The other night we had a few friends over for dinner. It was a fun evening eating take-out BBQ and enjoying each other’s company. We stuffed ourselves, laughed, did some competitive Spam carving and had lively discussions around a few hot topics.

A couple of Saturdays ago was a busy one in Bend. We attended Chris Friess’ memorial service (a very good man remembered well), and after changing clothes I rode the bike down to Drake Park for the No Kings protest and march, and at the same time the downtown bike criterium was running hard on the streets, and Styx was warming up at the amphitheater. Oh, yes, also there was a triathlon finishing up at River Bend Park, and half of the West Coast was visiting our town.

The past couple of weeks, Team Immatour has been on a little bike trip, which is the reason for two Tuesdays without my scribbles. This team is a group of friends who ride together most every summer and were given their name by Francie’s dad while staying with them on a trip through Montana a few years ago. This summer we started in Durango and made our way south and east to Taos, around the Enchanted Circle, then back a different route to our rigs left where we started.

Claudia and I enjoy following each season of American Idol. This is the singing competition that leads viewers along from mass auditions where the good, the bad and the bizarre hope to hear, “You’re going to Hollywood!” from Lionel, Luke and Carrie. Through numerous cuts, getting harder with each round, at the end there is just one left as the winner…the next American Idol.

Recently while reading the book of Acts, I tried to imagine what it was like for these new followers of the Way.

Think about it, in pretty short order after the resurrection of Jesus a wave of spiritual power seems to have crested and crashed, soaking everyone around. Thousands begin a journey of faith based on the words from those who traveled with Jesus. Stories abound.

As I began writing this, tens of thousands had waited hours in a huge square for a chance to spend a moment before the casket and body of Pope Francis. The outpouring of love and support caught the Vatican a bit flat-footed and they had to significantly expand the hours for visitation to accommodate the crowds. By the time you read this, the funeral will have happened and the conclave to choose a successor will have been called.

Here’s a word for your toolbox that might be unfamiliar for some: Liminal. I’ll explain it in just a bit.

Last weekend, Claudia and I joined so many others walking the familiar paths from Good Friday through Easter Sunday.

The Young Life camp, less than 2 hours drive from Bend at the Washington Family Ranch, is a truly amazing place. The historic Big Muddy ranch sits SE of Antelope and up against 13 miles of the John Day River. It straddles two counties, has countless mountains and ravines and hosts all the big game a 64K acre spread might hope to have (that’s 100 square miles!).

As I grow older and accumulate an ever-increasing number of social interactions, the more I tend to think about forgiveness. It’s a simple math problem where every day I gain more time to mess up and others enjoy more opportunities to offend me.

Some years ago I led a funeral service for a good man.

Born and raised in a small midwestern town, he left college to serve during WW2 and after the war he followed a similar path taken by millions of others: He finished school, married, had two children and continued in a worthy direction.

Talking with folks these days often feels like I’m navigating whitewater.

I have a few friends who spend as much time as they can on rivers. Ideally they travel for days at a time, camping along the way. The adventure and isolation and occasional dangerous stretches draw them back time and again.

Here we are already in the third week of Lent, that 40 day journey from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday. These are days to consider our lives, to slow our roll long enough to wonder how it all fits together and ponder if we are traveling on a worthy path or are corrections called for.

Every family has a story.

I was talking recently with a friend whose family is going through dang rough times. It seems that everywhere they turn another obstacle to a clear path rises up. They are bone tired and discouraged. Words like heartbroken and almost hopeless sprinkled their conversation.

And then I bonked...

On a clear summer morning few years back while on a bike tour with the fellows known as “Team Immatour” we climbed from North Fork, ID, up Lost Trail Pass and over into Montana. The climb at the top of the day wasn’t all that long, less than 20 miles, but the last six were fairly steep with exposed switchbacks.

“Let me tell you a story…”

One interesting part of being human lies in how much we understand through stories, pictures and illustrations. They function like Yaktrax on ice to get mental traction toward understanding new concepts.

Most Jesus-followers have pockets full of favorite Bible verses they know by heart. Like touchstones, they remind us of larger truths, especially when we are enmeshed in the stuff of everyday living. These provide comfort and hope and direction to walk our path.

An older friend has been meeting weekly with a young man for over four years. They initially met when the younger was bussing tables at a local cafe and a quite close friendship grew over time. They both are apprenticing to Jesus and while they are separated by decades and backgrounds, the two act like brothers.

Twice a month I’m part of a Zoom book study with some friends from college days. These are men who have done life together for decades. We trust each other and know one another well enough to tease, challenge, comfort and question as only old friends can.