Month: October 2024

Let’s start with the confession. I have not read any of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s books.

But after attending the Weinstein-Rosenthal Forum on the evening of Monday, October 7 at the University of Richmond, before I croak I will read her books.

Author Goodwin’s four books about “her guys”—Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, and Lyndon Johnson have forever placed her as the extraordinary storyteller of the lives of these unique American presidents.

For over an hour, she handled every question from former University of Richmond president, Ed Ayers, who served as the moderator.

A fast talker, Mrs. Goodwin explained why her books have been so successful—she knows how to tell the stories that formed the lives of her subjects. She answered with transparency, grace, dignity, respect, humor, deep thought, and personal anecdotes about her focused research and writing on these presidents.

The Steven Spielberg movie, Lincoln, is based upon Goodwin’s book, The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. She took the audience on a brief, but insightful walk into how the movie was developed from a behind the scenes perspective.

Throughout the interview, Mrs. Goodwin gave the audience lots to ponder. She easily transitioned on topics from the past to the present.

She cited examples of leadership from each president. And it was very clear that each man possessed a dogged determination and endurance to lead America.

Without any hesitation, Mrs. Goodwin said that “empathy and humility” are essential leadership traits that are sorely absent in many of America’s political candidates today.

And despite the internal and world challenges that America now faces, Mrs. Goodwin still has hope for our country.

Her hope is grounded in her study of our history.

She reminded the audience that America persevered through the challenges of the Civil War, the Great Depression, World War II, our struggles with racial injustices and the Vietnam War.

I agree with Mrs. Goodwin that we persevered. However in my 71 years of living, I have never been so concerned about the internal instability of our imperfect America.

In the movie, Lincoln, there is an intense scene where President Lincoln is working to secure two votes for the 13th Amendment to abolish slavery.

Around a table, emotionally charged statements and questions are rapidly fired at him from Preston Blair, James Ashley, and Montgomery Blair.

In the midst of this verbal fury, Mr. Lincoln slams his hand down on the table. For a few seconds, the room becomes quiet.

Then, Mr. Lincoln launches his own passionate points countering their objections.

Screenwriter, Tony Kushner’s words in that scene are compelling. I’m reminded of America’s current political situation, when Mr. Lincoln states: “See what is before you, see the here and now, that’s the hardest thing, the only thing that accounts.”

Our empathy and humility have been blindsided by our political division. I fear we are incapable of seeing what is currently before us. Our ailment, our nonstop political bickering, prevents us from seeing the urgency of our here and now.

Why is it so hard for us to see that these political liabilities can potentially lead to a complete downfall of America?

Is this what we want for our children and grandchildren?

Monday night, I could hear in Mrs. Goodwin’s voice that hope has not departed her soul.

With hurricanes pounding our shores, a perilous November election rapidly approaching, and troubling turmoil throughout the world, it would be easy to abandon hope and let doom and gloom sink our hearts.

Yet, my old heart hopes that we, Americans, will do the hardest thing— regain our sight with empathy and humility so that we can see the “here and now of what is before us.”

If I read the Bible correctly, I should be dead.

Several times in the Bible especially in Exodus, the writer states: “For six days shall work be done, but the seventh day is a sabbath of solemn rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on the sabbath day shall be put to death.” (Exodus 31:15).

In my 71 years of living, I have worked on many sabbaths/Sundays.

When I started working for our church, I worked on Sundays. I was responsible for opening and closing the building. That included the impossible interior climate control of temperatures. I say impossible because every church member has their own personal body thermostat.

In April of 2024, our church started an intense renovation project.

This project also had a tough completion deadline—August 23. Meeting this goal would allow our preschool to open on time.

Despite multiple internal “landmines” during the renovation, the contractor met the goal. I’m pretty sure God and his angels were sweating with us in those hectic final days.

In prepping for a renovation project, there is a monster lurking inside worn down church buildings. I call this beast— the catacombs clutter monster. From the top floor to the bowels of the basement, churches are experts in hoarding clutter.

Every storage room, every closet, every empty corner, every vacant room, backstage area, and mechanical room has clutter.

Congregations hoard this clutter because deep inside our personal catacombs, we believe that something from 1957 might find its way into service again in 2017. Sadly, we are resistant to clearing out clutter.

However, if this renovation was going to work, we had to remove the clutter.

Sometimes with complete transparency clutter landed in a dumpster.

Sometimes, the clutter found a good home outside the church’s walls.

Sometimes, a clandestine plan was developed, and clutter vanished into Richmond’s sweltering summer air.

Based upon the number of discarded coffee makers we found throughout our building, I’m certain the manufacturers of coffee makers love adult Sunday school classes. I imagine the Smithsonian could dedicate an entire exhibit to these hospitality contraptions.

And sometimes, there were exceptions to heaving items. Sorry, but my sympathetic heart would not allow me to callously toss multiple portraits of Jesus into a dumpster.

Fear factored into that decision.

Pinging in my conscience, I could hear the quivering questioning voice of an elderly widowed matriarch: “Where is that portrait of Jesus that my long gone Jimmy and I donated to the church in 1959?”

While I respect my elders, under the wrong set of circumstances, sweet looking matriarchs can become quite vicious.

Yet, as an imperfect Christian, many times in my life, I have thrown Jesus away.

I’m certain heavenly angels have a well-documented file of me tossing Jesus.

However, I think I could counter those heavenly defections by reflecting on the moments when despite a high degree of difficulty—Jesus didn’t toss me.

On this sabbath thing and getting rest, the Mayberry likeness of my youth in Burlington, North Carolina is basically dead and buried.

If I want a biscuit on Sunday morning, I can drive to a fast food chain and buy one.

If my car needs a windshield wiper, I can drive to an auto supply store and purchase one.

If I wanted to, I can even buy a new car on Sunday.

You get the idea, as a society we have already tossed the Sabbath. Sunday as a day of rest has vanished. Truthfully, declines in church attendance across America acknowledge that we are gradually tossing out Jesus too.

On the afternoon of Sunday, October 20, we held our fall festival on the grounds of our church. Contrary to Exodus 31:15, staff members, congregational volunteers, the technician who set up three bouncy houses, and the firefighters from Station #8 worked this event.

Several hundred people came out for this free happening of grilled hot dogs, bouncy houses, face painting, the gaga pit, a raffle, trunk or treat, a scavenger hunt in the pumpkin patch, and a fire truck.

Parents with their children in tow wandered through the displays. We depleted our supply of hotdogs, and every kid left with enough candy to make local dentist dream deliriously of dollars signs in the dazzling October sun.

Out of the blue, a young mother walked up to me. She asked me this thoughtful question: “How many times do you think children should be able to collect candy related to Halloween?”

I loved her question.

My answer was once, only on Halloween night.

Surprisingly, she agreed with me.

We talked further.

She made it clear that her family has not fallen into commercialization of Halloween. In other words, the front yard of their home hasn’t become a shrine for all things Halloween.

Additionally, we both bemoaned how Thanksgiving is becoming lost between the retail push for Halloween and Christmas.

At 5 p.m. this event will end. We’ll pat ourselves on the back about the size of the crowd.

Kindhearted volunteers will cleanup.

At some point they will all be gone.

I can secure the building, and go home.

I worked another Sabbath, and I’m still alive.

I haven’t been put to death yet.

Why is that?

Maybe, the answer is in an excerpt of an article that I recently read written by David Brooks in the July 26 volume of the The Week. Mr. Brooks wrote about “The secrets of late bloomers.”

When he was a lot younger, Mr. Brooks shares a question he asked of two of his mentors, William F. Buckley and Milton Friedman.

Mr. Brooks asked Buckley and Friedman, “if they ever felt completion, if they ever had a sense that they’d done their work and now they had crossed the finish line and could relax.”

Brooks wrote that he felt like “neither man even understood my question. They were never at rest, pushing for what they saw as a better society all the days of their lives.”

I am no scholar on Buckley and Friedman, but I was taken by Mr. Brooks’ concluding paragraph—“I’ve noticed this pattern again and again: Slow at the start, late bloomers are still sprinting during that final lap—they do not slow down as age brings decay. They are seeking. They are striving. They are in it with all their heart.”

Sabbath or no sabbath, my old heart isn’t ready to quit.

And while the good Lord might take me out tomorrow, I don’t think he wants you, me, we, us to quit.

Bloom late, don’t quit.

God and Jesus still need our hearts.

The renovation project at our church started in April of 2024.

This was an early start designed to give the HVAC contractor an edge in the preliminary work for the complicated new system.

That jump start also included the abatement company. Their personnel would be tearing out cantankerous ceilings, floors, and properly following safety protocols for anything with the dreaded “a” word—asbestos.

A project with an extremely tight time line for a completion date needs every advantage related to how the clock ticks.

Despite a carefully designed plan by all participants, in an old building it is always the unexpected surprises that are found when the layers are peeled away.

Those unexpected surprises create heartburn. With this project, we had our share of days with high antacid intake.

At our home, I started a seemingly easy project—removing the paint on two exterior doors. Clearly, I guessed wrong on the degree of difficulty scale. Every swipe with the sander, and every rub with the chemical stripper revealed another coat of paint.

As of yesterday, the doors are finally bare enough for a coat of primer.

Back in the summer, my wife traveled to Peoria, Illinois. She spent a few days visiting with two dear friends from high school—Leslie and Sarah.

Knowing that I like to read, Leslie’s husband, Dave, sent back a book for me. If Dave knew that I read books at the pace of a slug, he might not have given the book to Betsy to bring back to Richmond.

For several weeks, I’ve been plodding through The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben. Mr. Wohlleben is a German forester. Let me tell you—he knows his trees.

Also, let me tell you, trees might look simple in our day to day viewing of them, but trees are complicated. Beyond their bark, limbs, and leaves, trees are as complex and nuanced as our human bodies. Their resilience to weather, animals, and invaders of all types is amazing.

Even though I dread my annual battle with the fallen leaves in our yard, I love the month of October. At some point in October, we start to notice the green of our tree leaves changing into dazzling colors.
Yellow, orange, red, and assorted shades of brown like cocoa powder always capture my attention. Cast against a crisp blue sky there is nothing like an October daydream.

I wonder if Jesus was captured by October?

In his world was the changing of the seasons as significant as they are for us in the middle Atlantic states?

I wonder if pumpkins grew in the farmland that Jesus and his disciples passed as their feet carried from town to town?

I wonder what he might think about Halloween?

This is the time of the year when the pace of the remaining days of the calendar move quicker.

In a blink, January 2025 will be here.

With all that is swirling around in our chaotic world, there are days I wonder if we will still be here for the start of a new year?

On the evening of Monday, October 7, my wife and I attended the Weinstein-Rosenthal Forum at the University of Richmond. The forum is a focus on faith, ethics, and global society. The guest was Doris Kearns Goodwin. Mrs. Godwin is a writer, and author of books about four unique American presidents: Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, and Lyndon Johnson.

In the course of answering questions, the moderator, former University of Richmond President, Ed Ayers, noted that Mrs. Goodwin still has hope in these turbulent times.

Mrs. Goodwin stated that her hope is found in our history. She noted that despite the difficulties America faced with the Civil War, the Great Depression, World War II, racial injustice, and the Vietnam War, we persevered.

It can be a challenge to peel back the layers of an old building, the internal workings of a tree, our history, and the pressure and stress of our day to day living.

Perhaps, the biggest challenge we face is peeling back the layers of our hearts.

For it is in our hearts where we wrestle with the layers of life.

We wrestle with everything in our hearts—good, bad, right, wrong, yes, no, family, friends, neighbors, and strangers.

Sometimes, it is our hearts that give us the resilience to persevere.

As we peel back the layers of our complicated hearts, my hope for you, me, we, us is that our hearts will help us to persevere with empathy and humility.

And I wonder during the course of a year, a month, a week, a day how often do I fail my heart when empathy and humility are absent in my living?

In those moments, I must nudge myself to remember the words from 1 Samuel 16:7. It’s not about peeling back the layers of my outward appearance. No, it’s all about what the Lord sees as he looks at my old heart.

At this stage of my life, I think I need to stop disappointing his heart.

Once a month, on a Wednesday morning, my car still smells like pizza.

That’s because on Sunday or Monday, I place an on-line order for pizzas.

Then on Tuesday afternoon, I drive over to Sparrow’s Pizza to pick them up. Sparrow’s Pizza is about the size of a matchbox.

Mr. Sparrow greets me as I walk in the door, and the pizzas are always ready. One of his friendly employees, usually a student from Virginia Commonwealth University, will carry the six boxes of pizza out to my car.

Once a month at WayGone Brewery, our church offers Pub Theology. The pizzas are a part of that gathering.

In 2016, we started this beyond the walls of the church offering at Ardent Craft Ales in Scotts Addition in Richmond.

At some point, COVID shut us down.

When COVID retreated, we brought Pub Theology back.

This time we met at Kindred Spirit Brewery in Goochland County. We met there for a year.

And when we learned that WayGone was going to open on Patterson Avenue in Henrico County, we reached out to the owners to see if they might be willing to let Pub Theology meet there. Fortunately for us, the owners were willing.

The idea for Pub Theology was stolen.

My family and I were in Snow Camp, North Carolina for Easter. We were staying at the home of my sister and her husband. On Friday and Saturday, we had been prepping for our traditional Pike family lunch gathering on Easter Sunday.

That Sunday morning, some of us were able to attend worship services at Haw River United Methodist Church.

In their packed sanctuary, the church’s minister welcomed everyone. She quickly talked about upcoming activities at the church. One program caught my ears. She invited the congregation to join her for Pints With The Pastor.

Pints With The Pastor took place at the Eddy Pub just across the Haw River from the church. The pastor billed the gathering as an opportunity to talk.

Intrigued, I brought the idea back to our church. Our senior pastor at the time, Larry Lenow, did his homework. He discovered that a pastor from the Midwest had authored a book, Pub Theology. The book was an accounting of conversations he had with people in assorted watering holes over the years.

When we launched Pub Theology at Ardent Craft Ales, our game plan was simple. Even today, we use the same template: the program is open to our congregation and anyone curious at the brewery, we offer pizza, ask for a five dollar donation toward offsetting the cost of the pizza, attendees are responsible for their beverage purchase, we eat and converse, and at the appropriate time, a staff member presents a topic for discussion.

In working with the brewery, they reserve us a meeting spot in the taproom. We always aim for Tuesday evenings. Tuesdays are usually a lighter day at craft breweries. Additionally, the brewery charges us no fee for the reserved space, and we promise not to strong-arm anyone about our church.

Because people have packed calendars, our attendance is a roller coaster. Some Tuesdays, we are below ten in attendance. Other times, we run out of pizza.

In our post-COVID revival of Pub Theology, our programs have been diverse. We’ve screened an episode of the Andy Griffith Show, discussed Bible verses with today’s headlines, pondered the lyrics of popular songs, discussed books, and interviewed special guests from our community.

Back on August 13, we had a special guest for our Community Conversation interview at Pub Theology. Our Bishop for the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church, Sue Haupert Johnson, joined us.

Over thirty people from our church attended. Bishop Sue was delightful. She even allowed me to buy her a beer. Who knows that might become a good working title for a country song— “Hey Preacher Let Me Buy You A Beer.”

One of the key pieces of our Pub Theology program has been the hospitality of the personnel at the brewery. No matter where we have met, the staff of each brewery has been outstanding. They have been accommodating and flexible.

And, I can say the same for our regulars who attend Pub Theology. If we’ve had some curious onlookers join us, our regulars have been quick to make them feel welcome.

I don’t know how much longer we will continue to offer Pub Theology.

And in truth, I’m not real clear on what keeps people coming back—maybe, its the scrumptious Sparrow’s pizza.

Perhaps, it is our program content. We work hard to present something different each month.

And yet, the more I ponder Pub Theology, I keep coming back to a couple of observations.

I sense people are drawn to the setting. At a craft brewery, they aren’t confined by the formality of church walls.

That informality allows our pub theologers to more deeply share in the conversations and discussions we have during the evening.

Ultimately, that sharing gives our hearts the opportunity to grow and learn.

And on those Wednesday mornings when the aroma of pizza lingers in my car, I travel back to Tuesday evening.

I think to myself— that was fun.

I probe further—why was it enjoyable?

Well, my takeaway is grounded in this: our shared fellowship, opens our hearts a bit, and when our hearts open, we learn about ourselves, but more importantly, our hearts learn from each other.

Those moments when our hearts share and learn are priceless in the chaos of today’s world.

I am no expert at running.

A long time ago, I subscribed to Runner’s World magazine. I never read the magazine in great detail. What I learned about running came from experiences and the wisdom of friends.

My friend, Bruce Bowen, a former successful Cross Country coach at Hermitage High School put together my training for the Richmond Marathon. It was a good plan. While I barely made it to the finish line, I would have never crossed that finish line without Bruce’s help.

I’m dreading the day when what’s left of my old body conveys to me, “Sorry, Bill, but the working parts of your body have decided that we can’t take you out for a run any more.”

When that day happens, my cherished early morning runs will end, and I expect I will cry.

Over the last few years, I’ve stopped running long distances. I keep enough of a base so that I could sign up and run a 5K, a mere 3.1 miles.

I look for 5Ks that support a good cause.

On the afternoon of Thursday, September 26, my Commander Supreme drove us out to the Hardywood Brewery in Goochland County. The Dominion Energy Charity Classic had a 6 p.m. start time.

With this 5K, individuals could sign up to run/walk for a favorite local nonprofit. I signed up to represent Home Again. I’m proud to say that Home Again finished third in the number of participants who signed up for the 5K. Home Again does good work in helping individuals overcome homelessness.

I rarely go for an afternoon run. I can only think of one other time when I ran in a 5K with a late afternoon start. But here I was in the starting area, awaiting instructions for the beginning of the race.

The Hardywood Brewery is a pretty site for the 5K. My architect friend, Rohn Price, and his team really did a nice job designing the facility and its grounds. The entire place is very user friendly.

I timed my entry into the start area so that I would not be waiting a long time for the beginning of the race. I was ready to go.

I had no concerns about what appeared to be a gently rolling course. No, my concern was the heavy air.

Just as the 5K was about to start, the dew point was 72 and the humidity 85%. That was some heavy, damp air for a run.

Right on time, we moved across the start line. The beginning is always sluggish as walkers and runners are maneuvering finding their space, stride, and pace.

Eventually, the course opens up, and I’m slogging along.

The course is a loop on the main road into the West Creek Business Park. Numerous Richmond based corporations have their headquarters on these pretty parcels of land. Well landscaped and maintained, the route has a natural flow to it.

With officers from the Goochland Sheriff’s department at key points on the route, participants don’t need to worry about a clueless driver intruding.

It doesn’t take long for my old body to respond to the heavy air. Within the first mile, I’m sweating. The further I go, the more I drip.

Some runners adjusted to this smothering air by doing a combination of running and walking. I’m managing my pace and trying not to let this wet blanket of air wear me down.

At the water stop, I do my usual routine: grab a cup, rinse out my dry mouth, and then I take a swallow of the water before tossing the cup into the trash can.

I keep pushing.

I pass the two mile sign.

It seems like I will never reach the three mile sign, but I do.

Seeing that sign, my old sack of bones silently cheers, and my legs push me up the hill toward the finish line.

After crossing the finish line, with hesitancy, I took the medal I was offered. All finishers received one.

I worked my way to a patio where the Commander was sitting at a table enjoying a glass of wine. I grabbed a cup and filled it up with water. She snapped a photo of me, and I sat down for a few minutes.

At the bottom of my bib number was a tear off strip. This strip entitled me to a free beer. So, I gingerly removed the strip and ordered a Farmhouse Pumpkin Ale.

Before leaving, we saw our church friend, Ashley Marshall. She talked about the challenges from the heavy water laden air too.

Then, the Commander and I started our walk back to the car.

There I covered my seat with a towel. Next, I peeled off my wet shirt and put on a dry one.

And, I thought to myself, “thanks old bones for getting me across the finish line.”

But, I also thought, thanks to Dominion Energy for putting together the 5K, and for the staff at Home Again, and all of their work with the homeless.

And I looked at me, and thought how lucky I am, we’re driving home to our house, and I’ve never been homeless.

Part II: More Water

Little did I know that another encounter with water would greet me on Friday morning at Trinity.

At 8:15, on Friday, September 27, I had to meet installers to finish window treatments for the nearly completed renovation project.

As I was walking down the brick sidewalk from the church office, I heard water, lots of water.

I looked to my right, and in the corner of the Bicentennial Garden, water was pouring out of a sprinkler system pipe.

I met the installers, got them into the building.

Then I hustled back to the gushing water. The water was a couple of inches deep in the rock boarder next to the foundation.

I learned a long time ago that water has a mind of its own. At this very moment, the water was gushing into two crawl space wells.

None of the shutoffs at the disconnected pipe were responding. I drenched myself thinking I could reconnect the pipe. I made a decision to shutdown the water from the street connection until I could get to the shutoff valve for the sprinkler system.

It took me a few tries, but I finally was able to shutdown the water. The flow at the dislodged pipe connection stopped.

With some help from Chris Howell, a project manager from Century Construction, I was redirected to a new interior water shutoff valve. We put this valve into the off position, and I went back to the street connection and turned the water back on.

The new turnoff valve worked. No water flowed out of the disconnected sprinkler system pipe.

Next, I made preparations to enter the crawl space via the Trinity Hall mechanical room. I needed to locate the shutoff valve for the sprinkler system.

I took our building caretaker, Ronnie Johnson, with me to be my contact person in case the monsters from the crawl space abducted me.

Armed with a flashlight and pliers, I took the step up into the crawl space.

Of course, as I was inside the crawl, Ronnie reminded me that years ago, a raccoon was found in there. That was just the encouragement I needed.

For a while, I could stand with a slight crouch. Gradually, I had to switch to a crawl.

Soon, I came across an area where the water had cut an interior gulley into the orange, red clay. This was beneath the plastic vapor barrier. I kept going, and I had to scrunch lower to crawl under pipes.

With the help of the flashlight, I located the valve. I could also see the water’s entry points. The force of the water had cut another ravine parallel to the foundation wall. I pushed the valve’s lever into the off position.

Then, I headed back to my entry point. By the time I reached Ronnie, I was covered in orange mud and grit.

Out of the crawl space, we walked back to the new shutoff valve, and turned it back to the on position, I could hear the pressure of the water return.

With that on, we rechecked the dislodged pipe in the Bicentennial Garden, and there was good news—no water was flowing. The shutoff valve held.

Not wanting to make another mess, I opted to walk home to change out of the muddy and wet clothes.

I was aggravated at the pipe that had mysteriously come lose. I’m certain the county was going to enjoy this water billing. No telling how many hours the water had gushed unencumbered.

My whining continued as I considered how my plans for today had been derailed by a disconnected sprinkler pipe.

As I restarted my day, I learned that my water encounter was nothing compared to Americans who had been in the direct path of Hurricane Helene.

My family sent me a photo of homes in the mountains of North Carolina. All that could be seen were the rooftops of these homes. Muddy orange water was seen in every direction around them.

No matter where Helene touched, the storm created problems. Unfortunately, the problems created by Helene will take a long, long time to correct.

In times like this, I ask myself how can America be better prepared to work through these natural disasters? No matter how accurate our weather forecasting, it is the aftermath of the storm that makes life very, very difficult.

We invest billions and billions in the space program, and just as ridiculous we spend billions, billions, and billions trying to elect people into office who truly aren’t qualified to hold office.
And consequently, we continue to struggle improving the basics of our infrastructure when natural disasters smack us.

Years ago, when a hurricane impacted our Richmond neighborhood, I stumbled upon this Bible verse from 1 Kings 18:44: “At the seventh time he said, ‘Look, a little cloud no bigger than a person’s hand is rising out of the sea.’ Then he said, ‘Go and say to Ahab, “Harness your chariot and go down before the rain stops you.”’

Way out in the ocean, Helene started as a little cloud. All the right atmospheric conditions conspired to build a catastrophic storm. Its winds, storm surge, and buckets of rain stopped the daily routines of people from every walk of life.

Now, some are dead, some missing, some traumatized from the experience, and some no matter the support given will never recover from this hurricane.

My heavy air slog on Thursday evening, and my soaking on Friday morning from the disconnected sprinkler pipe are nothing in comparison to the hurricane experiences from Helene.

In the days ahead of us, we must nudge our hearts to be a part of this long term recovery.

We can’t let our fellow Americans down.

In his book, October 1964, David Halberstam references former Negro League baseball star, Buck O’Neil. Halberstam writes about O’Neil’s code of life: “He believed that there was almost nothing in life that could not be solved by hard work.” (October 64 pages 147-148)

Our fellow Americans need the hard work of our hearts.

We need to be like that “little cloud rising out of the sea.”

Our collective hard work must rise together to make a difference in the lives of every person in every state that was impacted by Helene.

They need us.

Now.