tip. Eat on real plates, food not wrapped in paper, on tablecloths, but beware-look out for ketchup stains from the last guy. Leave fuller than you arrived, taking the road at the fork, stay right, every one else goes left. Better road to the right, more curves, less traffic. Can’t tell you the name, you’ll see it. Enjoy a ride where time means nothing, crossing time zones doesn’t mean making time, and progress is measured in memories instead of miles. Take the time now while you still have it, spend it while you can. Both types of roads take us places, but only one trip is worth the ride. If that person is you, get back with Jesus today, get to know Him, not about Him. Others are out there who once were like you, then found the exit and never got back on. Finding the things that He promises are real, and cannot be found anywhere else but with Him. Stop in that old Ice Cream Parlor you haven’t visited since you were a kid, and indulge yourself. Where a waitress calls you sweetie, and gives you two cherries with the sundae. She knows, she might be a return traveler too, willing to listen to your road tales. A small town mentality, where two or three make it memorable. For where two or three are gathered, Jesus is among them. He never hurried. Freeways can be useful when needed, riding with Jesus should never be an option. You only need an exit after an on ramp. Turn right to the cross-and welcome back.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

scars are tattoos with better stories

I was finishing my Coke route at the Shur Valu in Bayfield, loading up the empties, when I pulled down the bay door on my bottle truck. I had failed to notice the broken top on one bottle, but my right arm didn’t, cutting it so fast I didn’t feel it, but saw the blood running down it. Going into the store, I was given a roll of paper towels, and applied pressure like I learned in Boy Scouts, called the warehouse, and waited 25 minutes for someone to arrive to take me to get sewed up. Bayfield for all its 631 inhabitants had no medical facilities, so to Mercy Hospital in Durango, Bailey took me. As the blood continued to seep past the roll of paper towels, Bailey showed great courage in not looking, perhaps the greatest example of tunnel vision I can offer. And he was to drive me back so I could finish my route, this time with more color in his face, but at the hospital when Terry Young, my boss met me, he almost fainted when they unwrapped my arm. The skin had spread wide open, and the 8" cut looked worse than it was, skin is elastic and it had stretched with no pressure on it, exposing all the things skin is designed to hide. But some 32 stitches later I was back in Bayfield, finished my route, with a story to tell Theresa that night. Today I have an 8" scar to show what happened, but in this pre-tattoo era, I had learned that scars are tattoos with better stories.

After my open heart surgery, my diet was restricted, and today I still maintain a low sodium diet. But I had been on a low carb, diabetic diet, interpretation no flavor, and so-called healthy food was hard to find. Ask the restaurant for a nutritional info sheet, look under sodium, then go into shock! But we had found a few places who would cook to order, and at the Outback in Rio Rancho, I had finished my meal of steak, no seasoning, and lots of broccoli. LOTS of broccoli! And still being unsteady, Theresa walked me to the men’s room, the joke of me being a 200 pound toddler was true, as I still couldn’t take care of myself, imagine a 4 year old mentality in a 200+ pound body, still medicated-she had her hands full. But while in the men’s room, as I was leaving, a man had lifted up his shirt to inspect his new tattoo. He was all smiles as he looked at it from different angles, so I stood next to him, and lifted up my shirt! Exposing my 12 inch scar, the five drain hole scars which looked like bullet wounds, and the two pic lines-one a scar, the other still I my left arm. His eyes got huge, I don’t know how much he paid for his tattoo, but my half a million dollar scar had his beat-and that without even hearing the story and the miracles behind it-just standing for me was a miracle! My scar was definitely better than his tattoo-no way he could match my story. And I hope he never has to.

I go through periods of loneliness sometimes, deeper than just missing someone. And when asking God about it, He explained I was having a Moses moment. His explanation was simple-when Moses came down off the mountain, how could he explain an infinite God to a finite people? How would they believe him? So God gave him laws written on tablets to show he had been in the presence of God. Physical evidence that could not be denied. And He further went on to explain when Mary was pregnant, it was a true miracle of the Holy Spirit. But how would they ever know it was the Holy spirit, or that she was pregnant? So God gave her His son Jesus, to prove to a world awaiting their savior that this was Him. That Jesus is the one. Again physical evidence of a time spent in the spirit, in case no one would believe her experience. NO words could take the place of one glimpse of Jesus. And the scripture God had given me months before, of how Mary “pondered these things in her heart,” became real to me. He had given me this scar, this ugly scar to show the miracle He had performed in my heart. And today this ugly scar to me is beautiful, and sometimes I just gaze at it and cry-because I know the miracle God performed, and the miracles He still performs today. I have physical evidence of a divine visit, of a divine touch of God...a scar that tells a story no tattoo ever could. Like Moses and Mary, I have been touched by God. And have physical evidence to prove scripturally that God writes His laws of love on your heart, and not on tablets of stone. He is that personal. OH, and the law-it’s love. Whose name is Jesus.

You may not have the physical proof I do, but we walk by faith, not by sight. I am able to do both, with a testimony none other has. That at first I only wanted share once, then get on with my life. But God has allowed me to share it over and over, and seen lives touched. Different than a tattoo, which is about the person wearing it, my scars are all about Jesus. We always knew that, and I wear them today, as a reminder of in the darkest hours of my life, Jesus never left me. He was there holding my heart in His hands, and left a scar to prove it. Because of it, some believe by seeing, blessed are those who have not seen and believe. If God has touched your heart, share it today. Encourage someone in their trials. Knowing that whatever you are going through is just a testimony in progress. And I bear the scars to prove it. He is that real. The size of my scar in no way compares to the size of His love. Today that hospital bed is empty, just like His tomb is-we are both alive! Now do you believe? What are you pondering in your heart?

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

older but not old, the mystery of the ages

Somewhere between here and there it is easy to get confused. When I had my birthday earlier this month, I told people despite my age, I didn’t feel old, but felt older. Now to a generation lost on the meaning of words, those who live in txt.land, this may have meant nothing, but to those of us to whom words mean something, it meant something. How’s that for simple logic. I was older, just not old. And I began to realize how trapped in numbers we get everyday. Not more trapped, just trapped. ESPN was bragging about how this 21 year old had hit for the cycle, the youngest ever. I remember turning 21 and being faced with adult responsibilities, yet looking back 21 seems so young, I was only 21 when I left home alone on my motorcycle and headed west. But 21 is young for a ball player, for later I watched a show about Reggie White, who died after years in the NFL at the young age of 33, old by NFL standards. As I look in the garage at my 1978 GS1000, at 35 years old it is old by motorcycle standards, but not to me, I remember them as new. We just sold Uncle Buck, our 1990 Crown Victoria, and he was older than the ball player who hit for the cycle. Yet caught in a time warp, just an old used car, but not old enough to be collectible. But some old car shows are now allowing old cars from the 80’s in the show, and I get confused, what is old? What is young, and what is old? Did I become used along the way, and when do I get my collector status? Maybe it is like my mother, who once threw out some wine given to them as a gift because it got older. My parents were never drinkers, so maybe it is the eye o the beholder. Man oh man on Manishevitz!

When I was growing up I always wanted to be 12, until I had to pay more at the movies. All of a sudden my 50 cents was no good to get me in, and the $1.25 admission fee was 25 cents more than my budget, which used to include popcorn and a drink. What was I thinking? Remember the urban legend about insurance going down when you turned 26 years old? Missed out on that one, too. So it seems I fall into the Goldilocks Syndrome, I ‘m either too hard, too soft, too hot, too cold, too young or too old. What I find I am more than anything else is normal. And I can’t remember making that a goal as a younger, not a young man. Maybe an old Alfred P. Sloan quote, the architect of the original GM make sense, “you can’t sell a young man an old man’s car, but you can sell a old man a young man’s car.” Which I used to believe, but look around today, kids driving 4 door sedans, moms in SUV’s, which are really station wagons, the last thing we would ever tell our dad to buy, and suddenly they look old. With parents starting kids early in kindergarten, and learning to read so they can attend, youth is no longer wasted on the young. Maybe it is like Landon assures me, “I’m 4 1/2!” Not 4, but 4 1/2. That 1/2 makes the difference. He glad he’s getting older, just not old, yet. So maybe we all live in this time/space continuum never fully realizing who, what , where, how, or why we are. Age defines us, or really numbers do. So who are you really?

I also find that most problems change when taking the money factor out of them. We need money for food when hungry, no-you need food. Money is just the form of payment. We give out free food, it is called a gift. We meet needs as needed, the true definition of teamwork-if it needs to be done, do it. Yet so many are in my pockets, or trying to get in them, and the prices only get higher, just like my insurance premiums, they never come down. But true ministry is not like that, which often stuns those not in it. Deluged by phone calls, letters, and sadly cries from some pulpits, some give because they want to, some under guilt, and some because they were taught that way. But true ministry meets the needs of others, and is dependent on Jesus Christ. Sending out His disciples, he told them take no money, or food, He’ll provide. And if someone refuses you, they are really refusing Him, shake the dust from your feet, and take your blessings and go on. In either case, money never changed hands. But Jesus spells it out in Matthew 25, talking to a group of church types, who wondered where they had seen Him, really they wondered where He had been. We did signs and wonders, we prophesied, and in today’s vernacular we did book tours, special offerings, sold trinkets, and t-shirts. All the same things that Jesus once cleared the tabernacle from-money grubbers using God to further their business. Which is why I avoid any business that shows a Christian symbol in its ads. True ministry is just the opposite, go out into the world and share with the lost! Meet needs. But the answers Jesus gave were simple in regards to ministry-if thirsty, give a drink. if hungry, share some food. Naked, clothe them. If in jail or the hospital, even housebound, go and visit. But my favorite, includes both evangelism, discipleship, and the love of God all in one. It personifies Jesus Christ-when you see a stranger, welcome them, take them in. We were all strangers once, some stranger than others, and He took us in. And at what price-don’t even ask! You couldn’t afford it. No FICA score or line of credit needed.

And in three years, starting at age 30, the year a priest went out to work, He did more in that time than all others can do today by themselves, but we can do more with Him-another free promise. So no matter how old, how broke, how rich, how pretty, or how cool you think you are, Jesus still wants you, and has a ministry designed for you. And one you will enjoy and be good at. No fees necessary. Where He guides He provides. I wish I had had that promise on some of the decisions I made on my own! Looking at my bank account, it has all the zeroes, just nothing in front of them, why do others ask me for money, when many of us just don’t have it? Doesn’t scripture tell us we can do ALL things according to His riches and glory? Not our own! So maybe somewhere between here and there we do get confused. That isn’t Jesus, and that isn’t ministry.

“Silver and gold have I not,” Peter said as he healed the cripple in Jesus name. Revelation even tells us that the heavenly highways are paved in gold. Investing in asphalt? Maybe invest in Jesus instead. Send it ahead, as the saying goes. Don’t get caught up in the numbers of life, instead let life work for you. Every age has its good points, and bad points. But blessings are in every day with Jesus, maybe you just aren’t looking. Or asking. Or better yet, listening to His answer. When He says no, it is because it is out of His will, and He has a better yes coming.

And as far as numbers go, a friend bought a new car, “0-60 in 6 seconds,” he bragged. Pointing at the Street Triple, I said “3 seconds.” Fast, and faster. He was younger, I am older. You decide. Jesus said He will drink no wine before it is His time, and He calls us home. Good enough for me, some of us need to grow in Him a little more, and with so few workers, the harvest grows everyday. “Ya pays yer money and ya takes yer chances,” not with Jesus. He wants you, and needs you. Somewhere between here and there you are part of His perfect plan. Don’t miss out, check Him out today. Don’t be like that 12 year old who only the day before had money for popcorn and a soda, and now can’t afford to get in. The price of admission is always the same-one soul, yours. The best deal you will ever make at any age. Even Goldilocks found rest in the perfect bed, find yours in Jesus. I may get older, but I refuse to grow up.

love with compassion,

MIke

matthew25biker.blogspot.com