Author: Bill Pike

Late on the afternoon of Sunday, April 9, the whirlwind started.

My childhood pal, Joe Vanderford, arrived from Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

For the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Richmond, Joe and I would be presenting a two part class on The Beatles.

On Monday evening, the first part of the class was a screening of the Beatles’ film, Let It Be.

Part two of the class is focused on the Beatles’ album Abbey Road.

Joe and I started our final preparations after dinner on Sunday evening. We picked up again on Monday, and made a few last minute tweaks early on Tuesday morning to our scripts.

Our class started at 10, and by 12 noon we had completed our presentation. On the drive back to our house, we critiqued our work.

At the house, Joe prepped his belongings for an afternoon of flying. He was traveling to Toronto for a NBA game where he would be one of the camera operators.

We drove to the Richmond airport without a hitch, and later that evening Joe texted to confirm his safe arrival in Toronto.

I spent Tuesday evening in a whirlwind of packing. The Commander Supreme and I were driving to Summerfield, North Carolina on Wednesday.

We would be providing childcare for two of our grandchildren, while our oldest daughter and her husband took a trip to Napa Valley, California. This was an early birthday celebration for our daughter who was turning forty as was a dear friend from Chicago. The friend, her husband, and two other couples from Chicago were heading to Napa as a part of this birthday weekend too.

Clearly, I over-packed, but I wanted to be able to do some yard work in Summerfield. The back of the car had a few tools, some deer proof plants for an empty border in their backyard, and lots stuff purchased by the uncontrollable shopper, Nana, who is always looking for ways to spoil her grandchildren.

Since we last made this trip on March 24, the rolling landscape along the four lane highways 360, 58, and 29 had filled in nicely with assorted shades of spring green. That thickening green was now concealing the sight lines into deep forest and side roads that veered in multiple directions

By mid-afternoon, we had arrived safely in Summerfield. We unloaded the car, and started to learn the details of the calendar and the schedule we would be keeping the next four days.

Thursday morning came early for our daughter and her husband. They quietly left the house for the short drive to the Piedmont Triad International Airport.

When I was growing up in Burlington, this airport was named the Friendship Airport. In the kitchen of our house, a radio sat on a formica countertop. It was tuned to a station in Greensboro.

I recall hearing from the airport early morning broadcasts of the daily weather forecast. In the winter time, as a student, I was always hoping for a prediction of snow.

After lunch on Thursday, we drove to the Greensboro Science Center on Lawndale Drive. If you have never been to the Science Center, you must go, it is a jewel.

This was spring break week. The Science Center was packed with children and families. Assorted day cares and private school students were on the grounds too.

I saw lots of children and students wearing a wide range of matching colorful t-shirts. The variety of colors among the t-shirts reminded me of the array of spring floral colors exploding around Greensboro.

After the Science Center, we visited Ollies for ice cream. Ollies was busy too. Their staff was hustling to keep up with the steady flow of customers. I always struggle to make a selection from all of the flavors. Staring into the display cases, more bright colors from all those flavors catch my eye, and I finally settle on key lime pie.

For the next three days, chalk art on the driveway, shooting hoops, puzzles, trampoline jumping, playing with neighborhood kids, quiet time, and making Nana laugh kept us busy.

No matter the role Nana was given to portray in playing with Caroline and Hudson, I could always hear laughter from her. Sometimes, Nana laughed so hard at Caroline and Hudson’s antics and comments that she was on the verge of tears.

The return flights to Greensboro had no hitches.

Monday morning, it was back to school routines for Caroline and Hudson.

We heard how nice the trip to Napa had been, and we delivered a good report about taking care of Caroline and Hudson.

The Commander and I packed up our car, said our goodbyes, and retraced our drive to Richmond.

Taking care of grandchildren is a different kind of whirlwind.

But, neither of us would exchange anything for this opportunity to wear ourselves out burning energy with grandchildren.

And, I would never trade anything for Caroline and Hudson making their Nana laugh.

On the morning of Saturday, April 22, I had orders to be at the home of our son and his wife by 7:15. Our daughter-in-law and their five year old daughter were runners in the Monument Avenue 10K. Their daughter was a participant in the kids one mile fun run. Her mother was running the full 10K/6.2 miles.

I made it to the house by the appropriate time. Soon we were loaded into the car driving toward the start line. Our daughter-in-law squeezed into the back seat between the two car seats holding their daughters. Along the way, we searched for out of state license plates and counted overpasses on the Downtown Expressway.

Our son’s pre-race search for parking put us in a VCU lot with a reasonable fee and a tolerable walk to the start area for the kids run.

Crossing the busy intersections on the walk to Monroe Park, we encountered friendly City of Richmond police officers who were patiently directing vehicles and pedestrians. The parents of our son’s wife met us in Monroe Park. This city landmark was a mass of humanity from corner to corner.

All types of vendors were stationed in the park for the post-race celebration and a mass of blue and white port-a-johns were positioned at the end of the finish line. No matter the direction, people were in motion.

We made it to the start area for the kids run, photos were snapped, an announcer offered encouragement, and in a blink they were off. As we started our walk back to the finish line for the kids run, I ran into my friend, Jonathan Austin. You can’t have a Richmond event without Jonathan sharing his magic, juggling, and humor.

Near the finish line, we positioned ourselves with good sight lines to see the runners as they completed the run. Race organizers had wisely created companion bib labels so that parents could run with their children. Soon we saw, our twosome coming into view. Their sprint to the finish line revealed two happy faces.

More photos were taken of our finishers, and now the logistics shifted again. As she walked off to the start line for the 10K, her daughters wished their mother good luck.

A long time ago, I ran in the Ukrops Monument Avenue 10K. I still have the t-shirt from the race. The front of the shirt has beautiful artwork created by children and youth who had been impacted by childhood cancer. I still miss the customer friendly Ukrops grocery stores, and sadly, despite our efforts, cancer is still an unwanted demon in all age groups across America.

We worked our way to the median just passed Stuart Circle and found a good spot on the curb to wait for the lead runners. Behind us, on the the other side of Monument, spectators cheered for the runners who had just started.

I’m sure many people will disagree, but as a runner, I always felt one of the best things about a road race is this— for a few hours part of a city is shutdown. It is quite a feeling to scamper down this still beautiful avenue knowing that for a short period of time runners have no worries in the world except to make it to the finish line.

It wasn’t long until we could see the flashes of blue lights from police vehicles and the pace car in front of the lead runners. Two male runners were in a tight side by side battle for the lead. More fast paced runners began to appear, including the first woman in the group who was sprinting at a blistering pace.

All kinds of humanity rolled by us. Neon colored running shoes were quite a splash of color as they pounded across the faded gray brick pavers. Some runners showed weariness in their faces, while others looked fresh, undeterred.

Our son spotted his wife in a crowd of runners, we all cheered and waved in support. We regrouped and started the walk to the finish line.

Along the way, we admired the architecture, the variety of music being offered, and the enthusiasm of the PA announcer cheering runners across the finish line.

It isn’t easy to stage this 10K. The logistics and planning details are endless. Richmond Sports Backers, the corporate sponsors, and all of the volunteers must be commended.

This whole event pivots off people. I want to know— why are we so considerate and compliant in this setting, and at other times, we are the exact opposite.

We found our way back to the car and headed home.

Thanks Richmond for another successful Monument Avenue 10K.

And to borrow the title from a Neil Young song, “Long May You Run.”

On the afternoon of Tuesday, April 11, I was surprised that my brain was replaying songs from the Beatles’ album Abbey Road, and scenes from the movie Let It Be. That movie captures the Beatles at work in the studio recording an album also to be titled— Let It Be.

One minute, I could see and hear Paul McCartney teaching his bandmates the chord changes for the song “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

Minutes later, I’d hear John Lennon playing an acoustic guitar and singing a demo for his song “Mean Mr. Mustard.”

And, I love recalling the Let It Be scene where Beatles’ drummer, Ringo Starr, introduces his song “Octopus’s Garden.” At the piano, Ringo plays a few chords and sings the early lyrics.

His bandmate, George Harrison, likes what he is hearing. George walks over to the piano with an acoustic guitar matches the chords Ringo is playing and offers suggestions for finishing the song.

And while the entire Abbey Road album is special, I’m not sure there is a better sequencing of songs starting with “You Never Give Me Your Money” and concluding with the cleverly placed twenty three seconds long—“Her Majesty.” The Beatles called this section of songs “the long one.”

For my teaching partner, Joe Vanderford, and I, our class, Let It Be, and Get Back To Abbey Road, presented for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Richmond was the end of another “long one” for us.

Let It Be, and Get Back To Abbey Road marked the sixth class that Joe and I have developed for Osher. Once our proposal has been accepted, we start our work. Our template for developing a class is usually linked to a documentary about the recording artist. We offer a screening of the documentary the night before our class. The following day, we present our class with a focus on significant recordings by the artist.

Our class presentation depends upon rigorous research including reading books and articles from assorted periodicals, and careful scouring of the internet for videos to help tell the story. Months before our presentation, we develop a working outline that is used to create a PowerPoint program. For us, the key to not dying by PowerPoint is to incorporate a balance of the obvious and not so obvious. A seldom scene video or a rare outtake of a song can help to engage a class.

On the evening of Monday, April 10, as the class watched Let It Be, it occurred to me that The Beatles were very skilled at disrupting lives.

January 30, 1969 was a gray, cold, windy day on the rooftop of Apple Records headquarters in the Saville Row section of London, England. But on that day, John, Paul, George, Ringo, and American keyboardist, Billy Preston, played a forty-two minute set of songs.

From that rooftop, as soon as the first chords and vocals began reverberating off the sides of buildings and the wooden plank platform where the band was playing—a disruption occurred.

People scrambled to adjacent rooftops to see and hear what this sound was. The same scurrying was happening on the street below. Necks were craning skyward trying to catch a glimpse of the famous band.

That spark of sound spread quickly, and soon the sidewalks and streets became crowded and at times impassable. And as you might expect, London’s police “the bobbies” appeared. The placement of cameras in every conceivable place by film director, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, was magnificent in capturing this disruption.

The Beatles were no strangers to disruption.

On February 9, 1964, the Beatles disruption in America started with their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show.

When the Beatles toured America in the summer of 1966, the tour was overshadowed with a disruption—John Lennon’s comment about the Beatles being more popular than Jesus Christ. And it was on this tour, on August 29, 1966, that the Beatles played their last concert in San Fransisco’s Candlestick Park.

The next four years proved to be a roller coaster for the Beatles.

Their much acclaimed album, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was released. They journeyed to India to learn about Transcendental Meditation. Apple Records was started, and a collision of substance abuse, the undertow of their personalities, and the pressure of trying to run Apple Records contributed to their breakup in 1970.

Many fans and critics blamed the 1970 breakup of the Beatles on the clash of their personalities over business matters. Some point fingers at John’s new wife, Yoko Ono, and the show business attorneys of Paul first wife, Linda Eastman.

Clearly, many factors led to the breakup of the Beatles. But, I think the passing of their manager, Brian Epstein, on August 27, 1967 is an overlooked disruption. Up until that moment, all business dealings for the band had been handled by Mr. Epstein.

In a blink, business decisions fell to the Beatles to determine. Unlike the familiarity of being in the Abbey Road recording studios, the Beatles were blindly thrust into interactions with accountants, prospective business managers, and attorneys.

For Joe and me, April 10 and 11 arrived quickly. We both engaged in a flurry of last minute activities to ensure that our planning had a chance for success.

Finding that success hinges on three key pieces—weaving our research into a competent Powerpoint, our individual skills in delivering the content, and Joe’s introductions to the movie screening and the class. Joe is a master at writing the introductions. His extensive research provides the framework.

Luckily, I received good, practical help from the students at the university’s Technology Learning Center. These students were very patient in reteaching an aging geezer how to download videos into our PowerPoint.

Also, the leadership for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute consisting of Peggy Watson, Nell Smith, Catherine Taylor, and Amy Edwards is exceptional. Joe and I valued their attention to detail, technology skills, and ability to schedule our class in the delightful Ukrop Auditorium.

And there is another benefit from teaching these classes—the Osher students. In every class, Joe and I enjoy the interaction with our generational peers. In those exchanges, we learn more about the subject matter in a variety of ways. That learning might come from the different angle of an insightful question, or some deep thinking that sheds new light on a much discussed point.

Many times in our pre-class preparation, Joe and I reflect about growing up in Burlington, North Carolina. We were lucky. Thanks to our parents, we experienced few disruptions.

I’m glad that our mutual love of music disrupted our lives. I feel very fortunate that music for a few months each year still disrupts the normal flow of life for Joe and me through the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute.

Gradually, the snippets of song and film fragments from Let It Be, and Get Back To Abbey Road will subside in my brain.

And yet, I wonder if George Harrison and John Lennon had lived if the Beatles would have reunited in the studio or on a concert stage?

Life is full of “what if” questions.

And here is another one to ponder.

In our constantly chaotic world, what would it be like if we had followed the Beatles advice as they closed out the “long one” on Abbey Road? Remember these lyrics: “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

Doesn’t our world deserve to be disrupted with love?

After all, the Beatles reminded us a long time ago— “all we need is love.”

Author’s note: Joe and I thank our wives for supporting this annual journey, and a special thanks to our youngest daughter, Elizabeth Pike, who at the last minute figured out how to load in a stubborn video.

At the church where I work, the staff has been forming Holy Week plans for months. A lot has been considered.

We’ve discussed the merits of banners on the front lawn to advertise our Easter services. Personally, I think you could display a banner upside down, and no one would notice.

Cars out on Forest Avenue are zipping by our church at speeds ranging from 35 to 45 mph. At those speeds, I don’t think drivers nor their passengers are paying much attention to a church banner. But, I’m sure the companies who make the banners love the blurred vision of churches.

For the sunrise service, we talk about hospitality. Chairs become part of the discussion. Should we have chairs for this outdoor service or should we go chairless? My guess is no chairs were around at the base of the cross or at the tomb where Jesus rose from the dead. But, we decided to have chairs available, just in case someone has a need.

In the life of the church, Lent and Easter, like Advent and Christmas are significant.

As a lifelong whiner, I wish Easter was on a standard date— like the first Sunday in April.

But of course, I’m assuming that long established ancient church formulas are used for calculating Lent and Easter dates. Clearly, there is no chance of changing a template that has been chiseled into a stone tablet for centuries.

My biggest concern for Sunday’s indoor Easter services are the whims of erratic human thermostats. God and his weather pals in heaven are not making this easy. For example, tonight, Wednesday, April 5, the low in Richmond is forecast to be 67 degrees, Saturday night 39 degrees.

Unlike Christmas, Easter is a tough sell.

Christmas has the joyfulness of the birth of Jesus, and Easter the heart-rending death of Jesus. These are two challenging extremes for pastors to wrestle with in prepping their sermons.

And yet, I wonder if a pastor has ever stood before a congregation at Christmas or Easter, and said, “Hey folks, I have three degrees in theology, I’m 50 years old, and I’ve been preaching the birth and death of Jesus for over twenty years, and in my heart, I’m not sure I really understand these scriptures.”

In truth, at this stage in my so called Christian life, I would find that honesty from a pastor’s heart refreshing, because I’m not sure that I understand either story, especially the death of Jesus.

From Matthew 27:46, I struggle with these words spoken by a disgraced Jesus on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I think Jesus is asking a fair question.

Right now, somewhere in this world a person is asking the same question of God.

This week, an oncologist told a husband that his wife of a lifetime has three to six months to live. The husband wants to know why God has forsaken this loving couple.

Families in Nashville, Tennessee want to know where God was when their loved ones were gunned down in a school building.

The homeless person asking for assistance at the intersection of Broad and Parham must in some ways feel forsaken. The greater question is— why have I forsaken this person at the intersection?

I wonder how God felt when he heard Jesus ask: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I imagine those words penetrated God’s soul just like the harshness of the wounds on the body of Jesus.

And you know what else is troubling to me about the death of Jesus is the mentality of his crimeless conviction.

Today, no matter where we look our world is a mess. Our division, our hatred, our fears driven by the quest for power, and the lack of love are troubling.

Despite this messy world, I do find the occasional smidgen of hope when I sense that prayer has worked.

I love the story from a neighbor who tells me how her teenage daughter has found her way as a high school freshman.

At a family gathering, I see the slightest shift in the heart of a frustrated father and his youngest daughter.

I love the servant heart of Ray at a local food pantry. Clearly, life has tested Ray. But on Thursdays when I drop off food, Ray’s energy, compassion, and dedication are inspiring.

Yes, my heart will continued to be troubled by—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

But maybe I can counter the sting of those words, and the injustice of the cross by never letting go of the hope found in love and prayer.

This Easter, Bill, the grumpiest of whiners, prays that you and your family find hope and love.

By 7:23 on the morning of Friday, March 24, we were on our way to Summerfield, North Carolina.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, was driving. We were heading to the home of our oldest daughter and her family. It was a yard work weekend. A huge load of pine bark mulch was waiting for us.

To make this trip, we go the back way, no interstate intensity, just four lane US highways. I love riding this time of the year with winter saying goodbye and spring arriving. I can still peer into the woods as the kudzu, honeysuckle, briar vines, and the underbrush of scruffy pines and stubborn hardwoods haven’t fully sprouted into their seasonal attire.

Sadly, the road’s shoulder reveals the faults of litterbugs. I wonder how long a wind blown plastic retail bag has been dangling from the bare limb of a tree?

Deep off the road bed, I occasionally spot a collapsed building with a toppled, rusted roof still trying to protect its contents.

Sporadically, weather beaten cars and trucks appear on someone’s homestead. It appears time and the rightful owners have forgotten them.

As they roll by me, there is a weariness in these landscapes. Failed business, shuttered restaurants, and side roads that meander off into the distance. I wonder if they lead to more portraits of hardships?

Somewhere on 360 in Amelia County, we come upon a succession of school buses. To me the students who ride those schools buses can be a counterpoint to a dismal landscape. Those students might just be the hope a family and a community need to bring about change.

In Danville, we make the turn off US 58 to US 29, the Commander Supreme points out to me a location that is etched in her mind forever. On the afternoon of Sunday, January 22, she sat on the roadside for four hours with a flat tire waiting for AAA to respond.

We cross into North Carolina, and eventually, we reached our destination. True to his word, our son-in-law has a mountain of pine bark mulch waiting for us at the back of the concrete driveway.

After hugs and unloading, we start work prepping the borders in the backyard for the mulch. Our afternoon of work was productive, and we were more than ready for some perfectly grilled cheeseburgers for dinner.

During dinner, we learned the logistics for opening day at the Summerfield Little League. For our grandson, Hudson, this was his second year of playing with the four and five year olds.

On Saturday morning, we were greeted with gray skies that quickly dropped steady rain showers and some rumbles of thunder. Check of the radar revealed this was a quick moving disturbance. League officials canceled the first game of the morning, but Hudson’s game was still on for ten.

We arrived at the fields and parked. Armed with a ground tarp, a blanket, two chairs, umbrellas, and two small coolers holding snacks for the team, we set up our space near the Pirates’ dugout.

Each team had a different approach for warming up their players, and soon both coaches indicated the desire to start the game.

This year, Hudson is a Pirate. He and his teammates were decked out in black and gold just like the Pittsburgh Pirates in the National League. A bonus this season is that each player on Hudson’s team had their last name printed on the back of their jerseys.

For this age group, these practices and games are really an introduction to baseball. No score is kept, no outs recorded, no errors marked on a score card, and players with all kinds of personalities and a wide range of skills play.

The coaches pitch to each of their players. Players have an opportunity to try to hit four slow pitches. If they fail to connect, the player then hits from a tee.

When a batter makes contact with the ball, the batter runs to first base.

An infielder who traps the ball with his glove throws toward first base.

No matter if the fielder’s throw by a miracle makes it to first base ahead of the runner, the runner is safe.

In fact all hitters will eventually fill the bases and all will gradually make it to home plate after the team has batted around twice.

And while the game might be grueling anguish for anxiety filled parents, for an old grump like me I loved the stress free, humble openness of the players on the field.

The mild collision between two fielders going for the baseball as the ball rolls freely between them is pure slapstick comedy.

I respect the daydreamer at shortstop, and I wonder how far away his mind is when his teammates alert him about the slow roller coming his way.

I love the patience of the coaches who work with the hitters no matter if they chop at the ball, swing early or late, or struggle with their stance.

I can’t tell you how many times I chuckled at the purity of both team’s unblemished antics. Silently, I thank them for making me laugh.

We didn’t stay for Hudson’s second game. Our daughter and son-in-law gave us a pass so that we could pick up new plants for a border that was going to receive a new look.

Earlier, when we were walking toward the Pirates’ dugout, I watched a parent pitching to his son in a batting cage. Before each pitch, the father said to his son—“relax.”

Oh, to be able to relax.

What might this old world be like if you, me, we, us for a few minutes could relax?

Stress, tension, pressure, hardships, worries, division could not frazzle us into our normal useless frenzy.

Clearly, I’m daydreaming like that five year old playing shortstop.

And yet, I think it is ok for a grumpy, rapidly aging geezer like me to daydream like a five year old.

Because buried in my daydream is this reminder from Romans 12:12: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.”

On Sunday morning, March 12, I was talking with my long time educator friend, Bruce Watson. We were in the Welcome Center at our church catching up for a few minutes.

Bruce asked me if I remembered Pearl Clark. Pearl had been an assistant principal at Hermitage High School where I also served as an assistant principal. Prior to coming to Hermitage, Pearl had been an exceptional English teacher at Douglas Freeman High School.

Sadly, Bruce told me that Pearl had passed away on March 3. A visitation had been held on Friday, March 10, and a funeral service on March 11 at Good Shepherd Baptist Church.

I was floored at this news.

I couldn’t believe that I had missed Pearl’s obituary in the Richmond Times-Dispatch. The announcement had been in the paper on Thursday, March 9, and yet somehow, I skimmed right over the on-line listing in the paper. I was really angry at my carelessness.

As an assistant principal at Hermitage, we could not have had a better teammate. Pearl was everything that an assistant principal was supposed to be. She was fair, consistent, a good listener, diplomatic, gracefully supportive, a hard worker, a professional.

Additionally, Pearl was respected in the community—a role model, a person who always cared for the well-being of all.

In her fifty three years of marriage to her husband, Shady, they made a good pair. Shady’s work with the Virginia Department of Education and his leadership as a pastor for a local church complemented their giving personalities.

Pearl loved their daughter, Shanetia. She was always humbly proud of Shanetia’s academic accomplishments, earning a PhD, and becoming a tenured university professor.

One summer, I remember catching a ride with Pearl to a staff development program. It was quite a nice ride in Pearl’s four door Mercedes sedan.

When I left Hermitage to accept an appointment as principal at Lakeside Elementary School, if our students met their reading goal for the year, I always tried to do something wacky on the last day of school.

One year, Pearl, and Hermitage’s Director of Guidance, Casey Berry, showed up to watch my attempt to be a ballet dancer in a pink tutu. I was horrible up on that auditorium stage, but the students roared in laughter at my pitiful performance. That’s a good way to end a school year with laughter, better readers, and two loyal friends watching my foolishness.

As I began to tinker more with words, our first book, The Last Pumpkin, was developed. I asked Pearl if she would be willing to provide me an endorsement that would be featured on the back cover.

I was honored that Pearl accepted, and she wrote these perfect gentle words: “A timely autumnal reminder for all of us to acknowledge the positiveness in all children; they are all keepers.”

As an educator, wife, mother, sister, and friend, Pearl was a keeper too.

Unfortunately, the cruelness of Alzheimer’s disease wore Pearl down.

In the few brain cells that I have left, it seems extremely evil and heartless for Alzheimer’s to claim an educator. The brains of educators spend their careers remembering hundreds and thousands of names of students, parents, and staff members. Because of the depth of this recall, I would argue that God should issue a pass on Alzheimer’s attacking educators.

Since Pearl was a Deacon in her church, maybe she can make an appointment in Heaven with God and discuss this suggestion.

Pearl, I’m sorry I missed your obituary. I should have done better with that whole process. And, I apologize for not attending the visitation and funeral. Again, I could have done better.

I have good days and bad days when I read the Bible. Yet, there are some verses that I continue to hold deep inside my imperfect heart.

Pearl, when I ponder John 1, verse five, I think of you: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Alzheimer’s might have made the last days of your life dark for you and your loved ones, but its meanness could never overcome the light that Pearl Clark brought into this world.

When I see the sun rising in the East, the moon sparkle off a dark silent bay, a star streak across the Western sky, and the flicker of a candle reflect off a window pane, I will think of you, and the light you brought into this world.

Thanks for being my friend, and thanks for being a light to us all.

In August of 1975, I started my first teaching job at Martinsville Junior High School in Martinsville, Virginia. Nothing in my education classes, student teaching, or orientation to the school system communicated, “Look out for students who might have a gun.”

Almost fifty years later, school systems across Virginia and America are dealing with students bringing guns to school. Countless tragedies have occurred involving students and guns. No matter what we have learned from these tragedies, we still haven’t learned enough. 

Shockingly, that learning continued for schools and their communities when on January 6, 2023, a first grader at Richneck Elementary School in Newport News, Virginia brought a gun to school and shot his teacher. How does this continue to  happen? Are we as parents, school personnel, and citizens incapable of learning from our past tragedies?

 Guns aren’t new in schools. In the late 80s and early 90s, I served as an assistant principal at a large high school in Henrico County, Virginia. Usually a tip from a caring student alerted administrators that a student had a gun on school grounds. Luckily in those discoveries, we never had a shooting.

 School systems have responded to this firearm crisis with assorted tactics. Conduct codes have been revised. New local, state, and federal laws have been implemented to curb firearms on school grounds. Comprehensive safety plans are in place. Budgets support the hiring of school resource officers. Often, budgets include metal detectors for scanning students and visitors.Despite these interventions, a student can still arrive at school in possession of a gun. 

Why? Simple answer: America loves guns.

 A June 2021 survey of 10,606 American adults conducted by Pew Research Center found  four-in-ten  adults live in a household with a gun, including 30% who personally own one. That’s a lot of firearms. This doesn’t account for how many firearms are in a person’s ownership without documentation.

Compare those firearm ownership numbers to this data reported by the Annie E. Casey Foundation in August 2022: nearly 24 million children live in  single-parent families in the United States, or about one in every three kids across America.

I wonder if there is a correlation in gun ownership and the erosion of American families and the parenting skills within those families? No matter a single parent, a blended family, or a traditional family, parenting is tough, demanding work. How many of the school shooting tragedies and possession of a firearm on school grounds are linked to that erosion and the challenges of parenting? 

Students, parents, teachers, school system administrators and community leaders have a right to be concerned about school safety, but that safety goes beyond a student bringing a gun.

Somewhere in a school today, it’s likely that at least one student will violently disrupt the learning environment. Disruptive confrontations can include  student to student, student to teacher, student to school administrator interactions. A fight involving multiple students can result in injuries to students and the school and security personnel who intervene.

No matter if a student is in possession of a firearm on school grounds or involved in violent disruptive behavior, both impact morale for non-disruptive students, parents, teachers and administrators. Additionally, that low morale factor seeps into the school’s community when these disruptions are reported in the news and social media.

 Do these disruptive outbursts push parents to withdraw their children from unstable schools and  switch to homeschooling programs or private schools?

The same question must be asked when a teacher resigns; was that resignation grounded in fear of violent students and personal safety concerns?

Meeting the educational needs of our children is challenging work. At this very moment, I think the tension, stress and pressure on teachers in our schools to deliver quality instruction while managing the classroom environment has become unbearable. Despite their valiant efforts, respect and support for teachers are  absent. 

How do we address these challenges?

Acknowledging the erosion of our families is an important step. Yes, in my career in public education, I worked with many supportive single parents. Sadly, that isn’t always the case.

Vicious generational cycles linked to poverty, inadequate housing, low employment, poor physical and mental health, insufficient nutrition and lack of safety are at the heart of this family and community instability.

In acknowledging these shortcomings, we must ask this question: are our current education templates and essential community services at local, state, and federal levels effective in meeting the needs of students and their families? If these templates are ineffective, we must have the courage to do our homework and initiate overdue changes.

Most critical is realizing that our divides, differences, incivilities and inadequate listening skills will only continue to hurt children.

 Pat Conroy, the late American novelist and former educator, wrote: “I want you to know how swift time is. There is nothing as swift. A heartbeat, an eye blink, this is the way life is. It is the only great surprise in life.”

Mr. Conroy is correct; time isn’t on our side.  

We are overdue to acknowledge our public education challenges, but schools cannot be the sole repairer for all that ails our country. 

 Diligent collaboration from every segment of our communities will be needed to improve our schools.

If we continue  to align ourselves in denial, distrust, and division, we will likely destroy the schools that helped to build America.

That isn’t acceptable.

A note from the author: Friends, I was honored that my commentary: The correlation between guns, school violence and the erosion of American families was published in the Virginia Mercury today Friday, March 10, 2023. A special thanks to Commentary Editor, Samantha Willis, for her patience in working with me. 

For many years, our church hosted the Upward basketball and cheerleading program for young children. During the last two years, the pandemic prevented us from making this offering.

But, in January of 2023, Upward returned with two nights of practice and games on Saturdays.

Quite a bit of work goes on behind the scenes for the eight week season.That work is coordinated by congregational volunteers, church staff, and the league’s commissioner, Angela Verdery.

Angela and I always carve out time on our Friday schedules to make sure that Trinity Hall will be ready for the players, cheerleaders, coaches, referees, and the families and friends who come out on Saturdays for the games.

Saturday, February 11 was going to be a busy day for the church building.

After the basketball games, our church staff and volunteers would be doing their final preps for Parents Night Out. A program designed to give parents a couple of hours away from their children.

Our children’s director, Jenn Williams, invested many hours working with a team of volunteers to plan every minute of this event. Registering families, planning activities, ordering food, and supervision are a part of this evening.

Both the basketball games and the Parents Night Out were a success. For sure, it was a long day for all of the volunteers. Some started early that morning, and others finished their support when the last child was picked up in the Welcome Center.

When two large scale events are over, it is interesting to walk the building and grounds to see how they held up. Here are somethings I noticed.

Despite two parking spaces being clearly marked for the pastor and associate pastor, I’m always amazed that a guest will ignore the printed words on the curb, and park in these reserved spaces.

Some might argue that it is Saturday, and the pastors aren’t here. But, I can counter that point with a real possibility—the pastor meeting with a family who unexpectedly lost a loved one.

I guess at times pastors must feel like comedian Rodney Dangerfield’s famous line: “I want to tell you, I get no respect.”

Then there is the youngster who every Saturday pops the hinged top off the heat register in the hallway entrance to Trinity Hall.

I can imagine a Saturday morning when the youngster pops the top lose, and instantly the long, rusted cast iron arms of a monster draped in spider webs lurches out from the dark of the register. The cast iron monster gently grabs the perpetrator, and politely asks— please don’t play with my hinged top.

And finally, I’m amazed at the inconsiderate nature of people who: can’t flush a toilet, put trash in a trash can, or drop an empty plastic bottle in a recycling bin.

Yes, I’m aware of the scripture from Matthew 7:3: “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?”

No doubt, I’m guilty of whining about the shortcomings of others when my faults are countless.

Coming out of the pandemic, I sense churches are at a crossroads.

This surge of post pandemic energy doesn’t mean that churches have completely rebounded and found their old, reliable friend —normal.

Every week, I stare into our Sunday attendance numbers.

Of particular interest to me are the number of people watching a worship service on-line. In reviewing those totals, quite often we have more people watching on-line than we have attending in person.

I wonder what churches are doing to build a relationship with the people who tune in each week for a worship service? How does a church communicate with these viewers? How might a church follow-up with them, or invite them to other church events?

In the Winter 2023 edition of the College of William and Mary alumni magazine there is an excellent article by Noah Robertson titled Data Revolution. Among the points that caught my attention were data fluency and understanding the multiple variables available for using data.

William and Mary graduate, Nami Choe, Google’s director of marketing data science, notes how the advertising and marketing world are in constant change.

From that change, Choe has learned “that constant change demands more creativity, and you have to be more creative in how you use data to tell stories, because in her mind data’s always messy.”

Choe’s comment about data being “messy” should resonate with churches. Rightly or wrongly, churches in the past and present have been a bit “messy.” Their current messiness is related to a variety of challenges like human sexuality, political division, decline in attendance, shrinking budgets, aging congregations, and tired facilities.

I wonder if churches might benefit from having a director of marketing data science?

Could researchers who mine and analyze data be able to assist churches as they navigate their post-pandemic search for normal?

My hunch is that churches with deep endowments could hire someone to analyze their data.

Yet, it doesn’t take a keen data purveyor to recognize that churches pivot off people.

The success that our church experienced on February 11 was grounded in three essentials: people, time, and program offering.

As churches continue to figure out their post pandemic path, the pursuit of normal should not be a goal.

Churches will be better served if they can offer programming to all age demographics. It will be the creative uniqueness of those offerings that will nudge a person to commit a block of time to attend a noteworthy program.

Churches unwilling to change, adapt, and pursue new possibilities can expect long messy days in their futures.

Churches that continue to offer more of the same, who stubbornly remain grounded in the redundancy of past programming should go ahead and make plans to shutdown.

Saturday, February 11 was a long and at times messy day for our church.

And yet, there was some good news in that day—we had new people in our building, and we never know when the creative quality and uniqueness of a program might inspire a return visit.

In Richmond, Virginia on December 24, 2022, the high temperature was 24 degrees. That night, the low reached 8 degrees. The air was bitterly cold.

Six days later on December 30, a high of 69 degrees was recorded.

Tomorrow, Thursday, February 23, 2023, in Richmond, we are expecting unseasonably warm temperatures. We could hit 83. That might be a new record.

Unbelievably, two days later on Saturday, February 25, forecasters are predicting a wintry mix.

This winter, except for a surprising light dusting of snow on the morning of February 2, frozen precipitation has been missing.

For several weeks, the yellow blooms of winter jasmine on the sloping banks below a retaining wall in the back parking lot of our church have been a bright spot on dreary gray winter days.

On February 8, some of the daffodils in our yard were blooming, and two doors down in a neighbor’s front yard a saucer magnolia tree was in full bloom.

West of Richmond, out in the valleys of the Blue Ridge, farmers who harvest summer peaches and fall apples are nervous with this early unusual hint of spring.

I keep asking myself where is winter? When are we going to be punched with the right mixture of cold air and moisture colliding to form a winter weather event?

Right now, the original winter storm panic conspirators, grocery stores and the producers of milk and bread are quietly thinking—maybe there is something to this global warming business after all.

And then there is March, an unstable month, whirling with madness. Winter tries to hang around, and spring works to push winter away. This seasonal tug of war is a rollercoaster. A spectacular spring day can be followed by the gray encore of winter returning for one last swipe of misery.

Burlington, North Carolina is featured in the book series Images of America. I was born and raised in Burlington. In the book, on page 125 is a photograph of downtown Burlington in March 1960.

In that photo, streets and sidewalks are covered in a deep snow. In fact, the first three Wednesdays in March of that year, Burlington was hit with consecutive snowstorms. Author, Don Bolden, wrote in the caption: “Spring seemed a distant dream.”

Those consecutive snowstorms are why I fear March after a bewildering mild Virginia winter.

And yet, March brings other fears too.

For college basketball fans March Madness arrives. Fans hope their favorite team will be selected for the NCAA men’s tournament. Those same fans hope their team doesn’t experience the madness of an early upset.

When baseball players report to spring training, they are probably carrying a bit of fear around in their travel bags. Players hope to be injury free, and they hope to earn a spot on a team for the upcoming season.

Mad weather, and the whims of basketball and baseball gods are nothing compared to the fears some people experience.

Today, a student will attend school with the fear of being unmercifully teased and bullied.

A single parent working one full and two part-time jobs, silently wonders how much longer can she maintain this schedule while trying to meet the needs of four school age children.

A doctor will deliver the bad news to a patient who beat cancer once—the cancer has returned, and this time the doctor has no treatment options.

At this very moment, the darkness of fear will push a person to die by suicide.

Over in Ukraine, brave families wonder when the next barrage of Russian fired missiles will hit their neighborhood.

In Syria and Turkey, people who survived the earthquakes fear more instability as their governments struggle to deliver assistance.

Fear is nothing new in our lives.

Fear is a persistent foe.

Fear is in the light, shadows, and darkness.

Depending upon the source, the Bible references fear a lot. One source I checked had 336 citations related to fear.

I think we are supposed to find comfort in scriptures like the following from Isaiah 41:10: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

I wonder what the bullied student, the single parent, the cancer patient, the death by suicide person, the people of Ukraine, Turkey, and Syria might think of those holy words?

And in truth, those holy words, and the challenges found in everyday living in every corner of the world are why I struggle with my Christianity.

Perhaps like me, you have lots of fears deep inside your soul.

One of my biggest fears is America.

I fear our division, our incivility, our disrespect of the truth, our inability to acknowledge, and our reluctance to work together are going to be our end.

Olla Belle Reed was born in the mountains of North Carolina in 1916. Miss Reed became an accomplished folk singer, songwriter, and banjo player. Her song, “I’ve Endured” is a beauty. I became familiar with the song on The Steep Canyon Rangers’ album North Carolina Songbook. At the end of each stanza, Miss Reed asks an important question: “How long can one endure?”

Whether we want to admit it or not, I believe that question is pivotal for each of us. How long can we, our country continue to endure our challenges?

In William Faulkner’s short story “Race At Morning,” the character, Mr. Ernest, makes this observation as the story is ending: “Maybe,” Mister Ernest said. “The best word in our language, the best of all. That’s what mankind keeps going on: Maybe.”

Even though our division, our differences are as wide as the disparity in temperatures from December 24 to February 23, and our irrational thinking can be as maddening as March, maybe, we’ll find the courage to humbly acknowledge our shortcomings and promise to work cooperatively with each other to solve America’s problems.

Maybe.

On February 11, 1997, our long-time family friend, Billy Bokkon, gave me two tickets to the University of Virginia and Duke men’s basketball game in Charlottesville. Billy was an avid supporter of Virginia athletics with a soft heart for sacrifice. Billy knew that my son, Andrew, and I would enjoy attending this game.

Disclosure here, we are Duke fans. I grew up in North Carolina. My loyalty to Duke rubbed off on Andrew.

I know Andrew was excited about attending this game, and I know he would have been disappointed if Duke loss.

Duke won, but the win was controversial.

After a review, the conference found that the veteran crew of officials: Rick Hartzell, Tim Higgins, and Zelton Steed had mismanaged the closing seconds of the game with Virginia leading by a point.

Seven days after the game, the Commissioner for the Atlantic Coast Conference(ACC), Gene Corrigan, suspended each official for one game.

The crew had failed to allow a substitution for Virginia. In the sequence of events that followed, a Duke player was fouled and hit two free throw shots that allowed Duke to win 62-61.

Twenty-six years later on February 11, 2023, Virginia and Duke played again in Charlottesville. It was a tough game with both teams fighting for the win.

In the closing seconds of this game, a Duke player was fouled with the score tied as time was expiring. Upon review of the last play, the officials ruled that the foul occurred as time expired. No free throws were shot by the Duke player, and the game went into overtime where Duke loss to Virginia 69-62.

Late on the evening of February 11, 2023, the ACC issued a statement deeming the final play of regulation “an incorrect adjudication of the playing rules.”

Once again, the game was officiated by an experienced crew: Lee Cassell, Jeffrey Anderson, and Tim Clougherty.

I can only begin to imagine how difficult it must be to referee a college basketball game. The players are bigger, stronger, faster, and with a shot clock, the pace of the game is much quicker.

Three officials are assigned to referee a college basketball game. I often wonder if adding a fourth official would help in managing the flow of the game, but I’m not sure it would. Referees are like all of us human beings—imperfect, and not immune from making mistakes.

To become a college basketball referee is not easy. To reach this level takes lots of time, energy, effort, and training. Knowing the rules, being able to interpret the rules when violations occur, staying in shape, communication skills, consistency, diplomacy, and the ability to think on your feet are essential.

Also, there is a common denominator for referees, coaches, and players—pressure.

Coaching a college basketball team is precarious work. The livelihood of the coach is in the hands of players whose ages range from 18-21.

Fans, especially alumni, want very badly for their team to win and to become contenders for the national championship.

Players feel that pressure too. Blue chip players are heavily recruited. Once a blue-chipper commits to a team, everyone expects these players to instantly and consistently perform at a higher level than teammates and peers.

Referees encounter levels of pressure from their supervisors, coaches, players, and fans. In game situations, referees are expected to keep their composure at all times. Sometimes, referees are subjected to volatile and hostile treatment from coaches, players, and spectators. An expectation exists that the referees must get the calls right for both teams, no matter the degree of difficulty.

There is also a quiet pressure developing in research labs. Might the combination of technology, robotics, and artificial intelligence lead to robots officiating college basketball games in the future?

But, there is an additional level of pressure to be considered. In the future will conferences like the ACC be able to recruit, train, and keep competent referees for all sports? How might the erosion of civility, decorum, and sportsmanship impact candidates who are thinking about becoming referees?

In either of the games referenced here, my heart hurts for the players, coaches, referees, and fans.

However, in this most recent meeting between Virginia and Duke, I will always wonder if the outcome of the game might have been decided earlier if Duke’s players had not committed twenty-two turnovers. How many of those Duke turnovers could have been converted to points to expand Duke’s narrow lead?

On the other hand, we seem to quickly forget about all of the split second calls made by referees that are correct.

What we don’t want to consistently happen in a college basketball game is grounded in this Yogi Berra quote: “We made too many wrong mistakes.”

Growing up, I loved college basketball. At this stage of my life, my affection is declining. I sense that money, egos, and the desire to win at all cost are gradually eroding the game.

And despite my whines, I prefer the outcome of the game to be decided by the skills of the players, not dedicated referees.

Even Duke’s Jeremy Roach, the team’s captain said this after the loss: “Duke should never be in a position where the referees can decide the game.”

Mr. Roach was correct.