Month: January 2024

On Saturday, January 13, I was headed toward Summerfield, North Carolina. It was to be a long day.

I met my goal to be on the road by 7 a.m. Our grandson, Hudson, a kindergarten student, had a basketball game at 10 in the gym at the elementary school where he and his sister attend.

After the game, I would drive to Mt. Pleasant United Methodist Church near Mcleansville in Guilford County to attend the funeral for my Uncle Harry. The family had asked me to be one of the two speakers during the service.

From Richmond, we take what has become a familiar route for us. Patterson Avenue to 288 to US 60, then a couple of two lane state roads that lead us to US 360, followed by US 58, and finally US 29.

This is a pretty drive with the openness of winter giving clear sight to rolling hills and rivers that still carve and sculpt the land along their banks. Today, the Appomattox River is noticeably out of its banks from the heavy rains that soaked much of the Middle Atlantic states earlier in the week.

When I arrive at the gym, Hudson’s game has already started. A neighbor and our son-in-law are coaching the team, and one of the neighbor’s son is also on the team.

I find a seat with Coach Matt’s wife and our granddaughter, Caroline. Our daughter is in San Francisco attending a baby shower for her cousin, Ashley.

I love basketball. I started playing in the fourth grade. I couldn’t imagine trying to learn how to play basketball when I was in kindergarten.

There is lots of energy on the court. Both teams have girls on their teams, and it is interesting to watch the dynamics of teamwork .

There are hurried herd sprints down the court in pursuit of the ball or the player with the ball. Some players can dribble the length of the floor. Others are good at holding the ball as the opposing team smothers the ball holder like ants swarming a crumb of food at a summer picnic.

Coaches and referees are patient. A few parent spectators are a tad boisterous. I silently wonder how they will handle their child’s participation in the years ahead. And, it appears that most players enjoy the game, especially the post game snack.

I was able to get a post game photograph with Hudson, Caroline and their father, Doug. Courtesy of Nana, I handed off to them a couple of gift cards to McDonald’s. I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate at McDonald’s.

We walked to our cars and said goodbye. I checked my directions and headed toward Mt. Pleasant United Methodist Church. For many years, Mt. Pleasant had been a part of the Pike family. Church services, community events, weddings, and funerals had been a part of the ups and downs of life.

Harry was our last Uncle, 84 years old. He was the final of eleven children to be born to Izetta and Charlie Pike.

The visitation and funeral were a good celebration of Harry’s life. The Sanctuary was packed with family, friends, and the congregation.

My cousins Charles, Roger, David, Stuart, Jim, Harry’s brother-in-law, James, and I were pallbearers. Luckily, the funeral home staff gave us helpful instructions and they helped with the lifting too. The walk from the back of the hearse to the grave site was tricky, but none of us stumbled.

It was a beautiful, blue sky day, but a cold, blustery wind cut through us. The preacher’s words were brief and true, and we walked back into the fellowship hall for a reception.

I’m convinced that food and fellowship following a funeral service give a family important sustenance as they prepare for challenging days ahead.

Wanting as much daylight as I could give myself on the drive back to Richmond, a bit after four, I was working my way toward US 29.

I made good time, and the sun began to fade as I worked my way up US 360.

Soon, I was at the stoplight for State Road 604/Chula Road. I made the left turn on to Chula. Chula Road is two lanes with a fair amount of local traffic. I was awake and alert, but at some point before I reached the Appomattox River Bridge I went slightly drove off the edge of the road surface.

When I did this, the right front tire went down into a worn, deep rut. Annoyed and shocked, I turned the car back up to the road’s surface. Only on the asphalt for a few feet, the tire warning message instantly appeared on the monitor. This was quickly followed by the sound of a tire that had the air knocked out of it.

Bad words spewed at my driving mistake. The injured tire crossed the Appomattox River Bridge. It groaned up a slight hill. I pulled off the side of the road just short of the entrance to the Appomattox Trace subdivision.

I put on my flashers, looked for my AAA card, checked the damaged tire, and called AAA.

I placed that call at 6:50 p.m. At some point after nine, I canceled the call for service from an incompetent and irresponsible AAA.

Not long after I had pulled over and stopped, a Powhatan County Sheriff Deputy checked on me. When I told him I had called AAA, he didn’t have much hope that they would show up.

Luckily, he gave me a card with the number for the dispatcher for the sheriff’s department. I called the dispatcher, explained my problem.

The dispatcher gave me the number for Seay’s Towing. I called Seay’s. In less than forty minutes, the owner, Willie showed up in one of his trucks. Willie quickly loaded the car. He drove me the nineteen miles back to Richmond, dropped the car at my preferred repair shop, and then drove me to our house.

After church the next day, I drove back to the site of my shortcomings. I wanted to see in the daylight where I went wrong. I found a 20 to 30 foot section along the roadway where a rut the width of a tire had worn away turf and soil. I could see from the depth, length, and condition of the road surface that I wasn’t the only person to have this encounter.

Turns out I was lucky. I only had to replace the right front tire. The damage could have been worse, and yes, if I had over corrected to my mistake I could have been injured.

And as long as I relive that long evening, I will never forget Willie’s words to me when I apologized to him for interrupting his Saturday night. He looked at me and said, “It ain’t no problem.”

I loved Willie’s attitude.

I thought about my own mentality when life hands us a long day of challenging circumstances.

Do I learn from the long day?

More importantly, when I encounter a person who is struggling with a long day, how often do I say “it ain’t no problem?”

Do I convey an attitude of compassion and support to this person?

How do I express to this worn, weary person “it ain’t no problem?”

And, I wonder, how often am I the problem because I fail to pause, listen, acknowledge, and care?

I wonder what Harry’s parents, Izetta and Charlie thought back on November 19, 1939 the day of his birth.

Since he was child number eleven, I imagine Izetta looked at her husband, Charlie, and said, “I’m done, no more, this is our last one.”

Maybe, Charlie stared back at her, nodded his head in agreement, and walked off to check on the rest of the crew.

I’ve also wondered what his siblings thought of Harry’s arrival.

Perhaps, his brothers pondered this from a food angle. Possibly, in their chatter they reasoned, “at least for now he is on a liquid diet, he won’t be contending with us anytime soon for second helpings.”

As for his sisters, my guess is they knew sooner or later, they would be helping to take care of him as a part of their daily chores.

In truth, I wonder what Harry thought about all of this. He was the youngest. As each day unfolded, he had quite a vantage point. I’m sure Harry learned quickly about the do’s and don’t’s with Izetta and Charlie as they managed the personalities of all their children.

I still marvel at how Izetta and Charlie managed this family. My wife and I thought we’d go crazy at times with three. I can’t imagine 11.

Yet, somehow they survived. Even Harry, the youngest, the last, survived too.

Quite simply, families like the Pikes survived because of their hearts. Their hearts loved and cared for each other. When you love and care for each other, no matter eleven children— you survive.

Deep inside our hearts today, we’ve been dreading this departure. Selfishly, we needed and wanted Harry to live forever. He was our link back to our fathers and mothers who brought us into the Pike family.

Harry was our historian. He knew the connections to Aunt Grettie, Vernell, Uncle Roy, Ruth, Everett, and Pike Johnson.

Despite being 84, Harry was always young to me. Even on Sunday afternoon in his hospital bed, he looked like a Pike napping after a huge lunch following a full morning at church.

Even though that was to be his last earthly nap, it’s ok, because we have lots to celebrate and to be thankful for Harry’s 84 years.

Everyone in this Sanctuary has a Harry story.

That’s because Harry was a people person, a talker. But Harry was more than a talker.

He was also a wise listener. Carol, Glenn and Vivian, Shannon, Davis, Tanner, family, friends, and even strangers benefited from the logic of his experiences.

Harry was genuine, nothing phony.

He could laugh with you, cry with you, and hold you up when the world was pushing you down.

And yet for me, and maybe for you, I loved Harry’s loyalty.

No matter the Pike family gathering, Harry and Carol were always present. When our father, his brother Bill, died, Harry cut short a trip out of state to come back for the funeral—that’s loyalty.

But part of me believes Harry was loyal for another reason. I think he demonstrated the importance of loyalty to say to us—“Hey! next generation! Don’t let these family gatherings die. The survival of the Pikes is now on your shoulders. Don’t let me down.”

How could any of us let Harry down?

For a long time, I have loved this line of scripture from Hebrews 12:1: “let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us,”

Harry Glenn Pike for 84 years ran with perseverance the race that was set before him.

Now with the same genuine loyalty, compassion, and love let us run with perseverance the race that Harry has set before us.

And let us be sure to laugh, cry, love, and hold up Carol, Glenn and Vivian, Shannon, Davis, and Tanner with every step they take in their race.

Rest in peace Uncle Harry, we love you.

From the author: On Saturday, January 13, 2024, I had the privilege of being one of the family speakers at the celebration of life for Harry Pike.

For the last several years, I’ve had the privilege of working at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia.

My life prior to Trinity had been grounded in over thirty years of work in public education.

I would not trade anything for either experience. Churches and schools have lots in common.

Both evolve around people. In either setting, I have met and worked with quite an array of good people.

Much of the work in churches and schools is grounded in “turf and personalities.” Turf being sacred territory in a church or school building, and the caring, but sometimes slightly possessive personalities who look after that turf. Learning to manage “turf and personalities” can be an interesting journey at a church or school.

In our forty eight years of marriage, my wife has noted my own “turf and personality” traits. From her perspective, I have been overly dedicated to the schools where I have served and Trinity.

Truthfully, I can say the same about my wife. She spent her career in public education working with students who had special needs. She was diligent in meeting the academic needs of her students. That same dedication is still pushing her in volunteer work in the Richmond community.

On a fairly regular basis, what is remaining of my old brain will push me back into my educator past to revisit tough days. In some of those situations, I still anguish when I think about what I call “alligator days”—days when every living thing is snapping at you. I’ve had some alligator days at Trinity, but nothing in comparison to the school setting.

Sometimes to get through an alligator day, all I needed was a quick distraction

At Trinity, my distraction is sunlight as it enters the Sanctuary.

I love how the sun casts its light into this stately room. The rising morning light from the east and the sinking afternoon light from the west will always find a way to push through the windows and shutters.

For years, I resisted giving up my old flip phone. But when that transition took place, I was immediately taken by the ability to snap photographs in a blink. I can’t tell you how many photos I have taken of the sunlight gracefully illuminating a section of the sanctuary. In truth, I could take Sanctuary photographs everyday.

As much as I love how sunlight creates pretty images in the Sanctuary, I also think about this scripture from the first chapter of John verse five: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overtake it.”

During Advent and Christmas light is an important part of the journey. Jesus is thought of as the “light” of the world. The star in the night sky helped to guide the wisemen. Anytime a heavenly angel appears in the story of Jesus’ birth, I imagine quite a radiant, glow brightens the evening environment.

Yet, as good as the light might be, there are times when I want to question the scripture found in John. I sense in this world there are times when the light is overcome by darkness. Unfortunately, we don’t have to look to far to see this.

Consider the conflicts between Ukraine and Russia, Israel and Palestine, and all the people whose seemingly normal lives have been shattered. A darkness hovers over them with the loss of homes, employment, and for many the heartbreaking death of a loved one.

Other examples of the light being overtaken by darkness could include anytime a person in America dies from a gunshot, death by suicide, drug overdoses, and even loneliness.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m always going to be cheering for light to overcome the dark challenges that we face in this world.

However, in a world where the impact and influence of the church has shifted, how can the light of hope be presented to those who are in need?

Truthfully, I think being that light of hope for a person in the fringes of the darkness comes down to my courage, and this question—“Am I willing to be a part of helping that person find the light he/she needs?”

The week of December 11, 2023 had been a busy one for my wife. She and other volunteers had been giving of their time to assist with the Henrico County Christmas Mother gift distribution for families.

On the morning of Saturday, December 16, 2023, my wife, the Commander Supreme, received a text message. Several of the volunteers from the Henrico County Christmas Mother had tested positive for COVID.

Mild cold symptoms had been annoying the Commander since late Thursday. However, she had not suspected COVID to be the cause of this nuisance.

Within minutes of receiving the text, my wife took a COVID test, and of course, the results were positive.

Although I had no symptoms, I took a test, and my result was negative.

I had another concern regarding COVID. On Monday, December 18, I was scheduled for eye surgery.

I called my surgeon and left a message. He called me back. I explained the situation. We agreed on a plan. I kept my fingers crossed that I could make it to Monday without COVID disrupting the surgery.

As you know with COVID, all things ceased at our house. Cookie baking stopped. We masked and isolated. And looking ahead toward Christmas, the Commander emailed a set of questions to her doctor.

With this variant of COVID, the Commander never had a fever, but the head congestion was significant.

So from Saturday, until Monday morning, I did my best to meet the needs of my patient.

I guess I did pretty well as she was still vertical on Monday.

Also, by Monday, no COVID symptoms had showed up in my old sack of bones. At the prearranged time, our son, Andrew, picked me up for the short drive over to the surgery center. We both wore masks.

Check in was hassle free. Soon, I handed a few items over to Andrew, said goodbye, and walked back with a nurse to my spot in the prep area.

Within minutes, I was flat on a gurney. The nurse was doing the required preps so that the anesthesiologist could knock me out. Once I was in another orbit, she supplied the proper numbing agents for my left eye.

For the last few years, I knew that I had Fuchs’ Dystrophy. This eye ailment was impacting my cornea and starting to gradually impair my vision. The surgery was two-fold. I would be undergoing a cornea transplant and having the cataracts in the left eye removed.

I don’t recall falling asleep, but it was a good nap. When I awoke, I could sense a numbness around my eye and the left side of my nose.

Seems like I was waiting on that gurney a long time. But soon my nurse returned, and I was ready for my doctor to work his magic.

I was awake during the procedure. A couple of times, I remember the doctor describing what was taking place, but luckily I never felt a thing.

In thinking back over that afternoon, I was amazed at how many times I was asked to acknowledge my name, date of birth, and which eye was to undergo the surgery.

Additionally, I will never forget the blankets. They came to me preheated. My gosh they were toasty for my cold feet.

After the surgery, they allowed Andrew to come back. It took a bit of time for the doctor to work his way to me and other patients for the post-operative instructions, and there was a reason.

While we were waiting for the doctor, we could hear sirens. That ear piercing sound from the emergency vehicles kept getting closer. Then, the sirens suddenly stopped. Paramedics hustled through two exterior doors on the other side of the room.

That big room became very quiet and still. Chatter among the medical staff stopped as another team of paramedics arrived. Within a few minutes, we saw medical personnel escorting a family member back to another room.

Gradually, we learned that a patient had stopped breathing during a surgical procedure.

Life is so fragile, but in this case the patient was successfully revived.

My doctor came and checked me over. He talked Andrew through the surgery, explained the post operative requirements, and reminded us of the follow-up appointment on Tuesday morning.

I was transferred to a wheelchair, and then rolled out to meet Andrew at his car.

For the next 48 hours, except for the bathroom and to eat, I was to be flat on my back, no sitting up, no sleeping on my side—flat on my back. And that requirement to be like a pancake started with the ride home. Andrew fully reclined the front seat and buckled the seat belt around me.

Andrew did a nice job of chauffeuring. On the ride back, he described where we were as he cautiously drove toward home.

When we arrived at the house, my COVID nurse was ready to help. With my left eye not available, I was a bit wobbly with my balance. My sustainer for forty-eight years made sure my steps were slow, but steady.

Andrew filled in the Commander, and he promised to be back on Tuesday morning to drive me to the doctor’s office for the follow-up appointment.

My doctor had warned me that the procedure had the potential to zap me, and it did.

I quickly learned my wimpy tendencies related to pain.

At this stage in my life, my back has not given me many challenges. But in this situation, my back made it perfectly clear, it had no patience for the flat requirement. My back was a tight, angry mess.

During that first night, my left eye ached. This was a combination of pressure and the anesthesia wearing off. Every four hours, I depended upon Tylenol or ibuprofen to lessen the pain.

At the designated time on Tuesday morning, Andrew picked me up. He made sure I was flat in the front seat.

I had a patch on my left eye, and I was surprised that my balance still wasn’t quite right.
Andrew guided me into the lobby of the office, and I checked in. Soon, we were called back.

I will admit—I was nervous answering the preliminary questions for the nurse, and then even more anxious when they checked my vision. The nurse exited, and I asked Andrew how bad I was on the vision check, and he stated—“pretty bad.”

Finally, the doctor and a nurse came back in the room. My doctor has lots of energy. He asked more questions about my eye, and then he said, “let’s take a look.”

I was trying not to breathe, and my hands gripped the arm rest tighter, and then he affirmed that my eye was looking good—he was pleased with the progress.

He asked more questions, and he answered my questions. He showed Andrew how to monitor the eye in terms of a gap closing from the bubbles that had been inserted.

Back at home, Andrew reported the encouraging results from the doctor’s appointment. He left me in the care of the Commander.

Somehow, the Commander tolerated me. She quickly became the best eye drop dropper in America. I had four bottles of drops to take four times a day.

Again, the second night, sleep was sporadic. My back and I continued our struggle. To combat those sleepless stretches, Amazon’s Alexa was able to field my requests to play music, and that helped to get me to daylight.

To protect my left eye, I continued to sleep with a taped on shield. That didn’t bother me, but I can’t tell you how pleasant my first night of sleeping on my side was.

With family and doctor permission, we traveled on Christmas Eve to our oldest daughter’s home in Summerfield, North Carolina.

Our drive down was uneventful. The landscape along US 360 had been transformed by green killing frosts, cold rain, and chilly wind. Weeds were lifeless in khaki hues. Hardwoods revealed their bare, slate gray limbs against a frail blue sky. Sometimes a red cedar or pine would break the blending gray of a forest that served as a backdrop for a farmer’s silent fields.

Our oldest daughter, Lauren, and her husband, Doug, took a bold move in allowing us to be there for Christmas. We knew germs had been floating around both households.

Earlier that morning as we prepared to leave Richmond, we learned that our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, in Raleigh had a really bad stomach bug—no Christmas for her.

And while we enjoyed every minute of our Christmas stay in Summerfield, including a visit from my sister, Lisa, and her husband Eric, I think we were all a bit on edge about the germs.

With the excitement of Santa on their minds, I’m not sure how our grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson slept. Yet, they did.

They had a sleep over with Hudson sleeping on a floor mattress in Caroline’s room. What was even more remarkable is they stayed in that room until 7 a.m. on Christmas morning.

At seven, after a pause on the stairs for a photo session, they bounded into the den with uncontained excitement.

Somehow, we managed to call a time out for breakfast, and then the gift opening frenzy continued.

By mid-afternoon, our daughter, Lauren, was feeling lousy. The next morning at the doctor’s office, she tested positive for the flu, and this was despite having the flu shot.

Late Tuesday morning, we started our drive back to Richmond. By Wednesday, Caroline tested positive for COVID. Hudson’s test was negative. And Lauren’s husband, Doug, wasn’t feeling a hundred percent.

The germs continued their work as we learned that our last surviving Pike uncle, Harry, had been admitted to the hospital in Greensboro with RSV and pneumonia.

Back in Richmond, the germs were not slowed. We heard the stories about weddings and special family gatherings disrupted by these mean spirited bugs.

My luck finally ran out, on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve. My appetite disappeared, chills ran up my spine, and my digestive tract was in turmoil.

I masked and isolated myself to the day bed in the basement, and prayed that the Commander Supreme would not pick up this uninvited pest.

During my 48 hours of flatness, especially at night, my brain restlessly roamed. I revisited the past, thought about my current condition, and peered into the future.

There I was whining wimpily about my discomfort, and then I realized I should be ashamed. In the darkness of my night, my pain was nothing compared to what someone else was experiencing.

In that same night of darkness, someone was in excruciating pain from cancer, the pain of addiction was about to end a life, and the trauma of war inflicted physical and emotional pain in parts of the world where peace always seems hopeless.

My brain swirled more. I have no right to complain. I’ve been exceptionally lucky in my seventy years of living.

No matter the situations or circumstances I have faced, I have wobbled through life.

Why have I been fortunate to wobble through life while others haven’t?

Trying to answer that question is impossible. Although, I think my wobbling to this point is grounded in two things—people and prayer.

From my first gasp of air in the delivery room, I’ve always been surrounded by people with kind hearts. Despite my multiple flaws and for unexplained reasons, these undeterred hearts continued to love me.

As for the prayers, the good Lord knows every morning that I’m overly long winded. But, I’m not sure my wobble through life is about my “me” prayers.

No, I think my ability to be a plodding wobbler can be attributed to prayers from those who have surrounded me—family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and strangers.

And there is one more regrettable realization from the 48 flat—I too frequently take the love and support that sustained me for granted.

That love and support can disappear in a blink.

It is my sincere hope and prayer that 2024 will be a year where you are surrounded by kind hearts. And as you wobble through your year, may prayers continue to sustain you and those you love.