Month: December 2024

Scripture: James 1:6

In the 1960s, the Andy Griffith Show was a popular television series. Set in the fictional town of Mayberry, North Carolina, writers created scripts that made viewers laugh while offering wisdom too.

One episode, finds Sheriff Andy Taylor struggling to believe his son, Opie. Andy assumes Opie is using his imagination to create an imaginary friend, Mr. McVeebee. When Andy confronts him, Opie is adamant—Mr. McVeebee is real.

After hearing Opie out, Sheriff Taylor, despite his doubts, tells his Aunt Bee and Deputy Barney Fife that he “believes in Opie.”

Unlike Sheriff Taylor who believes in his son, when it comes to the Christmas story, I’m like James 1:6: “you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”

Clearly, there have been many times in my life when our complicated world has ‘blown and tossed’ me further away from this Christmas story of love.

And yet when I drift away, it is the loyalty of love found with Abraham and his son, Isaac, the Good Samaritan saving the beaten, robbed stranger, and Mary’s unshakeable love of God, Joseph, and Jesus that draws me back to believing.

Even Sheriff Taylor wasn’t tossed by the sea. His power of believing was affirmed when he really encounters Mr. McVeebee.

This Christmas, it is time to toss my doubts, and believe.

Prayer: God, this Christmas anchor my heart to believe in your loyal love. Amen

Note from the author: On Friday, December 20, 2024, I was honored to have “I Believe In Opie” published in the Advent devotional booklet by the Society of St. Andrew.

Recently, in a classroom at our church’s pre-school, the tabletops looked like a disaster area. Boys and girls were making Christmas decorations. Everyone was busy with materials and glue. Some students were even covered in materials and glue. One student asked his teacher about glue. How is it made? Where is it made?

That tidbit of conversation made me think about glue from a different perspective. What bonds my life together? What keeps me from unraveling? Who is the glue in my life?

During Christmas, the pursuit of perfection can make a person become unglued. It all starts before Halloween when big box stores start displaying Christmas decorations. In the words of Barney Fife, those early unnecessary displays “just frost me!”

When I consider what holds me together, I think of my late parents. I grew up in a stable family with a mother and father who were strong role models for loving, caring, and providing for my sister and me.

In that framework was a weekly guarantee—going to church. Unless someone was “half-past dead,” we were in church on Sunday. I’m not sure that is always the case with families today.

Just before Christmas in 1972, my mother and sister were on their way home from running errands. A driver who ran a stop sign broadsided my mother and sister. The impact severely injured our mother. In the aftermath of the accident, one of the key factors in her recovery was her faith and the support of our church. That unwavering glue helped her to heal.

In my life, my wife is a vital piece in keeping me intact. Without my commander supreme, I’m in trouble. Her “to do lists” are a reminder of her attention to details, details that drive her professionally and in managing our home.

However, I’m certain my wife would tell anyone that the traditional expectations of Christmas and all its trimmings create extra stress. Christmas isn’t as simple as it once might have been.

For years, I was an Easter and Christmas church person. With the arrival of our children, we returned to church. Today church is part of my glue. In many ways, church is another family for me. Without a daily devotional, scripture reading, prayer, and interaction with my church family, I would unravel.

I can name people who continue to be a part of the glue in my life, but Christmas glue boils down to my heart. A time worn Christmas carol “In The Bleak Midwinter” states what the good Lord needs from me: “Yet what can I give Him, give my heart.”

Turbulent headlines from around the world can make our hearts bleak, but in the book of James, we are encouraged to: “be patient, strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near.”

Undoubtedly, the commercial blitz of Christmas is a distraction for me.

Yet each Christmas, part of my Christmas glue is— hope. Hope that my heart can shift away and change from being overawed by the commercial marketing of Christmas.

To do this, perhaps I need to revisit the simple innocence of the chaos created by the children in that classroom with their glue and materials.

I wonder how these words from Kathleen Norris apply: “Disconnecting from change does not recapture the past. It loses the future.”

Maybe with guidance from those creative and curious pre-school children, I can use scissors, materials, and glue to figure out how to disconnect from the commercial weariness of Christmas.

Pursuing that change means means finding a balance from the past to ensure that in the future my heart is strengthened by the hope found in the glue of Christmas.

Author’s Note: On 12-17-14, this piece was submitted to the Richmond Times-Dispatch for publication consideration for the Faith and Values column. I believe it was published with submissions from other local contributors in the Christmas Day edition of the paper. The version posted here was edited for the blog post.

Tucked away deep in the storage vaults of our brains are memories. Neatly filed away, available for recall, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and categorized on just about any subject matter, like Christmas.

Over the last several days, I’ve put my brain in the search mode for Christmas memories.

Because of my great dependence upon my parents, I can remember as a youngster being pushed out of my comfort zone to talk with Santa Claus at the Sears in downtown Burlington, North Carolina.

I can also recall as a fourth grader looking for something in my parents’ closet one afternoon. Surprisingly, I found unwrapped toys. These were the same choices that I had communicated to Santa that I wanted for Christmas. I was puzzled.

I was even more puzzled as an adult taking an early morning run on a reservoir trail in West Hartford, Connecticut. It was a cold Christmas Eve morning.

At some point, I looked up and saw Santa Claus. He was gliding over the gray tree tops of the Connecticut hills in a hot air balloon.

Alma Coble triggered a Christmas memory. Coble as I called her was a kind hearted former neighbor.

Early in our lives, my sister and I spent a lot of time in Coble’s house. Coble and her family took care of my sister and me and other children while our parents were at work.
Coble was a true Southern cook who made real fruit cakes. Her kitchen was an like an artist’s studio at Christmas.

Family visits with the relatives were simple. Christmas Eve with my Dad’s side of the family, Christmas Day with my mother’s side of the family.

On Christmas Eve, before heading to Greensboro where the Pike’s gathered, we drove to Snow Camp. Snow Camp is where Uncle Everett lived all alone. Everett was my grandmother’s brother.

Everett was almost toothless, difficult to understand his speech, and missing a finger or two from working in the feed mill. The big heart of my dad always made sure that Everett was present at the Christmas Eve gathering. Everett left those gatherings with a covered plate of food and a few gifts.

My mom’s side of the family had their equivalent of Uncle Everett —Aunt Nellie. She wasn’t toothless, had all her fingers, and she was articulate in her speech.

Aunt Nellie was a loner too. She lived by herself, but I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe she was difficult to be around or maybe, she was misunderstood. As a kid, I remember hearing whispers about her. I never recall Aunt Nellie attending a Christmas gathering.

As a lover of snow, I recall one Christmas that was almost white. Seems like a freezing rain, with sleet pellets, and a few snowflakes storm hit us the day before Christmas Eve. It wasn’t pretty, but maybe it extended my winter weather hope.

When I married Betsy in 1975, the potential for snow at Christmas improved. We started spending this holiday time at her parents home in West Hartford.

One year, a few days before Christmas, in our tightly packed Ford Pinto, we left Martinsville, Virginia headed for New England. North of Baltimore, the sky was winter gray.

As we neared the Delaware state line, cars heading south had snow on them. By the time we reached the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was snowing so hard that we could barely make out the massive framing of the bridge.

Yet, I think my best snow memory was a Christmas Eve in West Hartford. There was no prediction of snow, but when we came out of the midnight service at St. James Episcopal Church everything was covered in snow.

To contrast the beauty of that snow covered scene, there was the Christmas of 1972.

My dad and I were at home trying to figure out what the game plan was for dinner. My mom and sister were out shopping. Even though we didn’t say anything to each other, I think my Dad and I knew that they were way overdue to be home by now.

Then, the phone call came. It was the Burlington police. My mom and sister had been broadsided by a car that ran a stop sign. The collision had been on the driver’s side of the car. Our mother took all of the impact. It was too close of a call.

My sister had bumps, cuts, and bruises. Our mother had multiple internal injuries including a nasty concussion. Yet, somehow she had the strength and the will to recover.

The arrival of our children dramatically changed operation Christmas. Packing our car for the road trip to Connecticut wasn’t fun. I cursed the luggage, the presents, and all of the items needed to sustain three kids. I dreamed of loading the car and all that stuff into the cargo bay of the massive military C-5 Galaxy cargo plane.

Without a doubt, the craziest trip was the one where we planned to drive through the night to West Hartford.
Our parental instincts convinced us that the three kids would sleep during this dark trip.

We were wrong. Maybe an hour from West Hartford the car was finally quiet.

However, it was the stress of these pilgrimages that helped us to put our feet down. We diplomatically told our families that we were starting our own Christmas traditions by staying at home in Richmond. I can tell you that the first one in Richmond was the most relaxed Christmas we’ve ever had.

Christmas memories, everyone has them, and I could easily fill a few more pages, but I want to talk about Clarence. You know Clarence, the angel recruit who is trying to earn his angel wings by redirecting George Bailey back to reality in the classic holiday movie, It’s A Wonderful Life.

As Clarence helps George to reflect about his life, he finally gets George to the point to where George desperately states to this hopeful angel: “ Clarence, get me back.”

During this Christmas season, it seems to me that like George Bailey, we are in dire need for Clarence to “get us back” too.

This Christmas as we reflect about the year that is almost at its end, what will we remember— the country that was demolished by Hurricane Mitch, the possible impeachment of our President, the ethical struggles of Congress, bombs dropped and cruise missiles fired toward a devilish leader that will probably never hit him, or the people of America who appear to be slowly losing their way from acknowledging the heavenly Clarence and his colleagues.

Clarence knew that George Bailey had the capacity within to get himself back and regain his senses. To do this Clarence had to help George regain his sight, both internal and external.

In fact, the opportunity to renew that capacity within ourselves is only five days away when we celebrate the birth of Clarence’s teacher, coach, trainer, mentor, and leader.

When Clarence is successful in getting George back, the bell rang , and he earned his wings.

The bells ring for us each Christmas with the arrival of a very special angel—Jesus.

Let this be the Christmas that we hear the bells ring within our hearts to carry forth the work of Clarence and his very special friend.

Author’s note: This piece was written as a devotion for the Outreach Sunday School Class at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on Sunday, December 20, 1998. This post has been edited. Merry Christmas.

Matthew 4, verse 19: “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men”.

The last time I took the day before Thanksgiving off was twenty-six years ago. I took that day off for a good reason. It allowed me to travel to West Hartford, Connecticut, and on the Saturday of that Thanksgiving weekend I married the best lady in the whole world.

Twenty-six years later, I was driving our oldest daughter to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Lauren, a freshman at Virginia Tech, was home for her fall break.

For several years, my wife’s parents have been renting an ocean front beach house during the Thanksgiving week. My family and I had the good fortune of being invited each year to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with them.
Since Lauren wanted to be back in Richmond on Saturday, we thought we would go down to the Outer Banks a day earlier. Selfishly, I liked going a day earlier because that would give me an extra day of surf fishing.

I awakened our sleepy college student before dawn, and shortly after 6:00 a.m. we were on the road. Our drive down through the peanut and cotton farms was uneventful.

We were both anxious to reach the twin span bridges that would carry us across the Currituck Sound. Once across the sound, we pulled off a not so crowded Highway 168, and made the left turn on to Highway 12. Southern Shores, Duck, and five streets passed the Sanderling sign we made the turn that took us to this year’s beach house.

Hugs and greetings were exchanged with my in-laws, and my wife’s brother and his family. Then Lauren and I started to unload the car. After this, we made a quick trip to the grocery story, ate a little late morning snack, and we charted out our plans for the afternoon. My plans were to put on the old waders, grab the gear and the bait, and head for the beach.

Surf rod, tackle box, tubular sand spikes, and a bucket, were in my hands as I waddled in my waders down the wooden stairs to the shoreline. I found a spot to park my gear, located an old piece of two by four to use as a cutting board for my bait, and I started getting everything ready.

That afternoon a good breeze was rolling in off the ocean. The waves pounded the sandy shore. I alternated back and forth between cut bait, and those magical lures.

Periodically, I would check my watch and remind myself about where I would normally be at this time of day. I fished for over two hours, and while I had no nibbles, I did have fun.

The next four days brought the same disappointment. Whether it was morning or afternoon, my luck did not change. The fish weren’t taking what I had to offer. I was beginning to doubt whether any fish were in the ocean at all. That changed a little on Friday morning.

It was low tide. I had found a place on the beach where I could walk out a few yards without a sharp drop off from the shore line. This allowed me to cast our further into the almost calm waters.

In doing this, I started to feel the slightest nibble on my line. Those nibbles aroused my curiosity and hope. Maybe I might get lucky.

My bait on the hook was even stripped away a couple of times. I figured it must be a hungry crab, but I was wrong.

Once, I responded to the tug of the line in just the right manner. As I reeled the line in closer to me, I could still feel some resistance. Then just a few yards from me I finally saw what was teasing me— a small bluefish.

Bluefish known as ferocious feeders obviously start chomping on bait at an early age. Not more than six inches, I would call this a “diaper blue”. These little fish were too small to bite the big hook, but armed with enough teeth to attach to the bait and munch all the way toward the shore.

When the fish are not tempted by the fisherman’s entrees, fishermen do a lot of pondering. During those five days, I had plenty of time to ponder about the world I could observe.

I calculated that it had been at least six years, since I had caught a real fish on this narrow ribbon of fragile land.

Despite that drought, I was hooked on watching the effortless glide of the brown pelicans. I was amazed as they flew within inches of the tops of cresting waves.

I observed the powerfully fast and efficient dive of the gannets trying like me to catch fish.

At different times, the surface of the water would be broken as a small group of porpoise worked their way south down the shoreline.

I wondered what it would be like to glide with the pellies or swim like the porpoise.

And there I was holding the rod, gazing out to the horizon when I saw a huge spray of water shoot up off the ocean’s surface. It reminded me of a cannonball hitting the water, but there was no sound. When I returned to the house for a break that day, my father-in-law asked me if I had seen the whale offshore. Now I know what caused that huge plume of spray.

Back on the shoreline, I heard the the occasional cry of the sea gulls, and the steady pounding of the breakers smacking the sand. But the sound that caught my attention most frequently was the tinkling of the crushed shells that clashed together in the retreating undertow.

And on those mornings when I hit the beach before sunrise, the mixed hues of brilliant colors in the sky could not be matched in a super box of Crayola crayons.

Despite this beauty, I was still disappointed. I had not caught any fish.

But the more I pondered my dissatisfaction, the more I realized that I should be ashamed of my self-proclaimed grumbling. Did I know why I should be ashamed of my grumbling? Yes, I figured it out. The reason was 9-11.

The losses from that terrible day went very deep. The further I thought, the more I realized that now there are children who will never have the opportunity to go fishing with their fathers.

Husbands and wives will no longer share their dreams in the rising sun of the new day. Gone for them is the glide of the pelican, the dive of the gannet, the frolics of the porpoise, the tinkling of the shells, and the spray from the whale.

And yet, hope is not gone. A fisherman always has hope.

Toward the end of December, we will celebrate the birth of the infant who became quite a fisherman. It is the birth of Jesus that brings us hope. Christmas is hope.

And as we prepare for His arrival, let it be hope that will push us to follow His lead to truly become “fishers of men” By doing this, we can deliver hope to those in need.

Prayer:
Father of us all, help us as we cast our lines to find hope in Christmas. Allow us to use this hope to meet the needs of those who are struggling. In your name we pray, Amen.

Note from author: Prior to the start of our blog, Might Be Baloney, I wrote many, many reflections about wobbling through life. Some were used as devotionals as a part of the Outreach Sunday school class at Trinity UMC in Richmond, Virginia. Between now and the end of December 2024, I hope to post a few of those pieces that are linked to Christmas. Fishing For Christmas(this piece has been edited) was written in late 2001. Thanks for reading our blog. Your comments and shares are appreciated. Be safe, love, Bill Pike

In college, our youngest daughter was an art history major. If my memory is correct, this degree also had a concentration in studio arts.

I often wonder how she uses that degree working in marketing for an East Asia computer company. In truth, I believe her marketing skills come from her percipient eyes and her ability to build relationships with customers.

Throughout high school and college, she dabbled enough in art to create some very pretty pieces.

Over the years, with our daughter, and my wife the Commander Supreme, I’ve enjoyed visits to art museums to view an assortment of exhibits. Although, as we have taken in these exhibits, the Commander and she are wary of hanging too close to me in an art museum.

I’m usually the guy who will be reminded by a polite, but humorless guard, “Sir, could you take a step back? You just encroached the boundary line protecting the art.”

While I always politely comply, my perspicacious eyes note that my daughter and the Commander have briskly walked away and turned their backs on me.

From my thirty one years of work in public education, I developed a deep appreciation for student art. That admiration included the skilled art teachers who were able to help these students develop their gift.

There is nothing like student artwork displayed through the halls of a school building. That artwork can impact the environment of the school.

I love when public buildings in our communities feature student artwork in their lobbies and hallways. Those are special opportunities for students to showcase their talent.

I know there are lots of starving artists in this world. I also know that sometimes an artist can become quite successful with lots of pennies flowing into their bank account.

Speaking of pennies, perhaps, you have been following the story about a recent art auction that featured a real banana taped to a wall held by a piece of duct tape.

This piece featuring the banana held by duct tape is titled Comedian. It was created by Italian artist, Maurizio Cattelan. Back in 2019, the piece debuted at Art Basel In Miami Beach.

At the time, this piece created such interest that the gallery withdrew it from public display. Artist Cattelan created three editions of the duct taped banana that sold between $120,000 to $150,000.

Fast forward to Wednesday, November 20, at an auction at Sotheby’s in New York, the banana and duct tape sold for $6.2 million dollars. It was purchased by Justin Sun who is the founder of the cryptocurrency, TRON.

Then nine days later on November 29, the purchaser, Justin Sun, ate the $6.2 million dollar banana. (Associated Press, NPR, New York Times)

I know nothing about Mr. Sun. To develop a platform for cryptocurrency, I assume that he must be smarter than the average bear. Yet, I’m not so sure this banana and duct tape purchase was his best thinking.

In a silly scene from the movie, Sgt. Bilko, actor Steve Martin, who portrays United States Army Master Sergeant, Ernest G. Bilko, is facing a surprise inspection with his unit. With the pending inspection just minutes away, and in desperate need of a plan to counter the review, Bilko blurts out, “I’ve got to think.”

As this purchase was developing, I wonder if Mr. Sun’s internal voice whispered to him “I’ve got to think”. If that quiet voice spoke, Mr. Sun failed to listen.

Even if you are barely aware of the current events where you live or in this old world, I’d wager that you know many people in desperate circumstances who could have benefitted from Mr. Sun’s $6.2 million.

For example, at this very moment, Christmas Mothers and their staffs of volunteers in metro Richmond are working to ensure they will be able to meet the needs of the families who have applied for assistance this Christmas.

Families from Florida through southwest Virginia are trying to figure out Christmas and the rest of their lives following the catastrophic devastation from Hurricane Helene.

The war between Ukraine and Russia has spiked the homeless population in Ukraine to almost twenty-five percent.

Additionally, the war between Israel and Palestine has created a severe homeless situation. Some agencies report this crisis at 2.2 million who have lost their housing.

And beyond those bold headlines, there are the silent headlines—stories of quiet people in the shadows of life who are struggling with their mental health. Those lonely struggles are in sharp contrast to the traditional December celebrations that take place with family and friends.

This time of year, I’m drawn to a line of scripture from the first chapter of Luke verse 29: “But she (Mary) was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” The angel Gabriel has visited Mary to share with her the pending birth of Jesus.

From this chapter, the words “perplexed and pondered” capture my attention.

Many times in my seventy one years of living, my thinking has been less that perfect. People around me were probably perplexed and pondered—what in the world was Bill thinking?

I feel the same way about Mr. Sun’s art purchase.

With all these real human needs swirling around this old world— what was he thinking?

No matter how much time I have left in this rapidly eroding old world “I’ve got to think.”

I must ponder and find in my heart the best path to advocate for and help the people in need.