Author: Bill Pike

On May 16, 1966, Capitol Records released the Beach Boys’ album Pet Sounds. This collection of songs was a total departure from the landscape the Beach Boys sold to people all around the world. Gone were surfing, surfer girls, fast cars, and memories about  growing up in southern California. 

The instrumentation for this recording expanded well beyond bass, guitars, and drums. Bass harmonica, theremin, all sorts of percussion, bicycle horn, woodwinds, strings, keyboards, horns, and more are all in the mix.

For Pet Sounds, Brian Wilson collaborated with Tony Asher to carve out the lyrics. Tony Asher worked in advertising. Additionally, Brian recorded the album with a group of top notch studio musicians in Los Angeles known as the Wrecking Crew.

The pattern worked like this.  

Brian wrote the music for the songs at his piano, while Tony was close by writing the lyrics. 

Brian went to the recording studio, recorded the instrumental tracks for each song with the Wrecking Crew. 

The Beach Boys would come off the road from touring, and spend countless hours over endless days recording the vocal tracks. 

Brian would oversee the mixing of the tracks, and would deliver the final product to Capitol Records.

If a song from the album made the charts as a single, then Brian’s youngest brother Carl, would work out the arrangements for concert performances and teach the song to his fellow Beach Boys.

Of the 13 tracks on Pet Sounds,  my guess is you are most familiar with “Sloop John B,” “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and “God Only Knows.” Initially, Pet Sounds was not a huge hit like the band’s previous recordings. In fact, a few years after the album was released, it was out of print, not available. 

But, Pet Sounds, for many musicians then and now was the album that changed  how pop songwriters wrote, crafted, and recorded songs. Even today, the legacy of Pet Sounds and its impact remains intact.

As sure as the instruments used in recording the album were different, so were the lyrics. 

Brian pushed Tony Asher into an entirely different direction, far away from surfing and cars. The lyrics were introspective, probing. The boy/girl relationships of the teenage years were gone. Now, the observations and questions asked in the relationship were a step up— man and woman.

Pet Sounds has songs of exuberance “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” and “Here Today.” But, the album also contains the opposite of such joyfulness—“You Still Believe In Me” and “Caroline No.”

I will admit, it took years for my ears to appreciate Pet Sounds. And, I have listened to the album, and its outtakes many, many times, and for some reason,  I keep being drawn back to one song—“I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times.”

I think I am drawn to this song for several reasons. But, here is the main one—I believe the lyrics capture how we all might feel or have felt at some point in our lives. And at those points,  we most likely have never made those feelings public.   Here are the lyrics:

I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times

Written by Brian Wilson and Tony Asher from the Beach Boys album Pet Sounds Capitol Records All lyrics Irving Music copyright 1966

I keep looking for a place to fit in where I can speak my mind.

I’ve been trying hard to find the people that I won’t leave behind.

They say I got brains, but they ain’t doing me no good, I wish they could. Each time things start to happen again, I think I got something good going for myself, but what goes wrong?

Sometimes, I feel very sad. Sometimes, I feel very sad. (Ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into)

Sometimes, I feel very sad.(Ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into)

I guess, I just wasn’t made for these times.

Every time I get the inspiration to go change things around; no one wants to help me look for places where new things might be found.

Where can I turn when my fair weather friends cop out? What’s it all about?

Each time things start to happen again, I think I got something good going for myself, but what goes wrong?

Sometimes, I feel very sad. Sometimes, I feel very sad. (Ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into) Sometimes, I feel very sad. (Ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into)

I guess I just wasn’t made for these times, I guess I just wasn’t made for these times, I guess I just wasn’t made for these times

I wonder at this very moment how many people who we think we really know feel like they weren’t made for these times? 

At times in my life, I felt like the lyrics captured me. I didn’t fit in, my brain was useless, and disappointment consumed me when the anticipation of something good happening failed.

My guess is that COVID-19 has pushed many people to think—I just wasn’t made for these times.

When I read this virus has killed more Americans than the troops we lost in the Vietnam War (58,220), I am saddened. Those troops we lost over a period of almost two decades. COVID-19 has taken at this point in America 82,246 lives (this figure changes daily)  in almost four months.

The scars of war are never forgotten, and I imagine the same will be said about COVID-19.

Maybe your heart sank like mine did when I read about the New York City doctor who took her own life related to her work helping  COVID-19 patients. I wonder if she had reached the point of feeling like she wasn’t made for these times?

There isn’t much doubt in my mind that Brian Wilson has thought and felt at moments in his life that he wasn’t made for these times. And yet, somehow, Brian with help pushed back his demons and worked to overcome them. While I love his music, I also admire that Brian is a survivor.

Yes, it is very likely that many people in the past, now, and in the future will feel like in life’s certain moments— they weren’t made for these times.

For these people, be they family, friend, neighbor, co-worker, or stranger, when they feel like they weren’t made for these times, we need to be the gentle  pivot point.

What is a gentle pivot point? What does that mean?

I think a gentle pivot point is simply this—listening.

If you ears listen carefully to the chorus for “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times,” you will hear the following counter melody:  (Ain’t found the right thing I can put my heart and soul into.)

That counter melody has always resonated with me.

Why?

Well, I think our hearts and souls are always searching for something to grab, something to hold us up, something to get us through the challenges of the moment.

And perhaps that is the very heart of the story found in “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times.”

The narrator is seeking a very basic human need—hear me, listen to me.

Right now,  in this upside down world, maybe you, me, we can be the “right thing” for that person whose heart and soul just needs to be heard.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Publix, 

I hope all is well at your headquarters in Lakeland, Florida.

As a consumer, I thought I might give you some insight as to how your expansion march is going into the northern tiers of the South. 

Personally, I find your stores to be attractive, well-maintained, and at this point your personnel have been friendly and helpful. 

From a distance, I think some of your competitors in the Richmond market have better pricing. But, I’m assuming you are recovering your cost for all of the new construction you initiated across the Richmond area.

In your newspaper flyer that appeared in the Wednesday, May 6 edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch, I found on page 4 a teeny-weeny concern.

At the top of the page, I read the following heading:

Southern-grown produce.

The first fruit displayed is a tempting image of golden ripe pineapples at a “surprisingly low price.”

Now, my wife, the Commander Supreme, can confirm for you that I am not the sharpest tack on the bulletin board. 

But, when I was a student a long, long, long time ago in the North Carolina Public Schools, when teachers actually taught ge-og-ra-phy,  I do not recall any teacher stating that pineapples  were being produced in significant harvestable numbers anywhere in the South. 

The only state in America mentioned that grew pineapples in significant numbers was Hawaii.  Last I checked, Hawaii was still way out in the Pacific Ocean. And since I have lived all my life either in North Carolina or Virginia, I believe I would have known if Hawaii had been annexed into the South. 

Thus in lies the problem, your ad has insulted the dignity of my proper North Carolina education by implying that pineapples are grown in the Southern parts of the United States. Uncle Jasper might have a few plants in his backyard out on Sanibel Island, Florida, but Uncle Jasper ain’t growing enough to supply all of your Publix stores.

Out of the twelve fruits and vegetables advertised on the page, eight named Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina as their birth states. No origin is noted for the pineapples, fresh attitude salad, and the mix and match offer on broccoli and Brussels sprouts.

And just to make this a bit more painful for you, I checked the website for the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services. I specifically researched Florida Crops Seasonal Availability/Typical Harvest Times. I hope you are sitting down as I gently break this news to you— pineapples were not on the list.

I’ll give you a few seconds to regain your composure, I know hearing that news wasn’t easy.

Better now? Is it ok for me to proceed?

Hang on, here is my handkerchief, your nose mucus, tears, and slobber are running together. Use that hanky to mop up.

Now, that’s better. 

Take a deep cleansing breath.

Even though, the dignity of my North Carolina education has been insulted, I want you to know that I am to some degree a person of honor. 

 I will not call for a congressional investigation. Those trifling mischief-makers don’t know anything about ge-og-ra-phy. The only thing they understand about land is if you live and vote in their district.

But back to our problem, I believe I might have a solution for us to ponder. 

  It is clear to me that your advertising writers, copy editors, and  proofreaders need some remediation in  ge-og-ra-phy. After all, you are paying these degreed people lots of pennies to attract customers.

So, I would recommend that your human resources department enroll your loyal communicators in Miss Crump’s remedial ge-og-ra-phy class. This all can be done on-line for $19.99 per student. 

Enrolling your personnel into this twelve week class is guaranteed to solve all future ge-og-ra-phy problems. Just ask Miss Crump’s prized student, Dr. Ernest T. Bass, from Old Man Kelsey’s Woods a rock toss away from Mayberry, North Carolina.

But, if you really want to insure that I cause you no more ambushes where your tears, nose mucus, and slobber conspire against you, here is what you might consider.

Overall, your beer pricing is way out of line. Here is one example, your price for a six pack of Anchor Steam Beer is ridiculous. At the Publix in Richmond closest to me, you are asking $11.99. I can buy that same six pack elsewhere for $8.99.

You follow where I’m going with this?

Lower that six pack price on Anchor Steam Beer to $8.99 for the rest of my life, and I’ll forget about the problem you have with ge-og-ra-phy.

Otherwise, my eyes will continue to scour the weekly flyer looking for teeny-weeny problems.

There should be a warning message that goes off in our brains when a husband and wife make a decision to pursue becoming parents. No one can tell you what becoming a parent is truly like until you become one.

If I really search, tucked away in the hard drive of my brain are lots of memories about becoming a parent. Here are a few that I recall.

The breathing techniques from Lamaze class. 

My wife trying to teach me how to properly pin the diaper without collateral damage to the newborn or myself. 

Not reading the directions for putting the crib together, and missing a critical step. 

 Sleepless nights when you exhausted every Dr.  Spock trick to try to get your most prized possession to go to sleep.

The diaper change when your son decides to hose you and the changing surface down. 

Exploding bowel movements that dripped and oozed from the saturated diaper. 

 All points bulletin searches for that prized pacifier or the dirtiest, softest, but most favorite rag of a blanket.

See those memories are there. Safely tucked away and chronicled for appropriate retrieval. 

 It’s ok to revisit because you’ll laugh, cry, and wonder how you and your wife got through those early years.  

Now when you start the search on your brain’s hard drive for these memories, you’re certain to find the following file:  Every Father’s Nightmare. 

 In this file, you’ll find two statements from your wife. Either one has the potential to trigger a cardiac moment:  “Honey, I’m sick, or honey, I’m taking a trip.”

If the husband must deal with the first statement, automatically, he will ask a ridiculous question:  “Honey, are you certain that you are sick?”

 And  if the father gets the second statement, the first ill-advised words to spring forth to his wife are:  “Honey, are you taking the children with you on this trip?”

It will take a father, several minutes to recover from the verbal pounding he will receive if he asks his wife either of those questions. 

Once he recovers, that’s when the real fear and worry of what lies ahead of him will start to nervously ping in his brain.

Whether his spouse is bedridden or being driven to the airport, immediately, a detailed list is produced  providing the orders of the day. These orders  must be followed to perfection.  

Failure to follow this list of orders can be catastrophic for fathers in dealing with his children in these moments.  A father will automatically know he is in deep, deep trouble if he hears even a mumbling whisper of these words:  “That’s not the way mom does it.”

That one whisper can quickly turn into constant reminders to the father regarding his inferior skills.

That’s not the way Mom makes or packs my lunch. 

 That’s not the way Mom drives the car pool. 

 Mom’s never late in picking us up from any of our after school activities.  

That’s not the way Mom shops at the grocery store.  

That’s not the way Mom washes and dries my hair.  

That’s not the way Mom washes, dries, and folds the clothes.   

That’s not the way Mom fixes dinner. 

 Mom always lets us watch this show. 

 That’s not the way Mom tells us good night.

Even when the husband’s commanding officer recovers from her illness or returns from her much needed sabbatical, the chorus “that’s not the way Mom does it,” will ring in his ears forever.

Why?

Because it’s an indisputable fact— no one has the knack, the touch, the intuitive nature, the personality, the style, the grace, the culture, the diplomatic skills,  the vision, the wisdom, the talent, and the hugs of Mom.  

Exodus, Chapter 20, verse 12 in the Bible reads as follows: “Honor your father and your mother.” 

 Perhaps that famous commandment should be edited to include the following:  Honor your father and your mother, but especially your mother.

 Because only a mother has the unique ability and capacity to love her children in the way she does.

 No one else has that touch, no one, but a mother.

She is without question indispensable.

I could be wrong, but it appears to me that there is a national recognition day for just about anything. There is even a website named National Day Calendar.  Last I checked, we only have 365 days on our calendar, but the folks at National Day Calendar report they track close to 1,500 days of recognition. 

For example, as I am writing on Thursday, April 30, today is national Bugs Bunny Day. I guess I have been living a sheltered life. Bugs Bunny has his own day, amazing. 

I didn’t check on the website to see if there is a national Mr. Grumpy Day. I’m pretty sure I could be the poster child for that special day. In case your interested in learning how to register a National Day, the website has all of the information for you.

But, there is a special national day coming up on Tuesday, May 5. That is National Teacher Day, and it is a part of Teacher Appreciation Week.

According to several reliable internet sources, leaders in education and politics started in 1944 trying to figure out a day to recognize the work of teachers. It took Eleanor Roosevelt to motivate Congress in 1953 to proclaim a National Teachers’ Day.

It took more years for Congress, the PTA, and the NEA to eventually target and coordinate the first week of May as the time for us to recognize our teachers. I don’t think any teacher would be surprised that setting aside this formal recognition took so long. Teachers know the drill. That is why in lots of communities across America, teachers remain overloaded, under appreciated,  and under paid.

Quite often, I ask myself how did I ever graduate from high school? How did I ever get accepted into a college?

I was a horrible student. Sixth grade was my best year—honor roll and perfect attendance. Beyond that year, I never worked to my potential. I know I drove my parents nuts, and I am sure my teachers wondered why my parents didn’t kill me.

But, somehow, the teachers who endured me worked their magic. And, my parents, never gave up on me. They worked with me, if I needed a tutor, especially for Algebra, they found one.

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Hughes, at Elon Elementary School taught me how to read. I am so thankful. I can read. 

Over the last year, I have thought a lot about Betsy Wall. She was the typing teacher at Turrentine Junior High School in Burlington, North Carolina. I have no idea how she withstood the redundancy of the instruction, but thanks to Betsy Wall, I can type.

If I’m lucky enough to make it to heaven, I’m certain many of my former teachers will be shocked to learn that I followed them into the trenches and became a teacher. Some will probably pass out when they learn that I also coached, became an assistant principal, principal, and even served on my local school board. There are times that I can’t believe my career choice either.

At some point during Teacher Appreciation Week, I encourage you to go back into your school day memory banks. Ask yourself this question, who was that teacher who really made a difference in my life? 

If they are still living, figure out how to contact them or post a thanks on social media.  Teachers in the past and in the present need to be thanked. That thank you is good for their souls.

Now teachers are dealing with the disruption of COVID-19. I love this quote found in the Skimm back on March 17:  “Teachers deserve to make a billion dollars a year, or a week,” stated Shonda Rhimes after homeschooling her kids for a total of one hour and 11 minutes.

Teaching always has been and always will be challenging work. Makes no difference where teachers apply their instructional and classroom management skills. All schools have different layers of stress. And that stress at times, can wear a teacher out.

While I know pay commensurate with other professions is important, I think equally important to teachers is being supported, especially in challenging situations. Being supported is critical to individual and collective morale in a school building.

So, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Wall, and to all those teachers in between, I thank you for putting up with me. 

Somehow, your determination helped me earn some essential skills. Those skills stuck to me like the paste used to create a collage in an art class. Thankfully what you taught me never left.

I think teachers are captured in this quote from Arthur Ashe:  “True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to  surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost.”

Teachers serve others at whatever the cost.

Be sure to thank a teacher today.

Perhaps like me, you are attracted to t-shirts. 

I wonder how many I have owned in my lifetime? 

I still have way too many in our bedroom closet and chest of drawers.

Every so often, I cull through the t-shirts, and sort out ones I haven’t worn in years. If they are in good shape, I donate them.

I still have every t-shirt that we designed and ordered for the faculty and staff at Lakeside Elementary. God bless, Rose Tanner, who was the school’s secretary, when I first started working at Lakeside. I know she thought I was crazy, but Rose figured out how we could order those t-shirts.

My wife’s incredibly gifted college roommate, Beverly Neely Bruce, was an artist. Beverly could do anything in the art world. Near the end of my senior year of college, she learned how to silk screen and print t-shirts. 

I bought a couple of t-shirts. The colors were gold and dark green. 

On the gold one, she printed the Beach Boys in concert logo. This was based on Cyrus Dallin’s statue Appeal To The Great Spirit. 

With the green t-shirt, Beverly transposed the bottle cap from a Heineken beer bottle on to the shirt.

I can’t tell you how many times people asked me where I purchased those two shirts. That’s how good Beverly was with silk screening and printing.

But today, and this is my public service announcement, the best t-shirts made in the world, that’s right I said world, are made in Burlington, North Carolina at T. S. Designs. 

My brother-in-law, Eric Henry, runs and owns the company. This innovative maker of t-shirts has quite a story. And, I’m sure as a small, independent business, they would appreciate any and all orders and purchases at this very moment. Plus, T. S. Designs has just introduced a line of handcrafted face masks to combat COVID-19.  Don’t delay, go investigate, now!

I always thought whoever figured out that a t-shirt design could also be printed on the back of the shirt was very clever. Why have a blank back of the shirt? Don’t waste the advertising space.

One summer, we were visiting our oldest daughter in Chicago. Being the early riser that I am, on several mornings I went for a run.  I would work my way from the condo over to Lake Michigan. There was the famous Lake Front Trail. The trail winds along the shore line for many miles from the north to the south. 

I saw all kinds of people out there runners, walkers, skaters, bike riders, fishermen, swimmers, photographers, park workers, and people sitting, staring out into the sunrise. 

On one of those runs, a t-shirt a fellow runner was wearing caught my eye. Printed on the front of his shirt was the following question: Have You Exercised Your Faith Today?

I have never forgotten that shirt. But, I have never been consistent in asking myself that question, much less implementing it everyday.

A few years ago, I worked to get myself in shape to run the Richmond Road Runners annual Turkey Trot. This 10K is held on Thanksgiving morning at the University of Richmond. The race sells out every year. It is a beautiful course that winds through the campus and surrounding neighborhoods in the city of Richmond and Henrico County.

But, it is one tough course.  The route consists of twisting turns, steep hills, and there are even some trail running sections. I was always thankful to reach the finish line.

Since this race was run in the fall, the Richmond Road Runners had for registered participants a long sleeve t-shirt. These were moisture wicking shirts made from any number of synthetic materials.

I still have the shirt from the 2014 Turkey Trot. The design on the front was simple, but wise.

The theme is—We are thankful for…..

A pair of running shoes are dangling from their shoe strings, and printed on the outside of the running shoes are things people are thankful for in their lives. Here are some of things the designer listed:  family, friends, good health, freedom, food, kindness, life, and every breath.

During the last few weeks, I can’t tell you how many times I have heard from family and friends the word—blessed. Their point—how blessed they feel with their circumstances as they survey the challenges people are experiencing from COVID-19.

I note a story from the NBC evening news about a COVID-19 patient in New York City. This patient, who recently was released from the hospital spent 53 days in the hospital, 53 days. 

I can’t even begin to imagine what that experience was like.  And, I wonder how many times the patient felt like he might have been taking his last breath during his confinement.

Clearly, I have no reason to whine about anything I have experienced during my last 53 days. I should be grateful and thankful.

And also, it is quite clear, I need to make improvement in answering the question on that Chicago t-shirt—have I exercised my faith today? 

It seems that a first step for me in exercising my faith would be to focus on two verses from 1 Thessalonians Chapter 5:  “pray continually, and give thanks in all circumstances.”

That is good advice.

The next time I catch myself whining about COVID-19, I need to stop, look around, and exercise my faith.

Growing up, our oldest daughter, Lauren was a homebody. Invitations to spend a night at a friend’s home were often turned down.

I thought she was going to croak when the sixth grade confirmation class at church had an overnight retreat. I still don’t know how she endured that one night.

But, gradually, I think time gave her confidence, and she was able to adapt. 

Week long high school mission trips with the church youth group, beach week after high school graduation, and four years of study at Virginia Tech all fell into place.

But in the summer before her senior year at Virginia Tech, she threw us a curve ball.

Lauren spent the summer of 2004 working in Los Angeles at the Center for Student Missions (CSM). This nonprofit hosted youth groups from across the country who came to large cities in America to learn about and work with the homeless.

Upon reflection, Lauren states:  “That was probably the best and most transformative summer of my life thus far. Loved every minute of it. Even the tough stuff.”

I think Lauren probably inherited my homebody genes. No way, I could have spent a summer in Los Angeles leading youth groups around the city. But, she did.

We flew out for a family visit at some point that summer. Our journey started in San Diego, and we worked our way to Los Angeles. 

 Los Angeles is sometimes called the City of Angels. At the time, my wife had two sisters living in southern California. If needed, Lauren had access to help if a crisis arose. But, thankfully that never happened.

When we finally caught up with Lauren in Los Angeles, here is the first thing that impressed me—she knew how to direct us around the city. In a very short period of time, she had been required to map out the routes and locations where the youth mission teams would be traveling during the week.

And, the other piece that caught my attention was her capacity to work with people, a very diverse population of people. This included her CSM teammates, the visiting mission teams, and the citizens of Los Angeles.

I think that summer in Los Angeles planted the seeds for her next step after graduating from Virginia Tech. She enrolled in graduate school at DePaul University in Chicago.

I remember the Sunday afternoon in August when we drove to BWI in Baltimore to pick her up from her homecoming flight. The ride back to Richmond was full of stories about her work.

Along with her stories, she also brought back some gifts. I still have the blue Los Angeles Mission hat she gave me. Minus cold winter mornings, I always wear that hat when I go for a run.

That hat could tell stories too. But, there is something special about the back of the hat. It has a cross embroidered on it. The cross is formed with a fork and a knife.

Established in 1936, the Los Angeles Mission continues work with the estimated 59,000 men, women, and children who make up Los Angeles County’s homeless population. Part of their branding includes these words:  The Crossroads of Hope.

Since the COVID-19 shutdown, our church has been attempting to provide hope and support to people in our community who are in need of food. In a blink, many individuals in our city, county, and the neighborhoods surrounding our church unexpectedly became food insecure.

Since mid-March we have been collecting food and personal hygiene donations on Fridays at our church. We simply place three large collection bins along the front driveway. Prior to Friday, we post the needed food and hygiene items via social media. Then, from 9-2 p.m. people drop off their donations.

At this point, we have made donations to the Sherbourne UMC Food Pantry, Doorways, the Saturday morning Literacy Academy at Oak Grove-Bellemeade Elementary School, Henrico County Public Schools, and the Welborne UMC Food Pantry. We also have accepted financial donations for those unable to make a trip to a local grocery store. These donations are in turn distributed to the food pantries.

In a conversation, I had with Trinity member Anne Pollard about our Friday collections, she put our efforts into one simple question—“Ask yourself when was the last time you went hungry?”

For me, the cross formed with the knife and the fork is a reminder that I should never take my blessings for granted. 

Why? 

Because in a blink, they could be gone.

At the end of each Friday’s collection, we count up our donations. This information is a part of an annual report for the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church.

The other day, I thought to myself these numbers aren’t important.

No, what is important is the hearts of the people who made the effort to make a donation.

And, then I thought further, nope that’s not it either.

Here is the important part—it is touching the hearts of the people who receive the food donation. 

Los Angeles isn’t the only city with angels.

All cities, towns, counties, communities, and neighborhoods have them.

Angels have hearts of hope.

You are one of those angels with a heart of hope.

Someone in your community needs your angel heart today.

That cross made with the fork and knife is counting on you, me, and us.

I always thought this might make a good Trivial Pursuit or Jeopardy question:  Who are mister, Fanny, Carmen, the devil, Miss Moses, Luke, Anna Lee, Crazy Chester, and Jack?

If you guessed these are the nine characters referenced in the lyrics to The Band’s song “The Weight” that is very sad. 

This means you, like me have what writer Dave Barry calls “brain sludge.”  Brain sludge is useless information that floats around aimlessly, primarily in the gray matter of men.

So, if you were a kind hearted lady who figured out the answer, you deserve a piece of discounted Easter candy.

Thanks to COVID-19, my childhood pal, Joe Vanderford, and I were not able to present our two part class on The Band scheduled for April 13 and 14. This class was offered through the Osher Institute at the University of Richmond.

In prepping for the class, Joe is a tough taskmaster. 

I read three books about The Band, listened many times to the first three albums, watched the Martin Scorsese documentary, The Last Waltz, read reviews, essays, and interviews, viewed assorted video clips on the internet, and eventually carved out the framework of our presentation.

By now, you must be thinking—people actually sign up for this class? Yes, they do. Remember, there are lots of brain sludgers in this world.

But, back to “The Weight”.

The song was released in 1968 as a single from The Band’s first album Music From Big Pink on Capitol Records. “The Weight” was not a hit record—it was more.

It has been 52 years since this song was recorded and released. The lyrics have been analyzed, pondered, and written about by all kinds of journalist and admirers. Additionally, over 50 recording artists have recorded versions of the song.

For my old ears, and I am not a critic, this song is just about perfect. The lyrics, the vocals, especially on the chorus, and the musician’s mastery of their instruments all mesh together to form a peerless performance.

I’ll let your ears be the judge. But, briefly I want to reference the lyrics. Luckily, this will not be a dissertation.

Start with the first two lines: 

‘I pulled into Nazareth, I was feeling about half past dead.

I just need some place where I can lay my head.’

“Half past dead,” what an image! 

Think about your life.  Where are those “half past dead” moments? Those situations in your life when you have been physically, emotionally drained. Tiredness, weariness have depleted from your body and mind all of your energy.

Now, think about real time—this COVID-19 crisis. Do you think anyone is feeling: “half past dead”?

The chorus for the song is as follows:

“Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free, take a load off Fanny, and,(and, and,) you put the load right on me, (you put the load right on me).”

Lots of people in our world at this very moment are carrying quite a load on them. No matter where we look, people are burdened with loads of worry, anxiety, responsibility, helplessness, doubt, hopelessness, and fear.

I always felt the characters mentioned in the lyrics of “The Weight” were real people, with real needs, carrying real loads. 

I felt like they were searching for an out, a solution, a remedy for  unloading their struggles. 

I have that same feeling now about people who are struggling because of “the weight” of COVID-19. They are in a similar search mode.

In 1968, America had “the weight”.

Among them were the Vietnam war, the assassinations of Martin Luther King,Jr. and Robert Kennedy.  These situations triggered riots and protests throughout our country. An uneasy tension was present.

Whether we want to admit it our not, America, these United States, have an uneasy tension present now.

Nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, somewhere between Woolwine and Floyd, my cousin Sam, and his lovely bride reside.

A few days ago in some internet chatter, Sam wisely noted the following:  “I saw a Facebook post the other day that said something to the effect that we couldn’t wait for things to get back to ‘normal.’ But, if that is all we’re hoping for, we have missed the lesson from all this.”

Just about everyday, I note a story where good hearts are doing good work for people who are feeling: ‘the weight’ and the ‘load’ of COVID-19.

I hope the lesson from that good work never ends. We can’t let it.

As much as I love the lyrics to “The Weight,” I’m also reminded of meaningful words from Matthew 11: 28-30:  “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Lots of people all around us are weary, burdened, and in need of rest.

How can I help those people?

I need to be willing to learn from that gentle and humble heart of the master teacher.

I hope I can. 

I shouldn’t be content with a return to normal. 

I should be looking for ways to push beyond a return to normal. 

Why? 

I’m still working on that. 

But for starters, part of me thinks the weight of COVID-19 will reshape, redefine, and alter normal for a long time.

And maybe in some crazy way, this will be our opportunity to reshape, redefine, and alter our hearts to counter balance that weight carried by people now and before COVID-19.

Perhaps, as I move forward, the real answer related to normal is this— keeping in front of me “for I am gentle and humble in heart.”

Surely, in the days ahead, someone that you, me, we encounter who is feeling—half past dead— will need our gentle and humble hearts.

From the writer, this piece appeared in the April 15, 2020 edition of the Connection for Trinity UMC in Richmond, Virginia. Thanks for the opportunity, Bill Pike

I am certain that my granny, Margaret Harrod, wanted to burn or toss in the Haw River my favorite book, the story of Lucky Mrs. Ticklefeather. But, she never did. 

Also, I know for certain, there are parts of my life story that I would like to burn or toss out too. But, I can’t. All I can do is ask for forgiveness and learn. 

Right now, I suspect we are all thinking, I wish COVID-19 didn’t exist. It is an unwanted intruder, a story we don’t want. 

 Every day, I learn another person’s story related to COVID-19. This virus is quite a puncher. Its impact is far reaching. Often, those stories have sad endings. 

But, at Trinity, I’ve seen the counter punches to COVID-19. Here are a few.

 The leadership of a program staff committed to bringing worship and other programming to our congregation and community with the use of technology. Even, Holy Week was preserved with quality and creativity.

Our office staff constructed a staggered schedule that gives them the flexibility to provide coverage each day of the week for the church.

Ronnie Johnson, Bobby McShaw, and Juanita Woodson have been keeping an eye on the building.

And way up in Haymarket, Virginia, our communication specialist, Kim Johnson, has figured out how to do a million things for us in a nanosecond. 

Church Council, the Finance Committee, the Trustees, and the Trinity Foundation are meeting via Zoom. Heck, even my 92 year old mother-in-law figured out how to Zoom!  But more importantly, these congregational leaders are working cooperatively to keep us on track.

But here are some more good Trinity stories for you to consider… our Lenten devotional book gave us a lot to ponder from many perspectives, the Stitchers and all of the masks they have handmade for workers in need, and your generosity with the food collections.

We had no idea how the food collections would turn out. But, we learned…even kind hearted people who we hadn’t seen at Trinity for a long time participated by dropping off a much needed donation.

I have thought a lot about my parents and their families during this pandemic. I keep coming back to one word…sacrifice. They embraced it.

This morning in the Richmond Times-Dispatch, the quote for the day caught my eye. Everett Dirksen once said: “I am a man of fixed and unbending principles, the first of which is to be flexible at all times.”

As rigid as we might be in our traditions at Trinity, in this initial confrontation with COVID-19, I think we have shown our ability to be flexible.

Continuing to punch back at COVID-19 will require us to be flexible.

And there is one more piece to our story for COVID-19 from Matthew 28:10, when Jesus said on the morning of his resurrection: “Do not be afraid.”

If my granny can endure reading to me Lucky Mrs. Ticklefeather a million times, we can punch back COVID-19.

Trinity, we will get through this. 

And we will do it with flexibility, endurance, sacrifice,  and without fear.

On Friday, March 20, 2020, a record high temperature was set in Richmond. The thermometer hit 88 degrees. That broke a record of 85 degrees set back in 1948.

I can verify the heat on that afternoon as we were working in the backyard of our son’s home. We were clearing debris that had probably been there since 1948. 

But, this morning, Wednesday, April 15,  when I headed out for my run, the temperature was 39 degrees with a wind chill of 29. 

The National Weather Service had a freeze watch posted for sections of Virginia, frost advisories for sections of North Carolina, a winter weather advisory for stretches of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia, and parts of the Virginia and North Carolina coastlines had special marine warnings.

So much for spring, welcome back winter.

On my run, I wore my knit cap, gloves, and other winter gear.

This is nuts. And just think, in a few short weeks, I will probably be whining because of the heat and humidity.

But, I enjoyed my run. It is good to embrace the elements and all of the contrasts the weather of spring brings to us.

Later this morning, I would be heading to my doctor’s office for my annual physical. Back on April 9, I had reported to the doctor’s office for my lab work. 

On April 9, I wore the mask made by my wife, the Commander Supreme. I checked in outside the building. Then, I was told to wait for a phone call. The phone call would be my orders to report to a tent in the parking lot. There, I would have my blood drawn. 

Ok, I will tell you up front, I’m a chicken when it comes to blood drawing. 

I always alert the nurse doing the work—you have to talk to me during the procedure. I will not watch what you are doing either. If you don’t talk with me, you might be picking me up off the floor, or in this case the parking lot.

The nurse was very good. I didn’t dent the asphalt.

I left, went back home, ate some breakfast, and then headed to Trinity. 

Sometime after one, the Commander calls. She tells me I need to call the doctor’s office. Immediately, I’m in a panic. What did those blood tests reveal?

So, I call. 

Mr. Pike, we need you to come back to have your blood work done again. Something went wrong with the lab process.

I was polite. I promptly left to get this over. 

I checked in again. This time, I was directed to a small trailer. The same nurse was waiting for me. 

It was a windy day. I asked her about the tent. She told me a gust of wind took it and everything inside of it. Now, all of her equipment was set up inside this tiny trailer. The chair for the blood work was sitting in the bright April sun.

I sat in the chair.  The nurse remembered my talking request. We yakked. She drew the red stuff. And, for the second time, I didn’t dent the asphalt.

This morning, after the run, I showered, dressed for winter again,  and headed to the doctor’s office.

As on April 9, I was checked in outside. At the entrance doors, a nurse sat wrapped in a blanket with a portable heater running. She asked me a series of questions, took my temperature, and sent me in the building.

The nurse who did all of the prep work for the doctor was very good. She captured my health updates, and then she asked me a series of questions. All of the questions were designed to test my mental dexterity.

I interpreted that line of questioning to affirm one thing—I am now officially old. 

And if there was any doubt at all, I was given my first pneumonia shot, and informed about a new shingles shot. After this COVID-19 chaos settles, I will need to get the shingles shot.

I take no comfort in the affirming from this annual physical that I am aging. I worry about the future. I pray that I will not be a burden to the Commander Supreme or our children. I don’t want that to happen to them.

This quote from Sophia Loren makes a lot of sense:  “There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age.” 

I don’t expect to defeat aging, but I hope I can tap those sources. I hope to continue to develop my mind, my talents, my creativity, and I hope to use these gifts to be better at loving those people who surround me.

Over the last week, the Richmond Times-Dispatch has given lots of coverage to the passing of Bill Millsaps. Mr. Millsaps had quite a career as a sports writer, columnist, and executive for the newspaper.

On June 24, 2011, Mr. Millsaps was honored to be named the recipient of the Red Smith Award. This award is the most prestigious sports journalism recognition in America.

In his acceptance speech, Mr. Millsaps noted the sixth game of the 1977 World Series. That was the game when Reggie Jackson of the New York Yankees hit three home runs.

Both Mr. Millsaps and Red Smith were covering the series. At the time, Mr. Smith was 72 years old. After the game Millsaps and Smith were in the media madness in the hallway outside the Yankees’ clubhouse.

In this media mayhem, Mr. Millsaps asked Mr. Smith, “I know why I’m here. Why are you here?”  Mr. Smith replied, “Oh, you can always learn something.”

At that point, Mr. Millsaps reflected to himself—“that’s not a bad motto for any working journalist.”

And in truth, that’s not a bad motto for someone like me who has been officially notified that I am old.

As I continue to age, I hope that I will always be willing to learn.

Aging really comes down to our capacity to adjust.

Life, like today’s Virginia weather is a roller coaster—full of ups and downs.  Adjusting to those conditions is about learning. 

It is figuring out how to sustain the ups while not letting the downs consume us. 

Red Smith was right—“oh, you can always learn something.”

As I age, I pray that I will always be willing to learn.

We should never ever let ourselves forget Easter 2020. 

It should stick to our souls like preschoolers working with glue and cut paper shapes for the first time.

It should stick to us like peanut butter and jelly on a grandchild at lunch time.

It should stick to us like a barnacles on dock posts in a harbor.

Don’t make a mental note, write it down somewhere: don’t ever forget Easter 2020.

Post it somewhere. 

Somewhere, so that you will be able to see it everyday.

Somewhere, where it will stick to your soul.

On Easter Sunday morning, I was up early as usual. 

I did my reading of the Upper Room, read the recommended scriptures, read the last post from our church’s Lenten devotional book, and prayed.

I did a tweak of my projected Might Be Baloney blog posting, and then headed to Trinity to open up.

This should be no surprised to you, but the building is quiet. 

None of the usual human sounds are present. Occasionally, from a mechanical room I hear a compressor kick on and run its cycle.

On this overcast morning, I need to remove the black cloth from the cross out front. This year, I will replace the black cloth with a white one.

No chicken wire will be placed on the cross for the placement of fresh cut flowers— thanks COVID-19.

A confession to the Stitchers, I robbed a piece of white material from your tractor trailer stash of cloth. I hope you will forgive me.

Since the weather guys are predicting a stormy Monday, I cleared a couple of storm drains from spring tree debris. The church building is officially closed on Monday. 

By the time I left, modern worship leader, Aaron Miller, was in the building. He was making some adjustments for the morning worship service.

Interestingly, the day ahead of us was to be centered upon technology.

 At 9:30, we would Zoom with our Sunday school class.

 Next, at 11, we tuned into the church website for the uStream of the worship service. 

And then at 3:30, we would Zoom with our family. 

On Saturday afternoon, we had a Zoom cocktail hour with our dearest friends from college, and earlier in the week, we had a Trinity trustees meeting via Zoom. 

In a blink, I think Zoom and its counterparts have become the new normal.

Something really scary happened on Sunday afternoon during our family Zoom gathering. 

All of a sudden my wife’s 92 year old mother was on the screen with us. In a matter of minutes, she had figured out the app, followed the prompts, and thanks to those technology gods—she was present.

I was impressed. I can barely figure this junk out at 67. Who knows if I make it to 92, I might be zooming back and forth to Mars everyday.

Of course, I did have a couple of grumpy moments on Easter Sunday. 

My blog provider notified me that my annual renewal fee was coming up. I thought to myself the nerve to bug me on Easter Sunday about this. Quickly, I fired off an e-mail. And of course, they responded with— our system of notification doesn’t pay attention to traditional calendar events. 

And then, the quietness of an afternoon walk was broken with three intruders—a lawn mower, a weed eater, and a leaf blower. Maybe someone can chart Handel’s Hallelujah chorus to include that threesome. But, to really round out that sound, we needed a chainsaw. Oh, well, maybe next Easter the chainsaw will chime in too.

But, on our walk, my wife, the Commander Supreme, did show me something notable that she and her walking partner, neighbor Barbara Teague, found on an earlier walk.

In the front yard of a house on Baldwin Road, a small cross was present, and the cross was covered in azalea blooms. The cross was beautiful—some of my grumpiness disappeared.

Years ago in a letter, a friend wrote these words to me from Proverbs 3:5-6:  “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”

I know for certain I have referenced my friend’s letter and that Bible verse in other writings. For some reason, those words from Proverbs have stuck with me.

I hope that little cross of azalea blooms will stick to me a long time too.

Yes, this Easter was different, but we need to let its impact stick to us. We need to learn from it. To hold tight to it.

And even though, we might be about zoomed out, that cross is the path for our hearts to follow. 

Stick to it.