might be baloney

We all needed sleep.

Sunday had been a long, long, long day of travel.

My seventy year old body doesn’t handle eight hour airline flights well anymore.

We slept, but our internal clocks couldn’t release their east coast groundings.

I woke a bit after 3 a.m. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t.

So, I dressed and came down into the kitchen.

After a day’s absence, I reconnected with my daily devotional routine. This was followed by checking emails from home and Trinity UMC.

And a bit after four, another restless sleeper, Dan Callow, came down.

We chatted and reminisced, and somewhere in the fives, Dan’s wife, Judy, joined us.

Dan noted the arrival time for sunrise. Gradually, we worked our way out to one of the decks to look for the sun.

As soon as we walked on the deck, we were taken by the chatter of the birds. They were in lively conversation with each other.

Butch, who was up now, and Dan, quickly turned to apps on their phones that can identify the calls of the birds.

It wasn’t long before we could see sunlight backlighting scattered clouds and the etchings of palm trees.

Even though I’m not a coffee drinker, the aroma of Peet’s coffee filled the kitchen.

When Betsy and Marian joined us, we started figuring out breakfast.

We decided to place a to go order at The Cafe Hale’iwa.

With a list of the orders, Butch, Dan, and I drove to the cafe. We placed our order, and then drove to Malama Market to pick up some groceries. This is a compact store with no space wasted on junky displays. As you know, Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, so groceries cost more here.

We found what had been requested. On the way out of the store, an individual who might have been homeless asked me about buying him some cigarettes. I politely declined.

When we arrived back at the Hale’iwa Cafe, Dan walked in, and came back out with our breakfast order packed in a box.

No wrong turns were made in getting back to the house.

Our brides, our commanders were pleased with our efforts.

No complaints surfaced about our delicious breakfast.

At mid-morning, we found the strength to amble down to the beach. We took a short walk, admired the cool Pacific, and its shades of blue.

Gazing into the shallows, we located a couple of turtles. One popped up his head. A few small interesting pieces of coral were found, and then we took the short walk back to the house.

Once there, we collapsed on the shade covered entry porch. We enjoyed the tropical breeze, and glasses of cold ice water. The birds continued their chatter, and they blended into our drowsy conversations.

Napping dominated the early afternoon, and then Dan jostled us into a little exploring.

We piled in the van and drove over to Kaiaka Bay Beach Park with Haleʻiwa Beach Park in the adjoining parcel. Both locations offer lots in terms of recreation, camping, and picnicking. The sandy Haleʻiwa Beach shore is a favorite of local surfers.

Departing the parks, we drove into Hale’iwa and luckily found a parking space in the busy lot behind a section of local shops. We wandered through several shops, but we made a wise choice by stopping at Scoop of Paradise for ice cream.

We ended up at Longs Drugs Pharmacy(CVS) a good place for tourists to browse and find local favorites to take back home.

Additionally, we walked across the busy main road, the two lane Kamehameha Highway, and made our second visit to the Malama Market. This shopping spree focused us on securing a few more items for Tuesday morning’s breakfast.

With our bags from Longs and Malama, we were back in the van heading toward the house.

Out on that straight stretch of road, we made a quick stop at a local farm stand where we purchased a pineapple and a couple of papayas.

Back at the house, we unloaded, put our wares away, and five o’clock was approaching. Dan took drink orders, and I gathered some snacks.

Betsy placed an order to go for a variety of pasta dishes from Uncle Bo’s in Hale’iwa. Tonight for dinner, Betsy’s nephew, Parker, and his wife, Brandy, would be joining us.

At 5:30, I rode back into town with Butch and picked up our order.

Dinner with Brandy and Parker was fascinating. Brandy is an admissions administrator with the Kamehameha School, and Parker, a professional Honolulu firefighter. We peppered them with questions.

Brandy and Parker’s responses gave us great insight into their professions. From Brandy, we learned so much about Hawaiian culture along with the groundings and educational goals of the Kamehameha School.

And Parker didn’t let us down with a behind the scenes look at what it takes to serve a community as a firefighter. Plus, they both gave us valuable insight about navigating the rest of our week in Oahu and Honolulu.

With our time zones and sleep patterns still askew, we needed some rest for Tuesday. Our schedule had visits to Pearl Harbor and the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific.

On the Kamehameha School website, I was captured by this quote:

“Nurture the child and the lahui thrives.”

Hawaiians translate “lahui” as nation, people.

This quote made me think about my life.

For seventy years, I have been nurtured.

But, it is those early formative years that mold a child’s future.

Lucky for me, the nurturing wasn’t absent.

Imagine the impact on a child who doesn’t have that good fortune.

For many months the three commanders had been planning this journey—a two week trip to Hawaii.

Betsy, Judy, and Marian are three resilient mothers and grandmothers. You don’t want to get in the way of of these three commanders. Yet, late on the evening of Thursday, January 18, the airline started their shenanigans.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, who is affectionately called Nana by her grandchildren noticed that our flight to Hawaii had been changed. We had been scheduled to fly out of Raleigh-Durham(RDU) on Sunday morning at 8:15 a.m. stopping in Denver before heading to Hawaii.

Now, the airline had us flying out of RDU at 6:15 a.m. with a quick stop in Houston before heading west toward the Pacific.

Gradually, we figured out the reasoning for this change in our flight reservations—we were scheduled to fly on the recently grounded Boeing 737 Max 9. You might recall that a door plug blew out of an almost new 737 Max 9 back on January 5.

This was going to create a challenge for Saturday evening. Close to twelve family members and friends had tickets to hear in concert The Steep Canyon Rangers with the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra. The concert started at 8 p.m.

Our friends Dan and Judy Callow who were flying out of Baltimore for Hawaii were not impacted by the change. We quickly reached out to Butch and Marian Sherrill in Greensboro about this abrupt notice.

Lots of text messages and phone calls took place over the next hour. But before we all said goodnight, we had our seats reconfirmed, our trip insurance was back in place, and sadly, we knew there was no way we could make the concert work.

To attend the concert meant we would need to live on the edge. Go to the concert, drive to RDU after the show, stay up all night in the airport, and then board the plane in a comatose state.

I really didn’t mind the thought of a comatose state because as beautiful as Hawaii is, and even though airplanes fascinate me, I dread the long, long flight.

Wisely, we opted not to live on the edge.

We booked two hotel rooms within a mile of RDU. Just before noon on Saturday, we packed the car, and headed to Summerfield, North Carolina where our oldest daughter and her family live.

Our three hour drive to Summerfield was quiet. When we arrived, it was good to see everyone in better health. Our Christmas in Summerfield had been the Christmas of “germs.”

By 4:45 p.m., we had alerted the Sherrills that we were headed their way. Like clockwork, as soon as we pulled in the driveway, Butch walked out with the first suitcase. Because of the cold January air, we hustled the luggage into the car, and with Butch serving as navigator, we were off to Raleigh.

Traffic presented no problems, we found hotel row, checked in, and confirmed that the airport shuttle would depart at 4:15 a.m. Even though, we had a handful of restaurant recommendations, we kept it simple—The Cracker Barrel.

After dinner, it was back to the hotel, and we made our final plans for 4:15.

Sleep was sporadic, but we all acknowledged that we did sleep a little.

Before leaving for the airport, I checked the National Weather Service, and the temperature was 20 in Raleigh, 42 in Houston, and 75 in Honolulu.

One other hotel guest joined us for the early ride to the airport. Our driver knew the drill. We arrived promptly and in the correct terminal.

Somehow, we managed checking in, and we started the hike to the gate.

Of course, some things never change when boarding a big jet with wall to wall people. No matter the systems that the airlines try, boarding is organized chaos. I’ve said this before—the airlines should consult with teachers about improving their boarding process.

We found out seats. And, yes, we were scrunched tighter than a pack of tourist on a San Francisco street car.

I’m certain there is a reason for this. If our highly efficient Congress launched an investigation, they might discover something really important.

At night when passenger jets sit isolated and quiet on tarmacs, teams of mechanical engineers enter the fuselages. Using high speed tools, they unbolt every seat, reclaiming more inches not for passengers, but to add more seats that are not designed for human comfort.

In our seats, the crew and the pilot began their chatter about the flight being full. They review the safety procedures. Weather conditions and flight time are noted. And then, we start to creep out to the runway. Even with a walker, anyone’s great grandmother could beat the plane to its designated departure point.

We finally reach the assigned runway, and the pilot(The Captain) is back on the PA to tell us: “Folks, our fuelers overfilled our tanks. We’re going to need to sit here for about five minutes and burn off some fuel before we take off.” I internally groaned.

Yet, somehow I was thankful. Someone, probably a computer chip, had calculated that we were overweight. I don’t think any of us would want this big bird to land in a farmer’s field in Fuquay-Varina.

And while we were taxiing out, occasionally, I heard a clanking sound in the underbelly of the plane. I wondered if one of the loyal airline luggage loaders had been accidentally locked in a cargo bay. But, then I reasoned the clanking wasn’t urgent enough, not like a character clanking for his life in an Edgar Allan Poe short story.

At some point, enough fuel had been burned, and the A320 raced down the runway.

On the way down to Houston, I read. I’m reading Beth Macy’s book Raising Lazarus. This book is the follow-up to Dopesick.

In Raising Lazarus, she brings the reader into the post-opioid crisis. And true to the author’s previous books, she honestly captures the ups and downs of being human in really challenging environments.

It seemed like the two hour and thirty eight minute flight to Houston was quick. Just shows what a good book can do for me in moving the clock.

The captain came on to tell us we were making our descent into Houston. I’m no expert on time management, but I believe the actual flight time into Houston was thirty eight minutes with the descent taking two hours. Again, I think your great grandmother flying a single wing experimental plane propelled by a lawnmower motor could have beat the A320 to the terminal.

Cloud cover coming into Houston was thick. The clouds reminded me of bags of grayish, white cotton balls or marshmallows woven together.

Flying like a desert tortoise with wings, we gradually broke through the clouds and continued to lumber toward the landing strip.

Finally, we touched down, and luckily the United terminal was the first one we came too. I could not imagine trying to maneuver this plane into a parking spot, but they do it. As soon as the plane stopped, people are up, opening overhead bins, and jockeying for positions toward the one open exit out of the plane.

We hustle up the jetway, get our bearings, and figure out the course to our next gate. With our feet hustling, we navigate the Texas sized corridors, and take a monorail shuttle to our terminal.

At our gate, the boarding process is already in its chaotic motion. Making sure we have each other and our belongings, when called, like good traveling soldiers, we march toward our seats.

As soon as we sit down, the Commander notes the first downer—no monitor screens on the back of the seats. I’m sorry, but at that moment, I have an internal volcanic meltdown. How in the world am I going to survive this eight hour plus flight without being able to watch a movie?

So, we are finally loaded, and we start the snail trek out to the runway. We arrive, and we sit long enough for your great grandmother with her walker to make it out to the runway to wave goodbye to us.

And as luck would have it, when the jet makes its turn to line up on the runway, the jet wash from the two massive engines on the B777-200 whisks your great grandmother up into the stratosphere.

Once we have reached our cruising altitude of 34,000, the head of the attendants gets on the PA to give us some more surprisingly bad technology news—there is no access to the streaming system. This system would allow you to use your phone or laptop to watch a movie. No one was happy with this cheerful announcement.

As the flight progresses, I have no idea where we are. My window seat looks out over this massive wing, and the cloud cover is preventing me from seeing the ground. I’m hoping we are out over Pacific heading to Honolulu.

I’m excited for our return to Hawaii. To share this experience with Butch and Dan and their wives is very special. We became friends in the fall of 1971 when we were beginning our freshman year at Greensboro College. Included in that friendship are three other gentlemen from our four years in Greensboro—Steve Boone, Steve Hodge, and Doug Kinney.

Since 1975, those loyal friendships have withstood the roller coaster of life. In those forty nine years of companionship, we have managed to gather once or twice a year.

Just as I’m about to stand up on my seat and scream out: “I can’t take this anymore,” the Captain finally makes an announcement: “Folks, we are about 163 miles from Honolulu, in about twenty eight minutes, we should be on the ground.”

Suddenly, I had renewed hope, that is until I looked out my window. I saw your great grandmother. Using her walker as a steering wheel, she roared by us like Jan and Dean’s “Little Old Lady From Pasadena.”

After going full throttle across the Pacific, suddenly the plane felt like it had stopped moving forward. How was this big bird’s frame covered in riveted pieces of perfectly planed sheets of aluminum defying gravity?

The massive plane came down through the layers of clouds. Eventually, the oversized tires found the runway. The plane slowed. We ambled toward the terminal. Inside the terminal, I thought about kissing the floor, but my bladder urgently called.

We found our baggage. Marian and Betsy waited while Butch and I walked across the street to secure the rental car. The line was long, but the employees were polite and efficient.

Butch and I walked back to the terminal. We waited patiently for the arrival of our friends, Dan and Judy, from Maryland.

The wait wasn’t long. They arrived, along with their luggage, and we piled into the rental van and headed toward  Waialua. On the way, Betsy placed an order to go from Jerry’s Pizza.

We made it the house where were staying for week number one.

Pizza, salad, wine and beer hit the spot, and then we collapsed.

While we opted not to live on the edge to attend the concert, I’m thankful for the loyal collective wisdom of our longtime friends in the decision making to adjust our travel plans.

I pray our forty nine years of friendship that have been bonded with love and loyalty will not be worn weary over the next two weeks.

On Saturday, January 13, I was headed toward Summerfield, North Carolina. It was to be a long day.

I met my goal to be on the road by 7 a.m. Our grandson, Hudson, a kindergarten student, had a basketball game at 10 in the gym at the elementary school where he and his sister attend.

After the game, I would drive to Mt. Pleasant United Methodist Church near Mcleansville in Guilford County to attend the funeral for my Uncle Harry. The family had asked me to be one of the two speakers during the service.

From Richmond, we take what has become a familiar route for us. Patterson Avenue to 288 to US 60, then a couple of two lane state roads that lead us to US 360, followed by US 58, and finally US 29.

This is a pretty drive with the openness of winter giving clear sight to rolling hills and rivers that still carve and sculpt the land along their banks. Today, the Appomattox River is noticeably out of its banks from the heavy rains that soaked much of the Middle Atlantic states earlier in the week.

When I arrive at the gym, Hudson’s game has already started. A neighbor and our son-in-law are coaching the team, and one of the neighbor’s son is also on the team.

I find a seat with Coach Matt’s wife and our granddaughter, Caroline. Our daughter is in San Francisco attending a baby shower for her cousin, Ashley.

I love basketball. I started playing in the fourth grade. I couldn’t imagine trying to learn how to play basketball when I was in kindergarten.

There is lots of energy on the court. Both teams have girls on their teams, and it is interesting to watch the dynamics of teamwork .

There are hurried herd sprints down the court in pursuit of the ball or the player with the ball. Some players can dribble the length of the floor. Others are good at holding the ball as the opposing team smothers the ball holder like ants swarming a crumb of food at a summer picnic.

Coaches and referees are patient. A few parent spectators are a tad boisterous. I silently wonder how they will handle their child’s participation in the years ahead. And, it appears that most players enjoy the game, especially the post game snack.

I was able to get a post game photograph with Hudson, Caroline and their father, Doug. Courtesy of Nana, I handed off to them a couple of gift cards to McDonald’s. I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate at McDonald’s.

We walked to our cars and said goodbye. I checked my directions and headed toward Mt. Pleasant United Methodist Church. For many years, Mt. Pleasant had been a part of the Pike family. Church services, community events, weddings, and funerals had been a part of the ups and downs of life.

Harry was our last Uncle, 84 years old. He was the final of eleven children to be born to Izetta and Charlie Pike.

The visitation and funeral were a good celebration of Harry’s life. The Sanctuary was packed with family, friends, and the congregation.

My cousins Charles, Roger, David, Stuart, Jim, Harry’s brother-in-law, James, and I were pallbearers. Luckily, the funeral home staff gave us helpful instructions and they helped with the lifting too. The walk from the back of the hearse to the grave site was tricky, but none of us stumbled.

It was a beautiful, blue sky day, but a cold, blustery wind cut through us. The preacher’s words were brief and true, and we walked back into the fellowship hall for a reception.

I’m convinced that food and fellowship following a funeral service give a family important sustenance as they prepare for challenging days ahead.

Wanting as much daylight as I could give myself on the drive back to Richmond, a bit after four, I was working my way toward US 29.

I made good time, and the sun began to fade as I worked my way up US 360.

Soon, I was at the stoplight for State Road 604/Chula Road. I made the left turn on to Chula. Chula Road is two lanes with a fair amount of local traffic. I was awake and alert, but at some point before I reached the Appomattox River Bridge I went slightly drove off the edge of the road surface.

When I did this, the right front tire went down into a worn, deep rut. Annoyed and shocked, I turned the car back up to the road’s surface. Only on the asphalt for a few feet, the tire warning message instantly appeared on the monitor. This was quickly followed by the sound of a tire that had the air knocked out of it.

Bad words spewed at my driving mistake. The injured tire crossed the Appomattox River Bridge. It groaned up a slight hill. I pulled off the side of the road just short of the entrance to the Appomattox Trace subdivision.

I put on my flashers, looked for my AAA card, checked the damaged tire, and called AAA.

I placed that call at 6:50 p.m. At some point after nine, I canceled the call for service from an incompetent and irresponsible AAA.

Not long after I had pulled over and stopped, a Powhatan County Sheriff Deputy checked on me. When I told him I had called AAA, he didn’t have much hope that they would show up.

Luckily, he gave me a card with the number for the dispatcher for the sheriff’s department. I called the dispatcher, explained my problem.

The dispatcher gave me the number for Seay’s Towing. I called Seay’s. In less than forty minutes, the owner, Willie showed up in one of his trucks. Willie quickly loaded the car. He drove me the nineteen miles back to Richmond, dropped the car at my preferred repair shop, and then drove me to our house.

After church the next day, I drove back to the site of my shortcomings. I wanted to see in the daylight where I went wrong. I found a 20 to 30 foot section along the roadway where a rut the width of a tire had worn away turf and soil. I could see from the depth, length, and condition of the road surface that I wasn’t the only person to have this encounter.

Turns out I was lucky. I only had to replace the right front tire. The damage could have been worse, and yes, if I had over corrected to my mistake I could have been injured.

And as long as I relive that long evening, I will never forget Willie’s words to me when I apologized to him for interrupting his Saturday night. He looked at me and said, “It ain’t no problem.”

I loved Willie’s attitude.

I thought about my own mentality when life hands us a long day of challenging circumstances.

Do I learn from the long day?

More importantly, when I encounter a person who is struggling with a long day, how often do I say “it ain’t no problem?”

Do I convey an attitude of compassion and support to this person?

How do I express to this worn, weary person “it ain’t no problem?”

And, I wonder, how often am I the problem because I fail to pause, listen, acknowledge, and care?

I wonder what Harry’s parents, Izetta and Charlie thought back on November 19, 1939 the day of his birth.

Since he was child number eleven, I imagine Izetta looked at her husband, Charlie, and said, “I’m done, no more, this is our last one.”

Maybe, Charlie stared back at her, nodded his head in agreement, and walked off to check on the rest of the crew.

I’ve also wondered what his siblings thought of Harry’s arrival.

Perhaps, his brothers pondered this from a food angle. Possibly, in their chatter they reasoned, “at least for now he is on a liquid diet, he won’t be contending with us anytime soon for second helpings.”

As for his sisters, my guess is they knew sooner or later, they would be helping to take care of him as a part of their daily chores.

In truth, I wonder what Harry thought about all of this. He was the youngest. As each day unfolded, he had quite a vantage point. I’m sure Harry learned quickly about the do’s and don’t’s with Izetta and Charlie as they managed the personalities of all their children.

I still marvel at how Izetta and Charlie managed this family. My wife and I thought we’d go crazy at times with three. I can’t imagine 11.

Yet, somehow they survived. Even Harry, the youngest, the last, survived too.

Quite simply, families like the Pikes survived because of their hearts. Their hearts loved and cared for each other. When you love and care for each other, no matter eleven children— you survive.

Deep inside our hearts today, we’ve been dreading this departure. Selfishly, we needed and wanted Harry to live forever. He was our link back to our fathers and mothers who brought us into the Pike family.

Harry was our historian. He knew the connections to Aunt Grettie, Vernell, Uncle Roy, Ruth, Everett, and Pike Johnson.

Despite being 84, Harry was always young to me. Even on Sunday afternoon in his hospital bed, he looked like a Pike napping after a huge lunch following a full morning at church.

Even though that was to be his last earthly nap, it’s ok, because we have lots to celebrate and to be thankful for Harry’s 84 years.

Everyone in this Sanctuary has a Harry story.

That’s because Harry was a people person, a talker. But Harry was more than a talker.

He was also a wise listener. Carol, Glenn and Vivian, Shannon, Davis, Tanner, family, friends, and even strangers benefited from the logic of his experiences.

Harry was genuine, nothing phony.

He could laugh with you, cry with you, and hold you up when the world was pushing you down.

And yet for me, and maybe for you, I loved Harry’s loyalty.

No matter the Pike family gathering, Harry and Carol were always present. When our father, his brother Bill, died, Harry cut short a trip out of state to come back for the funeral—that’s loyalty.

But part of me believes Harry was loyal for another reason. I think he demonstrated the importance of loyalty to say to us—“Hey! next generation! Don’t let these family gatherings die. The survival of the Pikes is now on your shoulders. Don’t let me down.”

How could any of us let Harry down?

For a long time, I have loved this line of scripture from Hebrews 12:1: “let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us,”

Harry Glenn Pike for 84 years ran with perseverance the race that was set before him.

Now with the same genuine loyalty, compassion, and love let us run with perseverance the race that Harry has set before us.

And let us be sure to laugh, cry, love, and hold up Carol, Glenn and Vivian, Shannon, Davis, and Tanner with every step they take in their race.

Rest in peace Uncle Harry, we love you.

From the author: On Saturday, January 13, 2024, I had the privilege of being one of the family speakers at the celebration of life for Harry Pike.

For the last several years, I’ve had the privilege of working at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia.

My life prior to Trinity had been grounded in over thirty years of work in public education.

I would not trade anything for either experience. Churches and schools have lots in common.

Both evolve around people. In either setting, I have met and worked with quite an array of good people.

Much of the work in churches and schools is grounded in “turf and personalities.” Turf being sacred territory in a church or school building, and the caring, but sometimes slightly possessive personalities who look after that turf. Learning to manage “turf and personalities” can be an interesting journey at a church or school.

In our forty eight years of marriage, my wife has noted my own “turf and personality” traits. From her perspective, I have been overly dedicated to the schools where I have served and Trinity.

Truthfully, I can say the same about my wife. She spent her career in public education working with students who had special needs. She was diligent in meeting the academic needs of her students. That same dedication is still pushing her in volunteer work in the Richmond community.

On a fairly regular basis, what is remaining of my old brain will push me back into my educator past to revisit tough days. In some of those situations, I still anguish when I think about what I call “alligator days”—days when every living thing is snapping at you. I’ve had some alligator days at Trinity, but nothing in comparison to the school setting.

Sometimes to get through an alligator day, all I needed was a quick distraction

At Trinity, my distraction is sunlight as it enters the Sanctuary.

I love how the sun casts its light into this stately room. The rising morning light from the east and the sinking afternoon light from the west will always find a way to push through the windows and shutters.

For years, I resisted giving up my old flip phone. But when that transition took place, I was immediately taken by the ability to snap photographs in a blink. I can’t tell you how many photos I have taken of the sunlight gracefully illuminating a section of the sanctuary. In truth, I could take Sanctuary photographs everyday.

As much as I love how sunlight creates pretty images in the Sanctuary, I also think about this scripture from the first chapter of John verse five: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overtake it.”

During Advent and Christmas light is an important part of the journey. Jesus is thought of as the “light” of the world. The star in the night sky helped to guide the wisemen. Anytime a heavenly angel appears in the story of Jesus’ birth, I imagine quite a radiant, glow brightens the evening environment.

Yet, as good as the light might be, there are times when I want to question the scripture found in John. I sense in this world there are times when the light is overcome by darkness. Unfortunately, we don’t have to look to far to see this.

Consider the conflicts between Ukraine and Russia, Israel and Palestine, and all the people whose seemingly normal lives have been shattered. A darkness hovers over them with the loss of homes, employment, and for many the heartbreaking death of a loved one.

Other examples of the light being overtaken by darkness could include anytime a person in America dies from a gunshot, death by suicide, drug overdoses, and even loneliness.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m always going to be cheering for light to overcome the dark challenges that we face in this world.

However, in a world where the impact and influence of the church has shifted, how can the light of hope be presented to those who are in need?

Truthfully, I think being that light of hope for a person in the fringes of the darkness comes down to my courage, and this question—“Am I willing to be a part of helping that person find the light he/she needs?”

The week of December 11, 2023 had been a busy one for my wife. She and other volunteers had been giving of their time to assist with the Henrico County Christmas Mother gift distribution for families.

On the morning of Saturday, December 16, 2023, my wife, the Commander Supreme, received a text message. Several of the volunteers from the Henrico County Christmas Mother had tested positive for COVID.

Mild cold symptoms had been annoying the Commander since late Thursday. However, she had not suspected COVID to be the cause of this nuisance.

Within minutes of receiving the text, my wife took a COVID test, and of course, the results were positive.

Although I had no symptoms, I took a test, and my result was negative.

I had another concern regarding COVID. On Monday, December 18, I was scheduled for eye surgery.

I called my surgeon and left a message. He called me back. I explained the situation. We agreed on a plan. I kept my fingers crossed that I could make it to Monday without COVID disrupting the surgery.

As you know with COVID, all things ceased at our house. Cookie baking stopped. We masked and isolated. And looking ahead toward Christmas, the Commander emailed a set of questions to her doctor.

With this variant of COVID, the Commander never had a fever, but the head congestion was significant.

So from Saturday, until Monday morning, I did my best to meet the needs of my patient.

I guess I did pretty well as she was still vertical on Monday.

Also, by Monday, no COVID symptoms had showed up in my old sack of bones. At the prearranged time, our son, Andrew, picked me up for the short drive over to the surgery center. We both wore masks.

Check in was hassle free. Soon, I handed a few items over to Andrew, said goodbye, and walked back with a nurse to my spot in the prep area.

Within minutes, I was flat on a gurney. The nurse was doing the required preps so that the anesthesiologist could knock me out. Once I was in another orbit, she supplied the proper numbing agents for my left eye.

For the last few years, I knew that I had Fuchs’ Dystrophy. This eye ailment was impacting my cornea and starting to gradually impair my vision. The surgery was two-fold. I would be undergoing a cornea transplant and having the cataracts in the left eye removed.

I don’t recall falling asleep, but it was a good nap. When I awoke, I could sense a numbness around my eye and the left side of my nose.

Seems like I was waiting on that gurney a long time. But soon my nurse returned, and I was ready for my doctor to work his magic.

I was awake during the procedure. A couple of times, I remember the doctor describing what was taking place, but luckily I never felt a thing.

In thinking back over that afternoon, I was amazed at how many times I was asked to acknowledge my name, date of birth, and which eye was to undergo the surgery.

Additionally, I will never forget the blankets. They came to me preheated. My gosh they were toasty for my cold feet.

After the surgery, they allowed Andrew to come back. It took a bit of time for the doctor to work his way to me and other patients for the post-operative instructions, and there was a reason.

While we were waiting for the doctor, we could hear sirens. That ear piercing sound from the emergency vehicles kept getting closer. Then, the sirens suddenly stopped. Paramedics hustled through two exterior doors on the other side of the room.

That big room became very quiet and still. Chatter among the medical staff stopped as another team of paramedics arrived. Within a few minutes, we saw medical personnel escorting a family member back to another room.

Gradually, we learned that a patient had stopped breathing during a surgical procedure.

Life is so fragile, but in this case the patient was successfully revived.

My doctor came and checked me over. He talked Andrew through the surgery, explained the post operative requirements, and reminded us of the follow-up appointment on Tuesday morning.

I was transferred to a wheelchair, and then rolled out to meet Andrew at his car.

For the next 48 hours, except for the bathroom and to eat, I was to be flat on my back, no sitting up, no sleeping on my side—flat on my back. And that requirement to be like a pancake started with the ride home. Andrew fully reclined the front seat and buckled the seat belt around me.

Andrew did a nice job of chauffeuring. On the ride back, he described where we were as he cautiously drove toward home.

When we arrived at the house, my COVID nurse was ready to help. With my left eye not available, I was a bit wobbly with my balance. My sustainer for forty-eight years made sure my steps were slow, but steady.

Andrew filled in the Commander, and he promised to be back on Tuesday morning to drive me to the doctor’s office for the follow-up appointment.

My doctor had warned me that the procedure had the potential to zap me, and it did.

I quickly learned my wimpy tendencies related to pain.

At this stage in my life, my back has not given me many challenges. But in this situation, my back made it perfectly clear, it had no patience for the flat requirement. My back was a tight, angry mess.

During that first night, my left eye ached. This was a combination of pressure and the anesthesia wearing off. Every four hours, I depended upon Tylenol or ibuprofen to lessen the pain.

At the designated time on Tuesday morning, Andrew picked me up. He made sure I was flat in the front seat.

I had a patch on my left eye, and I was surprised that my balance still wasn’t quite right.
Andrew guided me into the lobby of the office, and I checked in. Soon, we were called back.

I will admit—I was nervous answering the preliminary questions for the nurse, and then even more anxious when they checked my vision. The nurse exited, and I asked Andrew how bad I was on the vision check, and he stated—“pretty bad.”

Finally, the doctor and a nurse came back in the room. My doctor has lots of energy. He asked more questions about my eye, and then he said, “let’s take a look.”

I was trying not to breathe, and my hands gripped the arm rest tighter, and then he affirmed that my eye was looking good—he was pleased with the progress.

He asked more questions, and he answered my questions. He showed Andrew how to monitor the eye in terms of a gap closing from the bubbles that had been inserted.

Back at home, Andrew reported the encouraging results from the doctor’s appointment. He left me in the care of the Commander.

Somehow, the Commander tolerated me. She quickly became the best eye drop dropper in America. I had four bottles of drops to take four times a day.

Again, the second night, sleep was sporadic. My back and I continued our struggle. To combat those sleepless stretches, Amazon’s Alexa was able to field my requests to play music, and that helped to get me to daylight.

To protect my left eye, I continued to sleep with a taped on shield. That didn’t bother me, but I can’t tell you how pleasant my first night of sleeping on my side was.

With family and doctor permission, we traveled on Christmas Eve to our oldest daughter’s home in Summerfield, North Carolina.

Our drive down was uneventful. The landscape along US 360 had been transformed by green killing frosts, cold rain, and chilly wind. Weeds were lifeless in khaki hues. Hardwoods revealed their bare, slate gray limbs against a frail blue sky. Sometimes a red cedar or pine would break the blending gray of a forest that served as a backdrop for a farmer’s silent fields.

Our oldest daughter, Lauren, and her husband, Doug, took a bold move in allowing us to be there for Christmas. We knew germs had been floating around both households.

Earlier that morning as we prepared to leave Richmond, we learned that our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, in Raleigh had a really bad stomach bug—no Christmas for her.

And while we enjoyed every minute of our Christmas stay in Summerfield, including a visit from my sister, Lisa, and her husband Eric, I think we were all a bit on edge about the germs.

With the excitement of Santa on their minds, I’m not sure how our grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson slept. Yet, they did.

They had a sleep over with Hudson sleeping on a floor mattress in Caroline’s room. What was even more remarkable is they stayed in that room until 7 a.m. on Christmas morning.

At seven, after a pause on the stairs for a photo session, they bounded into the den with uncontained excitement.

Somehow, we managed to call a time out for breakfast, and then the gift opening frenzy continued.

By mid-afternoon, our daughter, Lauren, was feeling lousy. The next morning at the doctor’s office, she tested positive for the flu, and this was despite having the flu shot.

Late Tuesday morning, we started our drive back to Richmond. By Wednesday, Caroline tested positive for COVID. Hudson’s test was negative. And Lauren’s husband, Doug, wasn’t feeling a hundred percent.

The germs continued their work as we learned that our last surviving Pike uncle, Harry, had been admitted to the hospital in Greensboro with RSV and pneumonia.

Back in Richmond, the germs were not slowed. We heard the stories about weddings and special family gatherings disrupted by these mean spirited bugs.

My luck finally ran out, on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve. My appetite disappeared, chills ran up my spine, and my digestive tract was in turmoil.

I masked and isolated myself to the day bed in the basement, and prayed that the Commander Supreme would not pick up this uninvited pest.

During my 48 hours of flatness, especially at night, my brain restlessly roamed. I revisited the past, thought about my current condition, and peered into the future.

There I was whining wimpily about my discomfort, and then I realized I should be ashamed. In the darkness of my night, my pain was nothing compared to what someone else was experiencing.

In that same night of darkness, someone was in excruciating pain from cancer, the pain of addiction was about to end a life, and the trauma of war inflicted physical and emotional pain in parts of the world where peace always seems hopeless.

My brain swirled more. I have no right to complain. I’ve been exceptionally lucky in my seventy years of living.

No matter the situations or circumstances I have faced, I have wobbled through life.

Why have I been fortunate to wobble through life while others haven’t?

Trying to answer that question is impossible. Although, I think my wobbling to this point is grounded in two things—people and prayer.

From my first gasp of air in the delivery room, I’ve always been surrounded by people with kind hearts. Despite my multiple flaws and for unexplained reasons, these undeterred hearts continued to love me.

As for the prayers, the good Lord knows every morning that I’m overly long winded. But, I’m not sure my wobble through life is about my “me” prayers.

No, I think my ability to be a plodding wobbler can be attributed to prayers from those who have surrounded me—family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and strangers.

And there is one more regrettable realization from the 48 flat—I too frequently take the love and support that sustained me for granted.

That love and support can disappear in a blink.

It is my sincere hope and prayer that 2024 will be a year where you are surrounded by kind hearts. And as you wobble through your year, may prayers continue to sustain you and those you love.

Saturday, September 16 was a perfect morning for the Lara Teague Curry Memorial 5K.

With its cool temperature and bright blue sky, I was reminded of the quote from Ernie Banks: “Let’s play two.” A long time ago Mr. Banks played baseball with the Chicago Cubs.

His love of baseball and a beautiful day to play suggested— let’s play two games today instead of one. On September 16, the day was so pretty that we could have run two 5Ks instead of one.

That morning at Trinity United Methodist Church, four hundred runners and walkers gathered to show their love and support for Lara Teague Curry. Mrs. Curry was an outstanding social studies teacher at Douglas Freeman High School. Sadly, we unexpectedly loss Mrs. Curry last October.

With the blessing of the Curry and Teague families, River Road Church, Baptist, Third Church, Trinity United Methodist, St. Stephen’s Episcopal, Douglas Freeman High School, and the Henrico Education Foundation developed the 5K. We had two goals— raise funds for a memorial scholarship that has been established in Mrs. Curry’s honor at Douglas Freeman, and to gently remind everyone how important mental health is to our daily living.

Lots of planning goes into developing a 5K. Throughout the spring and right up to the 8 a.m. start time for the Kids Fun Run, our team worked diligently to build the event.

We secured corporate sponsors, support from local merchants, developed communication connections, worked cooperatively with Henrico Police to ensure safety for participants along the course, recruited volunteers, and hoped that runners and walkers would sign up to participate.

Additionally, we received a compassionate presence from Comfort Zone Camp, Children’s Hospital of Richmond, Henrico Mental Health and Developmental Services, American Foundation For Suicide Prevention, Pet Partners of Richmond, and Full Circle Grief Center. These agencies and their personnel provided valuable information about mental health services available in our communities.

Along the 5K course, twelve yard signs were placed with quotes to make us think about our lives and how we interact with ourselves and the people we encounter everyday. One of the signs displayed these words: “Be kind; for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

All participants and spectators had the opportunity to pickup a green wristband with these printed words—“Be Kind.” That wristband can serve as a good reminder for me as to how I should interact with the people I encounter on my daily walk through life.

As we know, life is full of ups and downs. The downs in life can be challenging to handle. Perhaps, America’s most significant mental health challenge is suicide. In fact, September was National Suicide Prevention Month.

Here is some data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention(CDC) about suicide:

In 2021, 48,183 people died by suicide in the United States. That is 1 death every 11 minutes.

Suicide rates increased 37% between 2000-2018 and decreased 5% between 2018-2020. However, rates nearly returned to their peak in 2021.

Firearms are the most common method used in suicides. Firearms are used in more than 50% of suicides.

There is no immunity from suicide. Our family was impacted when my wife’s oldest sister died by suicide. I don’t believe my wife’s parents ever recovered from that loss.

During my career in public education dying by suicide impacted students, parents, and school staffs. I have never forgotten the October afternoon when I learned we lost a former school secretary. No one saw this tragic loss coming.

A disguised normality is one of the challenges families and friends face with their loved ones. That loved one can appear to be carrying on as usual, but inside this person is an unstable wreck.

Despite our societal struggles with suicide, the CDC states ‘that suicide is preventable.” Preventing suicide requires “a comprehensive public health approach complete with strategies for individuals, families, and communities including learning the warning signs.”

The launching of the new 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is another strategy that can be used to help prevent suicide.

Yes, there is still a heartbreaking sense of loss for the family and friends of Lara Teague Curry. But as I watched the runners and walkers approach the finish line, I saw content faces with a sense of graceful accomplishment.

The participants had helped us to reach our financial goal for the scholarship fund, but more importantly they had helped us to raise our awareness about how critical mental health is to our well being.

I think Mr. Banks would have enjoyed the 5K.

And who knows, maybe the 5K served as a connection to help a person to be able to “play two” on a pretty day next September.

An unseasonably warm temperature greeted me on the morning of Saturday, December 2. The remnants of an early fog had left a coating of moisture on the church’s old pick up truck.

With a wheel barrow and shovel in the back bed, I drove the short distance to the Sons and Daughters of Ham Cemetery. This is an historic African-American cemetery located at 7001 Chandler Drive in Henrico County. Established on an acre of land, the cemetery is scrunched between Bandy Field, the University of Richmond, and a quiet Henrico neighborhood.

This morning, about twenty volunteers had assembled to work on an erosion project.

In the past, I and other members from Trinity United Methodist Church had volunteered for cleanup days at two other African-American cemeteries—Evergreen and Woodland. Evergreen and Woodland are sprawling properties with many grave markers very visible.

The Sons and Daughters of Ham Cemetery doesn’t sprawl. Grave markers are hard to spot to the untrained eye, and that’s where the skills of archaeologist, Tim Roberts, become valuable.

At the entry path off Chandler Drive, Brooke Davis from the cemetery’s board and Tim circled up the volunteers.

Tim has been responsible for conducting quite a bit of research about the cemetery. In getting to know the property, Tim has focused on the obvious above ground finds, but also those undisturbed items buried in the soil.

Through his work, and with the advance of technology, Tim has discovered previously unmarked graves. Additionally, he has given us a snapshot of how the property was originally plotted out with buildings, paths, and roads. His gentle probing into the earth has helped to confirm that we still have much to learn about this historic cemetery.

But this morning, our goal was to construct wattles. Down from the contours of Bandy Field, the cemetery has a steep incline. When heavy rains pound this slope, rainwater pushes anything in its way down the hillside. Through the board’s leadership, a grant was secured to construct the wattles.

With Tim and Brooke leading, we took the short walk to the construction site. A diagram showed us the points down the hill where the wattles would be built.

A wattle is a type of barrier that helps to slow erosion created by water runoff. Those rectangular bales of straw you’ve seen outlining a construction site are a type of wattle.

For our purposes, volunteers will be accessing adjoining University of Richmond property to locate fallen trunks and large limbs from trees. These pieces will form the foundation of the wattles.

For two hours, a team of us scoured the woods. We carried logs and tree limbs to a drop zone where another team worked on placing our finds.

As the wood debris was placed to form the foundational barrier, another team was using the shovels and wheelbarrows to dump a mixture of soil on top of the wooden wattles.

At some point in the future, when the soil layer reaches an appropriate depth, another crew will carefully plant shrubs. These planting will enhance the aesthetics of the grounds, but more importantly, the plants will help to keep the wattles in place and curtail future erosion.

By noon, we could start to see our progress.

Since 2017, lots of progress has been made in uncovering the cemetery. This transformation is linked to Richmonder, Marianne Rollings, who has become the steady spirit for the recovery and restoration of the cemetery.

All kinds of skirmishes have taken place on its grounds, and Mrs. Rollings knows every square inch of that history. It is a history that deserves to be preserved and maintained for our present time and into the future.

No matter the location, properly maintaining these African-American cemeteries is always a work in progress. From late spring into early fall, keeping ahead of the weeds is a challenge. The weeds love covering up history.

I hope we find the commitment and determination to keep the weeds under control. And while money is essential in sustaining the cemeteries, the real key is having enough volunteers.

Just as the foundation of the wattles depends upon the strength of those intertwined connections, maybe the current leaders of the African-American cemeteries throughout Richmond can find the way to collectively “wattle” their community resources and volunteers.

How might working together create a more sustainable supply of resources and volunteers for the cemeteries?

I enjoyed every minute on Saturday morning at the Sons and Daughters of Ham Cemetery.

But, I tell you what I enjoyed the most was the diversity and demographics of the people who showed up to help.

Who knows, maybe constructing a wattle can help me understand the layers of the barriers that often set us apart.

I read with interest Michael Paul Williams’ op-ed about Armed Forces Brewing Company’s pursuit to open a brewery in Norfolk (“A beer brouhaha in Norfolk typifies our national divide,” Dec. 6). I have no beer expertise, but I find the craft brewery explosion across Virginia intriguing.

Curiously, on the brewer’s website, under Who We Are, in the first sentence they call themselves a “craft brewing company.” Four sentences later, they state: “We aren’t a local craft beer.” Further reading makes it clear that brewer leaders aspire to be bigger than a neighborhood craft brewery.

If the brewery wants to develop their brewing operations for mass production with a distribution network beyond Virginia, then I question if the brewery site in Norfolk has the capacity to meet their long-term goals. Might brewery leadership be wiser to consider the availability of larger production facilities?

For example, Colorado-based New Belgium Brewing announced an agreement on March 23 to purchase from Constellation Brands a 259,000-square-foot production brewery in Daleville, Virginia.

Craft brewers have a camaraderie among themselves. I wonder how Armed Forces Brewing Company will be accepted among Norfolk’s established craft brewers?

We will soon find out. On Dec. 12, by a 6-to-1 vote, the Norfolk City Council approved the brewery’s plan. I’m not surprised.

More concerning to me are Mr. Williams’ points about our division. No matter where we look — churches, public schools, politics — our divisions are troubling.

We are far removed from the jovial theme of division that sold many barrels of Miller Lite beer— “less filling/tastes great.” Sadly, our divides are over filling with a bitter taste.

Maybe over a beer at a craft brewery, we can meet like Tip O’Neill and Ronald Reagan and start the conversation to solve our division.

Avoiding this conversation will only deepen our divides.

Bill Pike.
Henrico.

Author’s note: I was honored to have this letter to the editor published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch on Thursday, December 21, 2023.

Today is Christmas Eve.

The last hours of the sprint to Christmas Day are upon us.

As I continue to rapidly age, time blitzes me.

Time moves faster than a desperate group of shoppers descending upon their last store of hope. Their bundled mass swirls into the store like agitated yellow jackets who have been jarred awake in their ground nest by the accidental step of an unaware intruder.

From Thanksgiving to this most anticipated eve, the days have no pause. Their motion is unrestrained and constant.

It is as if the earth spins uncontrollably on its axis charging hastily into each new dawn. I sense the spinning world wants to quickly place the faults of 2023 into its rearview mirror.

You have heard my whine before about our rush into the Christmas season. I will not whine today. You know how I feel about that gallop.

Back on November 28, our oldest daughter, Lauren, was driving her children, Caroline and Hudson, to their elementary school.

Caroline made this observation: “I bet Jesus would be really happy to see all of these decorations for his birthday.”

I love Caroline’s honest, simple reflection. What I loved even more was the fact that she was thinking about the birthday of Jesus at this early morning hour.

Not sure about your hometown, but here in Richmond, Virginia from late November through the end of December we have Tacky Light Tours. All across the Richmond region homeowners overly decorate the exteriors of their homes with Christmas lights and seasonal displays.

Maps are produced of these approved locations, people rent limos, and even tour buses to view these showy displays. Kids love them, parents gawk like their kids, Clark Griswold would be envious, and our electricity supplier, Dominion Energy, is delirious.

I will confess that over the years, we piled our kids, in-laws, and out of town guests into cars to view some of these nearby tacky lights.

In truth, these displays leave no lasting impression on me. Clearly, I admire the passion of the displayers. These tacky displays require planning, setting up, taking down, storing, and finding the pennies to pay the electric bill.

In my Grinch and Scrooge grounded aging, I’m more attracted to simple seasonal displays. For years in our neighborhood, I was drawn to a singular star in the front yard of a home.

This heavenly light was attached by a line to a large tree limb. The star gracefully dangled from its perch to be clearly seen on Baldwin Road in either direction.

Sadly, the family who displayed the star moved to California. But, my sludged brain has not released the memory of that star cast against a dark December sky.

At some point during the last days of November, I was driving west on Patterson Avenue. I had just passed the intersection with Forest Avenue. A rapidly approaching December was already practicing its early nightfall routine saying goodbye to a speedy setting sun.

As I drove up the crest of a hill, to my right, my eyes were drawn to a display of Christmas lights at the edge of a yard. I was so captured by the sight that I promised myself to come back the next morning to take a photograph.

In the predawn light of Friday, December 1, I made the short drive to the house on Patterson Avenue. The Christmas lights were still on. From the median turn lane, I hooked a left into east bound Patterson, and pulled off to park on a side street.

Wearing a reflective safety vest, I made sure no early commuting drivers would flatten me, and I took my photos of this simple display illuminating the word—“PEACE.”

Yes, I think Caroline’s assessment about the decorations in honor of the birthday of Jesus is correct. I imagine the combination of tacky lights and simple seasonal displays are a sight for Jesus to behold from heaven.

At this point in my life, I also believe the best birthday present that I could give him is peace— a sustainable worldwide peace.

Despite the breakneck speed of time, I keep hoping and praying that our pace will slow, and jolt us awake in order to commit to making peace around this whole world.

Psalm 34 verse 14 reminds us: “Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.”

You, me, we, us are overdue to pursue peace, and we can’t let fear stop us.

Merry Christmas with love and peace, Bill Pike