Author: Bill Pike

 

Clearly, there are many tough jobs in our world. 

Here are a few that easily come to mind—police officer, emergency room doctor, port-a-john technician, school bus driver, and parent.

Being a parent might be the toughest one. 

While the passion of creating a child is magical, when that bundle of joy arrives, it is all hands on deck. And believe me, it takes a lot of helpful loving hands to raise a child. 

Just as parents attempt to mold and shape their children, parents are also molded and shaped by those same children.

 All kinds of things impact that molding and shaping. Some are good. Some are bad. Some are in between, and some things happen to parents and their children that just can’t be explained. 

While serving on our local school board, I have discovered there has been one constant in our monthly meetings—reviewing recommendations from the superintendent for student expulsion.

Expulsion for all practical purposes means that a student has come to the end of the line—the ride is over. 

Expulsion molds and shapes lives too. 

Sadly, the lives of some students have been unraveling since the day of their birth. For others, their lives can be torn a part in one split second with an unwise choice.

Years ago, when I served as a high school assistant principal, expulsion often meant that all educational services for a student ceased. Today, school boards and superintendents look to alternative educational opportunities for students who have been recommended for expulsion.

Sometimes after a year, a student will reapply for admission to the school system. During that year with lots of support, plus their own fortitude, a student has learned from the expulsion experience. Good things have taken place. Readmission is granted. That good molding and shaping while it might be rare makes hope a reality.

My old body still allows me to take a run through our neighborhood from time to time. Those runs can be good think time. 

One thing I have noticed on my runs is that I can really see the surface of the road.

In the winter, remaining sand and salt particles from a snow storm gradually start to accumulate on the shoulder of the road. Sometimes pine tags, broken twigs, and litter become a part of that mix as well. Friction from whirring tires, wind, and rain contribute to this brushed aside build up.

That build up makes me think about students in a school who have been brushed aside. Could be any number of  reasons, but the school system in those moments has failed a student. 

When school systems lose track of a student nothing good is going to happen. Eventually, the student will lose track as well. When the student loses track of his/her relevance, the path to making poor choices immediately expands. Once a student makes one lousy choice, too often more lousy choices are on the horizon.

My mind asks me how many students did I brush aside in my career as a public educator? How often did I fail to recognize those students who just never seemed to fit, who never quite figured school out? Where was I in their baggage? Why couldn’t I have been better at helping them figure things out? Why didn’t I intervene on their behalf?

I have no good answer, only excuses. My excuses are not acceptable.

Sometimes I will run across a road surface that is full of cracks, fissures running in all directions. Sooner or later, that road surface will need to be repaired. 

Students, parents, and school systems can be full of cracks too. Those cracks allow for intrusion. Intrusions can wear us down. All of those things out there that are beyond our control begin to take over. When this happens, it is easy to lose hope.

On a daily basis, a student, a parent, and a school system can lose hope.

So, how do we regain hope?

I recently attended the National School Board Association’s annual convention in Philadelphia. My brain is still recovering from information overload.

But, there were some recurring themes.

For example, who is being overlooked in our schools?

How do schools create a sense of belonging for those who are being overlooked?

If I want to reach the brushed aside student, the student full of cracks, the overlooked student, or the student who has no sense of belonging, how do I make those needed repairs. The experts believe the answer comes down to a couple of words—building relationships.

Building relationships isn’t a simple snap of fingers. 

Building relationships takes time. 

In the ticking of those seconds, building a relationship will require endurance, endless energy, carefully chosen words, the capacity to communicate acceptance, and a resilient heart. 

I wonder how many expulsions could have been prevented by not brushing off a student or by not letting a student intrude into the cracks of the system.

Today, I often forget about a role model who didn’t brush off people during his short time on earth. No, Jesus had a skill set that allowed him to build relationships while he moved through a variety of environments. He was deliberate and precise in his teaching moments.

I wonder what it was like to be his parent? I wonder if it was a tough job? I wonder what Joseph and Mary thought about his extraordinary skills? Did they truly understand him?

 I would imagine their hearts were full of questions about their son.

I too have lots of heartfelt questions about Jesus and his work. 

 But, I also have questions about my own heart.

How can I make my heart less likely to brush aside the people I encounter who are overlooked with no sense of belonging?

I need to search my heart and find that answer. 

How about you?

Remember, it’s about building relationships.

Friday morning, March 29, the Commander Supreme dropped me off at the Amtrak station on Staples Mill Road. I’m taking train #84 to the National School Board Convention in Philadelphia.

I have flown into Philadelphia before, but only to make a connection for another flight. So, I’m hoping to find a bit of time to see the City of Brotherly Love.

The train was on time, and it was a long walk down to the business class car. We pulled out of Staples Mill headed for the next stop, Ashland, also known as the Center of the Universe.

After Ashland, we kept pushing north with the conductor announcing Fredericksburg as the next dot to connect with along the route.

The dots continued—Quantico, Alexandria, and finally into Washington, DC where the train’s engines are switched from diesel to electric. This routine takes a good 20 minutes, and I know when the transition is complete. The lights and air come back on, and the train is slightly jolted when the electric engine is coupled to the remaining cars.

We slowly move out of the dark, underground parking garage for trains. It is good to see daylight again.

The further north we inch, the less of the encroachment of spring we see. 

Along this route, I have done some reading, dozed off several times, and gazed into the passing landscapes. The only intrusion into my sluggish routine is the business man sitting behind me. 

He is taking important phone calls. His voice isn’t playground loud, but his voice dominates the quietness in the car. But, all of his phone conversations include the following words—“Do you know what I mean?” All I can say is I should have kept a count. 

Every conversation included “Do you know what I mean?” In many of those conversations, that question was used multiple times. I’m sure my count would have found a place in the Guinness Book of Records for the most repetitious use of a question while riding a train from Richmond to Philadelphia.

Quite often along this route, my gazes into the passing landscapes are unexpectedly jolted by an oncoming train. It appears the separation between the two trains is about the length of a ruler. I can feel the force of the speeding energy as the silver streak zips by Train 84, “Do you know what I mean?”

Baltimore, northern Maryland, and Wilmington, Delaware are behind us. The engineer has the train bearing down on the 30th Street station in Philadelphia. 

Somehow the coaching from the Commander Supreme works, and I order without incident a Uber to take me to the hotel. It is a slow ride with lots of traffic. These Uber drivers must have ice water in their veins. If I were driving, I’m sure I would have exploded. I can see the headline—School board member from Virginia jailed for traffic meltdown.

My hotel check-in was painless. I barely walked a half city block and crossed the street into the convention center. This place is huge. Another seamless registration occurs as a symbol on my cell phone was simply read by a scanner.

Slowly, my colleagues arrived. We gathered for a reception and dinner.

I brought along my running gear. I planned to get in an early Saturday morning run.

After checking with the friendly attendant at the front desk about a recommended route, I left just before the beginning of civil twilight.

It didn’t take too many steps to feel a pinch in my heart— as homeless individuals dotted my route. 

Some were stretched out over metal grates that were spewing a cloudy exhaust vapor of warm air. Others were wedged against a building. Still some had carved out covered spaces in the whimsical building designs of an architect. Their bodies had become acclimated to their routines and environments, unlike society, sleep did not desert them.

One of my turns took me to the corner of Arch and Broad streets home of Arch Street United Methodist Church. I made a left turn.

 As I plodded past this side of the church, a rectangular shaped sign caught my eye, printed on the sign were the following words: 

                                                             Arch Street

                                                  United Methodist Church 

                                                A Reconciling Congregation

I made a mental note and resolved to come back for another look.

It was a good run. Back at the hotel, I cleaned up, grabbed some breakfast, met colleagues in the lobby, and we walked over for the opening session.

Nearly 5000 people were packed into the main hall of the convention center. No matter who you were up on the large stage, you were going to be seen as massive monitors were carefully positioned in the hall. 

At a midday break from the convention, I walked over to Arch Street UMC. I took a photo of the sign and walked around the building again. 

 The sun was out. Spring was teasing Philadelphia. 

But the Gothic gray of this aging building could not hide in the warm sunlight. I’ll bet there are stories in each inch of the church’s architecture. Even the homeless had temporary homes in its exterior nooks.

Once the afternoon sessions were complete, we readied ourselves for another reception, this time at the Franklin Institute Science Museum. We were only in one section of this facility, but it was instantly impressive.

The reception was very nice, and when I arrived back at the hotel, I did some research about Arch Street UMC. I was hoping they might have an early morning service. Turns out, the church hosts 8:30 and 11:00 services.

So on Sunday morning, I was up early. I went down to the workout room, and rode a bike for 20 minutes. Then came back to the room, took a shower, dressed, and went to the lobby for breakfast.

After breakfast, I regrouped, and then left the hotel for the short walk to the church. The Philadelphia half marathon was taking place so lots of runners were streaming by the convention center. It was a good morning for a run, cool and overcast.

The 8:30 service was held in the Chapel. A small, but enthusiastic  crowd had gathered. The focus for this service was going to be about mission work the church supports in their neighborhood and Philadelphia. Good music and hospitality marked this simple worship service.

I departed just before the service finished, so I could walk back to the hotel and  gather what I needed for the opening session at the convention center.

The last session I attended on Sunday afternoon focused on equity in school systems for all students. Lots of points were made, but one that stuck with me was creating a “sense of belonging.”

Back in September of 2018, I started teaching a Disciple I Fast Track class. Since January, we have been working on key pieces of the New Testament of the Bible. Last week in class, one of my classmates wondered out loud—“why doesn’t the Methodist church speak out more on important social issues?”

A really good question, and I didn’t have the research expertise to respond.

But, I might guess that the United Methodist Church is still staggering from the most recent decision that was made at the church’s General Conference in February. This decision resulted in a “tightening of its ban on same-sex marriage and gay clergy.”(NY Times)

Circling back around to equity, this recent decision by the Methodist church, isn’t creating “a sense of belonging.”

In the Sunday morning bulletin at Arch Street UMC, there was an announcement that on Sunday, April 7, LGBTQ members and constituents would be ushering at the 11 a.m. service. Then following the worship service, the LGBTQ group would be going to brunch at a local restaurant. While enjoying their food and fellowship, the topic for conversation is going to be “If The Church Were Christian.”

My goodness what a conversation starter!

Today, I read a scripture from Isaiah 55, verses 5-6, this first line caught my attention: “We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way;”

I can’t tell you how many times in my life I have gone astray and gone my own way. But somehow, I have always been pulled back to the church. 

Now, it seems to me that the Methodist church has gone astray and is moving in a direction that doesn’t create “a sense of belonging.”

On the Arch Street UMC website, the following statement appears about its status as a reconciling congregation:

Arch Street United Methodist Church is a community of faith-keeping and faith-seeking people who embrace diversity in our congregation and community, and affirm the dignity and worth of every person as created in the image of God. We celebrate and give thanks for all of the gifts of God among us. Our welcome knows no boundaries, whether of age, racial or ethnic background, gender, sexual orientation or gender identity, economic or marital status, or physical or mental ability. We welcome all to share in the ministry, fellowship, and blessings of full participation as members of Christ’s body.

That statement of a reconciling congregation would seem to be the foundation for creating a “sense of belonging.”

United Methodist Church— “do you know what I mean?”

  

 

The e-mail showed up out of the blue. I sensed it was legitimate. 

A neighborhood magazine that I do some writing for was referenced.

The e-mail was simple:  Bill, wonder if you might be interested in interviewing me? If you are, meet me at the corner of West Franklin and North Pine in the city. You are an early riser, see you at 6:45 on Friday. I’ll be in uniform.  Thanks for your time and consideration, God

God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????

No way, this is a hoax of some type. I’m sure one of my pals is up to something. 

But a few minutes later, another e-mail appeared. It stated— Nice try this isn’t a hoax. Confirm you are going to show up or the interview offer is withdrawn.  Sincerely, God

I knew the location well. The corner of Franklin and Pine is where the former Pace United Methodist Church building is located. It sits across from Monroe Park.

 Now, the building is home to a campus ministry, the Wesley Foundation, a part of the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church.

I had some decisions to make. 

The first one was do I tell anyone about this e-mail? 

Answer—no. 

If I tell anyone that I’m going into Richmond to interview God, whoever I share my secret with will immediately confirm what he or she has suspected for a long time—Bill Pike you are without a doubt— crazy. Don’t move, let me call Henrico County Mental Health for you.

Next consideration, how can I overcome my fear?

 I mean after all this is God. Knowing myself, I could ask the wrong question, and poof I could be like Uzzah in the Bible here one minute gone the next. Plus, I know my track record in criticizing God isn’t good. I would imagine those heavenly data collectors have a pretty thick file on me already.

Good points, but I must go. It is an opportunity. I don’t want to regret not showing up.

On Friday morning, with a legal pad and a couple of sharpened DIXON Ticonderoga #2 pencils. I left the house and drove to my destination.

My brain is swirling. I park in front of the Pace Center. I’m five minutes early. No one is standing at the corner of Franklin and Pine in a uniform.

Then, there is a light tap on my window. Now, I’m spooked. I turn and there is a guy who looks just like Clarence, the angel, from the movie It’s A Wonderful Life.

I open the door. He speaks, “Bill, good to see you. Thanks for driving in this morning.” 

He continues, “ A couple of quick reminders for you, leave your cell phone and your camera in the car. Your legal pad and pencils are fine.”

I open the top to the middle console and drop my cell phone and camera in and close the lid.

By now, I’m out of the car. I attempt to ask my first question. 

“Excuse me sir, but you look like Clarence from the movie It’s A Wonderful Life, any chance that’s who you are?” 

“Mr. Pike, we are on a very tight schedule today, no chit chat,” the Clarence look alike responded.

He continued, “ Now walk to the alley behind the Pace Center. You will see a trash truck. Get in on the passenger’s side, and wait there. Go ahead, get moving, God will see you now.”

I quickly walk, make the left turn into the alley, the truck is sitting there, I get in as instructed.

No one is in the driver’s seat, I glance down at my legal pad for a second. I heard no door open, and then I look back to my left, and a driver is in the seat.

“Good morning, Mr. Pike, as my assistant, Clarence told you, I’m on a tight schedule. I’m doing a series of interviews today. Please ask your questions as I drive this route,” the driver states.

The driver puts the truck in gear and I ask my first question.

Over the last several years, there has been speculation that you are dead. Any truth to those rumors? 

The driver slams on breaks, I figure I’m about to be ejected, but then I see a pedestrian in the blinding sunlight who somehow didn’t see this massive truck.

“Oh, that rumor has been around for years. I like  Mark Twain’s quote—“The report of my death was an exaggeration.” No, I’m not dead, in fact I’m busier than ever.”

Word on the street is that you and your staff have been enrolled in anger management classes. Seems that was caused by how we are handling ourselves down here on earth. Are you and your staff enrolled in classes like this?

“Well, we do have our moments where we become quite exasperated with some of the decision making on earth,” God answered.

God continued, “In those moments of exasperation, we regroup, rethink, dig deeply into our heart personality data, and look for innovations that might have an impact, but we are not enrolled in any anger management classes.”

A young pastor in Tennessee, Jacob Armstrong, asks this question to his congregation:  “What is breaking God’s heart?” 

So tell me, God, anything out there in your daily encounters that is breaking your heart?

“First, for the record, my heart is in good shape. Plus, as you might guess, there is quite a team of heart specialists available to me if I need one in heaven. But, in all honesty, my heart worries a lot about the under current of tension in the world. That tension is dangerous. It moves us away from loving and caring for each other. Plus, the tension serves to divide us. We need to fix this. Living like this isn’t healthy,” God stated without any hesitation.

I’m assuming that you know church attendance in America is in decline. Do you have any insights as to why church attendance is in a downward spiral?

God was quiet for a few seconds, and then he responded, “You know I’m not a person who likes to hurt people with criticism, but I think churches have been too resistant to change. Church leadership has been overly reliant on what has worked in the past. Relying on your past without any new innovations is a formula for disaster.”

So tell me God, do you have a sense of humor? Do you and your staff enjoy a good laugh?

“Ha, finally a good question from you,” God stated.

“Yes, I have a sense of humor, and my staff and I have some good chuckles everyday. Last year during Lent, we laughed at you. We laughed so hard that we were in tears as we watched you trying to find your special hole marker to slide the cross into on your church’s front lawn. We could clearly see from our perch up in heaven the zinc covered handle. But, you kept walking all around it. We actually cheered when you finally found it.”

God informed me, “Mr. Pike, your time is almost up. I’m going to circle back into that alley behind the Pace Center. You have time for one more question.”

“Well, how about this,  God, why don’t you ask me a question,” I made my request without any trembling at all.

God quickly responded, “Ok, I will. Did you recently attend an Elton John concert in Raleigh, North Carolina?”

I answered, “Yes, I did.”

God asked, “Did you learn anything during the performance about Mr. John?”

“Yes, I did learn something. Mr. John told the audience that in the early 1990s he realized that his life was spinning out of control. Because of health challenges and issues with alcohol Mr. John found some courage, and said these three words:  “I need help.”

The truck was back in the alley, and positioned in front of a dumpster. 

God looked over at me and said,  “I need help too.”

I asked, “ How can I help?”

God replied, “It is pretty simple, let people see me through your work and action.”

For a split second, I looked away from him.

Then, I turned to give him my answer, and the driver’s seat was empty.

It is here—March. 

In the United States, unless you live under a rock, or have the mental fortitude to blockout all of the media coverage and hype, this means college basketball. March Madness is the pursuit of winning the national championship. This madness is not for the faint-hearted. Having ice water in your veins is helpful.

Having grown up in Burlington, North Carolina, basketball, and the original framework of the Atlantic Coast Conference are imprinted in my heart. In terms of team allegiance, lets just say that I lean toward the North Carolina based team whose uniforms are the darker shade of blue.

As a fan, I have mellowed. 

When I was a kid, if the darker shade of blue team lost to that sky blue team, I was a mess. I was beyond a poor sport. Anger, tears,  mean excuses abounded. 

As a mellowed adult, if the darker shade of blue team lost to that sky blue team, I was a mess. I was beyond a poor sport. Vicious, unflattering, non-Sunday school words were hurled at the TV set. 

It took me a while to figure out that the players, coaches, officials, and commentators could not hear my frustrations and recommendations. But my brilliant wife, the Commander Supreme, pointed out to me that our children could. 

So, at some point, I watched college basketball games with duct tape across my mouth. Now, that’s not true. However, I did for my sanity and the sanity of the family make an adjustment. 

I started following games from a distance by periodically checking game progress on my computer in the basement where I write. I’m sure the TV in our den appreciated my departure. At this point, my computer hasn’t filed any complaints with the Commander Supreme. As I mentioned earlier I have mellowed.

March Madness is also famous for those circumstances that cause a team to be derailed. Only the basketball gods can explain the unexpected slaying of a giant team by the Davids of college basketball. When a power house team falls, that only adds to the madness of March basketball.

However, college basketball has some other pennies on its tracks  that have the potential to really derail the game.

From my small mind, many of the challenges in college basketball are tied to money. 

 Recruiting of players-money, one and done players-money, admission scandals—money, contracts for coaches-money, lucrative TV contracts-money, shoe contracts-money, financial gain for the school—money, honesty, values, integrity, ethics, decency— thrown under the train—money.

Maybe, March Madness should take a year off so that the pennies on the tracks can be cleaned up. That will never happen—money.

Maybe, a different final four could be held. 

Take a year off from the traditional madness.

Let the four division one NCAA teams who have never made it into the 64 team tournament play for the national championship. Or even better, let the four teams with the highest graduation rates play, or the four teams who have the most seniors. Nice ideas, but will never happen—money.

While I’m sure this 2019 edition of March Madness will consume us, and for sure someone’s favorite team will be derailed, life continues, or does it?

A derailed person created a worse type of madness in New Zealand this week as he murdered 49 peaceful people who were worshiping in a Mosque.

Back on Sunday, March 3, the madness of a powerful tornado ripped through Lee County, Alabama killing 23 people and destructively derailing several communities.

Two days later,  Tuesday, March 5, a derailment was brewing at  the Sherbourne Food Pantry. Their shelves were bare. Food was needed for Wednesday’s distribution to their clients. Our church was sent an urgent SOS.

On Sunday, March 10, a dear friend notified me that one of their children who has been valiantly battling substance abuse challenges— derailed. He was charged with a DWI in the college town where he attends school.

March is mad. 

But in truth, March is no madder than any other month. Human madness along with its derailments persist year round, not just in March. 

A  basketball team can endure the last intense seconds of a game and hang on for a win.

At the exact same time a basketball team is hanging on for a win, somewhere in the world a human being is barely hanging on hopeful for a different type of victory.  

If you were in that New Zealand mosque, maybe you were better at playing “opossum” during the mad rampage than the person beside you.

In Alabama, maybe the solid construction of a house allowed a family a place to hold on as the fierce winds of the tornado battered everything in its path.

Maybe the clients at the Sherbourne food pantry were able to feed their families on Wednesday night because some good hearts from a sister church brought in food.

Maybe the young college student with the DWI will realize his parents do love him as they keep hanging on for him.

On Saturday morning, the Commander Supreme and I drove over to Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens. We walked the grounds looking for signs of spring’s encroachment. We were not disappointed.

As I attempt to improve my rapidly aging green thumb, I continue to be impressed with helleborus orientalis, you know Lenten roses.

Somehow these perennials survive everything Mother Nature tosses at them—heat, cold, drought, dampness, even an incompetent green thumb.

Lenten roses are survivors on a bleak winter landscape. They are the first to tell us with their pastel blooms—it’s ok, winter is fading, spring is approaching.

No one is immune from being derailed in life. 

When life derails us, there is a very real question asked in 2 Kings 6:33:  “Why should I hope in the Lord any longer?”

In all honesty, I’ve had those points in my life when I have asked the same question.

I’m not sure why, but no matter how frustrated the entanglement of my life with the world becomes,  I will hold on to hope.

Holding on to hope means while I am one, I’m not done.

If a Lenten rose can be a mark of strength, endurance, perseverance, survival and hope why can’t I?

That means making myself available to offer support for anyone whose derailment in life has left them clinging with their last pinkie for hope.

Enjoy your journey into March Madness. I wish your team the best.

But don’t forget in the madness of this world, someone is down to their last pinkie hold.

They need our hope.

Late on the afternoon of Tuesday, March 5, I headed home to change into school board meeting attire. I had to be at Hermitage High School for the kick off of Student Government Day. 

Student Government Day is an opportunity for high school seniors across Henrico County to shadow county government and school board employees. This event has been around for 62 years in the county, but this one was to be my first. 

Even though I had read through all of the notes and e-mails outlining how everything is supposed to work, I will admit I was nervous. Nervous about botching something up for the young lady who would be shadowing me as the Tuckahoe District representative on the school board.

I arrived at Hermitage, conversed with people who I knew, and then searched for my student from Douglas Freeman High School. Somehow, I walked to the correct area where the students from Freeman were waiting. 

Name tags were a plus. I found my new school board member. We exchanged greetings, and slowly our nerves relaxed as we started to learn a bit about each other.

Soon, we found our way into the auditorium. That’s when my tired brain botched the first protocol. My shadow had to be seated on stage. So, I found her, walked her on to the stage, and introduced her to Judge Wallerstein, the Chief Judge of the Circuit Court. Judge Wallerstein had sworn me in back on October 4. 

We moved to our reserved seats, my shadow with her soon to be sworn in board members, and me with my current board members.

At that point, the program began to move quick. 

A sheriff deputy called everyone to stand just like in a courtroom. The investiture was a combination of timid and confident voices with a few moments of humor. Greetings were brought from the County Manager and the Superintendent of Schools, and then we were dismissed for a reception.

My shadow and I talked a bit more. I made sure she had transportation and that she knew to report to the East End Government Center out on Nine Mile Road. This is where the school board office is located. She confirmed a ride and directions were in place, and with that I departed.

On Wednesday morning, I took the back way over to the school board office. I parked, checked in with the Clerk of the School Board, and headed to a breakfast gathering for everyone who was involved.

It was to be a busy morning and day. 

First, on the agenda was a board meeting where our shadows worked with the Chair of the School Board and the Superintendent on the agenda items for an upcoming work session. Once this was completed, we talked about our roles and responsibilities and responded to questions.

Keeping the schedule, we departed the Superintendent’s conference room, and took our place for a building tour. I think the highlight for the students was the TV production center. Here the staff gave each of them the opportunity to participate in a news cast complete with weather, sports, and school board news. 

From there, we walked into a session where students were working on a special assignment— how social media impacts students. Broken into small groups, these students were formulating ideas that would be presented  after lunch at the mock school board meeting.

This was a brief stay as we were scheduled to attend a mock disciplinary review hearing. 

Without question, this segment generated lots of interest, insights, and questions. After lunch, at the mock school board meeting, the fate of the student who had been recommended for expulsion during the hearing would be decided by the new school board.

At this point, we moved back to the Superintendent’s conference room for a thorough review of the agenda and script for the mock school board meeting. The goal is for these new board members to run the meeting with very little assistance. They were all in with their participation and questions, and this really served as a tool for the new board members to get to know each other better.

Our new board members represented the following high schools:

Virginia Randolph, Highland Springs, Hermitage, Deep Run, and Douglas Freeman.

A review of the agenda and script concluded, and by then lunch had arrived. It was during lunch that the real learning for me took place.

There was an equal exchange of questions and answers from the Superintendent, school board members, and our new board members.

These were sharp students. Their insights were from the heart about their schools, the adults who run them, their classmates, and themselves.

I found it interesting that as seniors they had a sense about why some teachers are exceptional in working with all kinds of students.

 Each student confirmed those exceptional teachers know how to build a constructive working relationship with students. The teachers because of their commitment secure a buy in from the students, and that buy in carries the student and teacher on a pretty successful path.

But, the students were quick to point out, that they also needed structure in their lives in the environment of their schools. To them this meant fair and consistent implementation of school expectations by the administrative teams in each of their schools.

Interestingly, students felt the commitment to build relationships as being a key ingredient for changing both challenging school and community environments.

Hearing the students affirm and confirm some education and life guidelines that are always swirling in my old brain did my heart good. 

As always, time was catching up with us. We needed to be heading over to New Bridge site of the school board meeting. 

They worked out their rides and directions to New Bridge, and soon we were there. The mock school board session was called to order with the pounding of the gavel.

There were a few hiccups, but there are a few hiccups in a real board meeting too.

Soon it was over. Certificates of participation were presented, photos taken, and new friendships positioned to grow.

I left feeling pretty good. 

This diverse group of students gave me a bit of hope. 

My mind kept returning to the lunch conversation. I hope I can pursue the points they articulated.

If we want to change how a school, a community, a county,  a city, a state, a nation, and our world work through any of the challenges in front of us, we must build relationships one person at a time. 

How do we make this happen?

First,  we need to talk to each other. No technology interference—we must talk. 

 Learning to listen without judging is also a key. 

This includes a complete understanding of what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes. 

Never forget, there is learning in our stories. But, we can only learn if we are willing to share our stories.

I learned from the hearts of students today. Their stories are worth hearing.

The future of schools, communities, counties, cities, states, and this upside down world are in their stories.

I need to embrace and act upon their young wisdom—even when reluctance consumes me. 

Hesitating isn’t an option.

It is all about building relationships.

Our youngest daughter is a graduate of East Carolina University located in Greenville, North Carolina. The school’s mascot is a pirate. As a parent, I can officially say the tuition for our out of state student made me feel like I had been robbed by a band of pirates. But, she did earn her degree, and she was happy.

On our initial drives to Greenville, I was captured by the flatness of the coastal plain in that part of North Carolina. That table top flatness led to clear views of acres  of farmland. 

These drives gave us the opportunity to watch the seasonal transitions for these fields, and I marveled at the dark richness of the soil. Clearly, this soil was very fertile as the planted seeds seemingly always sprouted into lush green fields.

Other travels through the Northern Neck of Virginia, the Delmarva peninsula, the flatlands of northern Indiana and central Illinois, and rolling sections of Pennsylvania along I-81 reveal farms with that same rich, dark fertile soil.

But the robust appearance of these farmlands aren’t immune from conflict. I suppose one of the biggest challenges farmers face is the whims of weather patterns. Additionally, certain pests can impact those plants, and woven into this would be fertilizers and assorted chemicals used to promote growth and reduce pests.

Just like these stunning fields are not immune from conflict, nor are human beings. In fact, at times,  we appear to be fittingly fertile for conflict too.

Families are a proven test ground for conflict. 

On that first scan of the family field everything might appear lush and green, void of any upsetting intrusion. But families, no matter how hard they attempt to project a healthy image are not immune from rattled nerves, stinging words, and bruised egos.

Could be as simple as the name chosen for a new grandchild. I just knew they were going to name that child after me, why didn’t they? I am going to give my niece an earful the first chance I have.

Who is on the wedding guest list? You’re not inviting our friends that we haven’t corresponded with for thirty years, how could you be so inconsiderate? Because of your thoughtless decision, we will not attend the wedding.

Even planning a funeral can be challenging. Who is going to sit by momma during the service? I was her favorite, I think it should be me. Now, wait, a second, I was momma’s favorite. Everyone knows that. You both are wrong, I was the favorite, you will both be sitting on the pew behind us.

And if you really, really want to spice up family gatherings  just bring up the “p” word, you know, I’ll whisper and shrink it— politics.

But, ranked up there in the fertileness of conflict with families is an unassuming, quietly reserved, tranquil place— the church.  Bill, are you kidding me, a church. God’s holy house ripe for conflict, no way, this is absurd. 

Churches are supposed to be about loving, caring, giving, supporting, nurturing, comforting, and the Golden Rule. 

Bill, I’m not buying that a church can be just as fertile for conflict as families. No sir, that is a flawed observation. You are way off target on that one.

Well, I am no great historian, but I’m pretty sure many examples exist that would validate my claim. But put history aside for a minute, and let’s move to present time.

Since my baptism, rightly or wrongly I’ve been a Methodist. Without question, this is not the same world that raised me into who I am today 65 years later. The world has changed.

This week, the United Methodist Church decided to “tighten its ban on same-sex marriage and gay clergy.”(NY Times)

Yes, churches are fertile for conflict.

I’m sure much will be written and discussed about this decision by experts and non-experts like me. 

The turmoil in this decision has the potential to hurt and impact many people from lots of different angles.

We live in a world loaded with hurts. Sadly, that might be one of our best attributes, intentionally and unintentionally hurting people.

The future of the Methodist church is tangled in that hurt. 

Whether the Methodist church can untangle itself from this hurtful policy remains to be seen. Perhaps, that depends on how fertile we are inside to wrestle with this position.

One question I keep coming back to is this—how am I supposed to love someone that I disagree with on any significant social issue? Maybe my inability to love that person is grounded in fear.

Fear drives lots of decisions. Fear drives emotions. Fear drives the unknown.

I wonder what can we learn from fear? I wonder what we are willing to learn from our fears? From my fears can I learn to love those with whom I disagree?

On Tuesday, February 26, the Richmond Times-Dispatch published a column by David Brooks of the New York Times.

I found the column— Social Fabric:  A nation of weavers to be very interesting.

Mr. Brooks also gives speeches a couple of times a week in various parts of America. His topic is about social isolation and social fragmentation. The topic and travel has allowed interaction with all kinds of Americans, and his take away from these encounters is “They share a common thread:  our lack of healthy connection to each other, our inability to see the full dignity of each other, and resulting culture of fear, distrust, tribalism, and strife.”

That shared “common thread” is full of negatives— lack, inability fear, distrust, tribalism, and strife. Sadly, I think these words match pretty well with the United Methodist decision that was made this week. They are in sharp contrast to words that I often associate with a church— loving, caring, giving, supporting, nurturing, comforting, and the Golden Rule.

On my Saturday morning run, I noted at the corner of Beechwood and Westham Parkway the same house empty lot that I pass whenever I take this route. The lot is filled with weeds and an assortment of trees. I note the beech trees on this lot. Beech trees are the last to drop their leaves. 

Today is the second day of March, and the beech leaves colored like sun baked newsprint for whatever reason are stubbornly committed to their DNA—they are not leaving the tree.  

Seems like the United Methodist church has a similar stubborn grip on its past DNA, hanging on no matter how much it will potentially hurt the present and future of the church.

The brand promise of the United Methodist church open hearts, open minds, and open doors isn’t going to work with this week’s decision. But maybe, we have an opportunity to shore up that branding with one faithful word—hope.

I hope Methodist congregations are willing to search and find the fertileness inside our hearts and souls to think deeply about the impact of this decision. 

I hope we are willing to talk, share,  and explore how to convey that we do have open hearts, minds, and doors to those who now think we don’t.

 I hope we are willing to learn and to use our learning to bring about inclusive change. 

I hope we will be risk seekers by understanding silence is not an option. 

And, I hope our discernment will move us to hold these words from Esther 4:14 in our hearts:  Perhaps, this is the moment for which you were created.

Church, there is no perhaps, this is the moment.

As I’m writing this morning (2/20/19), it is lightly snowing outside. The ground is covered. But, so far the snow is not falling hard enough to blanket the road in front of our house. Maybe the two hour delay in opening our schools was the right decision. Give those weather angels up in the wild gray yonder a shot at figuring out.

Perhaps you are like me— I’m tired of winter. I suspect winter makes us more weary than the other seasons.

Winter is cold. At times, it is dreary, painted in battleship gray. Often winter is wet for what seems like endless days. Winter can also be a tease. 

For example, sixteen days ago I went for an afternoon run on February 4. The temperature was 66 degrees. We all know it’s not supposed to be 66 degrees in February in Richmond. A few days prior to the 66, we were in the grips of the polar vortex. Come on winter don’t tease like that!

On the afternoon of the 66 some people were taking advantage of the tease.

 I saw a lady relaxed in a chair in her front yard, shades on, with her chair angled perfectly toward the sun. A few turtle steps later, a car came by me with its convertible top down, and kids riding bikes or shooting hoops were in shorts and t-shirts. Even I was running in shorts.

I guess teases like this are good. They give us hope. Hope that spring is out there somewhere.

Spring is about footwork. As we all know to get to spring, our footwork has to walk us through winter.

Recently, at the Tuckahoe YMCA, I was riding an upright stationary bike in a connecting foyer between the gym and a huge workout room packed with fitness equipment and people. Little did I know that I was about to see a lesson in footwork unfold in front of me.

The bike I ride is equipped with a viewing monitor, and the computer brains of this bike allow me to choose a location where I want to ride. I’ve ridden in Ireland, Paris, the Swiss Alps, and Sequoia. It is a cheap way to travel.

 This morning, I went back to Sequoia. At one point, I glanced away from the screen and just a few feet in front of me a young man with a trainer showed up. The young man was dancing on his feet while shadow boxing. He was moving through this space like he was in a boxing ring, working every inch of the corridor bobbing and weaving with his nimble feet propelling him.

The trainer was coaching. He quietly directed commands toward his pupil. With his seasoned words, he offered corrections in his student’s upper body movements. And, the trainer carefully watched the young man’s footwork.

 This was a brief, but enlightening distraction from the bike ride. The young man in a short span of time really worked hard.

 Who knows, perhaps we need the unexpected intrusion of a spring like day in winter to distract us. 

Maybe those intrusions lighten our footwork. Maybe our lighter footwork gives  a bit of confidence. Maybe, we start to think, ok, I can count this down one day at a time. I can hang on— keep my footwork moving forward, and spring will arrive.

But those unexpected, warm intrusions in winter always give me pause. Silently, I wonder what lies ahead, winter isn’t over. I don’t trust it. Winter can still sting with a stiff north wind, that can rapidly drop temperatures, and rain in a blink can change to snow. 

The same can be said for life. It too can change in a blink.

Recently, two friends have experienced a blink—the return of an unexpected, unwanted intruder—cancer. 

Talk about a downer, I can’t imagine anything worse. If a human being survives one unbearable skirmish with cancer, he or she should be given immunity from any future encounters—period.

But, clearly, life does not work that way.

Makes me wonder, where is God’s footwork in this? I thought God should be able to out maneuver the devil’s footwork, especially when it comes to the repeat performance of cancer.

Well, there you go again Bill blaming God. I’m surprised God has kept you around for 65 years. Talk about footwork, you better keep an eye on yours. 

You know you are right about my God blaming. I’m sure He is tired of me. 

But, let’s be honest, I think we all have our God blaming moments.

 And you know what God blaming really comes down to? It is trying to understand Him. 

God what are you thinking? Where are you? How are you working on this?

Now, if I’m starting my second battle with cancer, I might really have a difficult time buying into Jeremiah 29:11:  “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

How can a second battle with cancer be a future with hope?

The only hope there is in cancer is if your footwork allows you to find the strength to punch it out of your body for a second time.

American writer, Dashiell Hammett once stated:  “You got to look on the bright side, even if there ain’t one.”

I can find some bright sides to winter. 

I love the unobstructed view of bare trees framed against thickened gray clouds. On a crisp, cold, clear day the rich blue sky is an endless daydream. After a cold night of rain, the breaking dawn air feels like it has been scrubbed and cleansed. And, the fading light of an almost full moon peek a booing through a cloud bank makes me stop and stare.

And I’m sorry, but I can’t find any bright side in the meanness of cancer, especially when it shows up for round two in my friends.

But, just as that trainer kept a helpful eye on the footwork of his boxing student, I must do the same for my two friends. My  footwork needs to be a bright side for them.

And even though I don’t always understand God, and I’m sure he doesn’t understand me, I must trust his footwork. I need him to coach my footwork to support my friends.

My blaming Him will not help the footwork of my friends in their cancer battles.

They need me, they need you, and they need God.

Our footwork in life will face many challenges. 

But, it seems in those difficult life moments, my footwork will have a better chance if I’m grounded to these words from Psalm 94:18:

When I thought, “My foot is slipping,” your steadfast love, Oh Lord, held me up. 

On the morning of Sunday, February 10, I was a tad late arriving at our church to open it up. Instead of 5:30, it was closer to 6 by the time I pulled into the parking lot.

This was commitment Sunday, the first step for our congregation pledging their financial support for another year. Perhaps, the unwritten name for this Sunday should be Tension Sunday or Anxiety Sunday, but that’s another story.

I entered the building at a quicker pace. Shutdown the alarm, and started my routine—unlocking doors, turning on lights, checking PA systems, and gauging the temperaments of our three boilers. It was 19 degrees this morning. 

As soon as I walked in the Sanctuary, I knew the steam boiler was being cantankerous. I double checked the thermostat. The setting had not been changed. So, I walked down into Eaton Hall where this boiler lives.

In the mechanical room, my relatively young friend sat idle, cold, and with its red alarm light on. My internal muttering started—you blankety, blankety, blankety, blank. Yes, in God’s house on a Sunday morning, but I was muttering internally, so maybe He couldn’t hear me.

I hit the reset button. The red light went away. The boiler fired. My heart had hope. The boiler sounded like it wanted to work. I heard the cadence of its normal clicks, the water level was good, and then silence. In a blink, the boiler shutdown, the red alarm light beamed back to life. The only sound was the return of my blankety blanking now a whisper of exasperation.

I walked back in the Sanctuary and placed an SOS call for service to our HVAC company. Then, I continued my opening up routine.

The routine was predictably normal until I came into the foyer where the women’s restroom for the Welcome Center is located. My nose picked up an odor, a stench. I knew the culprit, a small floor drain in the closet for the hot water heater. 

This is an under used drain, and when the water in the trap dries out the wonderful aromas of the connecting sewer line seep into the air. More blankety blanking, except now I’m sure the big guy upstairs can hear my whining. 

I remove the drain covering, start a flow of hot water from the large custodial sink down the hall, pour some Lysol down the stinky drain, and then pour more hot water down the drain. The odor dissipates, and I continue the building opening.

A phone call comes alerting me that the HVAC technician is in route. By that time, our altar guild leader, Mrs. Berry, and senior pastor, Larry Lenow, had arrived. I let them know about the blankety blank boiler, and I walk down to my office.

At 7:25, my phone rings. I expect it is the HVAC technician, but it is my wife, the Commander Supreme. As soon as she starts to talk, I know something is wrong. She isn’t in tears, she is in pain. While reaching to shutdown the alarm clock with her left arm, something went wrong. My wife, the Commander Supreme isn’t a whiner like me. She needs me at home immediately.

No sooner than I hang up with the Commander, my phone rings again. It is the HVAC technician. 

He has never been to Trinity before. I figure out where he is on our grounds. I find him, and direct him to the closest entrance to the mechanical room. 

On the way, to the mechanical room, I let Mrs. Berry know about the challenge awaiting me at home. 

I get the technician into the mechanical room, explain what has transpired, apologize for leaving,  and head home.

At the house, upstairs, I find the Commander in pain, but trying to ready herself for the ride to the emergency room. Somehow, we complete those now cumbersome tasks without too much blankety blanking.

Gingerly, we make it down the stairs. I grab her coat and purse. I get her in the car and buckled in. Then I realize my wallet is in the house. Another unwanted pause, I hustle back in and out.

The drive to Henrico Doctors is short, but not without pain. Some bumps in the road and quick turns jar the left shoulder.

We park into front of the emergency room entrance. Slowly, we walk in, give the attendant a brief explanation, he quickly takes basic check-in info, the computer reacts positively, a young nurse walks us back into a singular room, an explanation for the visit is given, and then I go move our car.

Things move pretty quick. A doctor appears, more questions, then a plan is hatched—IV for pain and X-rays are ordered. 

A nurse arrives. The commander is hooked up to a vital signs monitor. The nurse bravely searches my wife’s overly soft veins for an entry point. Even though I’m not looking at this expedition, I announce that I am bailing out. Poking needles and blood work are not one of my passions. 

The x-ray tech arrives, and the Commander is briskly whisked away.

She returns from the x-ray work, she is reconnected to the monitor and the IV, and we wait for the doctor.

It isn’t too long, and he comes back. He confirms the shoulder has popped out of joint, no tears or chips can be seen.

The doctor explains a mild, short lasting sedative will be used, so that he can properly manipulate the shoulder and pop it back in place.

But, he did offer some comforting words about the sedative and how a patient might react to it. With this sedative, he states:  “Your breathing might stop, but don’t worry, we are well equipped to handle such an occurrence if your body reacts in that way to the sedative.” 

I’m thinking to myself, I’ve been stepping in cow pies all morning, and now you just tossed out the ultimate one.

Even though the risk is slight, the doctor is required to bring us those words of comfort.

At that point, I leave the room, and wait in a small room reserved for parents who have a child in the pediatric emergency room. 

Silently, I pray to my blankety blank Pal. I am still trying to figure out why He continues to tolerate me.

Within a short period of time, the doctor comes out. He confirms to me that the procedure went well. But, to be sure, he has ordered another set of x-rays.

I re-enter the Commander’s room. She is sleeping. She looks content. Gradually, she stirs. Then sleep returns. The nurse checks in, more time is needed before we depart to allow the sleepy drug to wear off. 

There is one more follow-up from the Doctor the x-rays confirm the shoulder is back in place.

I sit and listen. 

I hear the cries of a child. The pediatric ER is just a few steps from us. Next door, ER staff and ambulance personnel are prepping an elderly patient to return to a retirement facility. I can hear the care in their voices as they transition the patient from one gurney to the other.

The extremes of the human condition are present everyday of the year in this hospital.

And of course, before we leave, the grim bandit of finance appears. 

Armed with a computer on a cart, I joke with the finance person—I was hoping we could escape before your arrival. She laughs.

We pay what the hospital requires for this visit, and since we paid on the spot, there was a slight discount. Even though our health care system is out of whack, I am thankful that we have health insurance.

The grogginess has dissipated. Arm in a sling, loaded with paperwork, we walk out.

It has been an interesting story morning— a stubborn boiler, a stinky floor drain, and a pesky shoulder. What more could a director of operations want?

 Well, how about wedding vows?

Maybe you remember some of those words especially—“in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,”

Come on Bill, are you going to tell me after all of that blankety blanking you did about the boiler and the floor drain that you now “love and cherish them in their sickness and health”?

Well, I might. Think about it.

 It is tough being a boiler. Imagine generating all of that heat. That’s a lot of stress, parts are going to wear out.

And for the floor drain, just consider being connected to the flushing of all that human body waste. We’re not talking about pleasant fragrances lilting through the air like a French perfume on a perfect spring morning.

So maybe, I do have a different perspective for the boiler and the floor drain.

But, I do think about those wedding vows and that young ER doctor and those troublesome words he used —“ your breathing might stop.”

If I lost my Commander Supreme, my breathing might as well stop too.

Life is unpredictable. 

Doesn’t matter who we are.

If I expect to have a chance at surviving boilers, floor drains, and the Commander Supreme’s wacky shoulder, I need to improve my connection to 1 Corinthians 13:

 Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

At home, I have a t-shirt from the Wesley Foundation at Virginia Tech. The director of this campus ministry, Bret Gresham, gave me the t-shirt a few years ago. 

Printed on the back of the t-shirt are the following words:

“Love out loud”

Remember life is unpredictable.

Loving out loud is acceptable.

If I can blankety blank out loud, I can love out loud too.

I suspect every church has one, or maybe had one—a pound cake maker.

Growing up at Davis Street United Methodist Church in Burlington, North Carolina, I remember Ethel Foster’s pound cake.  She had the touch. There was nothing like Mrs. Foster’s pound cake, and the congregation knew it.

 At any covered dish dinner, Ethel Foster had a pound cake on the table of desserts. I suspect her cigar smoking husband, Clifford, was probably sad at the end of those events. I’m guessing the cake platter that was taken home only held pound cake crumbs.

Perhaps, you are thinking, but Bill how about your own mother’s pound cake? Well, Louise’s cake baking skills fell into two distinct styles—angel food and German chocolate. Each were winners in their own right.

My brother-in-law’s mother, Jan, is quite the pound cake maker. Word on the street is that Jan at one time had a special source for her vanilla—the local pharmacy.

Depending upon your research source, the origin of pound cake can be traced back to northern Europe. Everyone agrees that the name pound cake comes from the four key ingredients: flour, butter, eggs, and sugar. A pound of each of those ingredients was used to make the cake, thus the name pound cake. (Wiki)

Even though I failed in my confirmation attempts, somewhere in my memory is an interview I heard with journalist, Cokie Roberts. Early in her career a boss told her to eat pound cake to sustain her through the long hours of developing a story on the run. The point was all of the eggs in pound cake offered protein. I’m sure a skilled dietician might counter that opinion with—yes those eggs offer protein, but what about all that butter and sugar?

Regardless, pound cake is a Southern staple, and there is nothing like a homemade pound cake. It is a soothing comfort, grounded in hospitality, and a welcome guest for any occasion.

But, I also have a worry, a concern, and I’ll go ahead and state it— a fear.  I sense we are losing our pound cake makers, particularly at churches.

On January 15, 2018, members of Trinity United Methodist Church said goodbye to Lane Dickinson. A celebration of Lane’s life was held that day. Lane was quite a lady. She had many admirable traits. I loved her honesty. Lane never beat around the bush with her opinion. She had a servant’s heart. And, I’m sorry, but I loved Lane for her pound cake. There was nothing like it.

Her family knew Lane’s pound cake reputation, so they included her recipe on the back of the funeral bulletin. 

For years, the congregation at our church longed for a gathering place after each worship service. We had no space large enough for people to chat and interact with each other. Where people gathered in lobbies and hallways created bottlenecks, human traffic jams.

In February 2010, our new Welcome Center was dedicated. An unused exterior garth that sat between the Sanctuary and the Children’s Wing was transformed into a magnificent gathering space. In this case, the garth had been a rarely used garden plot, with a brick floor, surrounded on three sides by brick walls and facing a connecting brick walkway.

The Welcome Center allows us to gather after worship services, but it has become much more too. At weddings, it is the staging area for bridesmaids and the bride to enter the Sanctuary. We have hosted meetings, dinners, and the space allows us to stage chairs for extra seating at Christmas and Easter.

But, I think the most important work the Welcome Center does is it provides comfort to families at a time of loss. How can a room do this? Well, if a family makes the request, our bereavement team will stage a reception for the family and their guests immediately following the funeral service.

This reception is simply heartfelt hospitality. 

Families are sustained by fellowship with their friends and with the food provided. These receptions take an ounce of pressure off the grieving family. Their sadness is temporarily distracted, and I think that is good for them.

But since, January 15, 2018, I’ll selfishly admit these receptions have been bittersweet for me—no more pound cakes from Lane Dickinson have graced those tables.

And, I’ll add another concern to the absence of a pound cake. When I look at the age of our bereavement teams, I wonder how we will replace them? At some point, these women as strong as they are will wear out. They will hang up their aprons.

Churches today are faced with lots of challenging questions. 

I never suspected that one of those questions might be what will churches do when the pound cake makers are gone?

What will churches do when bereavement teams age out and hang up their aprons?

No matter how we frame our lives, our lives evolve around our connection to people. 

As I reflect back upon every job I’ve had, any success I found was anchored in people. The same can be said for my church experiences—people. My early molding and shaping came from my family, and the people who surrounded them. 

Pound cake makers and bereavement teams are people, people with giving hearts. Their hearts sustain people in need.

As churches look to figure out their futures, it is all about people. Understanding the needs of people will be one of the keys. Meeting those needs will always be tied to having a congregation with compassionate hearts.

Maybe, you are thinking, Bill you are too grounded in the past. Pound cakes and receptions for grieving families are old school.

You know, you might be right.

But there is going to be a point in your life and my life when I’m going to need a piece of homemade pound cake and the love of giving hearts. 

For a long, long, long, long time churches have been the place where people can find that sustenance in times of need.

Churches can’t forget this.

 As churches peer into their futures, searching for a path to sustain them, I hope homemade pound cake and giving hearts are not overlooked.

  Monday, August 20, 2018

Well, we were packed; and ready for our day of flying back to Richmond.

Abby was going to drive us to the Flyway in Van Nuys. There we would take a bus into the madness at LAX.

Art was leaving for work, and we were able to say goodbye and thank him for all of his hospitality.

Seemed like it was going to be another quiet, warm day out here in the high desert. The sun was just about finished casting its early morning shadows as it continued to rise. Our pace was calm, we made last minute checks of our bags and the room where stayed, and then a text arrived on Betsy’s phone.

The airline was notifying her that our flight had been canceled.

Instantly, this tranquil California morning became chaos. The Flyway bus plan was tossed. Abby was going to drive us to LAX. We quickly moved about the house, grabbing our bags, and backpacks and hustled them and us into the car. Clearly, this was going to be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Abby worked her way through the twisting canyon road, and in minutes she had us out on the highway. The pace and progress was good along this long route. We had no delays, no slight pauses, we were always moving. Even when we connected with the larger freeways we were optimistic that getting to LAX and meeting the departure requirements was going to work.

Abby kept her focus, choosing the correct lanes, making the right moves. In a few spots, we slowed a bit, but we kept moving. Soon, we were approaching the exit for LAX.

Amazingly, we made it off the freeway, onto the main street heading to the airport, and then it grabbed us. 

Our luck changed. The luck that had escorted us from Agua Dulce to the LAX exit vanished. That luck disappeared like jet wash on a runway. It was gone with no intention of returning. We were stuck, stopped, frozen, immobile. Even when a stoplight changed, we didn’t move, not an inch.

All hope was gone. No miracles were to be found.

Tension inside our car could have ruptured a pressure relief valve on any type of pipeline. I could picture a newspaper headline in my mind— Church Employee From Virginia Arrested After His Meltdown In Stalled LAX Traffic.

Gradually, we started to move. But, the movement would not register on the speedometer. We moved at slug pace.  I suspect a sure-footed turtle on a sidewalk with a good GPS would beat us to our departing terminal.

Even when there was movement, it was short-lived. Lanes of traffic had to converge into the airport’s travel lanes. At one stalled point, I briefly got out of the car to look ahead. That scan only brought more discouragement as I saw no hope.

Somehow, we continue to creep forward, and we reach the point of the log jam, and at that moment, I almost had that meltdown.

I have a deep respect for police officers. In my previous life as a school administrator, I worked with many police officers who were always of great assistance to me no matter how difficult the circumstances.

Right at this critical merge of irate drivers and their passengers sat three LA police officers on their motorcycles. That’s correct, they were perched on top of their motorcycles taking in this scene not even contemplating an attempt to sort out this mess by directing traffic.

I couldn’t believe it. So, I used really bad juvenile adult judgment. As we drove by the officers, I rolled down my window.  I shouted out, “Thanks a lot!” One of them heard me as he looked in my direction. 

At that point, I thought Abby was going reach into the back seat and grab me by the throat, but luckily for me she still had to drive the car.

Abby got us to our terminal. We made sure we had everything out of the car, said our goodbyes, and hustled into the madness of trying to get on a flight back to Richmond.

Gradually, the luck returned. The airline booked us on another flight. We had a bit of a wait in an overly crowded terminal. 

Eventually, the opportunity to board the plane started. The flight was packed. We taxied away from the terminal. The pilot waited for permission from the air traffic controllers to depart. A flurry of activity continued around us. Planes were landing, taking off, and poking along on tarmacs.  I’m not sure an airport is ever motionless.

Our clearance came. The pilot goosed those massive engines and all that power lifted this big bird up. He made a wide turn and for several minutes we were out over the Pacific. I could see its magnificent blue surface shined and polished by a sparkling sun. 

The plane continued to climb and turn. Soon the Pacific blue was gone. 

But, once again, California had done its duty. 

California and all its charms had etched into me more memories. Memories that I will hold and cherish until the good Lord has had enough of me.