Month: November 2023

In Pat Conroy’s commencement address at The Citadel in 2001, he tells the cadets, “Listen up, I don’t have much time. They don’t give you much time for graduation speeches.”

Those of you here in the Sanctuary and anyone watching at home, listen up, they don’t give grumpy old geezers who volunteer to speak at a Thanksgiving Eve service much time.

For the next couple of hours, I want you, me, we, us to think a little bit about Ecclesiastes Chapter 3, but first let’s have a prayer.

Father of us all, I pray that you will be with us the next few minutes, touch our hearts as only you can. Amen.
And before I say another word, one more important item—please remember— I’m not a theologian.

My first exposure to Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 came in December 1965. I was twelve years old. The American band, The Byrds, had released a song titled “Turn, Turn, Turn.”

In 1959, American folksinger, Pete Seeger, wrote “Turn, Turn, Turn” based on the scripture found in Ecclesiastes Chapter 3. The Byrds electric version of this song became a number one hit.

Luckily for you, I’m not going to attempt to play or sing the song.

But, I do want us to ponder the words in this famous chapter that starts with “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

On the afternoon of Friday, November 10, our house was in chaos. Before entering our home, I could almost feel the surging pulse of energy from the presence of our four grandchildren.

I stumbled over four pairs of shoes as I entered through the kitchen door.

The kitchen table was a snack disaster zone.

The normally tidy den and living room were littered with toys.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, their Nana, was hanging on for life, but enjoying every minute of this happy havoc.

But in just a blink the happy havoc was gone.

A footrace had erupted.

Excited feet pounded on the hardwood track rambling through the kitchen, den, dining room, and back to the living room, and then the crash occurred.

Ellie, the youngest, slipped. Her lower lip collided with the oak hardwood.

For the next several minutes, Ellie cried and sobbed as first aid was rendered. Eventually, comfort came from her tattered “purple,” her friendly thumb, and an Australian cartoon character—Bluey.

But, as Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 reminds us: “there is a time to weep.” And when your lower lip is injured, you have a right to weep.

When I left Trinity on the afternoon of Thursday, August 17, a few drops of rain pattered me as I walked to my car.

There were no severe thunderstorm watches or warnings posted by the National Weather Service for western Henrico County.

But, in just a blink, a short-lived, angry thunderstorm snapped two massive pine trees and a utility pole that came crashing down across Forest Avenue just below Tuckahoe Elementary School.

Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 reminds us: “there is a time to tear down.”

That same tempest snapped a limb from an oak tree in our neighbor’s yard.
With great force, the limb landed on the service drop line that feeds power to our house.

About mid-morning on Friday, Dominion Power linemen were able to restore power to our home.
I had to laugh as one of the linemen said, “in a matter of seconds mother nature can knock down a power line, but it takes us two hours to put the line back into service.”

Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 reminds us: “there is a time to laugh.”

In just a blink, on Wednesday, October 25 in Lewiston, Maine, forty year old, Robert Card, ended the lives of 18 people in a mass shooting that also injured 13.

As you might recall, Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 does state: “there is a time to die, and a time to kill.”
Sadly, this is not how we want to die by being killed by an unstable person firing a firearm. I wonder if America will ever find the courage to address this endless, mindless violence?

I think one of the reasons I’m drawn to Ecclesiastes Chapter Three is the very real human qualities of its words. We know these words. They are familiar to us.

And despite our acquaintance with these words, I believe we struggle with some of them.
Why is it so difficult for us to heal, love, and mend?

By contrast, why does it appear to be so easy for us to hate, kill, and declare war?

Look at these conflicts, the wars with Russia-Ukraine, Israel-Palestine, and Sudan.
Don’t we want to be better than this?

Sometimes, I wonder—are we capable of being better than this?

The suggested gospel reading from the Lectionary for Thanksgiving Day was Luke Chapter 17 verses 11-19.

What’s remaining of my non-theological brain believes this is a misguided scripture selection for Thanksgiving.

It is the story of the ten lepers that Jesus encounters as he traveled the region between Samaria and Galilee.

As he enters a village, Jesus is approached by ten lepers.
They keep their distance, but they shout out to him: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”

And in just a blink, Jesus says to them: “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean.

From that group of ten men, only one, who realizes that he has been healed returns to praise God and thank Jesus.

This man was a Samaritan.

And Jesus responds with the following:

Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they?

Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”

Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, maybe this scripture is not misplaced, and here’s why.

I find myself asking two questions—how thankful am I for my blessings, and am I no different from the nine lepers who didn’t return to thank Jesus?

It only takes a blink to say thank you.

How often do I use that blink to say thank you?

But here is the real question for me, and who knows, maybe it is the same question for you.

In just a blink, Jesus heals ten men with leprosy.

Where was Jesus when Robert Card went on his shooting rampage in Lewiston, Maine?

Where was Jesus in Ukraine, Russia, Israel, Palestine, and Sudan when these wars started?

The Bible, theologians, preachers tell us— Jesus is coming again.

And I want to say to Jesus, get down here now.

We need you.

But then, I think—why in the world would Jesus want to come down here to this mess we have created.

As God and Jesus look down upon us, I wonder what they are thinking.

Are they thinking, where did we go wrong?

God says to Jesus, “Where are these so called people of faith when we need them the most? Don’t they realize that you and I can’t do it all?”

God continues, “I’m becoming more and more impatient, let’s end this misery now and start over.”

Jesus looks at his father and says, “let’s give them more time.”

Jesus continues, “I’ve been reviewing recent angel compiled data, and I found some signs of hope. Some of our faithful are shedding their silence and speaking out.”

Remember in Ecclesiastes Chapter 3, the verse about “
a time to throw away stones and a time to gather stones together?”

With his persistence and perseverance, attorney Bryan Stevenson has become one of our best stone catchers at the Equal Justice Initiative.

In his book Just Mercy, Mr. Stevenson describes how we have allowed our self-righteousness, fear, and anger to hurl stones at the people who fall down, even when we know we should forgive or show compassion.” (Just Mercy page 309)

With her courage and compassion for the underdogs, author Beth Macy through her books Dopesick and Raising Lazarus has exposed the opioid crisis.

Thanks to the Lara Teague Curry Memorial 5K, even the cantankerous, whiner Bill Pike wears a wrist band that states—“Be Kind.”

And at the Trinity Preschool students in Mrs. Castro’s class filled with food one of the one hundred Thanksgiving bags for the Sherbourne Food Pantry.

Yes, there is hope—“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

In just a blink, tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

I love Thanksgiving.

But, unfortunately, we impatient Americans are more loyal to seasonal retail mantras. We sprint from Halloween to Christmas and hurdle over Thanksgiving.

“Over the river and through the woods” has become a gallop to Black Friday sales.

Back on September 3, I thought I was going to have a Walter Mitty moment at Lowes.

It was 96 degrees outside, and I came upon a display of fully lit Christmas trees.

I was powerfully tempted to go purchase some chains and padlocks, and chain myself to one of those Christmas trees. Then I would start shouting—“take them down, take them down, take them down.”

But, in just a blink, reality returned.

Despite loving me and my many imperfections for forty eight years, my wife would not have bailed me out of jail for my civil disobedience.

And in just a blink, Advent and Christmas arrive.

At Trinity, our Advent theme for this Christmas is It Is Time.

In Leigh Montville’s biography of Ted Williams, the author captures Ted’s passion for fishing.

An aging Ted Williams, in the summer of 1993 makes his last fishing trip to his beloved Miramichi (mere ah me she) River in New Brunswick, Canada.

Mr. Williams states, “The greatest experience a fisherman can have is to hook an Atlantic Salmon. There is nothing else in angling like it. One word tells it all—anticipation! One word—anticipation!”

For you, me, we, us—Christmas is all about our passionate anticipation of its arrival.

Christmas is suppose to be our greatest catch.

But, in just a blink, Christmas will be gone, and we shove it back to wherever we store it.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

When Pat Conroy made his commencement speech at The Citadel one of the last things he told the cadets was this: “I want you to know how swift time is, and there is nothing as swift, a heartbeat, an eye blink. This is the way life is. It is the only great surprise in life.”

Pat Conroy’s wisdom about time and living is correct.

This past June, I turned seventy.

I don’t have much time left.

In just a blink, I’ll be gone.

But, before I blink out, I need a favor from you.

It is time for you, me, we, us to commit to Ecclesiastes Chapter 3.

As God and Jesus look down upon us, they need us to take the lead in helping our neighborhood, county, city, state, America, and this old world to heal, mend, and love our way to peace.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

Don’t waste another blink.

It is time.

Author’s note: On the evening of Wednesday, November 22, 2023, I had the privilege of being the speaker for the Thanksgiving Eve Service at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia. My message is titled In Just A Blink. I hope you have a good Thanksgiving.

I turned seventy in June.

Over the last couple of years, I have come to realize that time is flying by me.

How else can I explain that we are five days into November.

America’s most overlooked holiday, Thanksgiving, will be here in eighteen days.

And out on US 360 east near Burkeville, Virginia, the Country Basket at Sunny Slope Orchard will be shutting down for the season on November 15.

On our drives back from visiting our oldest daughter and her family in Summerfield, North Carolina, the Country Basket has become a regular stop for my wife and me.

In the late spring, we stop for strawberries, summer— peaches and assorted vegetables, and fall— apples and sweet potatoes.

The manager/owner, Jonathan, understands the importance of quality customer service, and he knows the story behind every fruit and vegetable he sells.

My guess is wherever you live, you might have a Country Basket, or a farmer’s market that you frequent. To me, there is nothing like the crunch of a fresh apple and the baked richness found in a sweet potato.

On Saturday, November 4, we stopped at the Country Basket. I pried my stiff body out of the car. Slowly, I walked over to the worn, but steadfast building.

Except for baskets of Pink Lady apples and a couple of large wooden crates holding soil coated sweet potatoes, the small store was almost bare. This was a sharp contrast to the peak of the seasonal harvests that farmers and their families put their hearts and souls into for us.

I grabbed a bag, and picked out some sweet potatoes from one of the crates. The chalky dust from the soil where the potatoes were grown stuck to my fingers.

I picked up a small basket of Pink Ladies with their skin of green and red hues. I wonder what a paint namer might call these nature created colors—maybe checker board red or tarty green.

As I checked out, I asked Jonathan if this year of selling had been a good one, and he acknowledged that it had been.

I asked what he does during the off season.

He quickly responded, “I’m going to sleep for two weeks.” But then he added, “I do tax work during the off season.”

I know from my college friend, Dan Callow, how hectic tax season can be for an accountant. I imagine Jonathan will need another two weeks of sleep after filing all those income tax forms.

I thanked him for being here on our drives back to Richmond, and walked back to the car.

On the drive back, my mind wandered to Monday, October 30. That’s when the church office was notified of the unexpected death of Mike Eunice.

Mike and his wife, Ridley, were at their river home. On this beautiful October morning, Mike was mowing the yard. He collapsed and died. Mike’s seasons of living had come to an end.

Deep inside, I was crushed. Mike was only 79. He still had lots of life to give to this old world.

Over the years, I had gotten to know Mike. I have never forgotten his mission moment when he shared with our congregation his experiences from a mission trip grounded in home repairs. That was Mike’s forte—anything related to building.

Mike was one of our Trustees for the church. He had a curious heart and inquisitive eyes related to Trustee projects. This past summer, he led the installation of new cabinets in the Welcome Center.

He found the best price on the cabinets, and coordinated the delivery. With his friend, David Priest, one of his partners in the aptly named Pro Bono Construction, the basic installation was completed with professional precision. And, Mike carefully oversaw the selection and challenging placement of the countertop too.

In working with Mike, it was very clear that he was a people person. Mike was connected.

When we needed a pew resized from the renovation of our Chapel, Mike knew the right carpenter to call. In a matter of minutes, this master craftsman had made the difficult cut.

The completion of these projects put a smile on Mike’s face and heart.

If you are a people connector, that means a person is willing to give of their time to others, and that was part of Mike’s make up.

A couple of years ago, Mike took the time to meet with me and a roofing contractor. The roof at our house needed replacement. Mike’s experience and expertise guided my wife and me through that process.

And in Mike’s quiet, humbleness, he served our country as an Air Force Captain during the Vietnam War. At some point during his time in southeast Asia, Mike was awarded the Bronze Star Medal.

Hopefully, next spring, Jonathan will reopen the Country Basket. With a bit of luck, the quiet fields of the farmers will slowly come back to life, and the bins at the store front will be replenished with fruit and vegetables.

We never know when our season of living in this crazy old world will come to an end.

Yes, Mike’s heart gave out on him.

But, I’ll never forget how his heart gave to me and countless others in his season of living.

Just before 6:30 on the morning of Wednesday, October 18, I took a phone call. A neighbor was calling from the back parking lot of our church.

Our neighbor is an early morning walker. She has a circuit that wraps through our church property. She had unsettling news. Police officers were on site. Sadly, the officers were working a death by suicide.

I was dishearten to learn this news. Our neighbor was also calling on behalf of the police. She had informed them that she works in the church’s preschool, and the officers asked if the church staff might be able to coordinate the cleanup. My response was yes, and I told her I was on the way.

I grabbed my backpack and made the two block drive to church. I parked and walked to the section of the lot where the officers were located.

An officer greeted me. Then a detective came over. The detective explained that the self-inflicted wound left quite a pool of blood under a limbed up evergreen tree. The officers didn’t want the blood to trigger more unease for anyone who might discover it. I told the detective that I would do the required cleanup.

Many years ago when I was an assistant principal at a large high school in Henrico County, Virginia, I remember all faculty and staff attending a workshop on blood borne pathogens.

Part of that training required that we all had on our person or in close proximity, the proper gloves to wear in case we were exposed to blood from an accident, sport injury, or a couple of students involved in a fight.

We also learned the required protocols for cleaning up a blood incident. Our building caretakers were excellent in following those procedures.

I’m not good around blood. I struggle when blood is drawn from my arm at the doctor’s office. At a very early age our son had significant surgery. When the nurses brought him into the recovery room, I had to walk out.

After the police departed, I located the blood and devised a plan. I decided to take the the church’s pick up truck and use it to carry buckets of hot water to the site. In a couple of buckets, I added a light dose of bleach.

From the church’s kitchen, I filled the buckets, loaded them on the back of the truck, and then drove slowly to the evergreen tree. In the path of the headlights, I carefully walked each bucket to the spot, and gently tilted the bucket over. Steam rose from the buckets in the cool morning air, and the slight slope of the land allowed the water to do its work.

I made several trips, and between the headlights and the increasing sunlight the area under the evergreen improved.

At some point, I let our senior pastor know what had taken place. I also called my wife. Sadly, our family knows death by suicide. Many years ago, my wife lost her oldest sister. I don’t think the rawness of that news ever left my wife’s parents.

Since Wednesday morning, I’ve thought about how I was asked to assist. But in truth, I’ve thought more about the person’s family. I wonder how they are holding up? I wonder what they need? And I know, they will spend the rest of their lives wondering what they might have done differently.

Despite an increased awareness about the importance of mental health and suicide prevention, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported 48,183 Americans died by suicide in 2021.

And yet, in that disheartening number, I look for pockets of hope.

Thanks to the FCC, 988 has been designated as the nationwide number for Mental Health Crisis and Suicide Prevention, and in August 2023 the US Department of Health and Human Services allocated $64 million in grants to fund mental health services. Even with this progress, we still have discouraging reports of long wait times for appointments and a shortage of qualified mental health practitioners.

In Jackson Browne’s song “Bright Baby Blues” he writes: “No matter how fast I run, I can never seem to get away from me.”

I’m no mental health expert, but I think a person who is contemplating suicide might fit into those lyrics. No matter how hard the person has worked to confront the demons of darkness, the person just can’t seem to get away and find the needed stability.

I wear two wristbands on my right wrist. One of them has the words “Be Kind” printed on it.

In the time I have left in this old world, I need to become better at being kind to people.

Perhaps, this unattributable quote says it best: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Author’s note: Let me be honest, I miss the daily arrival of a hard copy of the Richmond Times-Dispatch to our house. Any number of my friends have acknowledged—there is nothing like holding the daily newspaper in our hands. I agree. But because of subscription price increases and reduction in newspaper staff, we stopped our home delivery. We now receive the paper in a digital format. Included here are two letters to the editor that I submitted to the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Neither was accepted for publication, and I’m fine with that. But, I still remain disappointed that the Times-Dispatch, and perhaps other local newspapers are not properly reporting to their remaining readers the stories of the challenges they face in publishing a paper everyday. Bill Pike

Sunday, October 1, 2023

In October 2021, my wife and I stopped our subscription and the home delivery of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. We switched to an E-edition. I have not adjusted to this change. I absolutely despise trying to read the Times-Dispatch in this format.

Because of this change, I’m a less informed member of the Richmond community. I barely skim the paper. Rarely do I go back for an in-depth reading of an article that caught my attention. I have missed the obituaries of cherished colleagues because of my stubbornness.

I’m sure running a newspaper today is a challenge. In June 2022, the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University reported that two newspapers per week in America shutdown. When a local newspaper shuts its doors, a “news desert” is created. This can lead to communities receiving no local news or inaccurate reporting of important stories.

In March 2020, Lee Enterprises acquired the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Declines in readership, revenue, and cuts in staff had already impacted the paper. Clearly, I’m no expert on the running of a newspaper, but I believe Lee Enterprises is focused on one thing—turning a profit.

Times-Dispatch readers might be surprised to note during one month how many advertisements appear in the A section of the newspaper compared to the number of Letters to the Editor. The advertisements trounce the letters.

With Lee Enterprises, I sense a significant shortcoming to the readers of the Times-Dispatch is the newspaper’s inability to report its own untold story.

The Times-Dispatch regularly peers into the lives of the people in our community for stories. Shouldn’t loyal readers expect the same introspective journalism into the daily operation of its newspaper?

Bill Pike
Henrico County, Virginia

Wednesday, October 25, 2023

With great interest I read the following headline in the Sunday, October 22 edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch: The Times-Dispatch launching Reader Advisory Board.
Several thoughts ran through my mind as I pondered the headline—about time, too little too late, and a silent chuckle.

Newspapers have become comatose dinosaurs in America. In June 2022, the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University reported that two newspapers per week in America shutdown.
In their shift away from hard copy to on-line versions, newspapers have left a trail of disgruntled former loyal readers. I’m one of those displeased readers.

October 2021, my wife and I stopped our subscription and the home delivery of the Times-Dispatch. We switched to an E-edition. I have not adjusted to this change. I absolutely despise trying to read the Times-Dispatch in this format.

The Times-Dispatch is owned by Lee Enterprises. From my perspective, today’s newspaper owners are driven by one thing—money, turning a profit. How else do you explain the significant reduction in newspaper staff and the elimination of cherished local features in the paper.

This money driven dysfunction comes at a time when our communities need more than ever dedicated, honorable journalists reporting the facts, not misinformation.

What is even more disconcerting to me is the Times-Dispatch’s inability to report to its remaining readers the paper’s own internal struggle to keep publishing. Style Weekly and Axios Richmond have done a better job of reporting this story.

Editor Coates is correct “Great story ideas are the lifeblood of any strong news organization.” Clearly, Richmond has many story possibilities.

But there is another critical “lifeblood” piece to writing those stories—journalists. Has the Lee Enterprises’ scalpel in newsrooms made the coverage of new story pursuits unachievable?

Bill Pike
Henrico County, Virginia