LETTERS TO THE EDITOR Richmond Times-Dispatch September 14, 2024 School shootings an unacceptable ‘fact of life’
From kindergarten until I graduated from high school in 1971, I don’t recall a firearm disrupting those education environments. The same can be said for my college and graduate school experiences.
However, that wasn’t the case in the 31 years I worked in public education. As an assistant principal and principal, during the late 1980s until I retired in 2006, students for whatever reason brought firearms to school.
In all my dealings with students in possession of a firearm, I was lucky. My guess is that every school superintendent in America wonders when will their luck run out with a school shooting occurring in one of their schools.
After the recent school shooting in Georgia, Republican vice presidential candidate JD Vance stated, “I don’t like that this is a fact of life.”
As an American, I’m embarrassed and disgusted with this “fact of life” — we appear to be unwilling to stop our reliance upon firearms to solve our personal problems.
No matter our attempts to educate students and their families that firearms have no place on school grounds, these intrusions continue.
Despite special training for faculty and staff , technology-assisted screening for weapons and the presence of security personnel in school buildings, students and teachers are still being shot.
Why is this? Perhaps the answer can be found from the script of the movie “A Few Good Men.”
During a heated courtroom exchange, a witness shouts at the prosecutor: “You can’t handle the truth!”
Is this America’s problem, that we can’t handle the truth of our inability to stop school shootings?
An even more unacceptable truth is how quickly this senseless Georgia school shooting will become a speck in our rearview mirrors.
Failure to find a solution guarantees that America will continue its dismal decline.
Bill Pike. Henrico.
An old school building in New Orleans (Photo Bill Pike)
The worst day of my in-law’s lives was the day they received notification that their oldest daughter, Susan, had died from death by suicide. Their hearts were crushed. I’m certain their hearts never recovered.
As my wife’s family attempted to work through this tragedy, they learned very quickly—they were not alone. Longtime friends, neighbors, and strangers shared their stories about losing loved ones to death by suicide.
In my career in public education, I experienced those heartbreaking losses. Sometimes, we lost a student, a parent, or a co-worker. Predictably, we never saw this tragedy coming. A person can appear normal. Beyond the appearance is a relentless battle, a battle with a darkness that never stops its pursuit.
Lara Teague Curry was a neighbor. We watched her grow up with our kids—school activities, birthdays, neighborhood celebrations, beach trips, college, career, marriage, and children all the normal steps of life’s journey. Yet, over time, the good of life begins to slip, and the struggle begins.
Hindsight makes us think deeply. We remember, we question, we reflect, and we all have the same thought—if I had only.
September is Suicide Prevention Month. It is an important reminder to all that suicide is preventable.
On Saturday, September 14, the Lara Teague Curry Memorial 5K will be run at Trinity United Methodist Church. A Kids Fun Run starts at 8 a.m. followed by the 5K at 8:30. This year, our team from Trinity, Third Church, St. Stephen’s Episcopal, Douglas Freeman High School, and the Henrico Education Foundation have been working diligently to ensure that we have a safe, enjoyable, and educational event.
The course winds through sections of three Henrico County neighborhoods: Rollingwood, College Hills, and Westham. County police officers will be monitoring traffic. This will be supplemented by volunteers.
We will have activities for kids, and a special guest, Jonathan The Juggler. Jonathan will be in the start area prior to the beginning of the event. He will be entertaining and getting participants excited for the Kids Fun Run and the 5K.
Knowing how important our mental health is for our trek through life, we will have representatives from organizations on site who work to help us with the ups and downs of living. These representatives will provide information about their programs that are designed to help individuals and their families.
This year, our representatives are from Henrico Area Mental Health and Developmental Services, Comfort Zone Camp, Pet Partners of Richmond, Full Circle Grief Center, Renewing RVA, and American Foundation For Suicide Prevention.
Retired Henrico County Public Schools counselor, Shirley Ramsey, is the Education Committee Chair in Virginia for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP.) When asked about the work of AFSP, Mrs. Ramsey told us:
“AFSP is the largest national not-for-profit voluntary health organization dedicated to saving lives and bringing hope to those affected by suicide. We raise funds for research, awareness and suicide prevention programming, advocacy to take action against this leading cause of death, and support for survivors of suicide loss.”
At various points along the course, the planners will have yard signs posted with quotes of encouragement. These quotes were chosen to make us think about our daily interactions with each other.
Back this year for every participant are the green wristbands with the boldly printed words: “Be Kind.” This is a gentle reminder about the importance to treat people with kindness.
When the 5K is completed, we encourage all participants to stay for the raffle. Local merchants have donated prizes as a way to say thank you for participating. Each participant’s bib number is entered into the raffle drawing. The only requirement is this: if your bib number is selected, you must be present to pickup your prize.
Thanks to those participants, all 5K proceeds support the Lara Teague Curry Memorial Scholarship Fund at Douglas Freeman High School. The Curry and Teague families in working with the Henrico Education Foundation hope this scholarship will help students continue their education experiences.
Mrs. Curry’s mother, Barbara Teague, offered this reflection about the memorial fund: “Our daughter was very passionate about educating young people. When she died, we loved the suggestion of a memorial fund through the Henrico Education Foundation. This fund will directly benefit Henrico County Public School students for years to come.”
We hope you will consider coming out on September 14 to walk, run, volunteer, or cheer. Doing so would be a good way to reaffirm and continue what Douglas Freeman Principal, Dr. John Marshall, remembers about Mrs. Curry: “When you ask high school students who their favorite teacher is, it is almost always the teacher with the biggest personality or that teaches a unique elective class. Neither of those described Lara, yet Mrs. Curry was regularly and remarkably mentioned as so many of our students’ favorite teacher, because she cared so much about every student and her role as their teacher.”
Back in August on a Sunday morning at Trinity, I heard Matthew Estes, a graduate from the Freeman Class of 2024, and a runner on the cross country team make this comment about the route of the 5K: “It’s a tough course.”
I think Matthew’s assessment was correct. The course has flat straightaways, curves, and hills.
Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, life can be a tough course too. Our day to day living isn’t always a flat, straight stretch free of trouble.
And that is why we need to gently remind ourselves to “be kind and to care.”
Maybe Ted Lasso said it best in the episode where Rebecca offers him an apology: “You know I think that if you care about someone, and you got a little love in your heart, there ain’t nothing you can’t get through together.”
Friends, thanks for your patience with me in the promotion of the Lara Teague Curry Memorial 5K. On Thursday, September 5, 2024, Barbara Teague and I had the privilege of appearing on Virginia This Morning on WTVR 6 in Richmond, Virginia. I hope you will take a few minutes and watch this heartfelt interview: https://www.wtvr.com/on-air/virginia-this-morning/the-2024-lara-teague-curry-memorial-5k
Real School Supplies By Bill Pike draft started 8/20/24
For many years our church congregation has donated school supplies to the students and staff at Oak Grove-Bellemeade Elementary School in the city of Richmond. That same congregation also participates in the New Shoes For Back To School program coordinated by leaders at Third Street Bethel AME.
As students return to school, numerous houses of worship and non-profit organizations in the Richmond area work independently and collaboratively to meet assorted needs of students in our public schools. Too bad these organizations can’t ensure that all students have access to real life school supplies— like trauma free living, stable home life, no food insecurity, and can attend a school that is safe, properly staffed, and accredited.
My previous life as a public school educator, still nags at me with a reoccurring dream. In the dream, the end of the grading period has arrived. I open my grade book to find it empty. I haven’t assessed, quizzed, or tested my students. I’m in a panic. Then I awake and remember— I’m retired from the school business, no more grading papers and recording grades.
I suspect that teachers today have nightmarish dreams. How will they manage a constantly disruptive student? How to help students master basic skills with very little support from home? How to help a parent understand their student lacks social skills in interacting with classmates.
Despite being retired, I still think a lot about public education. With this start of the new school year, I wonder how many new teachers at the end of the first week think to themselves—“what have I gotten myself into?” I wonder how many of those same teachers will submit letters of resignation prior to December’s winter break?
Some days when I read headlines about book bans, AI, the Ten Commandments, cell phones, and worn out buildings, I wonder why in the world would anyone want to be a school superintendent? Do superintendents have lifelong supplies of Tums, Rolaids, and Prilosec on hand?
Today, everyone has an opinion about public education. Those disgruntled voices can come from politicians, school board members, and parents.
I recently met two friends for lunch. Each spent their careers working with students, parents, and teachers. One friend asked, “what was your greatest challenge working in a school?” Without any hesitation, our friend, a retired principal answered: “working with difficult parents.”
Unlike buying school supplies for students, a school principal at the beginning of the school year can’t order from Acme Education Supplies a box of remedies for working with difficult parents.
But that principal could be guided by these common sense supplies in working through tough situations with challenging parents: know your facts, listen carefully, tell the truth, don’t make excuses, don’t promise what you can’t deliver, and be sure to convey to the parent that you want to work collaboratively with them to solve the problem.
There is a lot of pressure inside a school building. Inside a school can be like being a relief pitcher in a baseball game. The pitcher is called in with his team clinging to a one run lead. It is the bottom of the ninth, the bases are loaded, and only one out is needed to win the game.
Some schools start the new school year with the bases loaded. Their pressure is grounded in the inability to meet the state’s Standards of Learning for accreditation. Being in that setting day after day, wears down the morale of faculty, staff, students, and the community.
And I always ask myself how much of the accreditation failure is grounded in our inability as a society to break malignant generational cycles related to inadequate housing, poor health care, unemployment, failed equality, and the often overlooked— erosion of our families?
With the opening week of school behind us, the fresh hope found in new supplies and shoes will begin to wear off.
And the question becomes, how do public school educators sustain hope for an entire school year?
In my 31 plus years in public education, I think the most important school supply can’t be purchased at a big box store. No, the most important school supply is within us—our hearts.
Something nudged the hearts of the church congregations and the non-profits to provide supplies and shoes for students.
What will pickup the hearts in a school when lousy days wipeout hope?
No doubt that adequate pay and benefits are important to educators.
But, at the end of the day, these women and men can find hope from simply being supported by the people in the communities that surround them.
Perhaps Aristotle said it best: “Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.”
Author’s note: If this post resonated with you, I encourage you to share it with anyone who works in a public school.
My neighborhood friend, Rohn, has been patiently waiting for this day— the last post from Hawaii. I’ve been thinking about this post for a long time.
This was our second trip to Hawaii. How lucky I am.
Some people live a lifetime and never see an ocean. Hawaii is one of those places that once you visit, you keep that journey with you as a treasure in your heart for the rest of your life.
Saturday morning, February 3, the ship was returning us to the Honolulu harbor.
This was my first ocean cruise. I was worried that I might struggle with motion sickness. A couple of times, I felt a bit unsettled, but I adjusted. Of course, my well prepared Commander Supreme had dramamine on call.
All night, the ship’s big engines ran flat out to get us back on time. At some point, those engines stopped racing. The ship began its slow approach into the harbor with tug boats waiting to snug it into a dock.
Coming into the harbor (Photo Bill Pike)
Once up, we scurried off for breakfast. Interesting some food items that had been plentiful all week were scarce or not present for this roll call.
After breakfast, we hustled back to our rooms. We made one last check. Then, we headed toward the organized chaos of the loading zone for the airport.
Our bags and ourselves made it to the Daniel K. Inouye International Airport. Designed as an open air space, we had a few feathered friends flutter around the terminal.
A feathered friend blending into the flooring (Photo Bill Pike)
Now, we played the waiting game.
Dan and Judy would be the first to depart. We wished them well on the flight back home to Maryland.
Gradually, the airline let Butch and Marian and Betsy and me check-in.
We made our way to the wing for our departure.
Our flight back to the East Coast was a red-eye nonstop straight to Dulles.
At some point, we opted to get a bite to eat. Butch was keeping tabs on the Duke and Carolina basketball game. It didn’t go well for the Blue Devils.
Like a lazy afternoon on a North Shore beach, the clock was in no hurry for us to board the plane. But finally, the call came to board.
I silently hoped this plane would be outfitted with monitors and working technology for movie viewing. Thank the good Lord it was.
We had a tail wind that pushed that big B767-400 across the Pacific and America. We landed in Dulles ahead of schedule. Watching three movies kept my sanity in check.
Our layover in Dulles was short. We walked, talked, and found a bit of food and drink before our flight back to Raleigh.
The travel gods were kind to us. Dulles to Raleigh was on time.
Butch and Marian’s daughter Adrienne drove over from Greensboro to pick them up. Our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, who lives and works in Raleigh gathered us up.
I don’t remember the ride from Raleigh to Richmond. Not sure who drove, Betsy or me, but we made it.
Worrier that I am, my biggest concern for this trip was that my imperfections might severely pluck the nerves of of our friends. If that happened, then over fifty years of friendship could be washed away. Luckily, that didn’t happen.
Our cherished pals (Photo provided by Dan Callow)
I’m thankful to Abby and Art for letting us have their vacation home on the North Shore for a week. And I’m appreciative of everyone who helped from the first planning conversation to the last mile into our driveways.
Love the hearts of the people of Hawaii.
The islands we visited were stunning.
And of course, the Pacific Ocean is part of that beauty.
I’m seventy one, I have no idea when the good Lord will say to his angels, “I’ve had enough of Pike, go get him.”
When that moment comes, maybe I’ll be sitting on the ocean side porch at Abby and Art’s home in Waialua.
I’ve decided that untroubled porch would be a good place to croak.
But, until that moment arrives, I plan to be a pain—making you, me, we, us think about this troubled old world, and praying we can fix it.
In our Richmond, Virginia yard we have three gardenia shrubs.
Two of those shrubs are tied to the yard where I grew up in Burlington, North Carolina.
The other one, a different gardenia variety came from the faculty and staff at Lakeside Elementary School when our father died.
An August bloomer (Photo Bill Pike)
For my sister and me, the last days of August have never left us.
On August 31, 1992, our mother said goodbye after a brief skirmish with that bum cancer.
Ten years later on September 1, 2002, we lost our father. It was just barely past midnight when his heart said I’m done.
Maybe angels conspired with the timing.
Somewhere in the world at this very moment, a child will start a new day without a mother or father.
I have no concept of what their life must be like.
Also at this very moment, there is a child that is plotting how to survive another day with a parent who is irresponsible in providing care.
Again, I have no concept of what this life must be like with an irresponsible parent.
At some point, my mother’s father deserted his wife and their three children. I don’t know how, but their mother figured out the path to survival. She raised three smart, responsible, resilient, kindhearted children with very little support.
Life for our father was a different type of survival. His parents Izetta and Charlie had ten children. Izetta and Charlie raised a good crew as well. Everyone of them graduated from high school. This was a rigid requirement.
My wife and I still enjoy puttering around in our yard. I hope we can putter in our yard for as long as we remain vertical.
As you know, summer along the east coast of America can be brutal.
Temperatures in the nineties, some days over one hundred, combined with excessively high humidity and dew points creates a hellish misery.
Often that misery is locked in place for days and sometimes weeks without a break and barely a drop of rain.
During these dry spells, we keep our shrubs and flowers in our borders watered. I don’t waste much water on our lawn.
Usually when the hot spell breaks, we’ll have some good rain. And for me, there is something magical about those rain drops from heaven.
My biology professor at Greensboro College, Kemper Callahan, would be disappointed in my lack of understanding the “secret life of plants.” Something miraculous happens from those soaking raindrops.
A shrub like a gardenia has already bloomed in the late spring. Now, the shrub is full with new shoots of green leaves.
Yet, twice this August, two of our gardenia shrubs have sprouted new flower blossoms.
When I discover those blossoms, I automatically think of my parents. They loved their flower beds and bountiful backyard garden. They had green thumbs, a love for the earth, and an appreciation for every bloom no matter if it was from a okra stalk or a gardenia shrub.
There was a lot that I failed to absorb from my parents. I regret my stubborn impenetrable head everyday of my life.
I’m certain there were many times they wanted to wring my neck like a chicken on a cool spring morning. But, they restrained themselves. Somehow, they continued to love me despite my countless faults.
It was that love that bound them together, and pushed them to sacrifice for my sister and me.
And as long as the good Lord keeps me vertical, I will love and cherish those August days when a gardenia surprises me with a bloom.
That will be my reminder of how lucky I was to be raised and loved by Louise and Bill.
I’m sure the editors at the Upper Room spend lots of time figuring out the cover for the magazine. The magazine prints six times during the course of a year.
That’s not as stressful as figuring out the cover every week for a news magazine, but I know the editors work diligently to find the right piece of art.
The July/August 2024 edition has found me staring into that cover quite a bit. British artist, Arthur A. Dixon, depicts Jesus healing a blind man.
On page two of the magazine, the editors offer an interpretation of the cover. The interpreter attempts to give the reader a few things to ponder about the work of the artist.
The interpreter, Nancy Cason, references the movement in the scene. Jesus’s fingertips gently moving toward the closed eyes of the blind man. She uses the words—“loving, compassionate, and gentle healer who is just and merciful,” to describe Jesus.
When I view this beautiful painting, the impatient, whiner, grumbler that I am, forms this question—“Hey Jesus, where is your loving, compassionate, just and merciful, gentle healing today?”
Jesus, in case you haven’t noticed, we are a hurting world. Where is your touch, your instantaneous touch that in a blink changes a life for the good?
Perhaps, this verse from John Chapter 6 was written for me: “Jesus answered them, ‘Do not complain among yourselves.’
I’m among the complainers. I want to advocate for those who need the instantaneous touch of Jesus.
Usually when I take the time to ride the exercise bike in our basement, I will listen to a recent broadcast from the National Public Radio Show Fresh Air. I respect the interview format of this program because I always learn something from the moderator and the guest.
On the morning of August 5, I listened to host Terry Gross interview Dr. Theodore Swartz, a neurosurgeon. Dr. Swartz has written a new book: “Gray Matters: A Biography Of Brain Surgery.”
The interview was fascinating. Yes, I was a bit squeamish at times, but fascinating.
This was especially true in terms of how the medical science for helping people with brain injuries and illnesses has changed. The surgical techniques and procedures have continued to evolve and change for the good.
I learned how sensitive the brain is. Despite its tough skull, in a blink, our skulls can be damaged in ways that no one might anticipate.
A neurosurgeon must be in good mental and physical shape when performing surgery. Surgeries can last six to eight hours— with no restroom breaks or stops for refreshments. And most critical, the neurosurgeon is required to have steady hands at all times.
And perhaps like Jesus, “neurosurgeons have a unique window into the human condition.”
It is our human condition that makes my sleep restless some nights.
I imagine that Jesus and neurosurgeons have restless or almost sleepless nights too.
Can weary and fragile human beings continue to endure unbearable and relentless trauma? Especially in world that appears at times to have lost its compassion and ability to think in reasonable and rational ways.
And I keep coming back to the cover of the Upper Room. I see the right hand of Jesus reaching to touch the closed eyes of the blindman, and in a blink he is healed.
In his own remarkable way, Dr. Swartz has the capacity to heal. His surgical skills are similar to the touch of Jesus. While not always immediate, Dr. Swartz’s touch can save and improve the quality of lives.
For my old brain, I’m always going to wrestle with the blink found in the instant touch of Jesus.
And unseen, unknown to me is that somewhere today, in the most desperate of situations, the instant touch of Jesus will arrive in a blink.
Why is that?
How does Jesus choose when to appear and save?
I wonder if anyone has the metrics on unexplainable medical miracles?
In the same way, I believe that the healing touch of Jesus can be working through other people like Dr. Swartz.
In the magazine The Week, I recently read about Lewis H. Lapham. Mr. Lapham was a columnist and editor. From 1971 to 2006, Mr. Lapham’s leadership was dedicated to Harper’s magazine. Mr. Lapham recently passed away, and this article was a recapping of his career and life.
I was drawn to this quote from Mr. Lapham: “The hope of social or political change stems from language that induces a change of heart. That’s the power of words, and that’s a different power than the power of the internet.”
Jesus had no internet.
No his power came from his words, his compassion, his movement, his ability to teach, and from his heart.
Changing hearts in this world today doesn’t happen in a blink.
But, we can’t give up on the hope in our hearts.
With the right words, that hope can cause a person to blink, and change for the good.
Upper Room cover from July/August 2024 (Photo Bill Pike)
On May 8, my wife and I flew into New Orleans. My last visit to the city was when I was 5. I turn 71 in June.
We live in Richmond, Virginia. Our cities share some similarities.
Rivers are central to our landscapes. You have the Mississippi, we have the James.
Statues from the Civil War created some interesting dynamics in our cities when decisions were made to remove them.
Sections of Richmond and New Orleans have been revitalized with restaurants, shops and craft breweries.
Collegiate life at Tulane, Loyola, Virginia Commonwealth University and the University of Richmond adds to the diversity of our communities.
You have the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival; we have the Richmond Folk Festival. Beautiful homes are found in your Garden District and the Fan in Richmond.
Clearly, I could drone on, but each city also has challenges.
Neither city has immunity from issues surrounding affordable housing, the homeless, safety, equity, public education and infrastructure upkeep.
Aside from one day of streetcar use, we walked everywhere. I can’t believe that one of us didn’t roll an ankle on multiple imperfections found on sidewalks.
Sidewalk impacted by tree roots in a pretty New Orleans neighborhood (Photo Bill Pike)
My old heart hurt when we came upon a homeless person zonked out on the hard concrete at the entrance to a dilapidated building.
Despite these concerns, we also encountered genuine hospitality.
A streetcar driver ensured that we departed at the correct stop for Audubon Park.
We spent an entire day at the National WWII Museum. Every staff member was courteous, helpful and patient.
No matter where our appetites took us, diverse and knowledgeable waitstaffs gave us graceful guidance.
Reluctantly when our trip was over, we flew back home.
Since returning, pitching New Orleans has been my mantra.
Thanks, and I hope we can return someday.
BILL PIKE Richmond, Virginia
Author’s note: In May 2024, we traveled to New Orleans. This letter was published in the Times-Picayune on June 19, 2024.
On Monday, July 29, I felt like a summer cold was encroaching.
Knowing that I was supposed to travel on Thursday, on the morning of Tuesday, July 30. I took a COVID test.
Wait time for the test kit didn’t matter. I was positive immediately. Just what I expected to happen.
I spent the next few minutes trying to remember everyone that I had spent time with on Monday. I compiled a list and sent an email to Kim Tingler at the Trinity church office. Graciously, Kim forwarded the email for me. I said a silent prayer asking that none of these people get the COVID.
I’m sure it didn’t help that from July 23 thru July 28, I boarded four different jets in four different airports traveling to and from the Experimental Airline Association’s annual airshow in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Over a half-million people from all over the world attend the show every year.
But this bout of COVID, I’m going to blame on American Airlines and the night I spent in the Philadelphia airport.
Tuesday, I was miserable, and that pushed into Wednesday a bit. Nasal congestion, a raspy voice, a few chills, but no sustained fever.
By Friday, I was feeling better, and I volunteered to open Trinity on Saturday morning so that construction workers could keep hacking away at our renovation project.
They worked from 6 a.m. until 2:30 p.m. A little before 3, I drove to the building to make sure that all of the exterior doors were locked.
Wearing my mask, I saw that someone had scribbled on a piece of cardboard that one of the slats in a Bible rack in the Sanctuary had come lose. So, I tracked it down . Sure enough, the slat was just dangling there.
Internally, the harsh words were rising. It is beyond me how someone can properly place his or her foot on that exposed slat and exert enough force to make four pneumatically installed nails fail. I curse every time this happens.
But, I’ll tell you what aggravates me even more, we never use those Bibles during Sunday morning worship. In my thirty-two years of membership, I can remember a handful of times when a minister says, “please take out your pew Bible, and follow me in the scripture reading.”
Technology changed all of that. Now the scripture reading appears on two TV monitors at the front of the Sanctuary.
I grabbed the tools I needed to make the repair. To do this, I have to be flat on my back. I search for the right angle to be able to position myself to use a hammer to tap the slat back in place.
Sometimes the nails and slat play nicely, and other times they are uncooperative. Today, it is 50/50. One end complies. The other end sticks it to me.
Flat on my back, I stare up at the ceiling as I shift strategies to combat the non-compliant end.
From the floor of the Sanctuary staring at the ceiling. (Photo Bill Pike)
I start thinking about other quirks of managing this building that aggravate me.
Un-flushed toilets and urinals are the worst. This is especially true if they have sat for several days. The aroma is like a port-a-john that was left on a construction site for a month. What I want to know is if you flush at home, why can’t you flush at God’s house?
Next would be our two church vans. A few times they resemble a frat house after a weekend kegger. The floor of a van is not a trash can.
And yet, I keep coming back to fix pew racks, flush restroom equipment, and cleanup two weary vans.
Why?
Maybe its God’s way of getting back at me for all the times I have let him down during my lifetime.
Or maybe, it is because of the Trinity people. Despite my grumpy, grouchy, crabby, shirty, picky personality that surfaces more frequently now, it is the hearts of Trinity that make me hang around too.
In your hearts are stories. Stories that need to be told. I only wish we could peel those stories out of you before you croak. Reading about your hobbies, talents, and skills in your obituary is frustrating.
You see those stories allow people to make connections. Connections provide an opportunity for a relationship to develop. A congregation can’t develop a relationship with “ashes to ashes, dust to dust, now you will no longer he with us.”
If a church is going to continue to attempt to live, it must be capable of telling stories.
Stories make us think. But stories also push us to ponder deeper, to dream, to wonder, and ask.
There are more stories in this building than broken slats, un-flushed toilets, and trashed vans.
I love the ancient Cokesbury Worship Hymnal. Confession, yes, I took one from Trinity.
I keep it on a shelf compartment below my desktop at home.
On page 286 is the classic “Tell Me The Stories of Jesus” written by William H. Parker and Frederic A. Challinor. The words are straightforward, and even for a guy like me who can’t sing a lick, this is a singable hymn.
But more importantly, the writer wants to be told the stories of Jesus.
And yet for my old brain, I think some days, Jesus is thinking—“Hey enough of me, this world of ours is making me weary, I need to hear your stories. I need some hope. I need some light. I need to laugh. I need some different angles to see the world. I’m running out of Kleenex up here.”
Yes, I will blame my latest confrontation with my dear friend COVID on my unscheduled overnight stay in the Philadelphia airport.
But, if we fail to share our stories with each other before we croak, we have no one to blame, but ourselves. We never know how sharing a life story might make a difference in the life of another person.
My wife’s nephew, Brad, and his family live in London, England. Brad grew up in Los Angeles. He still follows the ups and downs of the Los Angeles Dodgers.
A couple of years ago, Brad told me about the Eric Nusbaum book Stealing Home. The book is about the move of the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles and the “lives caught in between.”
I love this quote from page 202: “The fact that big-league baseball hadn’t already reached the West Coast was a character flaw, a result of baseball, almost by its very nature, being resistant to change and obsessed with its own past.”
I’m an imperfect human being, I have character flaws, God knows my poor choice of words in his house. On paper, Trinity is still a good sized church.
However, if we continue to be obsessed with our past, and resist change, we’re dead.
Stories can move us out of the past.
Stories can form the steps for change.
And stories can come from an unwanted, overnight stop in the Philadelphia airport with COVID as a post-script.
How many other people in our congregation have had a similar travel experience and a confrontation with COVID?
Sharing those stories establishes a link, a connection, and the opportunity to relate to a person that I might not have known ten minutes ago.
Jesus was a storyteller.
It is time for you, me, we, us to share and tell our stories.
You, me, we, us can’t continue to hold our stories for the obituaries published in a newspaper.
Perhaps, this verse from Psalm 119 verse 130 will nudge us: “The unfolding of your words gives light; it imparts understanding to the simple.”
Author’s note: I confess, I’m an imperfect caretaker of God’s house. If my whining wounded you, I apologize.
might be baloney 