Buy a shirt, raise a wall. It is exactly that simple and I will show you the arithmetic on the back of anything.
Heavy cotton, printed twenty minutes from where the Tabernacle will stand. I pack every order myself in paper — never plastic, plastic is for people who've given up. Order at the truck or by letter. Tell me your size and trust me on the rest.
Four hundred seventeen miles: my first full Arizona circuit, 1998. Eleven stops, zero jars lost. Route's printed on the back, to scale, drawn by me.
Same route, in the color of the shoulder I drove it on. The repeat donors favor this one and repeat donors have taste.
The Tabernacle as it will stand, printed across your chest. The day we pour concrete, this print retires forever, and you'll be wearing proof you believed early.
The mission, plain, in red. My volunteer crew wears these at every stop. You buy one, you're crew. Them's the rules and I made 'em.
Refers to the copper donor wall going in the reliquary hall, where every pair in the keeping gets its name. I picked the phrase for its accuracy.
Not for sale, friend, and don't offer. This one is presented — by me, with a handshake — when your pledge paperwork clears. Shown here so you know what you're working toward.
A plain census: 312 pairs and counting. Number gets corrected every print run, which is why the old-timers collect every year. Smart old-timers.
The census in the color of my ledger pages. This is my personal daily shirt. I replace mine every year on the anniversary of Pair No. 001 and I get a little quiet that day.
Commemorates the donor appreciation supper I throw every June: a reading, a meal, and fellowship. All three words meant literally, all three delivered.
Write me your size, your color, and your return address. I answer every letter in the order it arrives, usually inside a week, unless I'm driving the grade, in which case the grade comes first and you'd agree if you saw it.