California Day 15: A Mad Dash To LAX

img_1755  Monday, August 20, 2018

Well, we were packed; and ready for our day of flying back to Richmond.

Abby was going to drive us to the Flyway in Van Nuys. There we would take a bus into the madness at LAX.

Art was leaving for work, and we were able to say goodbye and thank him for all of his hospitality.

Seemed like it was going to be another quiet, warm day out here in the high desert. The sun was just about finished casting its early morning shadows as it continued to rise. Our pace was calm, we made last minute checks of our bags and the room where stayed, and then a text arrived on Betsy’s phone.

The airline was notifying her that our flight had been canceled.

Instantly, this tranquil California morning became chaos. The Flyway bus plan was tossed. Abby was going to drive us to LAX. We quickly moved about the house, grabbing our bags, and backpacks and hustled them and us into the car. Clearly, this was going to be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Abby worked her way through the twisting canyon road, and in minutes she had us out on the highway. The pace and progress was good along this long route. We had no delays, no slight pauses, we were always moving. Even when we connected with the larger freeways we were optimistic that getting to LAX and meeting the departure requirements was going to work.

Abby kept her focus, choosing the correct lanes, making the right moves. In a few spots, we slowed a bit, but we kept moving. Soon, we were approaching the exit for LAX.

Amazingly, we made it off the freeway, onto the main street heading to the airport, and then it grabbed us. 

Our luck changed. The luck that had escorted us from Agua Dulce to the LAX exit vanished. That luck disappeared like jet wash on a runway. It was gone with no intention of returning. We were stuck, stopped, frozen, immobile. Even when a stoplight changed, we didn’t move, not an inch.

All hope was gone. No miracles were to be found.

Tension inside our car could have ruptured a pressure relief valve on any type of pipeline. I could picture a newspaper headline in my mind— Church Employee From Virginia Arrested After His Meltdown In Stalled LAX Traffic.

Gradually, we started to move. But, the movement would not register on the speedometer. We moved at slug pace.  I suspect a sure-footed turtle on a sidewalk with a good GPS would beat us to our departing terminal.

Even when there was movement, it was short-lived. Lanes of traffic had to converge into the airport’s travel lanes. At one stalled point, I briefly got out of the car to look ahead. That scan only brought more discouragement as I saw no hope.

Somehow, we continue to creep forward, and we reach the point of the log jam, and at that moment, I almost had that meltdown.

I have a deep respect for police officers. In my previous life as a school administrator, I worked with many police officers who were always of great assistance to me no matter how difficult the circumstances.

Right at this critical merge of irate drivers and their passengers sat three LA police officers on their motorcycles. That’s correct, they were perched on top of their motorcycles taking in this scene not even contemplating an attempt to sort out this mess by directing traffic.

I couldn’t believe it. So, I used really bad juvenile adult judgment. As we drove by the officers, I rolled down my window.  I shouted out, “Thanks a lot!” One of them heard me as he looked in my direction. 

At that point, I thought Abby was going reach into the back seat and grab me by the throat, but luckily for me she still had to drive the car.

Abby got us to our terminal. We made sure we had everything out of the car, said our goodbyes, and hustled into the madness of trying to get on a flight back to Richmond.

Gradually, the luck returned. The airline booked us on another flight. We had a bit of a wait in an overly crowded terminal. 

Eventually, the opportunity to board the plane started. The flight was packed. We taxied away from the terminal. The pilot waited for permission from the air traffic controllers to depart. A flurry of activity continued around us. Planes were landing, taking off, and poking along on tarmacs.  I’m not sure an airport is ever motionless.

Our clearance came. The pilot goosed those massive engines and all that power lifted this big bird up. He made a wide turn and for several minutes we were out over the Pacific. I could see its magnificent blue surface shined and polished by a sparkling sun. 

The plane continued to climb and turn. Soon the Pacific blue was gone. 

But, once again, California had done its duty. 

California and all its charms had etched into me more memories. Memories that I will hold and cherish until the good Lord has had enough of me.




Our next door neighbor, George, is 87. 

Just before Christmas, George hit a bad streak.

One afternoon, he described to me being run off a busy road by an aggressive driver. George’s car was damaged, but he had the car repaired and made no police or insurance report. All of this commotion happened too quick for him to process. I sense the events of that encounter lie in a state of confusion in his mind.

Then on the afternoon of Saturday, December 22, we were  hosting an engagement party for our youngest daughter and her fiancee. I don’t remember who, but someone at the party caught my attention and told me I was needed next door.

So, I walk over to George’s house. His old Ford station wagon is on the back of a tow truck. Our neighbor in all of his tall, lanky self sees me and starts telling me what has transpired.

It takes some doing, but we are able to get his other car out of the driveway, and the tow truck driver is able to back the wrecked wagon into the driveway.

Another neighbor, Barbara, is walking to our house for the party, and she stops to assist me in getting George settled and back into his house. A plate of food arrives from the party, we ask George for his assurance that he will eat, get some rest, and worry about sorting this all out on Sunday.

Of course, his stubborn mind doesn’t work that way, but at least we said it.

On Sunday morning, December 23, I have returned to our home  from opening up our church. The phone rings. It is George. He tells me he is having chest pains. He wants me to drive him to the hospital.

I make arrangements to do this.

Slowly, we make it out of his house and into my car.

The drive to the hospital is short. Immediately, the staff at the emergency room entrance respond to George because of the words—“chest pain.”

George has three children. I contact the daughter who we have worked with before in previous health situations. She makes arrangements to drive to Richmond.

Back in the Emergency Room, lots of questions are being asked and tests are scheduled.

Eventually, George is transferred to a room. His daughter is in route. By noon, I’m heading back home and to church.

George stays in the hospital through Christmas. I go to visit him the day after Christmas. Tomorrow, Thursday, I’m driving my 90 year old mother-in-law back home to Connecticut.

I walk into George’s hospital room. His mind is a restless whirlwind.

Apparently, the chest pain was accident related—chest hitting the steering wheel.

He wants to go home. 

The doctor wants him to do six days of rehab in a local facility. George is fighting this. A few years ago, he had a not so good experience at a rehab facility after cracking some ribs from a fall. Despite the disorganization in his mind, George hasn’t forgotten this experience.

From the soundtrack to the movie Midnight Cowboy, singer/songwriter, Harry Nilsson, had a hit record with his recording of the Fred Neil song—“Everybody’s Talking”. I feel like a line of lyric from that song characterizes George at this stage of his life:  “Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

His daughter, the doctor, the nurses, friends from the neighborhood, everyone is talking at him, trying to gently persuade him that six days of rehab would be good. But, George isn’t buying this. He only hears the echoes in his mind of the not so pleasant experience from the previous rehab stint.

Somewhere inside of me, I sense that fear can drive stubbornness. George fears six days of rehab, so he becomes more obstinate, head-strong, difficult. 

Before, I leave George, his daughter and another friendly neighbor arrive. I encourage George to be compliant. I take his hand and offer a parting prayer.

“Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

Fear continues to drive his stubbornness. 

Internally, he has made his decision. While driving my mother-in-law back to Connecticut, George takes matters in his own hands. He gets dressed and walks out of the hospital.

It is raining. A police officer spots him, stops, picks him up,  and drives him home.

Stubbornness wins. Love and its common sense fail. 

I love our neighbor, George. 

Fear fuels every ounce of his stubbornness.

And that dogged, determination to remain at home, to hold on to the last ounce of his independence is not going to be instantly tripped up by the love of his family and neighbors. 

“Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

My hope for George is that with time, his hearing aids will allow him to truly hear. 

That will take lots of love to wear him down. 

Love grounded in patience and with a gentle energy that is just as strong as his unbending balkiness.

Psalm 56:3 states:  “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

George and those of us around him need to find that trust.

Goodbye Mammoth Lakes, Back To Agua Dulce by Bill Pike

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Somehow, the items we brought with us are packed up and back in the cars. 

The pleasant, cool early morning temperatures will be missed. Heat and humidity are still hanging around in Richmond awaiting our return.

Heading out to the highway the familiar town landmarks are fading out of view.

 I hope Mammoth Lakes and the whole state of California and other parched areas in the western parts of the United States receive rain or lots of winter snows. It is mighty, mighty dry out here. So dry that it feels like even a harsh, misplaced word could spark the start of a fire.

All along the drive back home, I’m reminded of the landscape. As I have stated before, no matter the direction I look there is a view that captures my attention. I hope we will have another opportunity to visit the Eastern Sierras. 

img_1741As we work our way south, the landscape continues to change. Nothing like this back home.

img_1742We stop in Lone Pine to charge up the car’s batteries. In fact, the charging station is in the back parking lot of the Lone Pine Film History Museum. Recharging doesn’t take long.


img_1743While waiting, I take some photos of the Trails Motel. A friend back in Richmond at one time had family ties to this place. It appears to be well maintained and holding its own.

With the charging complete, Art has us back on the road.  

Somewhere well south of Lone Pine, we can see this black plume of smoke. As we come upon this extensive plot of wind turbines, we can see that one of those wind turbines is on fire. It is burning up. There is no indication that anyone is concerned.

This ride back to Agua Dulce featured another opportunity to learn about an excursion Art took with a friend. They hitch hiked across America. Art is a lot braver than me, and that was a long, long time ago. In the craziness and uncertainty of our world today, hitch hiking appears to have lost a bit of its allure.

Gradually, we make it back to the house. Lucy has been picked up and is back ruling the roost. 

It is a lazy afternoon.

Later, we take a short ride into Agua Dulce for dinner at the Maria Bonita Mexican Restaurant. I’ve never had a bad meal at this place—good, good Mexican food creations.

After dinner, Betsy and I do a final check of our luggage prep. 

Hard to believe we’re heading home tomorrow.

California Day 13: Back To Crowley Lake by Bill Pike

California Day 13: Back To Crowley Lake by Bill Pike 8/18/18

I’ll admit it, my heart wasn’t really up for going back to fish Crowley Lake this morning. I was worried about embarrassing Art again with my imperfect fly rod skills. 

But, like they say when you lose your balance and fall as you attempt to learn to ride a bike, you have to get off the ground and get back on the bike for another try.

So, I’m tagging along for another try at Crowley.

We make the drive, park the car, make the short walk down to the dock, and start prepping the boat. I’m reminded of the humor from the dock attendant on Thursday. I’m sure I could be a good target for some comedy with my angling skills. That thought makes me chuckle.

img_1716It doesn’t take long as the boat engine fires, and Art has us creeping out of the harbor.

We’re heading back to the same general spot that we fished on Thursday.

Other fisherman are in the area as Art positions the boat and drops the anchors.

With the rods rigged, we start to work. It is another pretty morning, and I’m just hoping I don’t repeat Thursday’s performance.

For a long period of time, we work the water, but no bumps for either of us.

Hearts of fishermen are constructed differently. They hold on longer with hope. Hope that a fish will be drawn to the bait, lure, or fly at the end of the fishing line.

I think at this point, my hope is beginning to fade. It is quiet on the water—not much action around us.

But that suddenly changes.

Art has a tug on his line. This is not just a teaser, a real tug. The rod is bent.

He can feel the weight of the fish. Excitement is rushing through his veins. The fish is making his presence known. 

And then a funny thing happens. The fish starts to work his way around the boat.  

And then a real act of heartfelt courage occurs, Art hands the rod to me.

Now the pressure is on, I can feel this fish, I have seen him break the surface, if I lose this fish, I’ll be banned from fishing in California and maybe the rest of the world.

Thankfully, Art is coaching me as I work the fish around the boat. My ears are working taking in the recommendations from Art. 

The fish is fighting. Hoping that I will make a bad move. 

Art keeps up the coaching, he is ready to land the fish with his net in hand. Gradually, the fish tires,  and I work him toward the side of the boat where Art is waiting.

Gently, he positions the net under the fish, and we have him. 

img_1724It is a beautiful brown trout.

I’m thankful that I didn’t lose this fish. Photos are snapped, and then Art gently releases the brownie back into the lake.

Art quickly reworks the line, and he puts me in his position at the back of the boat.

I cast out the line, no disaster occurs. The indicator is properly positioned on the line and from what I can tell in the water.

Within a matter of minutes, my line is bumped. The indicator sinks, and I react by hopefully setting the hook.

Sure enough, the fishing gods at Crowley are with me. I have another good sized trout on the line.

Art’s coaching begins. The fish is tugging, attempting to rid itself of this fake bait, hook, and plastic line.

Whatever move the fish makes, Art, from his experiences tells me how to counter the fish.

img_1725Again, the skills of the coach prevail. Art is positioned with the net, and he lands a rainbow trout. The trout is probably equal in size to the previous brown trout.  

I feel extremely lucky to have caught back to back really nice trout. But, what really humbled me during this excitement was the willingness of Art to give up the rod on that first fish. His big heart afforded me that experience, and I will hold on to his kind sacrifice and hospitality for a long time.

We fished a bit longer, but the trout were taking a break. Pretty soon, we pulled up the anchors and headed back to the marina.

The trout success was a hot topic when we arrived back at the condo. But that was short lived as we made arrangements to drive out to McCleod Lake for a short hike.

Once again, we are blessed with another spectacular day. Lots of people are out enjoying this nice weather and all that Mammoth has to offer in the Eastern Sierras.

img_1734As we start the hike, we can see the impact of the carbon monoxide seepage as lots of once healthy trees are now bare, weather worn, skeletons. But what really catches my eyes on this hike is how clear the lake water appears.

img_1726Also, as we work the perimeter of the lake, people are scattered along in places enjoying what nature has carved out for them in this spot. No matter the activity, people seem happy and content in this beautiful setting.

The trail taps out at little over 1.5 miles. Even at a leisurely pace and with one extended stop, it doesn’t take long for us to finish the loop.

We head back into town with the hope of having lunch at Mammoth Brewing, but it is packed and there are deep lines of hungry and thirsty people.

So we take a short walk up the street for lunch at Toomey’s.  Around since 2012, Toomey’s is a favorite of locals, and its chef/owner is known for developing and showcasing his culinary skills at of all places a Mobil gas station near the entranceway into Yosemite National Park. We grab a table outside, and place  our orders.

After lunch, it is time to explore a new nano brewery in town named Black Doubt. Tucked into a tiny storefront in a shopping center, this compact brewery offers quite a punch with a variety of styles for the beer lover.  

The remainder of the afternoon was quiet. Eventually, we ended up at the pool and another stay in the jacuzzi. 

We ordered some local pizza for dinner, and tried not to think about the packing up and the drive back to Agua Dulce on Sunday morning.

I thought about the start of this last day. I was reluctant to make the fishing trip to Crowley, but look what happened. 

Thanks to Art’s kind and unselfish heart, I now have two memorable trout stories to hang on to for as long as my old heart beats.

 But what I’m really thankful for is the love, friendship, and hospitality that Abby and Art always grace us with when we make this California trip.

Someday, I’ll be too old to make this trip, and that will be sad. But hopefully, my mind will still afford me the opportunity to daydream, and replay every step, every cast, every panoramic view, and every shared laugh.


This Coupon Has No Exclusions by Bill Pike

On Sunday, December 30, 2018, I had the privilege of speaking at all three worship services at Trinity United Methodist Church located at 903 Forest Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. The coupon graphic was created by communications specialist, Kim Johnson.

This Coupon Has No Exclusions by Bill Pike

Before we start, please join me in prayer:  Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us here this morning. Over the course of the next few minutes, slow us down, focus us, and open our hearts. In your name we pray, Amen.

Most pastors with an ounce of common sense know that for the Sunday between Christmas and the New Year, it is a good idea to book a naive, unsuspecting speaker.

 Thus, my appearance this morning, so, let’s get started.

Well, it is over. 

The hustle and bustle are gone.

 I can relax now. 

Pretty soon the remnants of Christmas will be shoved back into our attic. Forgotten until next December arrives. 

I can stop being Mr. Scrooge, the Grinch, and the despiser of all things glitter.

 Now wait a second, I know what you are thinking. 

Come on, go ahead admit it, grab your gumption, and tell me your thoughts: 

 “ Bill, how can this be? You are the snarky Scrooge, the grumpy Grinch, and Mr. Anti-Glitter all of the time, not just at Christmas.”

Well, I appreciate the courage of your constructive criticism. 

Your assessment is true. 

In fact, if it wasn’t for my wife, the Commander Supreme, there would be no Christmas at our house. 

The decorating, the Christmas cards, the gift buying, present wrapping, the baking, the meal planning, holiday personality management, and all logistics for the family are thankfully under her eagle eyes.  

When I finally decide to shop for Christmas, I’m always last minute.

I head out into the chaos, but I am not fearful. I have a secret weapon, coupons. 

Snuggly tucked into my worn wallet, I’m loaded with an assortment of coupons. 

Coupons that I have neatly cut out from the newspaper. Coupons that are going to get me the best deal ever.

Inside the store, I find the gift on my list. 

I walk to the check out line. My turn arrives. 

I hand the weary cashier my purchase and the appropriate coupon. 

The cashier scans the price tag, scans the coupon, and then politely tells me, “Sir, I’m sorry, this coupon doesn’t apply. The manufacturer excludes the item you are purchasing.”

Now, inside, I’m raging. I’m close to a nuclear meltdown.

Sherwin Williams could add a new hue to their paint chart:

Christmas Coupon Failure Red

 I should have  known better. Read the fine print.

With the spirit of Scrooge, the Grinch, and Mr. Anti-Glitter, I make the purchase. 

So much for a good deal.

But speaking of good deals, I have one for you. 

Relax, there are no exclusions, no fine print. Check out the front of this morning’s bulletin:



 Colossians is the twelfth book of the New Testament. It was written by the apostle Paul while he was in prison. 

The letter is written to the people of Co – los  – sae, a town smaller than a postage stamp, but where Paul had sent E-pa-phras to preach there in a new church. 

Gradually, word trickles back to Paul that all is not well with the new church start. 

A group of “false teachers” who claim to have expertise of divine matters are leading this young congregation astray. Paul sends this letter as a course correction for them.

Bible scholars break the book of Colossians into two parts: “the doctrinal section and the practical exhortations.” (May, Metzger, New Oxford Annotated Bible RSV 1973)

It is the practical application of these six verses that we need to ponder. 

These are words of encouragement from Paul, but some might suggest that Paul is giving the Colossians a not so gentle warning too.

I had no idea that Paul had expertise in fashion, but he clearly suggests that we need to clothe ourselves in compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.

And a little further along, Paul makes another clothing recommendation by stating:  “Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love.

Where are those words in my daily living? 

Where can I find them in me?

How can I apply them to those I encounter?

Why should Paul need to send me a letter reminding me that as a Christian those words should be an expected part of my daily living?

Why is it challenge for me to be compassionate and kind, while  being grounded in humility and meekness?

Where is my patience?

 Where is my love for people who are not like me, for people who I don’t understand, for people who have no reason at all to have hope?

Perhaps, in my daily living, I’m no better than that coupon full of exclusions.

If you, me, we, us are truly Christians how can compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love be buried in our fine print with an asterisk that reads:

*Oh, by the way if you are homeless, a substance abuser, a person with special needs, someone who is emotionally unstable, a refugee, someone who is traumatized, unemployed, temporarily lost, etc.—These exclusions apply: I have no compassion, no kindness, no humility, no meekness, no patience, and no love for you.

In the eight year run of the Andy Griffith Show, the producers only did one Christmas show. It was the eleventh episode in the series, and the show aired on December 19, 1960, the first year the award winning show was on television.

Bill, that was 58 years ago, how could a Hollywood script from that long ago have any relevance today?

Well, at one point early in this show, Sheriff Taylor with great determination states:  “No by dogged, there’s more than one way to pluck a buzzard.”

In this case, Sheriff Taylor was referring to Ben Weaver a local merchant who is being a buzzard behaving like a very mean spirited Scrooge on Christmas Eve.

But as is often the case in Mayberry, Ben Weaver is transformed by the townspeople who gradually wear him down with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love. 

Sometimes, I’m like Ben Weaver. 

I’m a buzzard. I need to be plucked.

I need to hear and embrace Paul’s words of encouragement. 

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love should always be a regular focus for me. Paul’s words should not be in my rear view mirror, nor should they be on the outskirts of my field of vision.

While it is important not to lose sight of those reminders, I know and you know the expectation from Paul and his boss—  as teammates we must make those words action words, not excluded or restricted words.

Back in August, I received an out of the blue nudge from God. He blindsided me, but it was a gentle blindside. 

Has God ever done that to you?

For some reason, I think God enjoys blindsiding me. I have lots of examples to prove this to you. That snowstorm on December 9 would be a case in point.

But this August nudge was to apply to fill out a term on the Henrico County School Board for the Tuckahoe District.

I did not expect to be selected.

Deep inside, I thought to myself, ok God, I think I understand your nudge—it is quite clear that you are attempting to kill me with this appointment.

Deep inside, my friends were thinking the same thing. While they were quick to congratulate me, they were also silently giving me their condolences.

So far, the learning curve for me on the School Board has been steep. Somedays my pulse is barely detectable, but I’m hanging on.

One night I was driving back from a school board meeting. I was on 64 west coming up on the 95 merge. The words on this billboard caught my eye.

It was an advertisement from the United States Marine Corps, the words were very simple:

“Battles are won within.”

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love are  battles fought within ourselves.

Paul knew that.

 God knows that.

 I wrestle every day with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love.

Remember, I’m a buzzard. I need to be plucked.

“Battles are won within.”

There are other strong words found in these verses from Colossians. We can’t gloss over:  forgive, harmony, peace, hearts, teach, wisdom, and thanks.

At age 65, I still have much to learn, and there are clearly times when I need to revisit lessons that I have been taught from an early age. There was so much wisdom around me in my younger days, I wish my heart had been a better sponge absorbing that advice.

I wonder about my heart a lot. 

While I exercise to keep my physical heart in shape,

 I wonder about my emotional heart.

Does my emotional heart have the capacity to forgive?

 Are harmony and peace in my heart somewhere?

 Is my heart truly thankful for my blessings?

Can my heart love people who are not like me?

Paul’s message to the Colossians was designed to make them think. He did not want them to miss opportunities to transform themselves, or the people they encountered on a daily basis.

Perhaps you noticed during Advent that we asked children to be scripture readers during our Sunday services.

Having children as readers broke a predictable part of our Sunday morning worship. Their voices made us listen more intently to the scripture readings.

Why was this?

Perhaps,  children are more capable of leading us to embrace Paul’s advice to the Colossians.

Maybe, children know more than we suspect about winning battles from within.

American singer, songwriter, Brian Wilson has fought a lot of battles from within. Wilson’s emotional stability, the expectations of his Beach Boys’ family, and challenges with substance abuse are well documented.

I might guess that many of you have not heard a Beach Boys’ song titled “Surf’s Up.” That song is a clear departure from the California lifestyle captured in the Beach Boys’ early recordings.

Just as Paul, references “perfect harmony, with gratitude in our hearts through our songs and praise,” to the Colossians, the closing tag of the song “Surf’s Up” is a swirl of harmony as well with one key line of lyric:

“I heard the word, a wonderful thing, a children’s song, have you listened as they played, their song is love, and the children know the way.” (Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks)

One more time—“Their song is love, and the children know the way.”

Friday afternoon, I was on Amtrak train #95. We were stopped in Ashland. After passengers had loaded and departed at this stop, the train started to slowly pull out of the town dubbed the “center of the universe.” 

I noted Christmas lights decorating the station building, and one strand of lights on a section of fencing caught my eye. The lights framed the word— Love.

Folks as we prepare to depart 2018 and board 2019, don’t be like me and toss Christmas back into your attic.

Don’t be like me, a buzzard looking to pluck the best deals in life by putting my hope in coupons that exclude and restrict.

No, if you really want to win that battle within yourself, then choose Paul’s letter to the Colossians, Chapter 3, verses 12-17.

That is best coupon for your wallet or purse. 

There are no exclusions, no expiration, and it is available for all.

None of us will have immunity from battles in 2019.

But, we can be better prepared if we ground ourselves with Paul’s wisdom, and that one key word—love.

That love was found in a manger, a long, long, long time ago.

That child has tried to teach us about love.

When it comes to love, I think my heart has been letting him down.

How about yours?

Don’t shove the love and hope of Christmas back into storage until next December.

Shove that love and hope into your heart, and use it everyday in 2019.

After all, Jesus is counting on us.