might be baloney

I don’t believe either of us had trouble sleeping on our first night on the ship.

Early riser that I am, I found my way around the tiny cabin without stumping a toe or noisily clunking into something. I was working my way toward the sliding door where our small balcony was starting to show the first signs of light over the Pacific.

This first light was the color of the flesh of a fully ripe summer cantaloupe. A few clouds were near the brightening light, and hills were etched out like an artist had used pen and ink to trace their smooth edges.

The time on the phone noted 6:30 a.m. By 8:30, we were to boarding for an excursion to the Haleakala Crater.

I continued to watch the movement of the ship as we came into this commercial port for docking.

In the cabin next door were our friends the Sherrills, and at some point our early morning curiosity had connected us on our respective balconies for a good morning and comments about the sights.

Soon, we were ready to find our way to breakfast. Without any wrong turns, we found a big dining hall. The room was loaded with multiple food options and tourists just like us trying to figure what to eat and where to sit. We managed, and this was followed by hustling back to the room to make sure we were ready for our excursion departure.

We cleared the security check, and proceeded to the waiting area for our bus and driver. Following instructions from Norwegian personnel, we were soon in a line and boarding the bus.

Our tour guide was named Dino. He was an all in one package—the driver and the guy with the knowledge about our trip. During the course of the week, we found that all of the guides had a story about how they had arrived on Hawaii. Dino was soft spoken and low key, but he was knowledgeable about the area as he drove us toward the crater.

Agriculture was an early topic, and we learned how the sugar cane economy is gone. Pineapples are still around, but we saw groves of avocado and citrus trees.

The landscape began a gradual transition as we started the climb toward Haleakala National Park.

Dino shared with us that real early risers can make a reservation through the National Park Service to see what must be spectacular views of the sunrise.

One thing Dino cautioned us about was the change in temperature that we would experience. He was correct. For the area we were in, one source recorded the high temperature for January 28 as 52 degrees and the low was 39 degrees.

We made an initial stop at the park’s headquarters and visitor center. The elevation here was 7,000 feet, and as soon as I stepped off the bus, I could feel the change in temperature with a bit of wind in the bright sunshine.

All around us were pretty views and interesting plant life. We noted the Haleakala silverswords.

We re-boarded the bus, and drove toward the visitor’s center for Haleakala Crater.

The elevation at our next stop was 9,000 feet. The difference here was the wind. It was intense.

We had all dressed in layers, but the wind was a cutting wind. The layers weren’t much help. But the cold air and biting wind didn’t matter, the remarkable scenery captured us.

I don’t know that I ever viewed such a landscape. It rolled and dipped, rose and fell. Rock and hills of all shapes and contortions were all around us. The puffy tops of clouds formed a layer covering a valley beyond the hilltops.

The tough terrain was painted in varying shades of gray, onyx, rust, coffee, faded khaki, and those tones were cast in every direction.

We countered the wind with the exterior design of the visitors center, and marveled more at the madness found in nature’s sculptured topography.

And at the agreed upon time, Dino rounded us up. With everyone present, we started making our way back down via a winding road.

Dino continued his obligatory chatter as he retraced his turns to bring us safely back to the ship.

Before re-entering the ship, we had to again clear security. We had no hiccups, and our group agreed on meeting at the Cadillac Diner for lunch. The temptation was their milkshakes. While we patiently persevered the less than adequate service, the milkshakes were a hit.

Napping, more exploring the ship took up the remainder of the afternoon.

It is amazing to me that geologist have figured out how a volcano formed out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

The eruption of hotspots in the Pacific Plate is the pivotal first step. Over time, these volcanoes are moved away from the hotspot to the Aleutian Trench. At that point, the plate sinks into our planet, Earth.

I’m not smart enough to fully understand these important discoveries, but I sense that if we continue to be careless and reckless with our planet, we will eventually destroy it, and all of Earth’s unique beauty.

If we are clever enough to build this massive ship to tote people out into the middle of an ocean to see these beautiful and fragile Hawaiian Islands, then we need to be even smarter and more determined than ever to protect them.

 A plot of land about the size of a postcard on the north side of our church’s grounds has become a home for the unwanted, the castaways. 

Growing in this plot are towering Loblolly pines, delicate dogwoods, a couple of magnolias, a Bradford pear, one crepe myrtle, and a random assortment of other plantings.

 It is my rapidly aging, sympathetic heart that has let this plot become a home for the unwanted, the castaways.

 Over the years, clumps of flowers and singular shrubs have found a home in this landscape.
These relocations occur when gardeners in the neighborhood change their landscape plan.

They dig up the flowers or shrubs that no longer fit. Often, I happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to claim the unwanted.

 Once I transport the plants to church, I work to find these outcasts a good spot in the tract. A part of the planting includes a good soaking from a deep bucket of water.

 At Easter, the altar in the Sanctuary of our church is adorned with real, live potted lilium longiflorum, better known as the Easter Lily. 

 After the Easter services, the lilies are offered to the congregation. Most are taken, but a few always remain.

My conscience will not allow me to even think about tossing an Easter lily. Last year, I started transplanting the lilies that no one claimed.

Trinity member, Dianne Moore, encouraged me to give this a try.

Weeks after Easter, I began my work. I’m not sure how many I planted, but in the end, I had one lily that looked frail and puny. I was certain this lily was dead.

 For some reason, I left the dried up flower in its pot, and I tucked it away in an outside corner of our building.

The lily was out of my sight lines, somewhat concealed by a downspout and two electrical transformer boxes.

Through the summer, fall, and into the winter, I completely forgot about the lily.

And, I don’t know why, but this year, a few days after Easter, something nudged me to look into the corner.
 
When I did, my eyes stared in disbelief. The discarded and forgotten lily was peering out by the downspout where it had been placed. 

 Several inches high, with healthy green leaves sprouting from its stem, the lily looked just like a lily should.

  On the morning of April 11, Dianne was at church for a United Women In Faith meeting. When there was a break, I asked Dianne to walk outside with me.

I led her to the lily’s spot and showed her the green miracle. This viewing also included my admission that I had been completely negligent in providing any care.

Perhaps, you are familiar with the scripture from Matthew Chapter 6 verses 28-29: 
“And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, 29 yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”

I guess I shouldn’t have worried about whether the scrawny lily was going to survive.

Seems to me that the uncared-for Lily wasn’t worried about surviving. The lily was better in trusting God than I am when worry consumes my life.

After sharing the lily’s story with Dianne, I transplanted it along with a couple of other shrubs that had straggled into my life.

Maybe, the real question for me is how do I respond to the people who straggle into my life who appear to be discarded, tossed aside, and forgotten?

Do I pay attention to their needs, their struggles, or do I toss them into a corner?

I knew Saturday, January 27, 2024 would arrive quickly. This was our final morning at the house before packing up and driving to the harbor in Honolulu.

Another pretty morning greeted us in Waialua. On Friday, we had been diligent about washing clothes, packing, and going over our checklists. We knew our targeted departure time, and I was really trying to enjoy my last views around the house.

On the backside of the house, on the Dole property, we were treated to an early morning baseball game. A small, but boisterous crowd was on hand to cheer the youngsters for both teams. We could hear the ebb and flow of the game based upon the sounds of the spectators.

From either porch, the views were bright and sunny. I will miss staring into the dark green hills of the Waianae Range that can be shrouded with cumulus clouds and highlighted with a perfect blue sky backdrop.

From the end of the other porch, there is the constant snapshot of an ever changing Pacific Ocean. Its water hues are always transforming as waves cleanse its palette.

But, I think I will miss the porch on the ocean side the most. Shaded, open, comfortable, so comfortable that I’m not sure I want to board the cruise ship.

By mid-morning, we are loaded. The drive into Honolulu is uneventful. We are dropped off at the ship terminal. Butch and Dan make the short drive back to the airport to return the rental van.

Our luggage was swooped away on a large flatbed cart. Betsy, Judy, Marian, and I find a bench. For several minutes we take in the mass of humanity that is before us. It is a study in amateur people watching. Some people are hustling. Others have a slower pace. Some are intense in their communication. A few have come decked out in their swimming attire. They are ready to be the first at the pool.

Butch and Dan return with no problems in the dropping the van off. Now, we are ready to wind our way through the check in process. We clear the security checks, and once we are fully on board, our first stop is our assigned safety station and our designated lifeboat.

With this behind us, we start our navigation of the ship to a dining room for lunch. We do a good job in following the layout of the ship, and within minutes we are seated with a slightly grumpy waitress working our table.

After lunch, we explore the ship some more, work our way to our rooms, make sure our luggage has arrived, and then we regroup by the pool.

Butch, Dan, and I navigate a stop at one the poolside bars. I’m wearing my old, well-worn, East Carolina University hat.

No sooner have we placed our order, and a guy on the other side of the bar becomes quite animated when he spots my hat. He too is wearing an East Carolina University hat. He wonders when I graduated. I have to explain to him that our youngest daughter earned her degree from East Carolina.

He continues to probe by asking where I’m from. When I tell him Richmond,Virginia, he immediately hopes that I had nothing to do with the removal of the Civil War statues on Monument Avenue. I make a comment to sidestep his inquiry because I’m not about to tangle verbally with a guy who already appears to be wound tight about Civil War statues.

In truth, I’m a bit nervous about shoving off at 7 p.m. I’ve never been out on the ocean in a huge ship. I’m hoping the ship and my body will encounter smooth sailing. I don’t want a barf bag to become my new best friend.

Speaking of new best friends, at some point during the afternoon, we met via the ship’s p.a. system our tour director for the cruise. Her name is Anne Marie, whenever she came on the p.a. she bellowed out a big “ A Lo Ha!” Her boisterous announcements were a nerve plucking for me.

Later in the afternoon, we figured out the timing of our dinner plans. We make it back to a dining room, and place our orders. As we were finishing up dinner, we could feel the first signs that the Norwegian Cruise Line ship the Pride of America was starting to move away from its berth.

Leaving the restaurant, we walked around on one of the decks. There we could clearly see a team of tugboats positioned at points along the ship to help get it underway.

The Honolulu Harbor was pretty with an assortment of lights reflecting off the dark water. I don’t know the timing of when we cleared the harbor.

I was excited about the exploring that awaited us, and so far, my tummy and equilibrium were cooperating. However, I knew that could change quickly out on the open Pacific.

I was ready for sleep knowing that Kahului on Maui would be waiting for us when we docked on Sunday morning at 8.

From April 23 – May 3, a lot of church people will be meeting in Charlotte, North Carolina.

These are United Methodist from around the world who are attending their General Conference of the United Methodist Church.

Perhaps, you know this conference is being held to attempt to sort out human sexuality as it pertains to gay clergy, same sex weddings, and how the church is positioned to work with LGBTQ communities.

I am a lifelong Methodist, and since 1972 our Book of Discipline has not allowed the ordination of gay ministers, nor for Methodist ministers to perform same sex marriages.

At the conference, I suspect the following will be in play: emotions will run high, Robert’s Rules of Order will be put to the test, and the Methodist motto: “open hearts, open minds, and open doors” might continue to be closed for people who are different.

For the last twelve years, I’ve had the privilege of working at the church where my family and I are members. In this work, and in my previous career in public education, I’ve come to realize that churches like schools are interesting places as they both center on working with people.

Maybe, you are aware that across America mainline denominations and their churches have seen a decline in attendance for several years. Clearly, the pandemic really punched churches, but in truth, churches were in trouble prior to the pandemic.

A January 2024 study by the Pew Research Center captured a portion of this decline. Their findings noted that the “religious ‘Nones’ are now the largest religiously unaffiliated cohort in America at 28%. The ‘Nones’ are larger than Catholics 23% and evangelical Protestants 24%.” I wonder how many of the ‘Nones’ are from the LGBTQ community, or individuals who didn’t grow up in the church, or who had an unpleasant church experience.

Before this issue of human sexuality smacked the United Methodist Church, Methodist churches across America were closing every year related to declining attendance shrinking budgets, and deteriorating buildings. Moving forward, I don’t think closings tied to these undeniable challenges are finished.

It is the potential closing of more church buildings that makes me pose this question—might churches benefit from participating in an accreditation process?

Schools, fire and police departments, other public agencies, non-profits, and some professions go through an accreditation process. I ask myself how many of the current challenges that church leaders and their congregations face could have been avoided or corrected with an accreditation process?

For example, a review related to programming, personnel, finances, facilities, outreach, and communication might form a basic core for assessing how a church and its congregation are performing. Church leaders and their congregations might be surprised at what they learn about their fiscal, physical, and spiritual, health in this process.

Personally, I believe fear and resistance to change have a significant impact on the thinking of church leaders and congregations.

If a church can’t let go of ineffective programs, fear can paralyze a congregation reducing any chance of making a needed change. Sadly, the inability to courageously make a change only ensures more church closings.

My college roommate, H. D. Sherrill, Jr. is a graduate of Duke Divinity School. During his career, Reverend Sherrill served with distinction at assignments in churches and local nonprofits. He is a very gifted storyteller.

Back in January, Reverend Sherrill shared a conversation he had with one of his grandsons. He wondered, if this grandson might be interested in learning how to become an acolyte.

When Reverend Sherrill asked his grandson if he had any interest, the grandson responded: “Pops, I’m not a churchy person.”

Reverend Sherrill accepted the honest answer.

A few weeks later, Reverend Sherrill noted that the not churchy grandson had completed an orientation for becoming an acolyte.

Curious, he asked his grandson why had participated in the acolyte orientation.

Reverend Sherrill received the best answer: “Pops, a person can change.”

When I consider the task at the General Conference related to human sexuality and the survival of churches who are hanging on by their fingernails, I think any chance of salvaging the future of the church depends upon our capacity to embrace change.

In her book, Factory Man, author, Beth Macy, wrote about John Bassett III and the challenges he faced in America’s furniture industry. I love this advice from Mr. Bassett related to change— “be willing to change and improve repeatedly.”

If the United Methodist Church has any hope in slowing their downward spiral, the church must be willing to change.

Failure to change guarantees two things: the ‘Nones’/not churchy people will grow, and more Methodist churches close.

In Charlotte, I’m hoping the hearts, minds, and doors will be open to change.

Author’s note: This piece was written before the conference took their historic vote to change.

Editor,

On the evening of Monday, April 8, the basketball season for the Purdue Boilermakers came to an end.

At some point that evening, in a quiet neighborhood in Summerfield, North Carolina, our son-in-law, a 1993 graduate of Purdue, realized that the basketball gods were not going to be kind to his team.

My introduction to basketball came in the fourth grade. I grew up in Burlington, North Carolina in the heart of the Atlantic Coast Conference. Sadly today, that conference, like the Big Ten bears no resemblance to their founding formation.

Unfortunately, money, lots of money has changed college basketball. That lure of money has altered the reasoning of players too.

Name, Image, and Likeness, the Transfer Portal, along with one and done players has eroded any concept of loyalty to the schools and teams where a player committed to play.

In his book, My Losing Season, Pat Conroy wrote: “There is no teacher more discriminating or transforming than loss. Loss invites reflection and reformulating and a change of strategies. Loss hurts and bleeds and aches.”

After being upset in the first round of the 2023 NCAA men’s basketball tournament, the Purdue Boilermakers could have chosen not to learn from that humiliating loss.

Yes, it would have been nice to win the national championship by defeating Connecticut on Monday night.

Yet, I believe the 2024 season was a triumph—a redemption, with valuable lessons learned for life about backbone, dedication, and resilience.
“Boiler up!” Purdue.

Author’s note: Back on April 9, 2024, the above letter was e-mailed to the editor of the Journal and Courier newspaper in Lafayette, Indiana. I was hopeful that the paper might run the letter, but as of today’s date, I’m reasonably sure the paper didn’t publish it. Truth be told, I wrote the letter with our son-in-law in mind as he is a 1993 graduate of Purdue. Thanks, Bill Pike

Back on March 18 and 19, 2024, Joe Vanderford and I taught a two-part class on Stevie Wonder for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Richmond.

On the evening of March 18, we screened the documentary the Summer of Soul.

Then on Tuesday morning, we offered a two-hour class with a focus on three of Stevie Wonder’s albums: Music Of My Mind, Talking Book, and Innervisions.

This was the seventh class that we have presented for Osher, and all of the classes have been linked to music.

Joe and I are lifelong friends. We grew up in Burlington, North Carolina, and quite a bit of our teenage years were spent listening to music, reading Rolling Stone, and occasionally attending a concert.

Our class format is to find a documentary that focuses on a band or an individual musician. We show the documentary the night before the class, and we use the film as the foundation for leading us into our presentation about the music created by the artist.

Clearly for Stevie Wonder, we had a deep catalog of options. But, we opted to target those three albums for a couple of reasons.

First, the transformation that was taking place with Stevie Wonder as a songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and singer was significant. He was rapidly moving past his early billing as Little Stevie Wonder.

Second, these three albums were the beginning of a significant creative run for Mr. Wonder. From 1971-1976, he released six influential albums. Each was a progression that captured his emerging independence and maturity as an artist.

During this period, Mr. Wonder’s skills in the studio were enhanced by his collaborations with Robert Margouleff and Malcolm Cecil. Known as Tonto’s Expanding Headband, these musicians were leaders in utilizing synthesizers and other keyboards to capture new sounds in the recording process.

Just as the documentary the Summer of Soul captures what is taking place in America socially and musically in 1969, Stevie Wonder begins using his music as a means to capture how he is feeling about the challenges America is facing too.

Our presentations are grounded in multiple layers of research.

The core of the research is usually tied to a biography or autobiography. For Stevie Wonder, we relied upon Mark Ribowsky’s: Signed, Sealed, Delivered—The Soulful Journey of Stevie Wonder. We supplemented our research with a dive into available materials on the web related to newspapers, periodicals, and writing from rock music critics and historians.

From this research, we develop a detailed, but compressed script to guide our presentation.

A Power Point is created from the script. In the Power Point, we work to align photographic content to match Mr. Wonder’s career time-line, performance videos, insightful quotes, and interviews that add perspective.

With this presentation, we found an informative interview from the Merv Griffin Show, stellar live performances with Tom Jones, “Blame It On The Sun,” and Ray Charles, “Living For The City,” Mr. Wonder’s eloquent acceptance speech into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and a humorous clip from Carpool Karaoke featuring Mr. Wonder and James Corden from the Late Late Show.

For both the screening and the class, we work to establish an easy, open atmosphere, welcoming insights and questions from students. The sharing of those insights and questions only serve to enhance the learning.

Joe describes the preparation for presenting an Osher class as “ dread, procrastination, and exhilaration.”

When we learn that our proposal for a class has been accepted, we experience a tinge of dread. This is because we know what we expect from each other to develop the best class we can offer.

But, before we work hard, we procrastinate. At some point, we jolt each other with phone calls and emails, and we acknowledge—the clock is ticking, we better get busy.

In that getting busy, we push each other, we debate, we question, we plunge deep into the research, we wrestle to find gentle compromise in culling content, and we practice the presentation.

As for the exhilaration, it humbly hits us when the class is over.

We are excited that despite the impact of dread and procrastination, we pulled off another class.

But from our perspective, the kindhearted applause and insightful feedback from the Osher members who took the class mean the world to Joe and me.

Joe heads back to Chapel Hill, and I return to Sweetbriar Road.

And at some point, we’ll wonder if we want to dread and procrastinate again.

I sense exhilaration might impact that decision.

It will take a few days, but eventually the Stevie Wonder songs that we featured in our class will stop playing in my old brain.

And while those songs will quietly drift away, I still think about the remarkable life of Stevie Wonder. His skills as a songwriter, singer, and multi-instrumentalist are well established. His recordings will stand the test of time. For Mr. Wonder’s songs capture life, they tug at our hearts, and they make us think.

In our research, we stumbled upon this Stevie Wonder quote: “Just because a man lacks the use of his eyes doesn’t mean he lacks vision.”

Mr. Wonder’s career showcases his vision—a vision that pushed boundaries in the recording studio, a vision to surround himself with very capable musicians in concert performances, and a vision to use his voice to address societal challenges.

Mr. Wonder’s unique vision parallels the vision of Bernard Osher who is responsible for the creation of the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute.

In 2000, Mr. Osher began to construct the template for the program.

By 2002, the foundation had issued its first two requests for proposals from the California State University and University of California systems. Now, across the United States, there are 125 Lifelong Learning Institutes with one in every state. (Bernard Osher Foundation)

The Lifelong Learning Institutes are established to provide: A diverse repertoire of intellectually stimulating, non-credit courses and educational activities, specifically designed for people who are 50 years of age or older. (Bernard Osher Foundation)

I’ll turn 71 in June.

As I continue to age, my internal voice tells me that I need to keep moving mentally and physically.

The Osher program at the University of Richmond does both for me.

Preparation to present a class is a rigorous mental journey. Joe and I are challenged to read and research a wide spectrum of materials. This stimulus guides us in assessing information and making decisions that lead us to the core development of our class.

The commitment to teach a class pushes me physically too.

At some point in the preparation, I make visits to the University of Richmond’s campus to seek technical assistance from students in the Learning Center.

These students are essential in ensuring that critical features for our Power Point meet the approval and whims of our unpredictable technology gods.

And yet, there is another physical part— the actual teaching of the class. This requires logistical coordination with the Osher staff. Learning the lecture hall where we present, understanding the dynamics of the room for lighting and sound, and then the most critical part—footwork. This helps a presenter to avoid podium lock by moving around the lecture hall during the presentation.

As you continue to age, you owe it to yourself to keep pushing your mental and physical capacities.

The Osher Institute of Lifelong Learning, can help you with that pursuit. If your community offers this program, I encourage you to do your homework and check it out.

Don’t dread making the inquiry.

Don’t procrastinate making a visit.

Because if you do, you are going to miss the exhilaration of finding a whole new world for yourself.

On the morning of Saturday, April 6, the Commander Supreme and I drove to Tuckahoe Middle School.

At nine, our granddaughter, Josie, a kindergarten student, and her teammates were scheduled to play a soccer game.

This soccer program is coordinated with the Tuckahoe YMCA. The large soccer field that sits between Ridge Elementary School and Tuckahoe Middle School is converted into six playing fields for soccer.

When we arrived, the teams were warming up. We met our daughter-in-law’s parents as they were walking toward the designated playing field. Kathryn’s parents were bundled up like they were going to watch the Packers and Lions at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

Despite a clear blue sky with bright sunshine, it was cold. Too cold for an April spring morning, in fact, this could have been an October morning.

At game time the temperature was 47 degrees, wind chill was 41 degrees, and the wind was coming out of the northwest at 14 miles per hour with gusts up to 23. Several times during the game, the wind let us know— March hasn’t left Virginia.

A strong gust harmlessly toppled over a goal. Hats were blown off. Priceless artwork from either Josie, or her sister, Ellie was jostled from a bag.

The March like wind zoomed the paper over the awakening Bermuda turf. By the time an observant spectator caught up with the artwork, it was at the edge of another playing field.

That stiff northwest wind pierced my lined fleece, and I wondered out loud—shouldn’t the roar of March be over by now? But, clearly, March still wanted to showcase its wild bellow.

Kathryn’s father reminisced about a soccer game that she had played in years ago in a monsoon. In that drenching, everyone was relieved when a stubborn referee finally called the game in the second half.

There was no way this chilly game was going to be called, but I was hoping that the clock was moving fast.

A few years ago, I attended the Virginia Annual Conference for the United Methodist Church in Roanoke. Outside the civic center, the weather was June perfect—not hot, nor humid. However inside the main hall, the HVAC system felt like it was blowing out cold air from the Arctic.

People sitting near me were wrapped in blankets and throws like they were sitting outside at a college football game in November. I assume this was a ploy by the preachers in charge to keep people awake during the slow parts of the program.

And, it worked. I never nodded off during the conference.

Gradually, the game came to an end. We learned in talking with Kathryn that the season doesn’t conclude until the last days of May. This meant we would have more opportunities to whine about the game time weather conditions.

As I turn older, I have come to realize that my ability to whine is getting worse.

Instead of whining about an unseasonably cool April morning, shouldn’t I be thankful for a granddaughter who can run up and down a soccer field without a care in the world?

At this moment, I imagine carefree soccer games are not a daily occurrence for children in Ukraine and Gaza. I wonder how many years it will be before soccer can be enjoyed again by children in these war torn countries?

I wonder what spring looks like in Ukraine and Gaza neighborhoods where buildings have been blown apart by bombs and rockets, or in fields that are armed with life changing land mines?

Recently, I participated in a small group gathering at our church. A person talked about being out of town for Easter. That didn’t stop her family from attending an Easter service at a Methodist church in the town where they were staying.

This person made an interesting comment about attending church away from home. In reflecting about the out of town worship experience, she focused on how it felt— “to be somewhere new.”

Based upon her comments about the worship service, I sensed the new environment was refreshing. She noted the pastor’s take on the transition from Good Friday to Easter morning was from a different angle.

I’ve thought quite a bit about “to be somewhere new.”

I wonder how many of the challenges we face in our daily living are grounded to our reluctance to try something new.

Preachers have the difficult task of trying to make Easter new during every season of Lent.

Sometimes, when we try something new, or we place ourselves in a new environment, work and life can go horribly wrong.

That happened to the seven aid workers from World Central Kitchen who were killed as they were attempting to deliver food to Palestinians in Gaza.

War, no matter the circumstances, is complicated and horrible. This mistaken, misidentified air strike by the Israeli military only reinforces how hellishly horrific war is. And it appears to me that our inability to get along with each other seems to always drag us down this unforgiving and conflicted path.

With our conflicts, incivility, and war, we need “to be somewhere new.” Our previous preventative diplomacy attempts and military posturing are not bringing us untroubled peace and stability.

I gradually warmed up from the chill of the soccer game. But, it took mowing our yard, and vacuuming out our two cars to heat my blood back up.

While October is my favorite month, I do love the bright splashes of colorful blooms that April supplies.

And I know that sooner or later, the leftover, cold, brisk winds from March will eventually settle down and leave April alone.

But for the winds of unrest that blow across our world, we are going to need help.

In Matthew Chapter 8, Jesus demonstrated his ability to calm the winds of a storm. If we expect to correct our current path, we need to find him again in these storms we are facing.

Which leads me to this question: Aren’t we overdue to find the means to work together to calm the storms that continue to plague us?

By 6:45 on the morning of Saturday, April 1, 2023, I was taking the short two block jog to the front drive of Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia.

A few years ago, the church mapped out a 5K course for a neighborhood run. This morning, I was going to follow that route to run the Give4GC5K, a fundraiser for the Greensboro College Athletic Department.

It was a balmy 65 degrees in Richmond, gray sky, a few raindrops, and a lingering March wind gusting up to 30 mph. My old sack of bones made it to the start line at Trinity. I checked my watch, hit the start button, and I was off like an Eastern box turtle.

This 5K course is a pretty one. It rolls through the neighborhoods of Rollingwood, College Hills, and Westham. The route is a mixture of flat stretches, gentle inclines, and a couple of steep hills for your heart.

Our home is in Rollingwood, and lots of the miles on my running shoes come from these quiet streets.

Along the way, I can see spring. Yellow pollen powder lays on the surface of rain puddles. Red buds, dogwoods, forsythia, and azaleas are at various stages of blooming. Their colors make a splash on the backdrop of this overcast morning. That gusty wind sways and whirls tree limbs.

I know that someday in the future, my body will tell me, “Hey, Bill, we can’t take you out for a run anymore. You’ve worn us down, we can no longer support your slug pace.”

That will be a sad day for me because going out for a run is an escape. My runs are an opportunity to take in the neighborhood and its seasonal changes, and I can also daydream and reflect.

Over the years, I’ve determined that I had no business being admitted into Greensboro College. I was a horrible high school student. Yet, somehow, Don Gumm, who was the youth director at Davis Street Methodist Church in Burlington, convinced the admission director to gamble on a worthless high school senior.
Miraculously, I graduated in four years with the class of 1975. I’m sure the English Department: “Magical” Mary Ann Wimsatt, Ed “Charlestonian” Coleman, “Gentle Ben” Wilson, and John “Willie Shakespeare” Long praised the good Lord that I was gone when I received my diploma.

It was Greensboro College that prepared me for a thirty-one year career in public education in Virginia. I was a classroom teacher, a coach, an assistant principal, and principal during my tenure. Those experiences kept me tied to education after my retirement too.

Greensboro College has assisted me with something even better. This is where I met my wife of forty eight years, Betsy Cloud, and made lifetime friends: Steve Boone, Dan Callow, Steve Hodge, Doug Kinney, and Butch Sherrill. I would not trade anything for my wife and our cherished friends.

Since our graduation in 1975, at least once a year and sometimes twice, those friends, our spouses, significant others, and our children have gathered in our homes and assorted locations for fun, fellowship, and mental journeys back to Greensboro College.

I will never understand the gravity that pulled four tar heels, a Marylander, and a Floridian together for life, but I would not exchange our friendships for anything in this world.

In the Apple TV show Shrinking, Dr. Paul Rhodes, portrayed by Harrison Ford, said to a patient: “No one goes through life unscathed.” Those words hold true for the lives of my pals and me, but in those tough life moments, our hearts are always there for each other.

Back out on the 5K course, I’m about to cross Westham Parkway, and then I have a long flat section down Brookside. When I was a lot younger, I could have sprinted down Brookside to Baldwin, but not anymore—I’m the steady box turtle.

Right turn on Baldwin, left turn on Stuart Hall, cross the creek, and head up the hill to the finish line. I cross the imaginary line and hit the stop button on my watch. When I peer at the time, I cringe— 34:06. My 5K spring chicken days are done.

Good Lord willing maybe I’ll make it to next spring. And if Greensboro College offers the 5K again, I might just show up to run it in Greensboro, and who knows I might be able to persuade Steve, Dan, Steve, Doug, and Butch to show up too.

Author’s note: This baloney was sent to Greensboro College in April 2023. I’m told it was enthusiastically received. The plan was for the piece to be published in one of the school’s publications. To my knowledge, as of today’s date, Thursday, April 11, 2024, the reflection hasn’t been published. Due to personnel changes, it was lost, and forgotten. I was asked to resend it, and I did. If they decide to use the baloney, that’s fine, and if not, I’m ok. Please do not attempt to post the piece on any of the college’s social media. Thanks, Bill Pike

A few years ago, our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, gave us Amazon’s Alexa as a gift.

According to Wikipedia, Alexa is described as virtual assistant technology largely based on a Polish speech synthesizer.

I do not have the gray matter to comprehend the internal workings of this technology.

A precisely cut piece of marble sitting atop an antique storage cabinet is where Alexa sits in our eat-in kitchen.

I love being able to say to Alexa, play “When The Sun Sets On The Sage” by Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen. And in a matter of seconds, the song is playing.

That’s how I stumbled upon a recording of a song by Alison Krauss and James Taylor—titled “How’s The World Treating You?”

The song was written in 1952 by Chet Atkins and Boudleaux ( pronounced Bood Low) Bryant.

The recording by Alison Krauss and James Taylor appeared on the 2003 tribute album—
Livin’, Lovin’, Losin’: Songs of the Louvin Brothers.

The Louvin Brothers were an American duo who from the mid-fifties into the early sixties were known in country music for their tight harmonies. The brothers, Ira and Charlie, were very successful until Ira’s death in 1965.

In 2004, this tribute album won two Grammy awards, including Best Country Collaboration with Vocals for Alison Krauss and James Taylor.

The song is a classic country tear-jerker about the end of a broken romance.

Lyrically, the writer captures the brokenhearted feelings with lines like: “I’ve had nothing, but sorrow, there’s no hope for tomorrow, every sweet thing that mattered has been broken in two, how’s the world treating you?”

With the madness of March and the NCAA men’s and women’s basketball tournament, I imagine some fans feel “nothing, but sorrow, no hope for tomorrow, and have been left brokenhearted,” when their favorite team was beaten in the tournament.

Clearly, these discouraged fans probably feel like the world is not treating them too well.
And yet, the song’s title, “How’s the world treating you?” is relevant for people who have been punched hard by life.

How is life treating the families of the construction workers who fell into the cold waters of the Patapsco River when the Key Bridge collapsed after being pummeled by a massive container ship?

How is life treating the families of a Texas school bus that was carrying Pre-K students when it was hit by a cement truck. The crash injured 51 and killed two. The students were returning from a field trip to a Texas zoo. Sadly, the driver’s confessed use of marijuana, cocaine, and lack of sleep contributed to the accident.

How is life treating the families of the loved ones who were killed and injured in the terrorist attack that took place at a concert in Moscow?

How is the world treating the family where Alzheimer’s disease has pushed a loved one into Hospice care?

How is the world treating the person who can’t find a ray of hope in any daylight as depression continues to wear this silent soul down?

Clearly, how the world treated my NCAA bracket is nothing in comparison to the brokenness that people experience any place in the world twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

Proverbs Chapter 18, verse 14 reads: “The human spirit will endure sickness; but a broken spirit—who can bear?

I suppose I could ask Alexa who is responsible to help mend broken human spirits?

Maybe, Ed Sykes would be her answer.

For several weeks, I’ve been reading the book, The Patch and The Stream Where The American Fell.

This book was written by former United States Air Force Fighter Pilot, Ed Sykes. While flying a fighter jet during the Vietnam War, Lt. Sykes experienced the multiple challenges of wartime trauma. This included the loss of his roommate whose jet was shot down while completing a bombing mission.

Forty years later, and still haunted by the death of his friend, Lt. Sykes made a commitment to recover his roommate’s remains from the Laotian terrain where the jet crashed.

Sykes, with devotion and support from his roommate’s family, led the diplomatic and personal effort to recover Dave Dinan’s remains. He held firm to “Leave No Man Behind.”

Everyday, we encounter people who the world has left behind.

As best we can, with gentle, sincere kindness, we need to let these people know that while not experts in providing counseling or therapy, that you, me, we, us do care.

And maybe our caring includes hanging on to this wisdom from playwright, Eugene O’Neill: “Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue.”

Let’s get this over—I struggle with Easter.

And if I’m not seen as much of a Christian because of my honesty about Easter, I understand.

My struggle is— I can’t figure out how a good man, in this case, Jesus, could be condemned and crucified on the cross for teaching people how to live a life grounded in love.

It is hard for me to consider celebrating the resurrection of Jesus when I don’t think he deserved to die.

Did he commit a murder?

Was he a thief?

Was he a liar?

Was he a fraud?

Was he evil?

No.

Seems to me that irrational, fear driven minds wanted Jesus condemned and crucified. The truth didn’t matter.

In James H. Cone’s book, The Cross And The Lynching Tree, he quotes Dr. Martin Luther King, and a comment he made after the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Dr. King told his wife: “This is what is going to happen to me also. I keep telling you this is such a sick society.”

Sadly, the sickness of our society has not gone away.

During March, the NCAA men’s and women’s basketball tournament generates lots of excitement across America. In the final seconds of an intense game, unexpected upsets can destroy a fan’s carefully constructed bracket. .

And unfortunately, for a team who earns a berth in the tournament, they can have their excitement disrupted by individuals who take pleasure in being disrespectful, hateful, and unkind.

On the evening of Thursday, March 21, as the University of Utah’s women’s basketball team was walking to dinner in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho “someone in a pickup truck displaying a confederate flag, yelled racial slurs, and revved the engine in a menacing way,” toward the team. (NBC, ABC, NPR, CNN)

Regrettably, this is another example of our “sick society.”

Bonnie Raitt is a gifted singer, songwriter, and guitarist. Perhaps, you have heard her Grammy winning song, “Just Like That.”

The song was inspired by a news story that Raitt had seen. A mother had donated the organs from her deceased child to help others. Because of this act of kindness, this courageous mother was able to meet the man who received her child’s heart.

Touched by the emotion of this meeting, Raitt wrote the beautiful song, “Just Like That.” I will admit, this is a song that makes tears well up in my old, weary eyes.

I am drawn to the song’s compelling lyrics, especially this line: “They say Jesus brings you peace and grace, well, he ain’t found me yet.”

In our “sick society,” we seemingly have many people who haven’t found Jesus, and his peace and grace. And truth be told, I have days when I wonder if I have his peace and grace.

As defeated as Jesus felt as he trudged toward his death on the cross, I can only imagine how he feels when he looks down on our “sick society.”

I have discouraging days too. Days, when I feel like giving up on scripture reading, pondering a devotional, and praying. On those days, I feel like the devil is a half step behind me.

And yet, something nudges me at the start of a new day to continue to read scripture, ponder a devotional, and pray.

My college roommate, H. D. Sherrill, Jr. is a graduate of Duke Divinity School. During his career, Reverend Sherrill had a variety of assignments in churches and local nonprofits. He is a very gifted storyteller.

Back in January, he shared a story, a conversation with one of his four grandsons. Reverend Sherrill wondered if this grandson might be interested in learning how to become an acolyte.

When he asked if the grandson had any interest, the grandson responded: “Pops, I’m not a churchy person.”

Reverend Sherrill accepted the honest answer.

A few weeks later, Reverend Sherrill noted that the not very churchy grandson was in the acolyte training class.

Curious, he asked his grandson why had he signed up for the class?

Reverend Sherrill received the best answer: “Pops, a person can change.”

Bonnie Raitt affirmed that in her song with this line: “And just like that your life can change.”

And even though as a so called Christian, I struggle with Easter, I will hold on to verse 21 of Romans 12: “Don’t be defeated by evil, but defeat evil with good.”

Happy Easter, love you all, Bill Pike