The Alaskan Mountain Wedding
One of the great surprises of this so-called encore season is realizing how many lives still circle back into mine - sometimes decades later, sometimes from halfway across the country, and often at just the right moment to remind me: God isn’t finished. I’ve been incredibly blessed over the years to cross paths with thousands of students, athletes, interns, and young leaders. Some move on quickly. Others linger. And a rare few become part of the extended family. That was the case with Karen, a member of my girls’ track team more than fifty years ago.
Karen ran like her shoes were on fire - full of drive, joy, and just the right amount of wild. She wasn’t just an athlete. She was unforgettable. Sherri connected with her early on - hosting pancake breakfasts for the team, sharing conversations in the kitchen—and later, Adam and Andrea even took horseback riding lessons from her. When Karen called one day and asked if I’d officiate her wedding, I was speechless. The setting was a small country church - nothing fancy, just full hearts, deep roots, and a sacred sense of community. I was her former coach, now her officiant, standing beside her on one of the most important days of her life. I didn’t expect that chapter, but I was honored to be written into it. It was a great day.
Fast forward: my next encore came from someone I coached in leadership. I met Ashley during a leadership development program I facilitated. She was sharp, passionate, and quietly driven—already dreaming big. During a casual lunch one day, she tossed out a comment with a grin: When I get married, I want you to officiate. I laughed and said I’d be honored—assuming it was more of a compliment than a contract.
Years passed. Ashley went on to college in Hawaii, grad school in New York City, and launched a career in environmental science and conservation. I was, by that point, a seventy-something youth pastor again—still coaching interns, still showing up to serve. One day, the phone rang. Hey coach… Rob and are ready. You promised. I laughed - then paused, deeply touched. She remembered. And she meant it. So I asked the next obvious question: Where’s the wedding? Now, Ashley is from Ohio. Rob is from New Jersey. I figured anywhere was fair game. But her answer stopped me cold.
Alaska. Of course it was. It fit her perfectly - untamed, breathtaking, full of life and meaning. A mountaintop ceremony at a resort in the Alaskan wilderness? We joined about seventy guests in what turned out to be an unforgettable trip. I had officiated many weddings—but never one that required a sky tram ride to the ceremony. Standing at the summit, overlooking a vast panorama of peaks and wild, untouched beauty, it felt more like church than any church I’d been in. Sacred, indeed. Then the clouds rolled in. First a mist. Then a drizzle. Then a steady, cold rain. There was no backup plan. No tent. No Plan B.
And yet, Ashley - true to the strong, composed leader I remembered—smiled and said, We’re sticking to the plan. Just make it quick. So we did. Soaked guests arrived slowly via sky tram. The wind blew. The rain fell. And in the middle of it all, love stood firm. I said a shorter version of the vows, gripped my notes with cold fingers, and watched two incredible young people say yes to a lifetime together, as their friends and family looked on with wet hair and open hearts.
And once again, I found myself in awe - not just of the beauty, not just of the moment, but of how I got to be part of it. I’ve long since passed the age where people expect you to keep leading youth groups, coaching interns, or flying across the country to help officiate a wedding in the rain. But somehow… the invitation still comes. This was no retirement victory lap. This was one more yes to an unexpected opportunity. One more reminder that old age is not the closing scene - it’s just a new role in the same story.
The Encore Years
The first sixty-five years of my life were the Main Act of this memoir - full of stories, stumbles, discipleship, adventures, and a few solid lessons learned. You’ve read some of the highlights of my life, survived the tales, and now we’ve reached what most people call your retirement years and yet I have chosen to call it my Encore Years.
These aren’t quiet golf-course-and-birdwatching tales. These are repeat performances, surprise plot twists, and creative bursts that no one - least of all me - saw coming. They’ve been powered by curiosity, risk-taking, and the occasional dip into foolishness. This isn’t a how-to guide. It’s a how-to-laugh guide. Or maybe just a chance to shake your head and say, Classic Mike. No applause necessary. No legacy to secure. Just me, still listening for what God has next. Because apparently, He’s not done. And neither am I. Here’s a taste of the stories ahead – a range of simple to complex, fun to ridiculous, heart-felt to spontaneous – something for everyone I hope
The Roller Mill Revival
If I’m talking about encore performances from my life - those unexpected returns to the stage after the final curtain - then I have to start with this ridiculous, unprecedented adventure: painting a three-story historic Roller Mill in our town.
I started my own painting business when I was eighteen. For decades, it became my steady summer work—scraping, sanding, priming, and painting homes, businesses, churches, and whatever else people needed. I liked the rhythm of it. It was physical, honest, a little dangerous, and strangely therapeutic. I worked hard, got my hands dirty, and at the end of the day, I could stand back and say. That looks Good. Progress you could see.
But in my late 60s, I began asking God what this next season of life might look like. I wasn’t retiring - I wasn’t even slowing down, really. I still had energy. I still had questions. I still had something to give. And that’s when the old Roller Mill started whispering to me. It sat at the edge of our town, weathered and tired. Faded red paint. Cracked windows. Peeling boards. It was owned by family friends, and I passed it nearly every day. Eventually, I stopped seeing it as an eyesore—and started seeing it as an invitation. Why not? Why not offer to help? Why not rally a few people and restore something that mattered? What started as a Maybe turned into a movement.
Some people were confused. Some were sceptical – Why would you do this? But here’s the thing: this wasn’t about the building. It was about what it could represent - restoration, service, unity, and maybe a little self-preservation. So I gathered nine friends - not a committee, more like a council of the curious. This wasn’t a team of painters; the goal was for them to just light the fuse. To get the idea started. To get the word out. To offer emotional support and anything else that might fit them. The mission was clear: bring together people from all backgrounds—different churches, schools, ages, and stories—and do something good, with no strings attached. There would be no pay, no credit—just come, scrape, paint, and serve. And somehow, people did.
Over the next four weeks, one-hundred and six volunteers joined the project. Grandparents. Teenagers. Teachers. Pastors. Neighbors. People who hadn’t held a paintbrush in years - or ever. They came with ladders, buckets, borrowed scaffolding, and open hearts. Then came the cherry picker. A man from a nearby town - someone I’d never met - called me out of the blue. He’d heard about what we were doing and offered his personal lift for thirty days. No contract. No paperwork. Just, use it. I still don’t know how he found out. God? Coincidence? A divine action? Either way, it was grace with a hydraulic arm.
One morning, my preteen grandson joined me on the lift. I’m not sure he was thrilled. As we rose three stories into the air, overlooking downtown and the cornfields, he looked at me and probably wondered why other kids got to go to amusement parks with their grandparents—while his Papa thought this was fun. But somewhere between the height of the building and the humidity, something shifted. I saw pride creep into his eyes. Quiet confidence. Maybe even a sense of awe. We weren’t just painting. We were doing something real, together. And something about that stuck. That became the tone of the project: real people, doing real work, for no real reason - except it mattered.
Laughter echoed off the old wood. Paint-streaked faces smiled like kids at summer camp. Teams came from big churches and small ones. Friends brought friends. Everyone belonged. And slowly, the building - and the people - came to life. And when it was done, we celebrated: cake and ice cream. No speeches. No plaques. Just a group of tired, joyful people standing shoulder to shoulder - not to admire the paint job, but to soak in the sacredness of what had just happened.
The Summer Miracle
I was offered a part-time staff position to help launch a free summer reading initiative for children in a nearby city. The mission was ambitious but clear: get 10,000 books into the hands of young readers and fight back against the summer slide—the academic setback that hits hardest for kids with the fewest resources. Being part of this grassroots effort was exhilarating. I had a front-row seat in shaping the program’s identity—naming it, designing the logo, and dreaming of what more it could become. That’s when the idea began to stir in my thinking: What if we created a reading camp – another reading possibility?
I had never designed a reading program, let alone led one for thirty third-graders. But after conversations with elementary teachers and a few quiet nudges, a vision formed - clearer than I expected, and definitely bigger than me. We launched a five-week camp at the Idea Factory, complete with breakfast and lunch, weekly field trips, and swim parties. But the true magic didn’t come from schedules or snacks. It came from three teenagers.
We hired Christian, Ali, and Brooklyn as summer interns - high school students who didn’t just show up; they showed up with heart. From day one, they weren’t helpers or assistants - they were leaders. They read with the kids, created interactive projects, and - perhaps most importantly - built real, trusting relationships. A few adults with educational backgrounds coached quietly from the sidelines, helping the teens grow into their roles. What the teens created was remarkable: a space where reading became fun, confidence took root, and third-graders walked a little taller each day. They planned global learning projects, designed games, and kept the energy alive from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. with the kind of joy you can’t teach. And then came the best night of my so-called Encore Years that summer.
At our closing celebration, more than one-hundred family members and friends packed into the room. Each child stood on stage to share something they had learned or loved. For many, it was their first time speaking in front of an audience. One by one, the kids shared, stood, smiled—and the room lit up. Parents wiped away tears. Grandparents and friends clapped. And I stood in the back, overwhelmed. This wasn’t my party - it was the teens’. But I knew what I was witnessing: transformation - of both the teens and the children.
The children weren’t just better readers—they were becoming seen, celebrated and capable. It was as victorious as a game-winning shot or a graduation march. Faith, confidence, and connection had done something that phonics alone never could.
Kids Read Now has grown into a national non-profit, sending millions of books across the country. But I still go back to that first summer. Thirty kids. Three teenagers. One wild idea. Nothing short of a miracle
Homecoming Float Revival
I find myself coming back to stories that aren’t about success - but about fun, risk, and a fair amount of glorious ridiculousness. Not every chapter in life is a highlight reel. Sometimes, the point is just to do the thing -badly, boldly, and with people who are equally in on the chaos. This particular chapter takes me all the way back to college. It features one ambitious homecoming float, a soul-crushing loss, and an unexpected cameo by Peter, Paul and Mary. (Sadly not in person)
It was my junior year at Eastern Kentucky University, and somehow, I ended up in charge of building our fraternity’s float. Maybe it was because I was an Industrial Arts major. Maybe because no one else wanted to spend two weeks in a warehouse. Either way, I approached it like we were gunning for the Rose Parade in Pasadena. We built our masterpiece in an old, somewhat historic tobacco warehouse—which felt very on-brand for Kentucky. Nights were spent twisting tissue paper pomps and wiring chicken wire to a trailer frame. Our float even had a working water fountain. Thousands of brightly colored pomps. It was a sensory overload—and we were proud.
Friends, girlfriends, and anyone else we could wrangle pitched in. And, miraculously, we won some sort of award that year—though honestly, I don’t even remember what for. What stuck with me wasn’t the trophy. It was the laughter and the camaraderie. So naturally, the next year, we raised the stakes. What if we don’t just build a float – but make it interactive? And so, we created a carousel float, complete with spinning elements, fraternity brothers in costume, and children dressed like clowns. It was whimsical. It was theatrical. It was utterly unhinged. We were convinced it would sweep the competition.
And then… came the actual competition. A rival fraternity rolled up with a float - it was a semitrailer truck with the bed half-heartedly wrapped in chicken wire, maybe a dozen sad little tissue pomps, and a hand-scrawled sign that read: Where Have All the Flowers Gone? A nod, of course, to the melancholy Peter, Paul and Mary protest song that was haunting the radio waves at the time. It was ironic. It was minimal. It was borderline lazy in our short-sighted opinion. Naturally, the judges loved it. They saw creative commentary. They were thinking existential crisis - we were thinking carousel. They took home the trophy. We took home a life lesson.
Apparently, that moment lodged itself somewhere deep in my brain, because fifty years later, when I was asked to help design a float for a student organization at The Ohio State University, guess what popped into my head? Yep: Where have all the flowers gone? Still, I dove in. A little older, slightly less confident, but with the same Why not spirit. We ended up placing third. And honestly? I was thrilled. Not because we won something - but because we dared to show up, get a little ridiculous, and make something joyful. And maybe - just maybe - that’s the real trophy of old age: finally realizing the point was never perfection. It was pomps, glue, and the people who laugh with you when your float falls flat.
The Ill-Advised Swimming Event
In 1976, I started writing down yearly mission statements and life goals. Nothing fancy - just a few dreams on paper to keep me focused. One of the easiest categories to write for was my Physical Being. Every year since then my personal mission has been without fail, it reads something like this: To be in relatively good shape. Of course, Relatively is an interesting term.
Rewind: In my twenties - when I was coaching and running road races - that meant placing in the top ten percent. I didn’t care much about my time; as long as I was competitive, I was happy. By my thirties, the bar shifted slightly: finishing in the top half of the field became my new benchmark. Life got busier, priorities changed, and my running shoes logged a little less mileage. Fast forward to my seventies. Now the question wasn’t How Fast I could go—but whether should I even try! Still, I was in the mood for an encore—a return to the stage, or in this case, the water. So I made a decision.
After months of training (Translation: Swimming sixty laps two or more times a week, I set two very clear, very age-appropriate goals for my upcoming encore swimming event: 1. Don’t die. 2. Finish the 1.2-mile event. Gone were the days of speed and placement. This wasn’t a comeback - it was survival of a crazy idea.
The setting? A drainage ditch in downtown Indianapolis. Technically, it was a canal, but I stand by my description. The good news: the water was about four feet deep, so goal number one felt highly achievable. Even better, the course zigzagged through the city, and Sherri and Scout, our Therapy Dog, could walk alongside the path as I swam. If anything went wrong, I could just stand up - or wave dramatically for help.
They staggered the start. High school and college athletes - clearly in it for time - went first. I self-selected into the slowest group available, hoping anonymity would serve me well. No one really knew who was in what place throughout the race, and that was fine by me. Now, to be fair, I had trained hard. But there was still a sixty-year gap between my last official swim race and this one, which felt... ill-advised. But then again, ill-advised could be the subtitle of most chapters in my life – especially this one. Risk-taking has been my consistent training partner. Logic? Not so much. Yes, I lived. Yes, I finished the race. Yes, I got the free t-shirt.
I went online the next day to check the results. Out of about one hundred registered swimmers, I finished ahead of nine. (That’s right—nine.) Now, before you start clapping, I should confess: I have no idea how many were in the Did Not Finish category, or how many were disqualified due to cramps, existential dread, or realizing this wasn’t actually fun. I don’t know if I’ll race again. I don’t even know if I should.
Holy Church Riot, Batman
In my seventies, I accepted a request to lead the youth ministry at a local church - a part-time paid position. On paper, it made no sense. I was stepping into the shoes of a very popular youth leader in his twenties. I was old. Sure, my résumé had five decades of youth work, coaching, and mentoring - but that’s not always enough to calm skeptical teenagers… or their parents.
It was supposed to be a one-year commitment. Help with the transition. Offer support. Share wisdom. Keep things afloat. I wasn’t looking to recreate my old glory days—I just wanted to serve. But that’s the thing about encores. They sneak up on you. They ask more from you than you planned. And sometimes, they bring out more in others than you ever imagined.
That winter, the church hosted Upward Basketball - a faith-centered youth sports program with over one hundred children flooding the gym every Saturday. Local parents coached the teams, games cycled in and out all day, and each halftime featured a short talk on values and character. It was a chance to blend basketball and life lessons in a way that stuck. We used a little program money to bring in a short-term intern: Logan. His job was to help coordinate the event—but more than that, to dream up ways our teenagers could serve these children in real, meaningful ways. I didn’t just want him to do ministry—I wanted him to lead it.
Each week, Logan stood at center court and gave an eight-to-ten-minute halftime talk. He’d sit both teams on the gym floor and speak—sometimes five or six times a day—about a new value or character trait. He didn’t preach. He connected. He held his Bible in one hand, and in the other, a story. Something real. Something he’d learned. Something the kids could hold onto. And they did. Somewhere along the way, Logan had transformed into a kind of superhero in the eyes of these kids. Not because he wore a cape - but because he showed up, every week, with presence, joy, and truth. His teen team followed his lead. And the children followed theirs.
At the end of the ten-week season, Logan had one more idea: a celebration night. He and his team planned an event with food, music, games, and a full-on superhero theme. And yes - there were costumes. Batman. Robin. The Joker. The teens transformed the gym - and themselves. But Logan wasn’t done. He wrote an actual live-action superhero script: lights, sound effects, dialogue - a full production in the middle of the gym. The kids were spellbound. Then the Joker tried to escape.
And in a scene that has become church legend, dozens of elementary-aged children tackled him. A dogpile formed—kids on top of kids on top of the Joker. Batman (played by Logan’s dad) started panicking under the mask, worried someone might actually get hurt. Adults rushed in to pull kids off the pile. It was chaotic. It was ridiculous. And it was completely sacred.
In the middle of the madness, Logan stepped up—again. He calmed the crowd. He got the story back on track. He led the night to its heroic, hilarious conclusion. And I stood back in awe. What happened in that gym wasn’t just a good youth event. It was a passing of the torch. I saw my younger self in that moment—coaching, teaching, leading, dreaming. But this time, I wasn’t the superhero. I was the old man in the shadows. Still on the sidelines. Still showing up. Still coaching. That’s the sacredness of aging.
The Misadventurers Visit Israel
Once upon a time, in my Encore season of life, I had an idea. What if four seasoned men - collectively carrying two-hundred and thirty-five years of wisdom (birthdays), wit, and well-worn knees - embarked on a Backdoor Adventure to the Holy Land? We weren’t tourists. We were long-time friends shaped by discipleship and faith, bound by the kind of trust that only years of doing life together can bring. There was a pastor. A former pastor. A lifelong Sunday school teacher. And me.
My past experiences studying in Israel had given me just enough confidence - or perhaps foolishness - to believe we could pull this off without a guide. No big groups. No buses. No name tags. No umbrellas held aloft by someone shouting facts through a megaphone. Definitely no five-star hotels. And most importantly: no rigid schedules. We planned only the essentials: four days in Jerusalem, followed by four more days exploring the rest of the country. A few pre-trip meetings helped us align expectations, share ideas, and - most importantly - bless one of our team to loosely steer the ship. We all agreed: flexibility would be our guiding principle. Foreign travel with a small group only works when you give each other space, and we did—space to wander, to study, to reflect… or just to nap.
One of our crew kept the folks back home entertained with regular updates on our Facebook page, The Misadventurers Visit Israel - part photo album, part theological travelogue, part plausible alibi. But were we true Misadventurers? That depends on how you define it. Misfortune? Not quite. Ill-advised decisions? A few. But safe? Predictable? Normal? Absolutely not.
We began in Jerusalem, a city pulsing with history and holiness. One late night, after dinner, we wandered into a spontaneous street party for Yom Ha'atzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day. Dancing, music, and families filled the streets. It felt like stepping into a living psalm. We hadn’t planned it - but somehow, we were right where we needed to be.
A few days later, trading the city’s energy for silence and stars, we set out at 3:00 a.m. to hike Masada before dawn. Alongside hundreds of others, we climbed in the dark and watched the sunrise stretch across the Dead Sea. It was exhausting - and unforgettable.
That same evening, our journey took an unexpected cultural turn. We were invited to dinner with a Bedouin family in the West Bank. The hospitality was genuine, the food incredible. But when we returned to our guest house, our host met us at the door with a face that said everything: What were you thinking?
And back in Jerusalem, we decided to get our feet wet—literally. We made our way through Hezekiah’s Tunnel, shoulder to shoulder in cold water and pitch darkness. No lights. No shortcuts. Just ancient rock, the sound of water, and our echoing laughter.
Later, we found ourselves in a very different kind of crowd. A walk through the Old City dropped us into the middle of a Ramadan celebration, surrounded by 50,000 people celebrating. The energy was electric, the movement relentless, and for a moment, we weren’t sure whether to be amazed or afraid. We settled on both—and quietly slipped into the chaos.
Between these moments, we visited the classic sites: ancient ruins, sacred churches, winding alleys, and yes, the souvenir shops. (We couldn’t leave without buying a few olive wood camels.) We had promised ourselves a backdoor adventure—something honest, flexible, and full of surprises. And somehow, by grace, stubbornness, and GPS that mostly worked, we delivered.
O Whittle Town of Bethlehem
It started with an invitation from Andrea to visit the University of Dayton, where we explored an international display of hand-carved nativity creches - hundreds of them, each a gift from a different corner of the world. For someone like me, it was both awe-inspiring and humbling. One scene in particular stopped me in my tracks. Crafted by a South American artist, it included twenty-five individual figures, each about the size of a baseball. I stood there for a long time, completely drawn in. I took dozens of photos, slowly capturing every angle. I didn’t want to forget a single detail.
Back home, I pulled out some sketch paper and began drawing what I’d seen. Before long, I was tracking down my old carving tools and ordering basswood. I hadn’t carved in decades, but something had been stirred awake. This was to become an encore season. And so began a three-month creative pilgrimage. Almost daily, I held each figure in my hands, carving with quiet focus, asking questions that felt larger than the wood itself. Why had the artist chosen these particular people?
There were, of course, the familiar figures: Mary, Joseph, Jesus, an angel, three magi, and a shepherd. But the rest were unexpected—a man carrying a jug of water, a woman holding a dead chicken, a boy walking alongside one of the magi—perhaps his son. There was a man with his head bowed, hat in hand, as if coming to pray. Another man and boy, each with a musical instrument. A shepherd with a sheep draped across his shoulders. And of course, the animals: cattle, a donkey, and a flock of sheep. The more I carved, the deeper the questions went. What inspired those choices?
And what might a nativity look like today? Would it include a cell phone, a laptop, a cup of drive-thru coffee? Would someone show up in hiking boots—or on a motorbike? I didn’t need answers. Asking the questions felt like its own kind of worship. This became one of the most meaningful faith journeys I’ve ever experienced.
When the carving was complete, the next step was to bring the figures to life with color. I turned to Rusty, an artist friend, for help. We didn’t want them to look mass-produced or overly polished. Instead, we chose soft, blended tones that gave each figure a quiet dignity—a peaceful kind of unity, with a beauty that invited people to linger. Then came another blessing.
Two years after the project began, we found a permanent home for the nativity: a regional, faith-based retreat center where teens and adults gather for prayer, learning, and reflection. It felt right that the set would live not in a museum or on a mantel, but in a space where people ask big questions - just as I had. Adding to the joy was the fact that the center’s director - a former student of mine - welcomed the nativity with open arms. She understood not only the meaning of the piece, but the story behind its creation. The one who once discipled her had returned to his childhood hobby to carve it. That connection made it sacred for both of us. Like a rosary or a statue, this nativity became a symbol of faith - not just for those who visit, but for me as well.
When You Take a Pig Across America
In my younger days, I often wondered what life might look like in retirement. Travel and adventure had always been central to who I was, so the stereotypical image of old age - rocking away on a porch or sinking into a recliner with self-eject buttons - just didn’t fit. And when it came to mission work, I had questions, too. What would that look like in my late sixties? Would God still have a role for me? Turns out - He wasn’t done with me yet.
Now, let’s be clear: I knew absolutely nothing about Show Pigs. You know, the kind they parade around at county fairs. I also knew very little about technology. But my boss didn’t hire me for any of that. My role in this part-time job for over a year was more like a life coach—focusing on team building and leadership development. Right in line with my passion: helping people grow into the best version of themselves.
The business revolved around in-person and online pig auctions, serving teens and families preparing for agricultural fairs across the country. As I spent more time with these young people, something began to stir. What if we helped them grow—not just as competitors, but as leaders? What if they united around something bigger than the show ring? So I pitched a wild idea to the owner: What about an All-Star Leadership Team—selecting teens from across the country, sort of like how McDonald’s has all-star teams for sports?
These teens might have been rivals in the ring, but offstage, there was a surprising sense of camaraderie. Megan put the word out, and thirty-five teens from fourteen states enrolled. That summer, we gathered in the hills of West Virginia for a camp focused on livestock education, community service, and personal growth. We saw vision. We saw heart. And we decided to challenge them: What if this leadership team didn’t end with this summer camp?
The geographical distance between the students meant any ongoing effort would have to be virtual. No problem. So, eighteen teens stepped forward, armed with nothing but email, cell phones, and the boldness of youth. A small core—three or four teens—became the engine. Logan, a humble, responsible teen from Northern Ohio, emerged as the glue holding it all together. Then came the most ridiculous idea of all.
There wasn’t a blueprint. No step-by-step instructions. Just a challenge: build something meaningful, make an impact, and lead it yourselves. Their answer?
We are going to build an eight-foot-long, five-foot-high piggy bank out of plywood, chicken wire, and papier-mâché - and we will take it across America to raise money for St. Jude Children’s Hospital.
It was risky. Unpredictable. A logistical nightmare. Would parents sign off on an idea like this?
Teens would be hauling a massive pig sculpture, traveling in pickup trucks, meeting halfway across states, and raising funds with no corporate sponsors or formal backing. It was dangerous, messy—and exactly what leadership looks like when it’s real – and more fun than ever imagined. The project was officially titled: When You Take A Pig Across America.
We debuted it at a national livestock convention in Louisville, where hundreds of students stopped by our booth and helped add layers of papier-mâché. Then the pig hit the road, starting in Iowa. At every stop, students hosted their own creative fundraisers in their hometowns. They weren’t just hauling a structure—they were carrying vision, unity, and purpose.
Like a sacred torch. The pig traveled over three thousand miles—from Iowa to the Atlantic Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico, the Pacific Ocean, and finally, to St. Jude’s in Memphis, Tennessee. Along the way, each student raised funds. And me – what could I possibly contribute? The sixty-seven-year-old, non-farm boy?
I joined the Atlantic Ocean leg, starting in—where else?—Ohio to New York City. We wheeled the pig, mounted on a custom cart, through Times Square, past flashing billboards and honking taxis, down into Chinatown, and out to the Coney Island boardwalk. There we were: a pig, a cart, and a mission—surrounded by roller coasters and the smell of Nathan’s hot dogs. Tourists stared. We laughed. And we kept walking. We even accepted some donations.
That pink pig wasn’t just a quirky roadside attraction. It became a living metaphor—a symbol of what happens when young people are trusted with big dreams, and when adults are crazy enough to believe in them. Each student stepped up. Each one fulfilled their role. They weren’t given instructions—they were given opportunity. They made the impossible happen. And for me? It was a sacred reminder: God wasn’t done with me yet. Not even close.
Holy Smudges!
I couldn’t have asked for a more fulfilling start to my career than my first teaching job in Chestertown, Maryland, in 1969. Fresh out of college, I found myself teaching over two hundred students a week in drawing, design, and woodshop. And here’s what I learned fast: Fifth–eighth grade students love a challenge—and the more creative, the better. And messier? Even better. Those early years became a crash course—not just in education, but in connection. I discovered how to build momentum, spark curiosity, and help students realize what they were capable of. It was pure joy.
I started wondering: What might life still hold? What new things could I explore—not just for fun, but maybe as a new way to serve? Was God nudging me toward something I hadn’t yet considered fifty years later? That’s when the idea hit: start a sketching class. Not a class for grades. Not for competition. Just to dabble in creativity and see where it led. I reached out to a few local venues and floated the idea. I researched some options and came up with a plan. And, much to my surprise, over fifty people signed up that first season. Some came for two-hour sessions; others stayed for four or even six. The groups were small—just three to eight people at a time—which was perfect. It allowed for hands-on, coaching-style interaction.
And that’s what I loved most. I wasn’t just teaching - I was coaching again. We worked on the basics - shapes, shading, perspective, and confidence. We weren’t aiming to draw perfect portraits or gallery-ready landscapes. We were learning to sketch a cube. To draw a decent cylinder. To see that with a little guidance, you could make something that felt good and looked good. Every class was a break from the routine. People laughed. Relaxed. Surprised themselves. I was genuinely in awe at how complete beginners would go home with drawings they were proud of—every single time. I found that there’s something deeply affirming in helping someone succeed in an area they thought was closed off to them.
And somewhere in the middle of all that pencil-smudged paper, something bigger started to happen. That God thing? Oh yeah—it showed up. Here I was, decades removed from my first classroom, coaching again. Not on strategy or theology or leadership like I used to. But on sketching lines. Shading corners. Seeing shapes. There was a kind of sacred joy in it all. Something light hearted and life-giving. A reminder that it’s never too late to try something new. After all, Grandma Moses didn’t pick up a paintbrush until her seventies. Half my students were around that same age! Some days, I just have to smile. Smudges and all!
Stupid Is as Stupid Does
Laughing at myself seemed to become a spiritual discipline entering my Encore years. Truly. I’ve had years of practice—and at this point, was practically a professional. So naturally, it made perfect sense that at age seventy, I would sign up for a hundred-mile bike ride. Because… why not? For decades, bike riding had been a cherished part of my physical rhythm. It was just me, the local bike path, and my morning companions—deer, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and the occasional turtle who felt particularly bold. It wasn’t about speed or medals. I wasn’t racing or competing. I was just pedalling through nature, breathing, reflecting, and occasionally dodging the creatures that seemed less impressed with my training than I was.
But then this one-hundred-mile ride challenge came along. A fundraiser for a cause I believed in deeply—something international, meaningful—and apparently requiring me to lose all sense of reasonable judgment just by considering the idea. At first, it sounded noble. Then I realized: I had never ridden more than fifty miles at once in my entire life. But somehow, my brain translated this into, Sure! And let’s double that. And so I began the training. My definition of training was simple: pedal longer. I upped my rides to two, sometimes three hours. I visualized success. And by the time race day arrived, I was in what I would describe as optimistically mediocre shape.
The first sixty miles? Glorious. The breeze was strong, my legs steady, and would my animal friends be cheering me on in spirit? Then came mile ninety? Oh, mile ninety. I believe there is a moment every endurance athlete (or delusional enthusiast) faces: a wall. Not a literal one—though at mile ninety, I might have welcomed a wall to lean on. My legs turned to jello. My brain started reciting Forrest Gump’s line on repeat: Stupid is as stupid does. I muttered it out loud more than once. The last ten miles were harder than the first ninety. I questioned all of my life choices, including signing up, waking up, and possibly even believing I could do this. But I didn’t die. And that felt like a win. Better still? I solicited over a thousand dollars in pledges from friends and family - each mile powered by generosity and mild insanity. I was happy, fulfilled, tired, and ready for a nap!
Naturally, I continued training and possibly, and then… I signed up again the following Spring... and then a third time as a matter of fact. Same basic training plan (aka: denial), same stubborn wall at mile ninety—but each time, a little more money raised, and a little more proof that an aging man can still chase sacred ideas. I won’t say I floated through those final miles with grace. It was more like a wobble-and-weave toward glory.
But I will say this: those early morning rides on the path, with turtles slowly crossing and chipmunks darting out like daredevils? They were holy ground. So yes, stupid is as stupid does. But sometimes, stupid is just another name for brave—and three thousand dollars? Totally worth it all.
Woody the Legend
It began, as most of my more questionable decisions do, with a whisper of inspiration and a complete disregard for practicality. Woody was born in 2021. He weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds, eighty-four inches long, and seventy-two inches high. Birthplace? Our back deck in Ohio. He didn’t cry, but I nearly did. He arrived not in a hospital or a stable, but surrounded by sawdust, squirrels, discarded paint cans, and more than a little head-scratching from the neighbors.
There was no sponsor, no deadline, and no earthly reason why a man in his seventies should spend six months sculpting a full-sized wooden carousel horse outdoors. But there I was - armed with chisels, clamps, and a dream, and covered in wood shavings and optimism. My wife watched with a mixture of admiration, confusion, and mild concern. Birds and neighbors observed silently, unsure if they were witnessing a masterpiece or a midlife crisis. But this is how it goes for those of us who are called to awe. Let me back up.
Growing up in Brooklyn, where magic lived at the end of the Q train—the Coney Island Boardwalk - you could smell the salt air before you saw the ocean, and hear the clatter of rides before they came into view. But for me, one ride always stood out: the carousel. To a child, it wasn’t just fun—it was mystical. Lights spun in slow motion. Music drifted through the air like an old lullaby. Horses reared, lions prowled, and dragons soared in stillness. I didn’t understand how they were made—I just believed they were. Like stars. Or thunderstorms. Even then, I felt something sacred at play. Awe. That was the word. That’s still the word.
I’d line up for a ride hoping for the right horse - you know the one. Painted like royalty. Mid-leap. A steed for a boy on a quest. I’d grip the pole like a sword and ride as if I were heading into legend, even with my parents standing five feet away. My imagination was always strong - but much stronger at the beach. It was Disneyland on steroids - before Walt Disney lived his dream.
Decades passed. I became a teacher—shop class. I built cabinets and furniture. Mentored students. Raised a family. Built things that made sense. But that old awe never left. Every time I saw a carousel, something stirred. Something ancient. Childlike. A whisper, getting louder. Then, a needed spark: my daughter visited Carousels and Carvings in Marion, Ohio, and casually said, Dad, this should be on your bucket list. She had no idea what she’d just done.
A few weeks later, I knocked on the door of that very factory. The owner answered. I told him my story Brooklyn boy, Coney Island, retired shop teacher, carousel-obsessed - and asked if they gave tours. He said no… but he thought I was still a current shop teacher and invited me in anyway. (Later, he admitted he hoped I’d send him some students - potential employees.) That day I didn’t walk through a warehouse - I walked through heaven. I watched the carvers and painters at work. I asked countless questions. I listened intently. I forgot to breathe. I didn’t ask to take pictures—he told me to. Chills danced down my spine. I imagined myself carving there—not painting, mind you; those fine strokes require a surgeon’s hand and years of training. I thought to myself: I’m retired. Maybe I could drive here, sleep in a hotel, carve for a few days, and then drive the two hours back home.
And then I continued my thinking—the question that would reshape my year: What if I carved a carousel horse myself? Not a model. Not a tabletop version. A full-sized, galloping wooden horse. The kind I used to ride in wonder. Clearly, I was in a yes season of life—and possibly a lapse in judgment. I returned home. I bought wood blocks so big they barely fit in the shed. I turned the back deck into a makeshift workshop-slash-birthing center. There were no blueprints. Just rough sketches from the pictures I took. Only memories, awe, and a pile of carousel reference books fluttering in the breeze. Hand tools, rasps, sandpaper, chisels, and gouges became my best friends. And Woody… well, Woody did not emerge quietly.
There were weeks I questioned my sanity. Entire afternoons when Woody looked less like a horse and more like a prehistoric creature from a forgotten children’s museum. But slowly, something beautiful emerged. Muscles formed. A mane took shape. Eyes stared back at me with mischief and meaning. I found myself caught in that mystical state where time disappears and your hands know more than your head. Woody became more than a sculpture. He became a companion. A resurrection of my childhood days.
Eventually, Woody moved inside - because obviously, the back deck was no place for a legend. He stood tall in scarlet and grey colors, a tribute to The Ohio State University, and earned his name accordingly: Woody. Not just because he was made of wood, but in honor of Woody Hayes, the iconic OSU football coach. And then it was time for a party.
I contacted Suzanne, the director of our local preschool, and said, How about a birthday party for a wooden horse? To her credit, she didn’t hang up. We threw Woody his first birthday party in the church gymnasium—with balloons, cake, ice cream, music, and a line of over fifty children attired in scarlet and grey, waiting for a photo op with the seemingly giant horse who didn’t move—but somehow felt very much alive. Pictures were taken. Kids squealed with delight. Teachers laughed. Even the grown-ups caught a little awe. Today, Woody lives with a local non-profit - where he’s found yet another purpose: bringing joy and raising funds for breast cancer awareness. Which just goes to show... even in your seventies, you’re not too old to dream ridiculous dreams.
Almost Heaven …West Virginia
Another unforgettable Encore didn’t happen on a stage or in a classroom - it happened on a sun-soaked hillside in West Virginia. It started months earlier when a small team of teens and adults - including me – traveled to assist with flood relief after devastating Appalachian floods tore through the region. Entire communities were left gutted, lives completely upended. We came home with heavy hearts and one persistent question: What if we went back—not just to clean up, but to build something new?
That question sparked a vision. It would take a team, funding, logistics, and more than a little faith. But the following summer, twenty-five teens and twenty-five adults answered the call. We packed our gear, our tools, and our collective hope—and headed back to West Virginia. Our ragtag team, half seasoned and half brand new to construction, became affectionately known as The West Virginia Construction Company.
There were no luxury beds. No side-trips. Just hard, honest, sunup-to-sundown work. We lived simply and worked shoulder to shoulder - sharing strengths, stories, and sweat. For many of the teens, it was their first time holding a hammer. For some of us older folks, it was a surprising Encore we didn’t see coming. My friend Keith—another Encore performer - led the charge. A retired building contractor, Keith had the skill and calm presence we all leaned on. New flood codes required us to build the house fourteen feet above ground. It was a serious challenge, but Keith didn’t flinch. I’m convinced God placed him there, in that exact role, at that exact moment.
The teens? They rose to every challenge. They led morning sessions to focus the team. They took charge of small work crews. They swung hammers, climbed scaffolding, and pushed through blistering heat. What started as a service trip quickly transformed into something deeper: a mission rooted in resilience and hope. Then came the surprise none of us expected: the wheelchair-accessible ramp. It required almost as much lumber - and time - as framing the house itself. But no one backed down. We kept going, knowing another crew would pick up where we left off the following week. We laid a strong foundation—literally and figuratively—for a home that would shelter a family and stand as a symbol of a community rebuilding itself.
By week’s end, we were physically spent—but spiritually full. There was only one question left: How do we celebrate when we’ve worked ourselves to the bone? Isn’t celebration part of our play hard mission? The answer came from the locals. They invited us to a small bar and restaurant on Main Street - known for live, down-home country music. At first, we hesitated. A bar? With teens? Was this really the right fit? But we said yes.
I’m so glad we did. When we arrived, we found a room full of joy. There was no alcohol - just sodas, chips, and snacks for us, a live band, and locals who welcomed us like family. People of all ages danced the night away. Then, in a quiet act of grace, the owners waived the cover charge—for all of us. Just because they heard what we were doing for their community. In that moment—dust still under our nails, sweat still drying on our backs—we stood in awe. Of the joy. Of the generosity. Of the way strangers can become friends. This wasn’t just a house we built. It was almost heaven.
Epilogue
This memoir is not a blueprint for how to live. It’s a reminder.
For me, it became a space to pause and look at my life - not in the traditional sense of accomplishments or timelines, but as a reflection on a mindset shaped by purpose, presence, and the quiet possibility of discipleship. The stories and experiences I’ve shared, from my early years to the past twelve Encore years, mark seasons not defined by strategy or structure, but by a willingness to keep asking, God, am I finished yet?
The original call wasn’t loud. It was more of a whisper. Discipleship, for me, evolved slowly—through being discipled and learning to disciple—over time, through repeated invitations to say yes: to people, to projects, to still, small nudges. The beauty wasn’t in the achievements, but in the people, the small steps, and the sacred, everyday encounters. There was no script - only trust. No spotlight - only service.
This memoir really began one day, not so long ago, as I sat in the back row of a church - tucked high in the sanctuary, almost hidden—when I suddenly realized: Maybe I haven’t truly told my faith story yet. Not the polished version, but the real one. The one with hard-won life and leadership lessons. The one filled with questions, wonder, and a deeply honest faith. A story less about how to disciple, and more about why.
If there’s something to take away from this story, my hope is that it serves as a gentle, blessed reminder - for those who have walked this path with me, and for those still wondering what their next yes might be. Discipleship, I’ve come to believe, doesn’t have a finish line. It’s not a destination. It’s an ongoing journey - shared, sacred, and full of joy.