KINDNESS

 Terminal C / Gate 16 now boarding for Denver . . . 

Like zombie gerbils we formed in either Zone C 1-25 or Zone  C 26-54.   It was hot, muggy in the terminal with so many bodies squeezed together.  Then a commotion broke out right in front of me.  I'm sorry, regulations only allow two carry-ons.  The woman seemed stunned and confused.  "But I've traveled before with these bags," she remonstrated.  More firmly and this time with no smile:  You will not be able to board this plane with three bags.   To be fair, the boarding pass attendant was right.  On the other hand, at best it was only a technical knock out for the passenger carried 1) a purse that hung from her shoulder;  2) a small carry-on with wheels and handle; 3) a matching small case that fits on top of the carry-on forming a single unit.  

"But I've always carried my matching bags and purse aboard planes."  Ma'am, you will not be allowed to board this plane with THREE BAGS.  By this time everyone within a fifteen foot perimeter of this epicenter of conflict was listening in and wondering what would happen next.  I looked at the woman.  Bewilderment, disbelief, and frustration.  Somehow the idea was half-formed when my voice went into action.  Excuse me, ma'am, I said butting into the fray and speaking directly to the attendant, but I have only one carry-on; what if I carry the third bag with me on board then give it back to the woman?  The attendant agreed that the regulations would be met and that yes, that would work.  

The woman handed me her purse and we walked down the long corridor that leads into the plane.  Bunched together and waiting for the line to move, I handed the lady her purse.  She thanked me, of course, and that was that.  But unexpectedly, she abruptly turned around to face me again.  I am returning from my father's funeral.  I just wanted to get home to work through this.  I expressed my condolences when she interrupted me with a "bless you and  thank you."  I told her that I was an Anglican priest and that I would keep her and her family in my prayers.  

When I mentioned that I was a priest, her eyes got big and then filled with water.  In her thinking, it was as if God had sent her a sign to let her know that he knew her heavy heart and deep sorrow; that the Lord was with her in the confrontation and that he was carrying her third bag through one of his own children.  For the next several minutes she'd reach into her purse and pull out a crumpled Kleenex to wipe her cascading tears.  But I know they were tears of thanks and gratitude. 

We never spoke again and I don't even know her name, but I learned once again the power of the Kingdom of God can often be unleased and demonstrated through something so small as a simple act of kindness.  May you, my grieving friend in line at Gate 16 find peace and comfort in Jesus our Lord.  And may he carry all of our baggage. 

FRIENDS ALONG THE WAY

 I have recalled Eleanor Roosevelt's words several times throughout this tour where she says, many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.   It's the first part that happens often during a long-distance tour.  There's just not enough time for the last part of her words to take root.  So, let me introduce you to a few of the many people that I have encountered on my bike tour.  

MEET MARK AND DERICE (pronounced DeReese) FILLMORE.

It was Sunday and since I had served as an UMC elder for 20 years, I was in Pastor Mark's pews come 10:30 am worship.  Following worship, Derice--who has a finely honed charism of hospitality--invited me to join them for lunch.  But to where to go?  Oh, wait!  Since there's only one food stop in town the choice was simple.  The The Plum Thickett Inn.  Mark and DeRice have seen the firsthand the polarizing destruction of a denomination that has split over human sexuality.  About 8,000 churches in the US have disaffiliated from the UMC and many of those who have remained in the denomination are demoralized and discouraged.  I suspect that Mark and DeRice may fit into that category.  Yet, I sensed a faithfulness, a keen mind, and hope in Pastor Mark.  And though we would be on different sides of this divide, the Fillmores and I had a truly holy conversation.  Prayers, Mark and Derice, for your congregation that has had many casualties as a result of these Methodist wars.  

MEET FARMER MARK. 

I had stopped in Burlington ten miles across the Kansas state line into Oklahoma one morning.  The town was a wide spot in the road.  It had a single gas station and a small grill and snack section inside.  Mark comes up to my booth.  So, is that an electric bike?  Cross country cyclists are a marked breed.  What gave me away?  Sweat dripping from face and arms?  Spandex shirt?  Bike helmet?  Somehow he knew.  So, I explained the little I knew about ebikes and how they are getting more folks out riding again--especially older adults.   Then I sent the probe back to him.  Tell me about your farming career.  Well, I started farming fresh out of college in 1970.  Over time, his agra-business grew and eventually he ended up with maybe 6,000 acres.  So, we exchanged farming stories since I too was a product of a Minnesota farm family.  Mark then said, my boys couldn't have started into farming like me.  The cost to get into farming now is astronomical.  Why a good combine is about $1,000,000!  All I do now is administrate.   I hire out combine operators when the corn's ready.  But I'm never actually out in the field.  He told me that he was fazing out of the farming industry.  My boys want to take it over and that's fine with me.  So, I told him that I'd be praying for his farm and family's success.  

MEET MIKE.

When the 12 pm shuttle time arrived for me to depart for the Will Rogers Int'l Airport  apparently no one was available or willing to shuttle me.  Finally I heard, I'll take you, coming from behind the front desk.  Mike is an olive-skinned fortyish guy who spends half his time in California and the other half in Oklahoma City.  We loaded up my bike trailer and bag and headed out.  I commented on how grand this hotel was.  "The food was top notch, beautiful places to sit and work, well-appointed rooms."  After acknowledgement, with his arm he fanned out in a half-circle.  Twenty years ago, an entrepreneur came to town and bought up motels.  Today he owns eighty motels/hotels in five states.  I sucked air in awe of this achievement.  But here's the thing.  In ten years no one will even remember his name; he'll be forgotten.  I responded with a paraphrase of Psalm 39:7:  "For everyone walks about as a shadow, and disquiets himself in vain; he heaps up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them."   So in the end it's not will we be remembered, but WHO remembers us.  I shared how God the Eternal, the Ancient of Days, knows us by name and loves us.   Unfortunately, we'd arrived at the departure terminal, so we parted like old friends.  And promised to live a worthy life. 

MEET KEITH AND JOLEANNE.

Through a series of mini-catastrophes, I met Keith and JoLeanne.  They taxied me to Oklahoma City my final biking afternoon.  What is remarkable about Keith is his quest for God.  Raised Church of Christ, he eventually left and wandered into the Pentecostal camp.  He knew that he'd come into something real, but unexplainable.  He'd seen praying for the sick, speaking in other tongues, and all manner of charismatic manifestations.  Yet, he still yearned for more.  So, when he asked me about my journey, I shared with him that no matter how revved we get on Sunday morning, very few Christians are "Self-Feeders."  What's a 'self-feeder?' he wondered.   Basically, it's how we nourish ourselves during the week through prayer and Scripture.  So I walked him through the BCP offices of daily office and lectionary.  When we departed he gave me his contact info and we agreed to keep in further conversation.  Thanks, Keith for your heart.  JoLeanne's too.  May you have ever deeper conversions into the Love of God.

JET, OKLAHIOMA

KIOWA, KANSAS TO JET, OKLAHOMA

As to biking, today was challenging.  First, I began sluggish; tired leg muscles that wanted to hit the snooze alarm and sleep.  I just couldn't get into a consistent pedaling rhythm.  But at least (to put a positive spin that I call, "optimistic pessimism"), the wind opposed every forward movement I attempted.  So, though sluggish muscles and contrary winds slowed me to 7 mph, at least the heat rose into the upper-90s.  (Again, optimistic pessimism:).  And there was evening and there was morning, a fatigued cyclist.  Following Morning Prayer with Dixie via phone, I was revived a bit and grabbed a crispy piece of chicken at Jet's only gas station and market under the same roof. 

Jet has an interesting story.  This town, if you count the stray dogs, crows, and humans,  comes to about 270 souls.  Clearly, Jet is a . . 

blip 

a blump 

a dot

and a bump.

People pass through this sparse Samaria on their way to the resort towns of Enid and Oklahoma City.  That's not a big inconvenience since you can get through Jet in about forty seconds.   A single motel still survives and even that is up for sale.  And in their tiny memorial park sits a real jet!  But as you will see, Jet, Oklahoma has nothing to do with aircraft, Benny and the Jets, or the Mets.  In fact, Jet is named after . . . 

Joseph

 Trigg

 Newt

 Warner

 John

 Richard

These were all brothers, all single, and all with the last name of Jett.  In 1894, the Jett boys decided to build themselves a town.  So they established homesteads adjoined to each other.  Then they started hammering and nailing.  First they built a general store so all the brothers could go and get stuff in the same place.  Richard Jett manned the store.  

Warner Jett became the postmaster in 1894 when the brothers hauled an existing post office all the way over from Barrel Springs.  Seems that every time they hammered and nailed a new building together, one of the brothers would become the official proprietor.  By 1901, the Jett boys' buildings had attracted enough of a crowd to become incorporated.  

Only problem was that in their exuberance to build their town, no one checked the map to find out where the railroad was also laying track.  Turns out that Jett, Oklahoma was smack in the middle of the railroad's plans.  So, the Denver, Enid, and Gulf Railroad Company moved the entire town two miles west of its original location!

Finally, by 1907, Jet was getting religion.  The town became a regular melting pot of Baptists, Mennonites, Methodists, and Presbyterians and they all had churches to go along with their differences of opinion.   In its heyday, Jet boasted seven general stores, two banks, two hotels, two grain elevators, and a school--thanks to the Jett boys' wives and the churches.  

So when you pass through Jett on your way to the more promising pastures of Enid and Oklahoma City, you can thank Joseph, Trigg, Newt, Warner, John, and Richard.  For through their vision, industriousness, and hammering and nailing, they left their modest legacy.   And while the masses think that Jet is named after it's brilliant, sleek jet that sits in the town park, you'll know the truth about Jet, Oklahoma.  

A DAY IN PRATT, KANSAS

TODAY: Pratt, Nebraska to Medicine Lodge, Nebraska (35 miles)

Today was an easier day, being Saturday.  I had pushed hard all week and decided to take a few days of lower mileage to rest my muscles.  Nearly every night this week I poured over maps and mileages to get to the final itinerary listed below . . . plus my doodling while I was on the phone.  

The pictures in this post come from Pratt, Kansas.  Jack Spratt could eat no fat, but Caleb Pratt could count the beans. (pictured below).  Caleb Pratt was a prominent figure in a settlement in the Kansas territory during the mid-1800s..  He testified before Congress for "voting irregularities" in the Kansas elections of 1855. (So, apparently contesting elections and voter fraud has been going on for some time!) 

So, as a bean counter, he was elected as the county and city clerk.  But when the Civil War erupted, Caleb Pratt enlisted and served as Second Lieutenant of Company D of the Kansas 1st Infantry Regiment.  Less than two months later, Pratt fell during the Battle Wilson's Creek in Greene, Missouri.  Thus, in honor of this patriot and bean counter, the settlement was named "Pratt" in his honor.

After getting cleaned up and some desk work done, I went out to taste the local culinary color.  I landed in a wonderful Mexican cantina and took my supper at Cancun Mexican Grill.  The restaurant was packed with people, high volume of white noise, and over all the din, energizing Mexican music pulsated.  I sat across from a seniorita, who smiled politely at me while I ate  with one of those Mexican Mona Lisa smiles.  Halfway through my burrito I realized that she was a portrait painted across the booth.  Still, I don't like people or portraits watching me while I eat. 

Hey, your back tire is pretty low!  The voice came from behind me.   I'd  seen him earlier in the morning having a smoke.  We'd nodded to one another's existence as we passed.  The guy looked to be in his mid-30's.  He wore a beater shirt and sported thick, coal black hair.  I tried to read his tats unobtrusively and noticed a large cross that though it lacked the finesse of the Twisted Raven caliber, it boldly displayed this preeminent Christian symbol.  Your back tire is almost flat.  So, I braked and put the kickstand down.  We both felt the tire and sure enough, it was squishy.  You've got seven pounds of air in that tire, he said after we used a tire air-gauge.  Fortunately, Mark Wilson had lent me his pneumatic air pump and we got the tire back up to 34 pounds.  During that time I found out that his name was Shane and that he and his wife were from up the road in Kansas.  We're fishing.  Caught a small-mouth bass yesterday.   But I told him of the trout up in Idaho where I live and he responded, I like catfish.  Then I said, "Shane, I'm a priest, a minister, and I'd like to remember you in prayer today.  What can I pray for?"   Norma can out of his mouth without dropping a beat.  Please pray for my aunt Norma.  She's got her arteries blocked all over the place.  So I prayed for Norma and continue to pray for Norma.  More for her real heart to have God's new heart in her before she leaves us..  "Hope you catch a lot of fish today," I yelled out to him.  And he said, Be safe!  They're crazy drivers out there!  Duly noted.

EYES ON THE ROAD, GO FOR THE GOLD

HAYS TO GREAT BEND, KS (66 Miles)

I beat the alarm today.  Was gearing up at 4:30 am.  Due to the severe heat wave that has swallowed most of the US, I needed to be on the road at least three hours before the heat would become unbearable.  So, I pedaled south on Highway 183 out of Hays.  Once out of the bustle of morning traffic, I made good time and managed to dodge cars, pickups, and semis throughout the day.  To be honest, the shoulder was no wider than a foot and the teeth-rattling rumble strip formed the left side of the shoulder.  You're trapped between constant jar and the ditch.  So this would be a day to be alert or join the peaceable kingdom of the roadkill.  

But maybe about an hour into my pedaling, some words popped into my head.  Eyes on the road, Go for the Gold!  Just that phrase kept me going when the temps broke past the 90s.  I discovered that as I repeated the phrase over and over, I began to pick up and maintain my speed.  In fact, I began to look up and forward to the road ahead of me as I pronounced the words.  Eyes on the Road, Go for the Gold.   Eyes on the Road, Go for the Gold . . .  And then I recalled the amazing achievements of Simone Biles, the most decorated gymnast in history with nine Olympic medals.  I envisioned her pretzel-like contortions, her twisting body, yet delicately landing on her feet like a cat.  But it's her face, that speaks volumes.  It reveals intense eyes on the road, go for the gold focus.  

I once had my eyes on the roadkill so much that I careened into another cyclist ahead of me who had stopped.  We both survived, but when you keep you head turned down, you'll only fellowship with roadkill.  That stinks, literally.  (In fact, I stopped to observe my first armadillo road kill today!)   So, today, I kept my eyes on the road, that is, looking forward to the horizon point.  And that got me to Great Bend in record time.  

Epilogue.  As I'm muttering my mantra on narrow shoulders and watching for traffic, I thought I saw in the distance maybe five miles away, the tiny end of a spear.  Three miles away, it resembled what was most likely an oil rigging.  But by mile two I knew what it was:  the beautiful spire of a church.  It sat in a town that had no store, no gas station, or Starbucks!  There it towered magnificently above the cornfields and world.   In the middle of a cornfield this tall church reminded me to keep my eyes looking ahead, looking up.  And to ay aside everything that would keep me from my true focus.  So, keep your eyes on the road and go for the gold!