After the rodeo ends, competitors seek respite at Cowboy Church

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Philippians 4:7. The name of the verse was stitched on a black and white patch he wore on his blue pin-striped dress shirt. Above it were the words “Pray for Uvalde” framed in the outline of Texas.

“They need peace,” the preacher said.

His name is Corey Ross. He sat on a bleacher. His black bible sat next to him.

He was talking about the people who had come to Casper this week to compete in the College National Finals Rodeo. Some were far away from home. Some had endured tragedy, lost friends and loved ones. Others were looking for words of encouragement before they went out to compete in the arena.

It was Sunday morning, the first day of CNFR in Casper. Ross was getting ready to hold the week’s first Cowboy Church service at the Central Wyoming Fair and Rodeo arena. Ross has been the CNFR Cowboy Church preacher since it was first held here in 1999. Over the years, he's lent an ear to many contestants looking for guidance.

“Getting God in the middle of what they’re fixin’ to do this week is really important,” Ross said.

“That's why we bring church to ‘em. We wanna try and bring a little hope to their life, and I believe that's founded in God.”

***

The arena was cavernous and cool. On the far side away from the bleachers were high windows. The morning light fell through them onto the dark, dirt floor, imprinted with tire tracks.

At the top of the stairs entering into the arena stood a brown plastic folding table covered in materials of the church. A brown paperback titled “God’s Word for Cowboys.” Some CDs. A tin bucket with a duct-taped paper sign that said “Offerings” in black marker.

A kid wearing jeans, glasses, a short sleeve button-down shirt and a white cowboy hat walked past the folding table to adjust a speaker. His name is Carson Burkham. He’s the grandson of Ricky Boen, the great-grandson of Darrell Boen. Ricky plays the fiddle, Darrell the guitar. They make a trio with Ross, who also plays the guitar and sings. They’ve traveled the country together playing at services for the past decade or so. Ricky’s mother Jane was there too.

Cowboys and cowgirls came up the staircase in jeans, boots and hats and sat, quiet and sedate, on the bleachers. Ross, Ricky and Darrell picked up their instruments for rehearsal. It was nearing 10 a.m. Ross took to the mic with Ricky and Darrell flanking him. He asked everyone to stand.

“Give God a big round of applause!” he said, and a ruckus of claps filled the arena. They started playing music. The crowd clapped along.

Among the spectators stood a young man with his family. Grandmother, mother, father, brother all around him. He watched from the far edge of the bleacher next to his kid brother, thumbs hooked into jean pockets, one hand tapping out a timid rhythm to the music. His hair was blond, cut short. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt.

His name is Ira Dickinson. He grew up on a ranch outside of Rock Springs and just graduated from Panhandle State University in Oklahoma. He’s here as a saddle bronc rider for his first CNFR competition.

Prayer is like a form of meditation, he said.

“When you compete in a sport where it can go very wrong, it’s extremely important to put yourself in that mental frame of mind to be the best competitor that you can be.”

Ross directed the crowd in a dance, and with each repetition the trio played faster until the crowd’s movements escaped rhythm. Arms flailed in the air. Feet rattled the metal bleachers. People laughed.

They played “Amazing Grace” twice, once slow, once fast. Ricky went sailing off on a riff. Then coming down from the high, a tender song. They put down their instruments. Ross started his sermon.

The cowboys and cowgirls listened. One woman leaned forward, black hair hiding her face, an open bible on her lap. She traced sentences with a fingernail varnished in red polish. A man in a plaid shirt on the far edge of the crowd sat with elbows on knees, chin resting in the palms of his hands. A red-brown feather stuck into his white cowboy hat. He listened to Ross like a kid to a story. A young woman with sunglasses perched on her head closed her eyes, one hand combing through her long, brown hair.

“You’re seed people,” Ross said to the crowd. “You have practiced and practiced and practiced. What you sow this week is going to determine a lot of things.”

A woman sat in the second row. She had straight blond hair, wore jeans and a denim jacket and red lipstick. Her hand fiddled with the handbag at her side. She fixed her eyes on Ross.

Her name is Sugar Almand, wife of Joey Almand, a rodeo coach. They’re from Uvalde, Texas. Sugar designed the patch that Ross wore on his shirt. She also designed black bracelets printed in white with the words “Pray for Uvalde, Philippians 4:6.”

“We don't always have answers when you want to know why,” Sugar said. “You can’t always make things make sense.”

After the service, people took the bracelets from a pile on the folding table after the service. They filled the tin bucket with crumpled bills.

***

The service was canceled on Tuesday because of the wind.

The gusts died down toward evening on Wednesday. A tent went up next to the Ford Wyoming Center. People wandered over after the rodeo. They lined up along some folding tables in the back and piled pizza, frosted cookies, rice krispies and Doritos on their paper plates. Carson doled out soda in red plastic cups. They took their seats in rows of folding chairs.

It was dark outside. The lights of Casper gleamed through the translucent tent walls. The air was still and warm. A generator whirred nearby.

Ross, Darrell and Ricky took up their instruments. Ross counted off and they started playing “I’ll Fly Away.” People sang along in low voices. A woman arrived with a baby in her arms and danced to the music in the back of the tent, the blue-eyed child waving its arms, grinning and laughing. A lone man came and leaned against the corner tent pole to listen, hands in his jeans pockets.

A young woman walked to the back of the tent during Ross’ sermon. She pulled out her phone to record him. She closed her eyes to pray.

Her name is Taylor Pino. She had long, dark hair and dark eyes and gave a short laugh after most of her sentences. It’s her first time coming to Casper. She’s from Crownpoint, New Mexico, the “steer-wrestling capital of the Navajo Nation,” she said.

Her mom, Nicole, is a rodeo coach at Navajo Technical University. Four of her students are competing in CNFR this year in steer wrestling and tie-down roping.

“When you’re going on a steer, there’s that part where you have no control, and it’s the Lord who’s in control right there,” Nicole said.

“We always pray for safety.”

A few people came forward for testimony; a young man in a red sweatshirt who had lost a friend, another who had been in a major car accident, a woman who watched her daughter through the trials and tribulations of rodeo competitions.

The woman was Katie Rasmussen, the mom of Paige Rasmussen, who sat in the crowd. She’s from Bozeman, Montana, and attends Montana State University. She grew up on a big ranch, right on the Rocky Mountain front in an area that’s real flat. She and her sister would take their horses out and ride for miles.

At the rodeo, she competes in goat tying.

“When all those nerves come crashing, I always pray for the Lord to help me compete to the best of my ability and to keep me safe,” she said.

“I come to the service every night, just to make sure my thoughts are in the right place.”