might be baloney

Tucked away deep in the storage vaults of our brains are memories. Neatly filed away, available for recall, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and categorized on just about any subject matter, like Christmas.

Over the last several days, I’ve put my brain in the search mode for Christmas memories.

Because of my great dependence upon my parents, I can remember as a youngster being pushed out of my comfort zone to talk with Santa Claus at the Sears in downtown Burlington, North Carolina.

I can also recall as a fourth grader looking for something in my parents’ closet one afternoon. Surprisingly, I found unwrapped toys. These were the same choices that I had communicated to Santa that I wanted for Christmas. I was puzzled.

I was even more puzzled as an adult taking an early morning run on a reservoir trail in West Hartford, Connecticut. It was a cold Christmas Eve morning.

At some point, I looked up and saw Santa Claus. He was gliding over the gray tree tops of the Connecticut hills in a hot air balloon.

Alma Coble triggered a Christmas memory. Coble as I called her was a kind hearted former neighbor.

Early in our lives, my sister and I spent a lot of time in Coble’s house. Coble and her family took care of my sister and me and other children while our parents were at work.
Coble was a true Southern cook who made real fruit cakes. Her kitchen was an like an artist’s studio at Christmas.

Family visits with the relatives were simple. Christmas Eve with my Dad’s side of the family, Christmas Day with my mother’s side of the family.

On Christmas Eve, before heading to Greensboro where the Pike’s gathered, we drove to Snow Camp. Snow Camp is where Uncle Everett lived all alone. Everett was my grandmother’s brother.

Everett was almost toothless, difficult to understand his speech, and missing a finger or two from working in the feed mill. The big heart of my dad always made sure that Everett was present at the Christmas Eve gathering. Everett left those gatherings with a covered plate of food and a few gifts.

My mom’s side of the family had their equivalent of Uncle Everett —Aunt Nellie. She wasn’t toothless, had all her fingers, and she was articulate in her speech.

Aunt Nellie was a loner too. She lived by herself, but I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe she was difficult to be around or maybe, she was misunderstood. As a kid, I remember hearing whispers about her. I never recall Aunt Nellie attending a Christmas gathering.

As a lover of snow, I recall one Christmas that was almost white. Seems like a freezing rain, with sleet pellets, and a few snowflakes storm hit us the day before Christmas Eve. It wasn’t pretty, but maybe it extended my winter weather hope.

When I married Betsy in 1975, the potential for snow at Christmas improved. We started spending this holiday time at her parents home in West Hartford.

One year, a few days before Christmas, in our tightly packed Ford Pinto, we left Martinsville, Virginia headed for New England. North of Baltimore, the sky was winter gray.

As we neared the Delaware state line, cars heading south had snow on them. By the time we reached the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was snowing so hard that we could barely make out the massive framing of the bridge.

Yet, I think my best snow memory was a Christmas Eve in West Hartford. There was no prediction of snow, but when we came out of the midnight service at St. James Episcopal Church everything was covered in snow.

To contrast the beauty of that snow covered scene, there was the Christmas of 1972.

My dad and I were at home trying to figure out what the game plan was for dinner. My mom and sister were out shopping. Even though we didn’t say anything to each other, I think my Dad and I knew that they were way overdue to be home by now.

Then, the phone call came. It was the Burlington police. My mom and sister had been broadsided by a car that ran a stop sign. The collision had been on the driver’s side of the car. Our mother took all of the impact. It was too close of a call.

My sister had bumps, cuts, and bruises. Our mother had multiple internal injuries including a nasty concussion. Yet, somehow she had the strength and the will to recover.

The arrival of our children dramatically changed operation Christmas. Packing our car for the road trip to Connecticut wasn’t fun. I cursed the luggage, the presents, and all of the items needed to sustain three kids. I dreamed of loading the car and all that stuff into the cargo bay of the massive military C-5 Galaxy cargo plane.

Without a doubt, the craziest trip was the one where we planned to drive through the night to West Hartford.
Our parental instincts convinced us that the three kids would sleep during this dark trip.

We were wrong. Maybe an hour from West Hartford the car was finally quiet.

However, it was the stress of these pilgrimages that helped us to put our feet down. We diplomatically told our families that we were starting our own Christmas traditions by staying at home in Richmond. I can tell you that the first one in Richmond was the most relaxed Christmas we’ve ever had.

Christmas memories, everyone has them, and I could easily fill a few more pages, but I want to talk about Clarence. You know Clarence, the angel recruit who is trying to earn his angel wings by redirecting George Bailey back to reality in the classic holiday movie, It’s A Wonderful Life.

As Clarence helps George to reflect about his life, he finally gets George to the point to where George desperately states to this hopeful angel: “ Clarence, get me back.”

During this Christmas season, it seems to me that like George Bailey, we are in dire need for Clarence to “get us back” too.

This Christmas as we reflect about the year that is almost at its end, what will we remember— the country that was demolished by Hurricane Mitch, the possible impeachment of our President, the ethical struggles of Congress, bombs dropped and cruise missiles fired toward a devilish leader that will probably never hit him, or the people of America who appear to be slowly losing their way from acknowledging the heavenly Clarence and his colleagues.

Clarence knew that George Bailey had the capacity within to get himself back and regain his senses. To do this Clarence had to help George regain his sight, both internal and external.

In fact, the opportunity to renew that capacity within ourselves is only five days away when we celebrate the birth of Clarence’s teacher, coach, trainer, mentor, and leader.

When Clarence is successful in getting George back, the bell rang , and he earned his wings.

The bells ring for us each Christmas with the arrival of a very special angel—Jesus.

Let this be the Christmas that we hear the bells ring within our hearts to carry forth the work of Clarence and his very special friend.

Author’s note: This piece was written as a devotion for the Outreach Sunday School Class at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on Sunday, December 20, 1998. This post has been edited. Merry Christmas.

Matthew 4, verse 19: “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men”.

The last time I took the day before Thanksgiving off was twenty-six years ago. I took that day off for a good reason. It allowed me to travel to West Hartford, Connecticut, and on the Saturday of that Thanksgiving weekend I married the best lady in the whole world.

Twenty-six years later, I was driving our oldest daughter to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Lauren, a freshman at Virginia Tech, was home for her fall break.

For several years, my wife’s parents have been renting an ocean front beach house during the Thanksgiving week. My family and I had the good fortune of being invited each year to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with them.
Since Lauren wanted to be back in Richmond on Saturday, we thought we would go down to the Outer Banks a day earlier. Selfishly, I liked going a day earlier because that would give me an extra day of surf fishing.

I awakened our sleepy college student before dawn, and shortly after 6:00 a.m. we were on the road. Our drive down through the peanut and cotton farms was uneventful.

We were both anxious to reach the twin span bridges that would carry us across the Currituck Sound. Once across the sound, we pulled off a not so crowded Highway 168, and made the left turn on to Highway 12. Southern Shores, Duck, and five streets passed the Sanderling sign we made the turn that took us to this year’s beach house.

Hugs and greetings were exchanged with my in-laws, and my wife’s brother and his family. Then Lauren and I started to unload the car. After this, we made a quick trip to the grocery story, ate a little late morning snack, and we charted out our plans for the afternoon. My plans were to put on the old waders, grab the gear and the bait, and head for the beach.

Surf rod, tackle box, tubular sand spikes, and a bucket, were in my hands as I waddled in my waders down the wooden stairs to the shoreline. I found a spot to park my gear, located an old piece of two by four to use as a cutting board for my bait, and I started getting everything ready.

That afternoon a good breeze was rolling in off the ocean. The waves pounded the sandy shore. I alternated back and forth between cut bait, and those magical lures.

Periodically, I would check my watch and remind myself about where I would normally be at this time of day. I fished for over two hours, and while I had no nibbles, I did have fun.

The next four days brought the same disappointment. Whether it was morning or afternoon, my luck did not change. The fish weren’t taking what I had to offer. I was beginning to doubt whether any fish were in the ocean at all. That changed a little on Friday morning.

It was low tide. I had found a place on the beach where I could walk out a few yards without a sharp drop off from the shore line. This allowed me to cast our further into the almost calm waters.

In doing this, I started to feel the slightest nibble on my line. Those nibbles aroused my curiosity and hope. Maybe I might get lucky.

My bait on the hook was even stripped away a couple of times. I figured it must be a hungry crab, but I was wrong.

Once, I responded to the tug of the line in just the right manner. As I reeled the line in closer to me, I could still feel some resistance. Then just a few yards from me I finally saw what was teasing me— a small bluefish.

Bluefish known as ferocious feeders obviously start chomping on bait at an early age. Not more than six inches, I would call this a “diaper blue”. These little fish were too small to bite the big hook, but armed with enough teeth to attach to the bait and munch all the way toward the shore.

When the fish are not tempted by the fisherman’s entrees, fishermen do a lot of pondering. During those five days, I had plenty of time to ponder about the world I could observe.

I calculated that it had been at least six years, since I had caught a real fish on this narrow ribbon of fragile land.

Despite that drought, I was hooked on watching the effortless glide of the brown pelicans. I was amazed as they flew within inches of the tops of cresting waves.

I observed the powerfully fast and efficient dive of the gannets trying like me to catch fish.

At different times, the surface of the water would be broken as a small group of porpoise worked their way south down the shoreline.

I wondered what it would be like to glide with the pellies or swim like the porpoise.

And there I was holding the rod, gazing out to the horizon when I saw a huge spray of water shoot up off the ocean’s surface. It reminded me of a cannonball hitting the water, but there was no sound. When I returned to the house for a break that day, my father-in-law asked me if I had seen the whale offshore. Now I know what caused that huge plume of spray.

Back on the shoreline, I heard the the occasional cry of the sea gulls, and the steady pounding of the breakers smacking the sand. But the sound that caught my attention most frequently was the tinkling of the crushed shells that clashed together in the retreating undertow.

And on those mornings when I hit the beach before sunrise, the mixed hues of brilliant colors in the sky could not be matched in a super box of Crayola crayons.

Despite this beauty, I was still disappointed. I had not caught any fish.

But the more I pondered my dissatisfaction, the more I realized that I should be ashamed of my self-proclaimed grumbling. Did I know why I should be ashamed of my grumbling? Yes, I figured it out. The reason was 9-11.

The losses from that terrible day went very deep. The further I thought, the more I realized that now there are children who will never have the opportunity to go fishing with their fathers.

Husbands and wives will no longer share their dreams in the rising sun of the new day. Gone for them is the glide of the pelican, the dive of the gannet, the frolics of the porpoise, the tinkling of the shells, and the spray from the whale.

And yet, hope is not gone. A fisherman always has hope.

Toward the end of December, we will celebrate the birth of the infant who became quite a fisherman. It is the birth of Jesus that brings us hope. Christmas is hope.

And as we prepare for His arrival, let it be hope that will push us to follow His lead to truly become “fishers of men” By doing this, we can deliver hope to those in need.

Prayer:
Father of us all, help us as we cast our lines to find hope in Christmas. Allow us to use this hope to meet the needs of those who are struggling. In your name we pray, Amen.

Note from author: Prior to the start of our blog, Might Be Baloney, I wrote many, many reflections about wobbling through life. Some were used as devotionals as a part of the Outreach Sunday school class at Trinity UMC in Richmond, Virginia. Between now and the end of December 2024, I hope to post a few of those pieces that are linked to Christmas. Fishing For Christmas(this piece has been edited) was written in late 2001. Thanks for reading our blog. Your comments and shares are appreciated. Be safe, love, Bill Pike

In college, our youngest daughter was an art history major. If my memory is correct, this degree also had a concentration in studio arts.

I often wonder how she uses that degree working in marketing for an East Asia computer company. In truth, I believe her marketing skills come from her percipient eyes and her ability to build relationships with customers.

Throughout high school and college, she dabbled enough in art to create some very pretty pieces.

Over the years, with our daughter, and my wife the Commander Supreme, I’ve enjoyed visits to art museums to view an assortment of exhibits. Although, as we have taken in these exhibits, the Commander and she are wary of hanging too close to me in an art museum.

I’m usually the guy who will be reminded by a polite, but humorless guard, “Sir, could you take a step back? You just encroached the boundary line protecting the art.”

While I always politely comply, my perspicacious eyes note that my daughter and the Commander have briskly walked away and turned their backs on me.

From my thirty one years of work in public education, I developed a deep appreciation for student art. That admiration included the skilled art teachers who were able to help these students develop their gift.

There is nothing like student artwork displayed through the halls of a school building. That artwork can impact the environment of the school.

I love when public buildings in our communities feature student artwork in their lobbies and hallways. Those are special opportunities for students to showcase their talent.

I know there are lots of starving artists in this world. I also know that sometimes an artist can become quite successful with lots of pennies flowing into their bank account.

Speaking of pennies, perhaps, you have been following the story about a recent art auction that featured a real banana taped to a wall held by a piece of duct tape.

This piece featuring the banana held by duct tape is titled Comedian. It was created by Italian artist, Maurizio Cattelan. Back in 2019, the piece debuted at Art Basel In Miami Beach.

At the time, this piece created such interest that the gallery withdrew it from public display. Artist Cattelan created three editions of the duct taped banana that sold between $120,000 to $150,000.

Fast forward to Wednesday, November 20, at an auction at Sotheby’s in New York, the banana and duct tape sold for $6.2 million dollars. It was purchased by Justin Sun who is the founder of the cryptocurrency, TRON.

Then nine days later on November 29, the purchaser, Justin Sun, ate the $6.2 million dollar banana. (Associated Press, NPR, New York Times)

I know nothing about Mr. Sun. To develop a platform for cryptocurrency, I assume that he must be smarter than the average bear. Yet, I’m not so sure this banana and duct tape purchase was his best thinking.

In a silly scene from the movie, Sgt. Bilko, actor Steve Martin, who portrays United States Army Master Sergeant, Ernest G. Bilko, is facing a surprise inspection with his unit. With the pending inspection just minutes away, and in desperate need of a plan to counter the review, Bilko blurts out, “I’ve got to think.”

As this purchase was developing, I wonder if Mr. Sun’s internal voice whispered to him “I’ve got to think”. If that quiet voice spoke, Mr. Sun failed to listen.

Even if you are barely aware of the current events where you live or in this old world, I’d wager that you know many people in desperate circumstances who could have benefitted from Mr. Sun’s $6.2 million.

For example, at this very moment, Christmas Mothers and their staffs of volunteers in metro Richmond are working to ensure they will be able to meet the needs of the families who have applied for assistance this Christmas.

Families from Florida through southwest Virginia are trying to figure out Christmas and the rest of their lives following the catastrophic devastation from Hurricane Helene.

The war between Ukraine and Russia has spiked the homeless population in Ukraine to almost twenty-five percent.

Additionally, the war between Israel and Palestine has created a severe homeless situation. Some agencies report this crisis at 2.2 million who have lost their housing.

And beyond those bold headlines, there are the silent headlines—stories of quiet people in the shadows of life who are struggling with their mental health. Those lonely struggles are in sharp contrast to the traditional December celebrations that take place with family and friends.

This time of year, I’m drawn to a line of scripture from the first chapter of Luke verse 29: “But she (Mary) was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” The angel Gabriel has visited Mary to share with her the pending birth of Jesus.

From this chapter, the words “perplexed and pondered” capture my attention.

Many times in my seventy one years of living, my thinking has been less that perfect. People around me were probably perplexed and pondered—what in the world was Bill thinking?

I feel the same way about Mr. Sun’s art purchase.

With all these real human needs swirling around this old world— what was he thinking?

No matter how much time I have left in this rapidly eroding old world “I’ve got to think.”

I must ponder and find in my heart the best path to advocate for and help the people in need.

Scripture 2 Timothy, Chapter 2 verses 1-7:

You then, my child, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus; 2 and what you have heard from me through many witnesses entrust to faithful people who will be able to teach others as well. 3 Share in suffering like a good soldier of Christ Jesus. 4 No one serving in the army gets entangled in everyday affairs; the soldier’s aim is to please the enlisting officer. 5 And in the case of an athlete, no one is crowned without competing according to the rules. 6 It is the farmer who does the work who ought to have the first share of the crops. 7 Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in all things.

Thanks Judy for your kind words.

I appreciate Laura Candler-White, our church organist, and Daniel Parks, our music director for their participation in this service.

That thanks also includes our acolytes, those of you in this Sanctuary, and anyone watching on-line at home. Additionally, thanks to the Trinity staff, and our Senior Pastor, Brian Siegle, who is running the technology.

I also want to say safe travels to the Hall family. They are making their annual drive to Missouri to be with relatives during Thanksgiving.

I volunteered to be here this evening. Maybe this gives a little break to our pastors Brian, Daniel, and Judy as they head into Advent.

A couple of reminders for you.

I’m not a theologian. I’m no expert on the Bible.

Quite simply, I’m a rapidly aging, grumpy geezer.

And for the next couple of hours, maybe, just maybe I might say something that will resonate with you as we take a look at Timothy, and a few verses of scripture about teachers, soldiers, athletes, and farmers.

But, let’s start with a prayer, let us pray: Father of us all, over the next few minutes touch our hearts. In your name we pray, Amen.

From the 1973 edition of the New Oxford Annotated Bible the Revised Standard Version, here are a few bits of information about Timothy.

Timothy was the son of a Greek father and a Jewish mother who had become Christian.

Timothy’s mother and grandmother raised him as a Christian.

Paul was looking for a helper in his missionary work when he visited Timothy’s hometown, Lystra, in present day Turkey. Clearly, this Christian upbringing helped Paul in the recruitment of Timothy.

In this Second Letter to Timothy, a veteran missionary wants Timothy to understand that endurance is a key quality of a preacher.

Additionally, Timothy is encouraged to rekindle the gift of God within him. The veteran missionary reminds Timothy not to be ashamed of witnessing for the Lord.

There are some indications that Timothy was overawed by his surroundings and did not make his witness boldly.

And finally, Timothy was advised to take his share of suffering as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

I wonder what Timothy thought about this advice.

I wonder what you, me, we, us think about this advice.

We might not see ourselves as soldiers of Jesus Christ, but we are familiar with the words endurance, rekindle, ashamed, witness, and suffering.

Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not a bold witness for Jesus Christ.

It would be very uncharacteristic of me to walk up to a person or a group of people, and shout out:

Hey, you bunch of heathens, as a Christian, I’m here to tell you that you must quickly rekindle your endurance for following the teachings of Jesus Christ because if you don’t, there’s a whole heap of suffering headed your way.

And yet, I’m drawn to the seven verses in second Timothy chapter two because of these words— teacher, soldier, athlete, and farmer.

Like Timothy, our national holiday of Thanksgiving has become overawed by the commercial rise of Halloween and Christmas. But if you really think about Thanksgiving, farmers are the key. No farmers, no Thanksgiving.

What might we learn from farmers about endurance and suffering as they work through the challenges of a difficult growing season?

At some point over this Thanksgiving weekend, we will probably be drawn to the athletes who play college or professional football.

From this chapter of Timothy, verse five reminds us:
“And in the case of an athlete, no one is crowned without competing according to the rules.”

As fearsome as the football warriors might look on the field, their thinking can become internally fragile. In these frail, weak moments, these athletes can place themselves in unwise situations where they fail to compete by the rules of life or the rules of the game. In those circumstances, there is no crowning.

What might we learn from athletes who fail for not following the rules?

With regard to soldiers, I’m drawn to an intense scene from the movie Saving Private Ryan.

Captain John Miller, played by Tom Hanks, and his soldiers have been given orders to find Private James Frances Ryan. Private Ryan’s three brothers have already been killed in the war.

This mission is to find Private Ryan and send him back home.

After a fierce encounter with a German unit, Captain Miller faces an emotional and out of line pushback from one of his soldiers over this mission to find Private Ryan.

In this pushback, the personalities of his men erupt all around Captain Miller. The language is vile. Weapons are drawn and pointed. Threats are made. Captain Miller’s men plead with him to intervene to stop this unsafe chaos.

Finally, Captain Miller quietly asks one of his men, “What’s the pool up to on me now?”

Captain Miller’s men have been trying to determine his profession prior to joining the Army. The pool amount is up to $300.00.

With that distracting question, the tenseness of this moment is broken. Captain Miller reveals to his men that he was a high school English teacher and baseball coach in a small town in Pennsylvania.

What might we learn from soldiers who struggle to understand the reasoning behind their orders?

For a few minutes, let’s take a brief detour to watch a scene from the movie Mr. Holland’s Opus.

In this scene, two teachers, who are friends have a conversation about a student:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ad5pKiflwew

In this scene, Glenn’s fellow teacher Bill is looking for understanding.

He can’t understand why Glenn can’t teach his star wrestler, Lou Russ, to play a musical instrument.

I’m not sure about you, but for me, in that scene the path to understanding pivots off these words—“then you’re a lousy teacher.”

I wonder if anyone ever said to Jesus—“you’re a lousy teacher.”

At this very moment, when Jesus looks down upon us, I wonder how he might evaluate our current teaching skills. He might ask:

Bill, are you able to teach others about grace?
Bill, do you understand the endurance it takes for people to survive living in difficult environments?
Bill, do you understand their suffering?
Bill, when are you going to enter this game and compete?

Timothy is given a lot to think about in Chapter Two, but the last verse states:
“Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in all things.”

Isn’t that part of what we are all searching for in life— a bit of understanding?

In David Halberstam’s book October 1964, Mr. Halberstam takes a behind the scenes look at the New Yankees and the St. Louis Cardinals and the season that leads the teams into the World Series.

In the final seventh game of the series, the Cardinals win.

At the end of the game, the reporters want to understand why the Cardinal’s manager, Johnny Keane, left his starting, but worn out pitcher, Bob Gibson, in the game to finish the ninth inning.

Johnny Keane tells the reporters: “ I had a commitment to his heart.”

In the magazine The Week, I recently read about author, Sophie Kinsella. This 54 year old mother of five has terminal cancer.

“Every morning, her husband reads the papers and delivers a cup of tea along with a hopeful story about someone who’s beating the odds on a grim diagnosis. From this routine, Kinsella states, “ I really want to be someone else’s story of hope.”

“ A commitment to his heart and some else’s story of hope,” are powerful human reflections.

However, the question remains for me—am I a good soldier?

Am I a good soldier depends upon my heart.

Is my heart grounded in the teachings of Jesus?

Can my heart offer hope to the people who are lost and struggling to find their way in life?

From my non-theological brain, I sense any chance I have at understanding the pep talk that Timothy has been given lies in these familiar words from John 15 verse 12: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

In this very challenging and difficult world to be a good soldier, I must find the capacity to love the people I encounter on my walk through life.

This includes people who don’t look like me, act like me, or think like me.

And this requires me to love 365 days a year. I can’t opt out to love these people only during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

On the afternoon of Saturday, November 16, I was starting my second day in my annual battle with the leaves in our yard.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, came out into the backyard, and said to me, “If you are looking for something else to do, you could trim back the butterfly bush.”

I responded, “I’m not looking for something else to do.”

She laughed and said, “But, I know you are.”

Deep in his heart, Jesus has something for us to do.

He needs us to be graceful, strong soldiers, athletes, and farmers whose hearts can teach a world full of battered and weary people that hope can be found in love.

My clock is ticking. I turn 72 in June.

I’m overdue to be a good soldier.

How about you?

Benediction

As we prepare to head out of here this evening, if you have college students at home—enjoy the laundry.

If your in-laws are visiting your home—pray harder.

Whatever your plans are for tomorrow, I hope you and your family have a good, healthy, and safe Thanksgiving.

And don’t forget the pep talk for Timothy.

Somewhere in your life:

There was a patient teacher who never gave up on you.

The farmer you never met who harvested your food.

The athlete who played by the rules and was crowned.

A soldier who courageously sacrificed to preserve your freedom.

And most importantly, don’t forget Jesus.

He needs our hearts to find the beat just like Lou Russ did.

That beat is a heartbeat, a heartbeat committed to love one another beyond the walls of Trinity.

Now go in peace.

Author’s note: I had the privilege of speaking at the Thanksgiving Eve Service at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on the evening of Wednesday, November 27. I’ve included for you a link for the scene we used from the movie, Mr. Holland’s Opus. From the original movie, this scene is called Challenged. It features Bill and Glenn playing chess on Glenn’s porch. The clip is just under five minutes. If the technology fails, I hope you can find it on-line and view it. Happy Thanksgiving, be safe, love, Bill Pike

On the afternoon of Monday, November 4, I made sure that Trinity Hall was ready for the precinct volunteers.

At 4:30, they were coming to set up the hall the way it needed to be for election day.

I had six tables and twelve chairs out.

This would be the first presidential voting that had been held at our church since we became the precinct for the Rollingwood neighborhood in western Henrico County, Virginia.

On Tuesday morning, I had to have the building open by five. That gave the precinct volunteers an hour to make sure everything was ready for the voters at six to enter Trinity Hall to cast their votes.

I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking about what would happen if I overslept.

Just before five, I had the building open.

Since this was my voting precinct, I opened up my office. I checked emails, and shuffled through some papers.

A few minutes before six, I went back down to Trinity Hall. I walked outside and joined the line with other early voters.

It wasn’t long before I was checked in. I was directed to a voting booth.

I carefully marked my ballot. Next, I walked a few steps and inserted my ballot into the machine that recorded my vote.

Then I made the two block drive to our home.

With a temperature of 56 degrees, I decided it was a good morning to go for a run. I always jot down in my running journal the current weather conditions from the Richmond airport.

On most mornings, the visibility is ten miles. Today, the visibility was 0.25 miles. Fog covered the east end of the county.

A gray overcast ceiling hovered just above the tree tops in Rollingwood.

Back on Sunday morning, November 3, I went for a run. I was sluggish. It was like my legs and brain were out of sync. I wanted to turn back.

By body didn’t want to go. I kept trying to nudge it out of this resistance. Some of that reluctance might have been because the last day that I had gone for a run was on October 20.

But on this important Tuesday morning, my body was more cooperative. My route would be to run the 5K course that starts at our church. I ran the course in a reverse sequence.

It was a damp morning. The humidity reading was 97%. A calm wind allowed for a coat of stilled moisture on every surface.

A palette of autumnal colors from the tree leaves temporarily replaced the sun on this gray day.

I wondered how America would be on Wednesday morning. I hoped that we would not be dealing with post-election turmoil.

For a long, long, long, long time America has been struggling.

Without doubt, we are facing multiple challenges within our borders, and troubling challenges outside our borders too.

Regardless of those challenges, and regardless of who becomes our president, it is foolish the amount of money that has been spent on this election.

National Public Radio was one of multiple news outlets that reported these findings from Open Secrets, a group that tracks election spending.

For the 2024, federal election, Open Secrets estimates that nearly $16 billion was spent. Four years ago, the amount was $15 billion.

I’m sorry, but $16 billion spent on an election is wrong.

How can we fail to see this?

But, there is something worse than the $16 billion.

Through the manipulation of fear, misinformation, and complete neglect for the truth, the Grand Old Party’s presidential candidate has eroded the dignity and integrity for the office of president in our country.

Why can’t we see this?

I’m a flawed and imperfect human being.

America is a flawed and imperfect democracy.

Jon Meacham is a Pulitzer Prize winning author and historian. During a lecture at the College of William and Mary in April 2024, Meacham stated: “If democracy were easy, everybody would be doing it.” (W&M Alumni Magazine Fall 2024)

At this stage of my life as a rapidly aging and excessively grumpy old geezer, I think Mr. Meacham is correct—there is nothing easy about a democracy.

And yet, I also believe at this moment, the heart of the shortcomings of our democracy are captured in this quote from Helen Keller: “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”

I wonder if we are capable of regaining our vision to find and live the last six words from President Lincoln’s first inaugural address—“the better angels of our nature.”

With regard to our democracy and America, I pray our divided souls find “the better angels of our nature.”

RICHMOND TIMES-DISPATCH THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2024|A9

OPINIONS

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Tweaking accreditation won’t help students in need

I recently read in the Richmond Times-Dispatch Del. Mike Cherry’s Oct. 10 op-ed, “Why is school accountability so political?” This piece is about the new accreditation standards for our public schools in Virginia.

Accreditation standards have always been political. Truth be told, accreditation standards will most likely remain political unless we are willing to end our destructive legislative division.

When changes like this are made, I want to know if teachers, testing administrators, parents and students were asked to offer input. After all, they wrestle with accreditation every school year.
But what I really want to know is who is looking at the data that captures what life is like for an unsuccessful student in a nonaccredited school?

How different might that student’s academic performance look if this student had access to quality mental and physical health, non-substandard housing, family stability, proper nutrition, a school environment conducive to learning, and teachers who were respected and supported within the school system and the community.

Sure, every four years in Virginia a new governor and our political parties can continue to burn energy and time to change the accreditation standards to their liking. Unfortunately, tweaking accreditation standards is not going to solve the vicious generational cycles of community neglect.

We are overdue to confront and break those cycles. Failure to analyze and understand the needs of our students and their families in these difficult community environments guarantees less academic achievement.

I believe our Virginia legislators should take a field trip to the Virginia Museum of History & Culture. They should take in the exhibit about Booker T. Washington and Julius Rosenwald. Their unyielding teamwork allowed for the development of 4,978 schools across America. Virginia’s students, parents and teachers need that type of teamwork, not our current political bickering.

Bill Pike. Henrico.

Note from author: I was honored to have this letter published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch today Thursday, November 14, 2024.

I did not serve my country in military service.

Yet, for many years, I have developed a deep respect for our Veterans.

If I notice an older gentleman wearing a hat proclaiming their service in a branch of our military, I make a point of stopping to thank this man for his dedication.

In those brief seconds, the response is a humble smile and thank you.

I also note license plates that indicate a range of links to serving in the military. If I see Bronze Star or Purple Heart, I’m curious about the story behind this recognition.

With a Veteran, there is always a story. Quite often, the Veteran has little desire to share those stories.

My mother’s brother, Sam, was a tail gunner in World II. He was assigned to a bomber, the B-24. I was never allowed to ask Sam anything about his military time. I’ve read enough historical accounts about what those bombing missions were like to understand the reluctance to talk about those perilous flights over enemy territory.

This past year, I had the privilege to make a second visit to Pearl Harbor and the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific at the Punchbowl in Honolulu, Hawaii. Both places put into perspective, the horrors of war.

Additionally in May, my wife and I on our visit to New Orleans spent a day exploring and learning at the National World War II Museum. Every square inch of this museum was worthy of our time.

This quote from Private First Class Harry Parley, 116th Infantry Regiment, U. S. 29th Division caught my attention about D-Day and Omaha Beach: “As our boat touched sand and the ramp went down, I became a visitor to hell. I shut everything out and concentrated on following the men in front of me down the ramp and into the water.”

I can’t imagine the hell these young men experienced.

In July, I and three pals from college traveled to Oshkosh, Wisconsin for the Experimental Aircraft Association annual air show and convention.

If you like airplanes, this is where you want to be. If it has wings and an engine, chances are that plane will be at Oshkosh. Annually, the airfields host 600,000 visitors and10,000 airplanes.

Many organizations and private individuals have worked diligently to restore and maintain planes from the World War II era.

One morning at breakfast, my friend Dan Callow and I had the privilege of talking with two of the Veterans who were part of the crew for one of the two B-29 bombers at the show. You might recall that the B-29 was the plane used to drop the atomic bomb on Japan.

I could have stayed for hours and peppered those two Veterans about their experiences flying the B-29. Knowing they had a full day of activities ahead of them, we thanked them for their service, and wished them well.

As respectful and appreciative as I am of our Veterans, I know many of them face challenges in their current day to day living.

For example, “the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development(HUD) estimates that 40,056 Veterans are homeless on any given night. Only 7% of the general population can claim veteran status, but nearly 13% of the homeless adult population are veterans.” (National Coalition for Homeless Veterans)

Mental health is another concern for Veterans.

Consider this data from an article appearing in The Conversation on November 7, 2024: “America’s military veterans make up about 6% of the adult population, but account for about 20% of all suicides. That means that each day, about 18 Veterans will die by suicide. In the U.S., the overall rate of suicide has largely increased since the start of the millennium, but Veterans are disproportionately represented among this tragic trend.”

Homelessness and death by suicide lead me to this quote from James Bradley’s book Flyboys.

Veteran Rowdy Dow, who was a gunner in a torpedo bomber, told author Bradley the following: “If we had given in to our fears, we wouldn’t have won that war. There were no replacements out there. Our country was depending on us and we were all ready to die for our country. There was a job to do. We did it.”

I’m not sure about your feelings, but I feel we have an obligation to support and take care of our Veterans. They were willing to die for America. They did their jobs. Why can’t we be better in meeting their housing and mental health needs?

I’m one lucky man.

Because of the sacrifices of the women and men who have served our country, I’ve been able to freely travel to Honolulu, New Orleans, and Oshkosh.

I cherish those trips with family and friends.

But since returning from New Orleans, I periodically go back and look at photos I took while at the National World War II Museum.

Inscribed on a large cut piece of stone, I keep coming back to this quote from Dwight Eisenhower: “Humility must always be the portion of any man who receives acclaim earned in the blood of his followers and the sacrifices of his friends.”

On this Veterans Day, and those in the years ahead, I pray we will never forget the humble humility of the countless sacrifices made by our Veterans to preserve our freedoms.

Too frequently and foolishly, we take these sacrifices and our freedoms for granted.

You, me, we, us can’t disregard humility.

“Humility must always be” an essential “portion” of our character.

Leaders who lack humility are blind to the struggles of real life.

And one last gentle reminder—any day is a good day to stop and thank our Veterans.

At 2227 West Front Street, in Burlington, fur, feathers, and fins were scarce. In our household, when my sister and I were growing up, we had no long term pets.

That absence was a holdover from when our parents were growing up. For my mother, it was surviving a journey from Mississippi to North Carolina after her father deserted his wife and their three children.

My father’s family was a different type of survival. He was one of ten children whose parents miraculously made a living as tenant farmers in Alamance and Guilford counties.

I sense shelter, food, and clothing were the essentials that my grandparents held as a priority for their children, not kittens and puppies.

Yes, I do remember short timers on West Front Street. From the circus at the Greensboro Coliseum, my father purchased me a small turtle.

At some point, I had a chameleon. I kept him in a homemade terrarium in a shoebox. Once I pinched the tip of his tail with the top. My mother told me the tip would grow back. I think the chameleon died before the tip returned.

One spring, a handcrafted cage arrived in the backyard. A few days later, my sister was the proud owner of white rabbit.

Then there was a day when the bunny slipped out of the cage while being fed. In the uncertain chaos that followed, lots of coaxing took place to get the stubborn rabbit back into its home.

Neighbors around us had dogs. I remember Maverick, Brownie, and Penny.

A few times, I was the dog sitter for Brownie when our neighbors were out of town.

As it turns out, my sister and her husband who reside in Snow Camp are the animal lovers. My sister’s childhood love of horses continued. Over the years, she has owned and cared for several. Her knowledge and skills are impressive, and everyone of these beautiful horses has a story.

Chickens are a part of their farm landscape too. I’ve heard the stories about sly black snakes sleuthing for eggs, red tailed hawks skydiving on an unsuspecting hen, and the carnage left from a neighbor’s roaming dog who attacked when no one was at home.

My real introduction to pets came from my wife’s family. I still recall meeting their Cape Cod black lab, Joshua. What I took away from our first meeting was that Josh had more energy than anything powered by an Energizer battery. Josh exuded an exuberant excitement like greeting a long lost friend.

Also, in this household was a huge black and white cat named Kiwi. During Christmas visits, the bedroom where my wife and I slept had a trundle bed. Unknown to me that trundle bed was a favorite sleeping place for Kiwi. One night, I woke to hear what sounded like human footsteps trudging across the carpet. I looked down to see Kiwi walking toward the bedroom door.

Turns out my father-in-law had a soft heart for all creatures. There might have been one exception to that affection, a beagle named George.

At some point during George’s tenure with the family, he thought it would be a good idea to urinate on my father-in-law’s foot. Not long after that irrigation, George found a new home with the milkman.

When my wife and I started our family, we occasionally had conversations about pets. From my childhood experience, I politely held to no dogs and cats. Goldfish and a few hermit crabs mingled with our three children during their youth. When our children asked about having a cat or dog, my standard line to them was “when you’re 21, out on your own, you can have whatever pet you want.” To this date, none of them have any pets.

Now, I don’t want you to think I’m an anti-pet person. I appreciate the joy pets bring into families. But, I’ve also seen the wear and tear. Veterinarian bills, putting a beloved family friend down when the cherished pet becomes incapacitated, and the hopeless fear when a pet goes missing and never returns.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed hearing pet stories at the dinner table shared by friends and neighbors.

Our across the street neighbors, Barbara and David tell a good story about a former dog, Dwayne. Dwayne learned how to jump their backyard fence. He also knew how to navigate the city streets to where Barbara’s parents lived.

One day, Dwayne showed up at her parents house with two unopened packs of dinner rolls. Clever Dwayne figured out access to the dumpster at the A&P grocery store on the way.

Another neighbor tells the harrowing story of how a maintenance worker at the University of Richmond saved their cherish dog from drowning in the university’s lake. The dog had become entangled with a drain pipe.

Over the years, I’ve learned that pets are similar to humans. Sometimes, they just need a bit of attention.

Etched in my memory forever is a former neighbor’s yellow lab. On pretty fall afternoons, when I was in the heat of my annual battles with leaves, Zip would wander into our yard with his slobber covered tennis ball.

Zip wanted to play. He’d drop the ball at my feet. With my gloved hand, I’d pick it up and toss the worn ball a few yards away. Even though Zip was aging, he would scurry off and bring the ball back every time.

Despite pets never being a permanent part of my life, they offer something that has become a rarity in our often divided, impatient, and selfish world—loyalty.

That bond, that loyalty between a pet and its owner is “a sight to behold” as Gomer noted when admiring a car on the Andy Griffith Show.

From my no pets experience, I wonder if my take away is this—might our world improve if we could become more loyal to each other, especially on those days when everything goes wrong.

Author’s note: This piece was submitted to the essay contest for O. Henry magazine. I was notified today(11/6/24) that the piece didn’t make the cut. Internally, I knew these ramblings had no chance, but I enjoyed trying.

Let’s start with the confession. I have not read any of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s books.

But after attending the Weinstein-Rosenthal Forum on the evening of Monday, October 7 at the University of Richmond, before I croak I will read her books.

Author Goodwin’s four books about “her guys”—Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, and Lyndon Johnson have forever placed her as the extraordinary storyteller of the lives of these unique American presidents.

For over an hour, she handled every question from former University of Richmond president, Ed Ayers, who served as the moderator.

A fast talker, Mrs. Goodwin explained why her books have been so successful—she knows how to tell the stories that formed the lives of her subjects. She answered with transparency, grace, dignity, respect, humor, deep thought, and personal anecdotes about her focused research and writing on these presidents.

The Steven Spielberg movie, Lincoln, is based upon Goodwin’s book, The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. She took the audience on a brief, but insightful walk into how the movie was developed from a behind the scenes perspective.

Throughout the interview, Mrs. Goodwin gave the audience lots to ponder. She easily transitioned on topics from the past to the present.

She cited examples of leadership from each president. And it was very clear that each man possessed a dogged determination and endurance to lead America.

Without any hesitation, Mrs. Goodwin said that “empathy and humility” are essential leadership traits that are sorely absent in many of America’s political candidates today.

And despite the internal and world challenges that America now faces, Mrs. Goodwin still has hope for our country.

Her hope is grounded in her study of our history.

She reminded the audience that America persevered through the challenges of the Civil War, the Great Depression, World War II, our struggles with racial injustices and the Vietnam War.

I agree with Mrs. Goodwin that we persevered. However in my 71 years of living, I have never been so concerned about the internal instability of our imperfect America.

In the movie, Lincoln, there is an intense scene where President Lincoln is working to secure two votes for the 13th Amendment to abolish slavery.

Around a table, emotionally charged statements and questions are rapidly fired at him from Preston Blair, James Ashley, and Montgomery Blair.

In the midst of this verbal fury, Mr. Lincoln slams his hand down on the table. For a few seconds, the room becomes quiet.

Then, Mr. Lincoln launches his own passionate points countering their objections.

Screenwriter, Tony Kushner’s words in that scene are compelling. I’m reminded of America’s current political situation, when Mr. Lincoln states: “See what is before you, see the here and now, that’s the hardest thing, the only thing that accounts.”

Our empathy and humility have been blindsided by our political division. I fear we are incapable of seeing what is currently before us. Our ailment, our nonstop political bickering, prevents us from seeing the urgency of our here and now.

Why is it so hard for us to see that these political liabilities can potentially lead to a complete downfall of America?

Is this what we want for our children and grandchildren?

Monday night, I could hear in Mrs. Goodwin’s voice that hope has not departed her soul.

With hurricanes pounding our shores, a perilous November election rapidly approaching, and troubling turmoil throughout the world, it would be easy to abandon hope and let doom and gloom sink our hearts.

Yet, my old heart hopes that we, Americans, will do the hardest thing— regain our sight with empathy and humility so that we can see the “here and now of what is before us.”

If I read the Bible correctly, I should be dead.

Several times in the Bible especially in Exodus, the writer states: “For six days shall work be done, but the seventh day is a sabbath of solemn rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on the sabbath day shall be put to death.” (Exodus 31:15).

In my 71 years of living, I have worked on many sabbaths/Sundays.

When I started working for our church, I worked on Sundays. I was responsible for opening and closing the building. That included the impossible interior climate control of temperatures. I say impossible because every church member has their own personal body thermostat.

In April of 2024, our church started an intense renovation project.

This project also had a tough completion deadline—August 23. Meeting this goal would allow our preschool to open on time.

Despite multiple internal “landmines” during the renovation, the contractor met the goal. I’m pretty sure God and his angels were sweating with us in those hectic final days.

In prepping for a renovation project, there is a monster lurking inside worn down church buildings. I call this beast— the catacombs clutter monster. From the top floor to the bowels of the basement, churches are experts in hoarding clutter.

Every storage room, every closet, every empty corner, every vacant room, backstage area, and mechanical room has clutter.

Congregations hoard this clutter because deep inside our personal catacombs, we believe that something from 1957 might find its way into service again in 2017. Sadly, we are resistant to clearing out clutter.

However, if this renovation was going to work, we had to remove the clutter.

Sometimes with complete transparency clutter landed in a dumpster.

Sometimes, the clutter found a good home outside the church’s walls.

Sometimes, a clandestine plan was developed, and clutter vanished into Richmond’s sweltering summer air.

Based upon the number of discarded coffee makers we found throughout our building, I’m certain the manufacturers of coffee makers love adult Sunday school classes. I imagine the Smithsonian could dedicate an entire exhibit to these hospitality contraptions.

And sometimes, there were exceptions to heaving items. Sorry, but my sympathetic heart would not allow me to callously toss multiple portraits of Jesus into a dumpster.

Fear factored into that decision.

Pinging in my conscience, I could hear the quivering questioning voice of an elderly widowed matriarch: “Where is that portrait of Jesus that my long gone Jimmy and I donated to the church in 1959?”

While I respect my elders, under the wrong set of circumstances, sweet looking matriarchs can become quite vicious.

Yet, as an imperfect Christian, many times in my life, I have thrown Jesus away.

I’m certain heavenly angels have a well-documented file of me tossing Jesus.

However, I think I could counter those heavenly defections by reflecting on the moments when despite a high degree of difficulty—Jesus didn’t toss me.

On this sabbath thing and getting rest, the Mayberry likeness of my youth in Burlington, North Carolina is basically dead and buried.

If I want a biscuit on Sunday morning, I can drive to a fast food chain and buy one.

If my car needs a windshield wiper, I can drive to an auto supply store and purchase one.

If I wanted to, I can even buy a new car on Sunday.

You get the idea, as a society we have already tossed the Sabbath. Sunday as a day of rest has vanished. Truthfully, declines in church attendance across America acknowledge that we are gradually tossing out Jesus too.

On the afternoon of Sunday, October 20, we held our fall festival on the grounds of our church. Contrary to Exodus 31:15, staff members, congregational volunteers, the technician who set up three bouncy houses, and the firefighters from Station #8 worked this event.

Several hundred people came out for this free happening of grilled hot dogs, bouncy houses, face painting, the gaga pit, a raffle, trunk or treat, a scavenger hunt in the pumpkin patch, and a fire truck.

Parents with their children in tow wandered through the displays. We depleted our supply of hotdogs, and every kid left with enough candy to make local dentist dream deliriously of dollars signs in the dazzling October sun.

Out of the blue, a young mother walked up to me. She asked me this thoughtful question: “How many times do you think children should be able to collect candy related to Halloween?”

I loved her question.

My answer was once, only on Halloween night.

Surprisingly, she agreed with me.

We talked further.

She made it clear that her family has not fallen into commercialization of Halloween. In other words, the front yard of their home hasn’t become a shrine for all things Halloween.

Additionally, we both bemoaned how Thanksgiving is becoming lost between the retail push for Halloween and Christmas.

At 5 p.m. this event will end. We’ll pat ourselves on the back about the size of the crowd.

Kindhearted volunteers will cleanup.

At some point they will all be gone.

I can secure the building, and go home.

I worked another Sabbath, and I’m still alive.

I haven’t been put to death yet.

Why is that?

Maybe, the answer is in an excerpt of an article that I recently read written by David Brooks in the July 26 volume of the The Week. Mr. Brooks wrote about “The secrets of late bloomers.”

When he was a lot younger, Mr. Brooks shares a question he asked of two of his mentors, William F. Buckley and Milton Friedman.

Mr. Brooks asked Buckley and Friedman, “if they ever felt completion, if they ever had a sense that they’d done their work and now they had crossed the finish line and could relax.”

Brooks wrote that he felt like “neither man even understood my question. They were never at rest, pushing for what they saw as a better society all the days of their lives.”

I am no scholar on Buckley and Friedman, but I was taken by Mr. Brooks’ concluding paragraph—“I’ve noticed this pattern again and again: Slow at the start, late bloomers are still sprinting during that final lap—they do not slow down as age brings decay. They are seeking. They are striving. They are in it with all their heart.”

Sabbath or no sabbath, my old heart isn’t ready to quit.

And while the good Lord might take me out tomorrow, I don’t think he wants you, me, we, us to quit.

Bloom late, don’t quit.

God and Jesus still need our hearts.