Where the Heartbeat Begins - A Tribute to Michael Andrew “Mike” Ledig

trevor3861
Sep 18
15 min read

Written With Love and Respect - Trevor Eliott (Mr Fancy Fez) - Al Shamal Shriners

Noble Mike Ledig, Al Shamal Shriners, remembered for service and kindness.

If you want to understand how a Shrine keeps beating across generations, don’t start on a parade route or at a podium. Start in the countroom after midnight.

The casino has quieted. The laughter and cash flow have tapered to a hum. A few of us are still there, jackets off, hands a little ink-stained. That’s where I picture Noble Michael Andrew “Mike” Ledig—not in the spotlight, but under the soft rattle of the bill-counting machine he loved, sleeves rolled, smile easy, dependable as the sunrise.

More than once I sent out a desperate, last-minute text: “We’re short. Can anyone cover?” Within five minutes my phone would ring. It was Mike. It was always Mike. “If you need somebody, call me,” he’d said— and he meant it. “Just put me on the machine,” he’d add, with that grin that told you he was exactly where he wanted to be.

That’s the opening scene of this article because it’s the opening scene of membership growth. If we’re going to revive the heartbeat, we have to learn again what a heartbeat sounds like. It’s not a pep talk. It’s a rhythm. It’s the dependable “I’ll be there.” It’s the unglamorous work that lets everything else shine.

Mike’s story—his whole life, really—gives us a living template for our EMVP framework: Energy, Mentorship, Visibility, Purpose. He didn’t preach it. He lived it. And he left us a map.

The Power of Showing Up (EMVP: Energy & Purpose)

We often think of Energy as volume—big events, booming voices, fireworks at the parade. Mike reminds us that energy is also patience, stamina, and the willingness to show up again tomorrow. He brought the kind of energy that keeps a temple running when the program ends and the cleanup begins.

And underneath that energy was Purpose. Mike knew why he served. His “why” wasn’t complicated. He believed in people—family, friends, brothers—and in the Shrine as a vehicle for helping others. Purpose turned his yes into a long-term habit.

If we’re honest, many temples don’t suffer from a lack of ideas; they suffer from a lack of follow-through. Mike is proof that faithful energy beats occasional fireworks. That’s not just admirable—it’s contagious. You put one Mike in a room, and suddenly the rest of us straighten our backs and get to it.

Mike Ledig - The Man Behind the Hug

Before the titles and the parade routes and the photo albums, there was a boy from Empress, Alberta. When his father died, Mike went to work at fifteen—heavy equipment, lonely roads, money sent home to help his mother and siblings. Responsibility came early. It didn’t make him hard; it made him faithful.

Edmonton brought new chances and a few good stories—like the time a delivery truck got wedged near the High Level Bridge and he solved it with a joke and a practical fix: “Let the air out of the tires.” That was Mike—light touch, quick mind, get it done.

He married Deloris, and for sixty-seven years they built a life that felt full and open—three children (Barb, Bev, and Brad), a steady home since 1973, and later two grandsons (Ethan and Jeremy) who always knew where the best hugs were. The door was open, the coffee was on, and visitors were greeted the same way every time: a squeeze, a smile, and a warm line like “How you doing, kiddo?” or “Hello, Snookums.” He made people feel remembered—because he did remember, from one visit to the next.

Mike worked his way from an order desk to co-owning two truck-body companies. He loved dancing (put on “I Waltz Across Texas” and watch his feet answer), golf (he won more than a few prizes), British comedies, auctions (Fensky’s was a favorite), and Volkswagens (plus that one oddball “Thing” that always made him laugh). He cheered the Cleveland Guardians, but mostly he cheered people. He was, as one family member put it, a guardian—the person you could count on when you needed a ride, a hand, or a problem quietly solved.

Travels took Mike and Deloris to Hawai‘i, South America, and many sunny winters in Yuma, but he always loved coming home. Home meant breakfast with the boys, neighbors who popped in, and the busy, welcoming Ledig household where a hug and a joke were part of the furniture.

The Stories We’ll Tell

For Mike, the Motor Corps was all about camaraderie and laughs

Families are made of stories, and Mike gave us good ones.

There’s the countroom legend—the way he’d call back within five minutes, every time, and the way he loved that rattle of the bill-counter like an old friend. There’s the Motor Corps—kids lining parade routes and pointing at the Nobles on mini-bikes, and Mike grinning as he zipped by, fez bright in the sun. There are the auctions and the hats (he had a collection—oh, he had a collection), and the easy way a new hat might land in your hands if he thought it would suit you better.

Back in 2005, Noble Mike Ledig joined the ranks of Motor Corps legends when he proudly earned the coveted Broken Wing Award—bestowed upon the unlucky Shriner whose bike breaks down mid-parade. While others zoomed ahead, Mike turned his stall-out into a victory lap, grinning and waving like royalty. From that day on, he wore the award as a badge of honor—because in the Motor Corps, even a breakdown is worth celebrating.

There’s the story of a four-year-old girl who was non-verbal and struggled to walk. Mike heard about her over coffee and quietly moved mountains—arranged the consults, helped the family find braces, followed up. The little girl learned to walk. It wasn’t grandstanding; it was love in work clothes.

There are the breakfasts with buddies. The card games where the point was company more than keeping score. The travel mishaps (sunburned feet under the palm trees, someone will say, and everyone will nod). The gentle teasing between brothers-in-law. The way he danced whenever the first notes started.

And of course there are the greetings: “How you doing, kiddo,” “Hello, Snookums.” They show up in the guest book again and again because everyone who heard them remembers not just the words, but the feeling—seen, welcomed, important.

The Masonic Legend

Mike was initiated in 1969, took his Scottish Rite three years later, and joined the Shrine in 1993. He didn’t collect titles for the sake of it, though there were honours—Grand Tyler (2001), Masonic Medal of Merit (2009), 50-year jewel (2019)—that marked a life pointed at others. He wasn’t the man chasing a gavel; he was the man keeping the machine moving.

He rode the Motor Corps mini-bike through parade routes, because visibility matters. He volunteered at the circus, because joy matters. He sat on a seniors’ housing board, because dignity matters. And he became a countroom legend because, frankly, reliability matters most when everything else depends on it.

For more than thirty years, he served at ceremonials—a visible constant. If you were nervous about your part, you could find him by looking for the fellow who was steadying everyone else just by being there.

This is what EMVP looks like when it’s wearing work gloves.

Energy: not a burst, but a pace.
Mentorship: not speeches, but example.
Visibility: not spotlight, but presence.
Purpose: not slogans, but service.

Why This Matters Now

We all feel it: the world is noisy, attention is short, calendars are overfull. New Nobles come in curious and hopeful, and if they don’t see a pathway to meaningful involvement, they drift. Long-time members carry more than their share and quietly burn out.

Mike’s life argues for a different recipe:

Shrink the distance between intention and involvement.When Mike heard a need, he stepped in. What if our units had clear “first tasks” that any Noble could do this week—no waiting for permission, no labyrinth of approvals?
Reframe success as consistency.We love the big campaign, the shiny new program. But growth comes from small, repeatable wins: a monthly breakfast, a quarterly service night, a reliable presence at community events.
Make warmth the brand.A fez is visible. A hug is memorable. The affection in “How you doing, kiddo?” sticks. If your temple’s first impression feels like a family kitchen—coffee, names, laughter—men will return.
Tell the right stories.We need the parade shot for the paper, yes. But we also need to celebrate the countroom, the setup crew, the Nobles who give rides, the quiet fixes no one sees. That’s the culture a new member will imitate.

Application in Shrine Life (Practical, Concrete)

Let’s translate Mike’s example into actions any unit can use within the next 30 days.

1) Energy: Build a “Short-Notice Squad”

Create a roster of 10–15 Nobles who opt in to receive “we’re short a shift” texts.
Keep the ask small: “Need 1 person for 2 hours—tonight, tomorrow, or Saturday morning.”
Celebrate the squad at the next meeting—no plaques, just applause and a coffee gift card from the Potentate’s discretionary fund.

Why it works: It formalizes the Mike instinct—“Call me”—and makes follow-through visible.

2) Purpose: Name Your “Countrooms”

As a unit, list the 3–5 unglamorous tasks that, if done well, make everything else possible (e.g., trailer maintenance, newsletter, inventory, sponsorship thank-you calls).
Assign each task a Champion & Deputy—two Nobles who own the checklist and train replacements.

Why it works: Ownership turns chores into ministries. It also prevents burnout.

3) Visibility: Parade + People

For every public event, pair a visible role (riding, marching, handing out flags) with a relational role (greet families, collect names, invite to an open house).
Give your greeters a simple script that sounds like us: “Hey folks, we meet on the third Thursday. Come by for coffee; we’ll show you the minis and introduce you to the guys who keep us rolling.”

Why it works: Exposure without connection is forgettable. Connection without exposure is invisible. We need both.

4) Mentorship: Micro-Apprenticeships

Ask each long-time Noble to pick one task and one younger Noble to shadow for 60 days.
Keep it concrete: “I’ll teach you the ceremonial cue lights,” “You’ll take the first pass at the treasurer’s monthly summary,” “You’ll run the bill-counter while I spot you.”

Why it works: Skills transfer. Confidence grows. Culture is caught, not taught.

5) Kindness: The Hug Budget

Set aside a modest monthly fund for small acts of care: coffee for a new candidate and his spouse, flowers to a widow, a gas card for a Noble driving to a children’s hospital visit.
Appoint a “kindness treasurer” who can spend up to a fixed amount without motion or debate.

Why it works: It encodes our warmth into the operating system.

Mentorship & Legacy: What We Hand Off

When Brad stood to speak about his dad, he called Mike a guardian. Not a guard of rules, but a guard of people. “He improved the lives of so many. He helped them live well,” Brad said. That is mentorship in its purest form.

We often talk about mentorship like it requires a curriculum. Mike shows us it mainly requires attention. He asked about your life. He remembered the details. He made space for your answers. That’s why the guest book is full of lines like, “He listened,” “He remembered,” “He greeted me with a hug.”

There’s another story that belongs here. Bev worked with a four-year-old who was non-verbal and struggled to walk. Mike heard about it over coffee and quietly moved mountains—arranged the consults, helped the family find braces, followed up. The child learned to walk. Think about that: one Noble heard a need and activated his network. No fanfare, just Relief in action.

That’s the legacy we want to hand off: not simply “what Shriners do,” but how Shriners love.

So here’s a practical legacy plan any temple can adopt:

The 3-Name Rule: Every Noble—new or old—keeps three names in his phone of men he’s actively encouraging: one older, one peer, one younger. A quick check-in each month.
The First Year Map: New Nobles are given a literal map of the next 12 months: one ceremonial role to learn, one parade to ride, one fundraiser shift to own, one social to host, one service project to join. (Simple, visible wins.)
The Evergreen Moment: Borrowing from the Masonic memorial, create a small ritual at year-end where Nobles lay a sprig (or coin, or card) to symbolize one unseen contribution they made that no one noticed. We name the work. We honour the quiet.

Visibility with a Heart (EMVP: Visibility)

Mike loved the mini-bike in parades. He loved the grin on a child’s face when the Motor Corps zipped by. He understood something we sometimes forget: our Visibility is not self-promotion—it’s an invitation. The fez says “we’re here.” The smile says “we’re here for you.”

But visibility is also internal. Picture Mike at ceremonials for three decades. His steady presence calmed new candidates and anchored seasoned officers alike. That’s a visibility that says: “This matters. You matter. We’re in this together.”

A few ways to turn that lesson into growth:

Name-Tag Culture: Every event, every time. First names big. Make it easy for a new Noble—and his spouse—to be known.
Two-Minute Testimony: At each stated meeting, invite one Noble to speak for two minutes about a moment of impact (a hospital story, a family you helped, a child’s smile at the circus). Keep it brief. Make it real.
Photo + Phone: After parades and socials, post three photos and include a phone number or QR for “Coffee with a Noble.” Someone (your “kindness treasurer,” perhaps) owns those follow-ups.

Purpose Without Pretense (EMVP: Purpose)

Purpose does not need a long strategic plan. It does need clarity. When you asked Mike “why,” he likely shrugged: because people matter. Because this is what brothers do. Because it helps.

Still, purpose can drift in a busy temple. We add programs, we chase dollars, we forget souls. A way back:

One-Line Mission: As a temple, finish this sentence and repeat it often: “At (Temple), we exist to bring hope and friendship to families—one small act at a time.”
Quarterly Check: At the end of each quarter, ask: Which event best expressed our purpose? Which felt busy but thin? Adjust the calendar accordingly.
The “Why” out loud: Before a fundraiser shift or a ceremonial, a unit officer simply says, “Here’s why tonight matters,” in two sentences. Story over stats.

Purpose is what makes the long haul joyful. It is the fuel for the kind of energy Mike gave us—decade after decade.

The Culture of Warmth

Open the guest book and you’ll see it everywhere:

“Always had a hug.”
“Hello, Snookums.”
“He listened.”
“Breakfasts with buddies.”
“Up for a good chat.”
“Kind heart. Giving spirit.”

That’s a culture, not a quirk. And culture scales when we codify small habits:

The First Five: The first five minutes of any meeting are for unstructured visiting. Officers model it.
Three-Table Rule: At socials, each officer sits at three different tables before the night is over, introducing two people at each stop.
Spouse & Family First: Invitations, thank-yous, and sign-ups include spouses by name. When we say “family,” we act like it.

Warmth grows attendance. Attendance grows involvement. Involvement grows leadership. Leadership grows mission. It really is that simple.

A Faith that Comforts, a Spirit that Stays

At Mike’s service, Pastor Doug read Psalm 23 and reminded us that death is a transition, not a final door. A family member sang “In the Garden,” and during the photo montage the room smiled through tears as “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” played. It fit Mike. He wasn’t naïve about hardship; he simply chose to meet it with cheer and service.

There was also a Masonic memorial, solemn and tender, with the placing of an evergreen sprig—a symbol that love and the soul’s life don’t end at the grave. One by one, voices said, “Farewell, my Brother,” and it felt like a chorus of all the quiet thank-yous Mike never asked for and never needed to hear to keep going.

If you were there, you felt it: memories braided with hope. If you couldn’t be, know this—the day was full of stories, laughter, a few gentle jokes, and deep gratitude. It was a Ledig day: love, togetherness, and the steady feeling that the man we miss is somehow still helping us carry on.

Stories We Carry Forward

Jim and Barb remember Mike on the Motor Corps mini-bike at the Klondike Parade.Betty recalls the hugs.Karen hears him say, “Hello, Snookums,” and remembers how he always listened to her stories. Zenon tells of dancing and the running joke in I Waltz Across Texas. Others smile at the hat collection, the Fens auctions (you know the one), the loyalty to the Cleveland Guardians, and the quiet card games where the point was company more than winning.

None of that is a program. All of it is a pattern—the way a man lives when his purpose is people, the way a temple feels when its heartbeat is strong.

What We Learned From Him

When we talk about Mike, three words keep surfacing. They’re simple on paper, but mighty in practice:

Constancy. Mike showed up—for decades. For parades and breakfasts, errands and heavy lifting, the last shift no one wanted and the first hug everyone needed. He was the drumbeat you could set your step to.
Humility. He chose the work few people see. He didn’t seek credit—he sought to get the job done and make sure people were cared for. That is rare strength.
Kindness. He carried warmth into every room. He listened, remembered, made time, made space, and made you feel like you belonged. Even a stranger could become an old friend in under a minute.

These aren’t just traits; they’re a model. They tell the grandkids what character looks like when it grows up. They remind the rest of us how to be a little more like the man we loved.

For Deloris and the Family

Sixty-seven years together is more than an anniversary number. It’s a story of partnership—dancing when the song played, sitting quietly when the day ran long, choosing kindness in the small moments, and finding your way back home after every trip.

Mike’s love for Deloris, for Barb, Bev, and Brad, for Ethan and Jeremy, and for the wide circle of brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and friends was steady and practical. He showed it every day.

“Guardian” is the word that fits. He guarded what mattered—people—without fuss or fanfare. He watched the details, the calendar, the chances to make life easier for someone else. And when help was needed, he didn’t ask who was responsible; he simply picked up the bag.

If you are family reading this, know that every story told about Mike is also a love letter to you. The life he built with you is the life we admire in him.

What We’ll Keep

The phrases: “How you doing, kiddo” and “Hello, Snookums.”
The image of the mini-bike at the parade—because joy belongs in public.
The smell of coffee at the diner and the sound of laughter when the teasing started.
The hat that someone “borrowed” and never returned—because it felt like a blessing.
The memory of a child who learned to walk because one quiet man decided that love does more than hope—it organizes.
The evergreen sprig—a reminder that what’s best in us doesn’t end.

And most of all, we’ll keep the lesson Mike left us, written not in words but in days: Show up. Be kind. Do the work that matters, whether or not anyone sees.

A Few Words to Carry With You

If you ever want to feel close to Mike, try this:

Offer a hand before anyone asks.
Listen long enough to remember the details next time.
Greet someone with a smile that says, “You belong.”
Choose the bright side—not because life is easy, but because hope is a decision.
Call back in five minutes. He would have.

And when the day is quiet and you miss him, place a small sprig of something green where you can see it. Let it say what we all feel: love lasts.

Always Look on the Bright Side

At Mike’s funeral, after the prayers and Psalm 23, after the Masonic memorial with the evergreen sprig and the chorus of “Farewell, my Brother,” the video played. The room smiled as Always Look on the Bright Side of Life carried us out.

It was perfect. Mike wasn’t naïve about hardship; he chose to meet it with cheer and service.

When the service ended, the family invited everyone to share one way Mike had touched their lives—at the graveside, at the reception, or over coffee later. That invitation was itself the last lesson.

Membership growth isn’t a mystery—it’s a memory you make on purpose.

A hug at the door.
A call back in five minutes.
A seat saved at breakfast.
A mini-bike waved like a flag of joy.
A child who walks because a Noble quietly found a way.

Energy. Mentorship. Visibility. Purpose. They’re not just pillars; they’re postures. They look like Mike in the countroom, steady as a drum. They sound like the sentence he repeated with his life: If you need somebody, call me.

Brothers, the heartbeat we want is already in our hands. Let’s pick up the rhythm. Let’s be visible in the ways that matter, generous in the ways that last, and purposeful in ways a child could explain. Let’s show up—again and again—until the next generation can’t imagine a Shrine without us.

A Simple Ritual for Growth

I’d like to propose something for every temple that reads this article: at your next stated meeting, set aside five minutes and do this together.

Say a Name: One by one, name a Noble—past or present—who shaped you by showing up. Tell a one-sentence story. (You’ll be amazed how often the same names surface.)
Make a Promise: Each man says one sentence beginning with, “This month, I will be your Mike by…” and fills in a concrete action.
Lay an Evergreen: Place a small sprig (real or symbolic) in a bowl at the altar or podium. Say quietly, “For the work no one will see.” Close with a handshake.

That’s not branding. That’s brotherhood. And it will change your culture faster than a hundred emails.

Thank You, Mike

For the rides given without keeping score
For the breakfasts and the banter
For the dances started on tired feet
For the little jokes that softened the edges
For the phone calls that came in five minutes
For the hugs that said more than words could
For the steady work that let others shine. For the gentleness you never set down
For loving Deloris so well, and your children, and your grandsons, and all the rest of us who were lucky enough to be gathered in by your welcome.

Your fez may no longer be among us, but your spirit is stitched into the fabric of our days. We’ll look for you in the places you loved—the breakfast booth, the parade route, the back room where the real work happens—and we’ll try to live the way you did.

Thank you, Mike. We’ll take it from here, together.

Reflection Questions (Brother to Brother)

Where is your countroom? Name one unseen job in your temple that you can quietly own for the next six months. Who will you invite to shadow you?
Who needs your “How you doing, kiddo?” List three people—one older, one peer, one younger—you’ll check in with this month. What simple warmth can you offer?
What will we stop doing to start growing? As a unit, name one busy activity that doesn’t advance your purpose—and one small, repeatable habit you’ll start instead.

Write your answers down. Share them with a brother. Hold each other to them.