Author: Bill Pike

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

To tell you the truth, I don’t remember the last time I slept in. I’m not sure my old body has that concept in its metabolism.

On Sunday, October 15, I’m up early in Summerfield, North Carolina. Our oldest daughter, her husband, their two children, and my boss, the Commander Supreme, are sleeping.

I’m quietly working to carry out my plan to take a run on the Atlantic and Yadkin Greenway. The now asphalt path was once a part of the Atlantic-Yadkin Railway. Just after sunrise, I’m going to drive to the trail head and park in a small lot off Strawberry Road.

This morning, I’m the first one to arrive in the parking lot. So, I carefully back my car into a space. I make sure I have the car key, and I walk a few steps to the start of the greenway.

I’m greeted by a bold red sign with this message—CAUTION: Rough Greenway Conditions Ahead. I didn’t let that warning deter me, but it wasn’t long before I understood the advisory.

Sections of the asphalt surface were being prepared for a new paving. Every so often, the base asphalt was uneven, riveted with narrow ridges, and occasionally a shallow pothole. In these sections, I took extra care to watch where my feet landed.

Early on, the Greenway has a wooden timbered foot bridge that takes me across Lake Brandt. I catch a quick glimpse of a spectacular splash of sunrise color before the tree line blocks my view.

Squirrels dart along the underbrush. At about knee height, low flying birds quietly crisscross the path.

Further up, in a singular pond off to my left, a startled Blue Heron awkwardly leaves the shallows. With a few flaps of its long wings, the Heron finds its graceful stability, and flies off to find another silent shoreline faraway from an ungraceful old runner.

I encounter a few singular runners and dog walkers. The greenway twists and turns in some sections including a few inclines tossed in just to keep runners honest. Courtesy of October’s cooler temperatures and a fading warm sun, in a few spots, my shoes rustle through a thin layer of leaves.

At about seventeen minutes out, the Greenway merges into a street. Not wanting to explore, I retrace my steps back to the Strawberry Road lot.

On early morning runs, I do something dangerous—I think.

This morning, I keep thinking about the words on the caution sign—rough greenway conditions ahead. I think those words could apply to our daily living too. Caution—rough human conditions ahead.

Right now, it doesn’t matter your news feed, the headlines are discouraging with Israel and Palestine dominating our daily updates followed closely by Russia and Ukraine.

I am no historian or theologian, but I think it is safe to say the world has always had a caution sign warning us about rough conditions ahead.

No matter how hard we might try, peace is absent.

Why is that?

Is it because we are incapable of letting go of our differences and offering love instead of conflict?

Some days, I wonder why God doesn’t say to himself: “Ok, this is it. I’ve had enough, I’m going to put Earth out of its misery—kaboom, and we’re gone.”

As frustrated as God and Jesus must be with us, perhaps they are hoping that you, me, we, us will finally wake up and apply these words to every lingering conflict in the world, America, Virginia, Richmond, Henrico, and Trinity—“love your neighbor as yourself.”

Just before three o’clock on the afternoon of Thursday, October 12, the Commander Supreme started our drive to Summerfield, North Carolina. We were heading to our oldest daughter’s home.

On Friday, October 13, we would be attending Viking Day at Summerfield Elementary School. Our grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson, would be participating in this fall field day. Caroline, a second grader, and Hudson, a kindergarten student had morning time slots.

We arrived at the designated time and watched as the second graders entered the dew soaked playing field attired in the matching bright green t-shirts. The school’s physical education teacher had coordinated six different activities for the students to enjoy, and from what I saw they were all good listeners, and they had fun.

A gap of time was in the schedule before the kindergarten classes came out on to the field, so the Commander and I ran a couple of family errands. We made it back in time to watch the kindergarten classes enter the field sporting their bright orange t-shirts. Again, they were good listeners, and the students received good guidance from parent volunteers and faculty members about each activity.

I loved watching their energy at each activity, but I think my favorite stop was the plumber’s plunger toss. Students had to toss the plunger toward a large square with a circle in the middle. The goal was to get your plunger to land in the circle upright.

Our grandson, Hudson, is a lefty. To me, I think lefties have a different touch with tossing objects. Hudson didn’t get his plunger to land upright in the circle, but he did coax his plunger to landing upright in the square.

We said our goodbyes, and we drove back to the house. From about noon until late in the afternoon, we did chores in the front yard. But, there were some good breaks worked into the afternoon when Caroline and Hudson came home from school.

At some point, the Commander put aside her work gloves, and played with Caroline. All things Barbie were on the agenda.

Hudson wanted to play catch. So, we set up on a section of the driveway. Hudson had his glove and a tennis ball. I tossed him slow rollers, grounders that bounced, and pop flies.

Eventually, Hudson let me return to the yard work, but soon he came back. This time, Hudson wanted to set up the front yard with bases, and he wanted me to pitch to him.

I pitched, he hit, and ran the bases. Sometimes, an imaginary ghost runner would be stranded on first, second, or third while Hudson went back to bat.

No matter what pitch I threw, Hudson was able to hit the ball. He scored a bunch of runs before I was able to accumulate three tough outs. Now, I could bat, and attempt to catch up.

I scored a few runs, but I never could catch up. The Summerfield Pirates stomped the Richmond Snuggy Bugs.

We stopped in time so that I could take a shower before we went out to dinner.

On Saturday morning, heavy rain showers drenched Oscar Court Field. All baseball games and groundwork were paused.

My sister, Lisa, drove over from Snow Camp in Alamance County. We had a good visit with her. Hudson hustled some of his artwork on Lisa, and Caroline painted Lisa’s nails.

After Lisa’s visit, we headed out in the rain dampness to run some errands. By early afternoon, the rain had moved out, and partly sunny skies had arrived.

I was back at the yard work, and our son-in-law, Doug, was checking his infrastructure to prepare for setting up a few Halloween inflatables.

Hudson came out and helped with some raking of ground cover and shrub clippings, and then he asked for more baseball time.

Once again, he was hitting that tennis ball all over the front yard, and hustling to the bases after his old grandpa couldn’t move quick enough to snag an easy out.
We took a short break, and I returned to my yard chores.

I knew that I was going to run out of time as neighbors and their two boys were coming over for dinner. Before I knew, Colton and Cooper had joined Hudson, and even Caroline took a couple of swings at the ball.

Let’s just leave at this—those kids pounded me. That tennis ball travelled all over the front yard. Hard grounders, line drives, and balls hit in the natural green monster consisting of four broad and tall holly shrubs. Finally, I called time, this humiliation needed closure.

For the next few minutes, I tackled an annoying patch of weeds, and I thought about the three boys and Caroline. There could not have been a better way to spend a pretty October afternoon.

These youngsters laughed at my lousy humor. They were polite. They listened. I think they had fun, but I don’t think they know how much fun I had.

Oh, how I love October.

You are my favorite month of the year.

And this afternoon, on the Oscar Court Field, October you added to my admiration.

On October 3, our oldest daughter emailed me a copy of a letter from Dr. Whitney Oakley, Superintendent for the Guilford County School System in North Carolina. The letter had been sent to families and community members addressing a shooting incident after the Dudley High and Smith High football game on September 29. Our daughter and her husband have two elementary age students in the system.

As a parent, grandparent, and retired public schools educator, I read about another senseless loss of life from the reckless use of a firearm. This was a brazen attack as police officers were in close proximity to the shooting. Clearly, this did not matter to the shooter, and it only serves to remind us there is no immunity in our communities from such attacks.

For over forty years, our family has resided in Henrico County, Virginia just a few miles from our capital city, Richmond.

Late on the afternoon of June 6, 2023, as students and families were exiting a high school graduation ceremony, a student who had just graduated and his father were shot and killed. Again, numerous city police officers were in the area working the event, but not close enough to prevent another senseless tragedy.

I was born and raised in Burlington, North Carolina. I remember Dudley and Smith high schools when I was a student at Walter Williams. As a student, I attended a lot of football and basketball games, and I never remember any situations like our public school leaders face today. A lot has changed since my graduation in 1971.

For thirty one years, I worked in the public schools of Virginia as a teacher, coach, assistant principal, and principal. As an assistant principal at a large high school, I was assigned to cover many high school football games. There is something about the cover of darkness that makes high school students a bit more edgy and willing to take a regrettable risk at a football game.

In fact, if inclement weather required the postponement of a Friday night football game to Saturday afternoon, the difference in the environment was significant. The daylight took the tenseness away. Sitting in the bleachers for a Saturday afternoon game felt like sitting in a friendly church sanctuary on a Sunday morning.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case anymore. Doesn’t matter if the game is played at night or during the day, trigger pullers have no fear in pointing and shooting anytime they want.

As sad as the loss of life is in these mindless shootings what is even more concerning is all of the required initiatives that have been implemented to curb violence and improve safety in Guilford County Schools.

In her letter, Superintendent Oakley listed twelve new tactics that are now part of the system’s safety plan. And she also noted that safety has become one of the top four strategies in the school system.

I have a heartfelt respect for Superintendent Oakley, the school board, her staff, and the students, parents, and teachers in the system. I know this is tough work everyday, and I don’t think the challenges of educating our children will become any easier.

Doesn’t matter to me if we’re talking about schools in North Carolina, Virginia, or America, I sense our school and community leaders keep overlooking a critical factor in the daily operation of our schools— the erosion of our families.

In August 2022, the Annie E. Casey Foundation reported nearly 24 million children live in single-parent families in the United States, or about one in every three kids across America.

During my career in education, I worked with many gifted single parents. Somehow, they figured out how to make life work for their student, but that isn’t always the case.

Today, many single parents are trapped in vicious generational cycles related to unemployment, homelessness, food insecurity, physical and mental health challenges, and the scars of emotional and physical trauma. Many students enter a school on a daily basis carrying these challenges in their backpacks.

I wonder what the family status is for the person who fired the lethal shots at the Dudley and Smith football game on September 29?

I wonder what a school system might be like for students, parents, and teachers if superintendents and school boards could invest in a dozen tactics designed to bring stability to our families?

I wonder if investing in our families and their students might help us to reduce our school safety challenges?

Look, I’m not saying to defund our school safety initiatives. However, we are overdue to start considering the accumulation of data that we have about our students and their families.

We are also overdue to carefully evaluate our school and community resources. If those resources aren’t making a difference, we need to rethink and repurpose their use to help students and their families.

There is one more critical piece to this— making and taking the time to listen to the students, their parents, and our classroom teachers. Often, teachers are trying to overcome multiple obstacles that are beyond their control in attempting to educate these students.

It does not matter the location of a public school system, the erosion of our families is an urgent matter.

Yes, working to solve this problem will require hard work.

But, our students, their families, and our teachers deserve better.

We can’t continue on our current path.

If we do, we’ll be reading more tragic school headlines.

On Thursday, August 24, we left Richmond for the long drive to Connecticut. We were heading north for the memorial service to celebrate the life of my mother-in-law on Saturday, August 26 in West Hartford.

A little after eight that morning we were on the road. We usually take I-95, but we learned a traffic accident near the Parham Road interchange had traffic backed up for miles.

So, we opted to head west eventually connecting with I-81.

Coming off 288, we realized that we could have taken 295 and missed the Parham Road backup, but I kept going connecting us to 522.

We were clipping along passing through Lake Anna, when we came to an abrupt stop. In front of us was a truck with this sign on the back: Line Painting Ahead DO NOT PASS.

For thirty minutes, we sat. Occasionally, the truck would inch forward. Once we cleared this hurdle, it took us three hours to connect to I-81.

On I-81, you quickly zip through sections of West Virginia and Maryland before crossing into Pennsylvania. By a smidgen, I-81 is less stressful than white knuckling the steering wheel on I-95. Lots of trucks use I-81, and sometimes a driver can be trapped behind one.

Today, we were clipping along I-81 pretty well. Some rain showers hit us, but splotches of dense fog pushed us to a slow slog a couple of times.

We made it to Scranton where we depart I-81 for I-84 east. As soon we made the swooping right turn onto I-84 traffic stopped. A signed flashed “incident ahead.” Six lanes of traffic had to scrunch into two. At some point, our stubborn driving habits vanished, we begrudgingly started to be polite and let other cars squeeze into the travel lanes

Once we cleared this slowdown, we started rolling again. Pretty Pennsylvania hills passed quickly, and soon we were in New York state crossing the Hudson River and inching closer to the Connecticut state line.

The closer we came to the Connecticut border, the more concern was shown by my wife, the Commander Supreme. I-84 was a parking lot, cars were moving at the pace of a tortoise. Way up in the blue yonder, the travel gods in the communication satellites were recommending alternate routes other than I-84.

Near Fishkill, New York we left I-84 heading toward the Taconic Parkway. From there we took a series of local roads and two lane state highways through New York into Connecticut.

Along the way, we were escorted by the Ten Mile River which feeds into the Housatonic River. We also saw signage for the Appalachian Trail. As pretty as the little towns were through New York and Connecticut, the best surprise came near Kent, Connecticut.

There we crossed the Housatonic River by driving through the single lane wooden covered Bull’s Bridge. According to Housatonic Heritage, Bull’s Bridge dates back to 1842. Only 109 feet in length, the short drive through it was a refreshing contrast to the madness on an interstate packed with late afternoon commuter traffic.

In all our drives to Connecticut, we had always wondered out loud if there was an alternate route to I-84. Now, we know there is.

While this route was slower, I don’t think I ever topped 55 mph, the key was we kept moving. Mile by mile we crept closer and closer to Farmington.

On this too long day of driving, we did follow the famous words from Yogi Berra: “When you come to the fork in the road, take it.”

I’m glad our frayed and weary nerves gave us the nudge to try this alternate route. In truth, this decision provided us a jolt of energy and endurance that we needed.

Luke Chapter 3 verse five might be worth pondering here:

“Every valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low. The crooked roads shall become straight, the rough ways smooth.”

Earlier in the day, the start to our journey had a rough start. And yet, when we made the decision to depart the interstate with the alternative routes, it seemed that our travel became smoother.
Way up in the sky, we put our trust into technology to guide every turn on the back roads of New York and Connecticut, and some how it worked.

Whenever we take a road trip, I have a silent prayer: “Help me to be a safe, alert, and courteous driver.”

After today, I will always wonder if the good Lord was part of the intervention that nudged us to pursue the fork in the road.

On the afternoon of September 3, I needed some hardware items for projects at our house. Even though a Home Depot store is closer to our home, I opted to drive into Richmond to shop at Lowes.

Having grown up in Burlington, North Carolina, I admire how Lowes evolved into a retail giant from a small hardware store in North Wilkesboro.

Hardware stores from my youth had a unique character. From hardwood floors, ceiling fans, and inventories with unique items, the hardware store was often the heartbeat of a community.

In those days, I believe hardware store managers were wiser regarding traditional seasonal shifts. They did not rush the cycle of seasonal holidays upon their customers.

As I worked my way around the Lowes in Richmond, at one point, I stopped and stared in disbelief at a display of artificial Christmas trees. There must have been ten of them, standing at attention with their lights sparkling.

I thought to myself this is nuts. Its 96 degrees outside. Lowes is already pushing Christmas. Just a few yards down on the same floor, Halloween products were displayed. On September 3, it was 58 days until Halloween and 112 days until Christmas.

Lowes, I know you aren’t the only retailer in America to rush Christmas. But as a longtime supporter of Lowes, I respectfully request that Christmas products don’t appear in your stores until November 1.

This is a reasonable request, and one I believe the hearts of your founders would support.

On Friday, July 14, a family in our church said goodbye to their son who lost his fearless battle with colorectal cancer. Not only was he a son, but a brother, husband, father, nephew, cousin, and friend.

Sixty days later, the same family announced that their son’s father has been diagnosed with colorectal cancer.

Sorry, but announcements like that make me wonder God if you are really in touch with what is going on down on planet Earth.

Friday, September 8, a massive earthquake struck Morocco. To date, media outlets have reported 2,946 deaths from the 6.8 earth shaker.

Two days later on Sunday, September 10, torrential flooding hit the country of Libya. A week later, the government announced that 11,300 people have died from the flooding.

The cancer diagnosis, earthquake, and flood form questions for me God—why do I continue to pray, why do I read the Bible, why do I keep prayer lists, why do I read a devotion everyday, why do I go to church?

I do not know the answers to my questions, but I sense that I’m not alone in my thinking.

Psalm 86 verse six states: “Hear my prayer, Lord;
    listen to my cry for mercy.”

That cry for mercy is heard from people around the world.

God, I’m sorry to tell you this, but a family who lost a son to cancer in July doesn’t find your mercy in the same cancer diagnosis for the father in September.

Psalm 33 verse twenty reads: “We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield.”

Where is your shield, your hope, and help for this family, the people of Morocco, and the people of Libya?

Yes, God, I know you are tired of my whining.

Yes, I know I am on a slippery slope in confronting you with these human questions.

I know in a blink a bolt of your lightning can send me to the devil.

But, God here is what you really need to understand, other good people, with good hearts have the same God fearing questions in their souls.

Fortunately for them, those good people and their good hearts are much wiser and not as loony as me. After all these years of writing, you know, I will ask.

And yet, they are quietly asking too.

They like me want to know—are you still in the game, do you still have your touch?

Is your shield too worn, weary, and overwhelmed?

Has your stock of mercy become an empty shelf?

Are your angels flying on fumes?

Yes, I know life is an imperfect journey with struggles on its path.

But maybe, this is the most persistent struggle in life— trying to understand the why in the cancer diagnosis, the earthquake, and the flood.

Even though we’re struggling to understand, and some days we feel like we are hanging by our fingernails, I’m still hanging on to Psalm 62 verse five: “Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from him.”

Scripture: John 14:27

In June, I turn 70. Unless I was sick, I don’t ever recall missing a meal or not having food.

My parents always provided for my sister and me.

Similarly, my wife and I have been able to feed our family.

But, that isn’t always the case for people in our neighborhoods.

We continue to spend billions exploring space, building extravagant skyscrapers, and paying professional athletes millions, and yet, we are unable to ensure that people have food to eat on a daily basis.

John 14, verse 27 states: “Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

At this very moment, someone in our neighborhood has a troubled heart wrapped in fear because this individual has no sustainable access to food.

You, me, we, us need to take action to find the means to ease that troubled heart wrapped in fear.

There are multiple opportunities all around us to make a difference in the life of a person who is experiencing food insecurity.

Making that difference can be found in our hearts.

It is recognizing how we have been blessed by turning our good fortune into support.

That might be buying essential items for a food pantry, volunteering for a nonprofit in a food desert, or finding the courage to advocate for the voiceless when food is an issue.

There are many things in this world that can trouble a heart, but not having access to food shouldn’t be one of them.

Father of us all, we thank you for our blessings related to food, and we pray that you will guide and strengthen our hearts to help the people in our communities who are in need of food. Amen

Bill Pike
Richmond, Virginia

Note from author: On September 13, I was honored to have this devotional published in Hunger Action Month for the Society of St. Andrew.

On September 1, the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) announced the conference was expanding by taking in two teams from the collapsing Pacific Athletic Conference, the PAC -12, and one from the American Athletic Conference.

ACC Commissioner, Jim Phillips, his staff, college presidents, chancellors, and athletic directors in the conference who voted to expand must be proud of their work. The original ACC that was founded in 1953 with eight teams will now be an eighteen team league.

Geographically, this latest move shows how boneheaded the thinking has become by conference and university leaders. The new members—California, Southern Methodist University(SMU), and Stanford are nowhere near the new Atlantic Coast Conference headquarters in Charlotte.

Lookout Charlotte with these new members, Commissioner Jim Phillips will probably start lobbying to move the headquarters to a more central Midwest location like Chicago. After all Chicago has two major airports as opposed to one in Charlotte. An airport with more flight connections to larger cities was cited as one of the reasons the conference moved its offices from Greensboro.

My guess is the only people who are truly happy about this expansion are the travel agents who work to schedule airline flights for these teams. Their eyes must be spinning with dollar signs.

And speaking of money, this expansion is not about common sense or loyalty. This conference survival move is all about money—nothing else.

Several media outlets reported that former political heavy hitters were involved in the lobbying for Stanford and SMU.

America’s 43rd President, George W. Bush, lobbied on behalf of SMU, and his Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, pushed for Stanford.

If Mr. Bush and Miss Rice can strongly advocate for two universities to be admitted into an athletic conference, what keeps them from speaking out about the current state of their Republican Party? Do they care more about college athletics than the condition of America?

From “sea to shining sea” America is fraught with challenges.

I wonder how vehemently college presidents in the ACC fight to sustain research in their schools where students and professors are working to find cures for cancer, housing shortages, food deserts, and under served communities?

How much of the predicted revenue gains from this expansion deal actually trickle back into classrooms and research labs? If these revenue gains only serve to enhance and balance the financial books of athletic departments, then the ACC presidents who voted in favor of the expansion should be ashamed.

If Commissioner Phillips and his clever team so desperately wanted to expand the conference, did they think about trading Notre Dame, Syracuse, and Boston College for the return of two founding ACC members South Carolina and Maryland, and attempting to lure Vanderbilt from the South Eastern Conference?

Geographically, those teams are a better fit. Oops, I forgot, this expansion is only about money, not making travel less cumbersome for student athletes and less expensive for the conference.

Growing up in Burlington, North Carolina, I remember my parents grocery shopping at the A&P. That was the short name for the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company. I hope leaders for the ACC don’t consider changing the name of the conference to the A&P-18.

According to the Wall Street Journal at one time, A&P was an American icon. For years, both the ACC and the PAC-12 were icons in American college athletics with their teams excelling and winning championships. In 2010 and 2015, the once mighty A&P filed for bankruptcy. If this latest ACC expansion fails in its projected revenue gains could the conference falter like the A&P?

When I was a kid, ACC basketball and football captured me. I loved listening to the play by play on a transistor radio or watching a televised game on a Saturday afternoon. Those were moments etched in my old heart forever in a less complicated world.

Today, the fear of missing out makes the impatient hearts of commissioners, presidents, chancellors, and athletic directors think differently about money.

Why trust your common sense when money drives your thinking?

Maybe Agatha Christie said it best: “Where large sums of money are concerned, it is advisable to trust nobody.”

This moronic money move has confirmed my lack of trust in the ACC leaders.