Ever had these words burn your ears—“I’m disappointed in you.”
I know my ears have been seared by that statement.
Many times in my life, I have disappointed people with a poor choice or decision.
I am imperfect.
In some instances, my lousy thinking wounded hearts and souls.
My old brain will not let me forget the hurts I caused.
Forgiveness is a tough wrestle.
Honestly, I wrestle with lots of things on a daily basis. I imagine that you do too.
Somedays, I wrestle with God.
Often, I wonder if I’m really wrestling with the devil?
I wrestle with procrastination.
I wrestle with the internal voice in my body—especially about aging.
I wrestle with worry— my most persistent pest.
I wrestle with the future for our grandchildren.
And in truth for a long, long, long time I have been wrestling with America.
Lately, that wrestling has been over our division. I’m afraid our division is our end.
What has happened to us?
It appears that we have lost our capacity to distinguish between right and wrong.
Not as a Democrat or a Republican, but as an American the insurrection in January was wrong.
Why is this so hard for some Americans to reason out?
But even more disturbing to me was the outcome of the second impeachment trial.
Again, why were the choices made by our former president so hard for elected officials to reason out?
Seven Republican senators recognized the truth and voted for impeachment. Afterwards, some were censured by their state supporters for doing the right thing.
Even more troubling is my hunch.
I sense the elected officials who voted against impeachment really knew in their hearts that the former president was guilty. But, they put blinders on their hearts blocking out that capacity to see the truth of his errors.
In the second season of the Andy Griffith Show, there is an episode titled—A Medal For Opie.
In this episode, Sheriff Andy Taylor’s son, Opie, trains for a race in a local event. Opie is optimistic that his training, including encouragement from his father and Deputy Fife will help him to win the race, and earn his heart’s desire— a medal.
Opie finishes last. He is crushed.
Instead of joining the celebration of his friends who finished better than he did, Opie mopes off and leaves the event. This wandering off catches the eye of his father.
Later in the day, a dejected Opie is questioned by his father about his decision to leave. It is quite a conversation.
Opie stubbornly holds on to his logic—“his friends defeated him, they took his medal, they are not his friends.”
Andy is focusing on the basics of sportsmanship—“how to lose with courage and dignity by congratulating those who performed better.”
Opie is unbending in his assessment of the event. He refuses to accept Andy’s logic.
Sensing they are at a stalemate, Andy leaves Opie to ponder these piercing words—“I want you to know one thing—I’m disappointed in you.”
I do not always understand my country. And despite my country’s imperfections, I love my country.
But, right now, more than in other time in my life I am disappointed in my country.
I can’t tell you how many times I have prayed The Lord’s Prayer.
Recently, I have thought quite a bit about these words from that prayer—“deliver us from evil.”
I think the “evil” in America is this division we have inside us.
I wonder if we have the fortitude to confront the division in a reasonable way so that we come to our senses?
I wonder who is going to deliver us from this division, this evil?
Some might think God will deliver us.
Some might think this whole mess— the pandemic, social injustice, and the insurrection is all part of God’s attempt to wake us up.
I’ll leave that to you to sort out. But, you know—we can’t even agree on how we interpret the Bible.
One thing is certain, we can’t hope to work through these challenges if we continue to betray our hearts.
Delivering us from our evil is heart work.
The blinders betraying our hearts need to be removed.
America can’t continue with this disappointing evil division.
We must invest in the hard work of changing our hearts—now.
We are better than this.
Our hearts know it, and so does God.
Delivering us from evil comes down to this—can we rediscover and put to work the love that God built into our hearts?
As 2 Timothy 1:7 reminds us, God did not put us here to be timid. He built us and our hearts to use his “strength, love, and self-control” for challenges like this.
Delivering us from evil, pushing back this debilitating division—can that be done?
Yes, but I must embrace that “strength, love, and self-control”.
What am I waiting for?
Shouldn’t I be tired of disappointing God?
How about you?
Mammoth Lakes, California in the Eastern Sierra mountains August 13, 2018 photo by Bill Pike
Commissioner Jim Phillips welcome to the Atlantic Coast Conference. The dynamics of a move, the transition from one part of America to another is always interesting for a person and their family. I hope this change is going well.
My hunch is you will welcome a break from Chicago winters. I suspect you will chuckle quite a bit at how we Southerners have panic attacks when snow is forecasted. In that flurry of hysteria, bread and milk producers laugh all the way to the bank.
Additionally, I would advise you not to get tangled up in any in state geographical squabbles about North Carolina barbecue. Here is my advice—forget the barbecue, focus on the peach cobbler with a monster scoop of vanilla ice cream from Homeland Creamery.
Here is some more geographical advice as you learn about the state. Let a North Carolina raised professor of linguistics instruct you on how to properly pronounce— Mebane, Beaufort, and Conetoe.
And while we are focusing on the importance of geography, here is a bit of wisdom about the ACC men’s basketball tournament. This advice comes from Floyd’s Barber Shop just up the road in Mt. Airy— the ACC men’s basketball tournament should only be played in Greensboro, North Carolina—nowhere else.
I’m sure the orientation about the league from ACC staffers has been thorough for you. However, in not wanting to run you off, I suspect the staff or former Commissioner Swofford, have delayed discussing with you the following file— ACC SecurityCONFIDENTIAL: The Wacko From Virginia.
Commissioner Phillips, I’m that wacko.
You see I grew up just a stone’s throw away in Burlington. My affection for basketball and the ACC started in the fourth grade.
I have a deep respect for the courage and the vision of the leaders from the original schools who founded the conference. As I’m sure you are aware that birthing took place in Greensboro in 1953.
Well before the concept of branding, the conference created a highly respected brand. Grounded in that respect was a collective desire to construct a tournament that was unique and durable.
This cherished tournament has served as a model for others across America. Replicating the ACC tournament really isn’t possible. Here are some reasons that come to mind—the quality of the players and coaches, the loyalty of the fans, and most important—the character of the citizens of Greensboro and their leaders.
I have always struggled with the geographical expansions implemented by the league. In my old brain expanding a league is only about branding and that troublesome green stuff.
And I think that is why Greensboro is so important to the tournament. Greensboro might not be as alluring as other cities, but Greensboro understands the essentials of hosting and hospitality.
Greensboro knows the lineage, the heritage, and Greensboro knows that the focus should be on basketball—not a push to expand the brand in cities that really have no relationship with the league.
My logic might not play well with some, and I understand. But, Greensboro is the pulse, the heart—the city that has helped to frame the success of the tournament. If allowed, I believe Greensboro is positioned to take the tournament deep into the future.
That confidential file about me will probably tell you that I am still a fan of the long gone, but not forgotten Andy Griffith Show. A character from the show Ernest T. Bass occasionally comes into Mayberry from the hills and disrupts the town’s tranquility.
Now, Ernest T. is long gone, but I need to alert you— his ghost is still around. I’m told his ghost gets mighty riled up when the ACC tournament isn’t played in Greensboro.
Because of the pandemic, it was a wise move to bring the tournament from Washington back to Greensboro this year. Intelligence reports indicated that Mr. Bass was well prepared to invade the Capital One Arena.
I want you to be successful as commissioner. But, in order to be successful, you do not want to irritate Ernest T.
Veteran security analyst lose sleep trying to figure out how to contain his clever ability to disrupt in any environment. However, there is a simple solution—keep the tournament in Greensboro.
I think Commissioner Swofford knew in his heart that the tournament should be in Greensboro. Heck, four of the original founding schools are located in North Carolina.
That is an important part of the league’s legacy, and that foundation should be a part of the chapters yet to be written.
Commissioner Phillips during your tenure, we are going to learn a lot about the leadership in your heart. I hope your heart will come to understand that Greensboro is the logical location for the tournament.
Greensboro!
Author’s note: This piece was submitted to the Greensboro News and Record as an op-ed. To my knowledge, the editors for the paper chose not to take it. I’m sure they have good reasons. However, if you would like to share the piece with ACC fans who believe Greensboro should be the permanent home of the ACC men’s basketball tournament feel free to share it. Be safe, Bill Pike
I suspect on the evening of Thursday, February 25 our neighborhood friend, Charlie, slept well.
That afternoon, Charlie had survived a tough assignment—keeping an eye on his granddaughter as she scampered about the Trinity Preschool Playground at our church.
This assignment had another degree of difficulty too.
Charlie’s granddaughter had brought along her bicycle complete with training wheels and helmet. Riding around on the smooth asphalt of the back parking lot meant Charlie had to be quicker on his feet.
But Charlie, also kept an eye on an old fool—me. I too was taking advantage of this spring teasing February afternoon. I wanted to do some early spring cleaning around the dumpster and the cooling tower at our church.
Charlie saw me wrestling with an old extension ladder left by the dumpster. Someone had tried to ram it in the dumpster, but it wouldn’t fit. So armed with a hacksaw and a sledge hammer, I made the ladder fit.
I think Charlie was worried about my pounding on the ladder’s frame. From a distance he thought—“Wow, old Bill sure has a lot of frustration in him today, I hope he doesn’t blow a gasket.”
But, Charlie’s observation made me think. You know we all experience times in life when life really pounds on us. Sometimes, that pounding arrives courtesy of our own shortcomings.
When this happens to us, how do we endure that pounding from life? Luckily for us the pounding of life might be silenced by the help of another person.
My wife and I recently watched the seven part Netflix miniseries The Queen’s Gambit. This series was based upon a novel of the same name published in 1983 by Walter Tevis. The “queen’s gambit” is a move in chess. Chess becomes the central pivot point for Beth Harmon, the main character in the book and miniseries, as life begins its pounding on her.
Scott Frank, writer and director of the series, gives the viewer just enough flashbacks to know that Beth Harmon’s early life is no picnic. All of this turmoil ends up in her being orphaned.
At age nine, Beth is placed at the Methuen Home for Girls. There she learns to play chess taught by the custodian, Mr. Shaibel. Over a period of time, Mr. Shaibel recognizes that Beth is a very gifted player. Chess becomes her passion.
As a teenager, Beth is adopted by a dysfunctional married couple. Eventually, the husband leaves, Beth and her adoptive mother bond, and in high school Beth’s chess skills begin to bring her national and international attention.
But her brilliance and success in chess are derailed by the unexpected death of her adoptive mother, and Beth’s own personal demons with tranquilizers and alcohol.
This pounding of self destruction takes quite a toll on her. Beth’s life is in complete shambles, opportunities in chess are squandered, her reputation is tarnished, and then one day in the stupor of a continuing hangover her doorbell rings.
Stumbling down the staircase to the front door, Beth is shocked to see her best friend from the orphanage, Jolene.
For a few seconds, the characters shared the surprise of seeing how they have changed. But in that first quick glimpse of Beth, Jolene senses something isn’t quite right with her friend.
Jolene has reached out to Beth to let her know that Mr. Shaibel has died. Jolene wonders if Beth would like to attend his funeral with her.
They attend the very bleak church funeral, and after the funeral the women make a stop at the orphanage. Jolene stays in the car, but Beth with some reluctance enters the building and goes to the dimly lit basement room where Mr. Shaibel taught her to play chess.
In that room, Beth discovers a bulletin board of newspaper clippings that Mr. Shaibel kept about her accomplishments in chess. She removes from the board a photograph of her and Mr. Shaibel, and returns to the car.
Back in the car, Beth has the breakdown— the good cry, the cleansing cry, the beginning of a restart.
But, Jolene’s work isn’t over.
Jolene who is working at a law firm and saving her pennies to go to law school takes a gamble—she loans Beth the money she needs to travel to Russia for the Moscow International Chess Tournament. (Wikipedia)
Jolene saves Beth.
Life’s pounding on Beth stops.
And I know what you are thinking. Bill there is a huge difference between real life pounding, and this Hollywood script based upon a fictional novel.
That is a valid point, but like in chess, let me counter your assertion.
People who help to stop the pounding on other people appear in real life too.
Just ask Moses Ingram, the actress who portrayed, Jolene. Ask her about Nana Gyesie, a student advisor at Baltimore City Community College.
Ingram aspired to be an actor. She credits Gyesie for the encouragement and collaborating with Ingram to develop a plan for achieving her goal.
In a recent interview in the Washington Post, here is what Ingram said about her student advisor: “He never minimized my dreams. He dreamed with me. About everything my dreams could be. And then he brought it down to layman’s terms and was like, ‘Let’s come up with a plan to get you where you want to be.’ And that’s what we did,” Ingram said. (Keith L. Alexander Washington Post 2/25/21)
With more encouragement, stage experiences, and determination, Ingram was accepted into the Yale School of Drama. She graduated in 2019.
Life has always been tough, but 2020 was brutal for lots of people. And, I want to be very honest, we are a long, long way from leaving 2020 in our rearview mirror—the pounding on people continues.
It makes absolutely no difference to me if the inspiration to alleviate the pounding a person is experiencing comes from a fictional character or a real live human being.
However you, me, we, us need to remember— one person can stop the pounding in another person’s life, and we never know when that opportunity might appear.
We might not ever know how that quality time Charlie spent chasing his granddaughter on a pretty February afternoon will impact her.
But, I would wager someday, Charlie’s granddaughter will remember fondly the time, patience, and love he shared with her.
And if the opportunity presents itself to ease the pounding experienced by a frazzled friend, neighbor, or stranger—you, me, we, us are obligated to give our time, patience, and love to those in need.
I find it difficult to let go of pieces of paper that bring back memories and emotions.
My wife, the Commander Supreme, is trying to see the future.
She tells me, “William, our children are not going to want to sort through all this stuff when we’re dust.”
I know she is right.
But, the other day she raised the degree of difficulty for my paper departure decisions.
The commander gave me a box of cards, letters, photographs, and some paper scraps.
I think she knows in her heart that going through this box will be tough for me. She has given me time and patience.
I did my initial skim of the contents, and I had to stop.
So with February giving us a lousy stretch of winter weather, I sat down to take another look.
This deeper look only tugged at my heart more.
I started with notes of thanks from two elderly neighbors from when we lived on Stuart Hall Road. Immediately, I was captured by the remarkably beautiful penmanship. Those notes really made me think. The notes confirmed their love for our children, the Commander’s baking, and the assists we gave with yard work in the fall and winter.
But, one of those notes really stuck with me. The writer stated in appreciation of our kindness that we must have had really good parents. That was a keen observation as the Commander and I were blessed with good, kindhearted role models in our parents.
In this box, are a couple of cards from one of the sweetest ladies ever to grace this planet, Margaret Harrod, my grandmother. The cards were signed in pencil, but the words are still clear. Time has not smudged her love.
We called her Granny, and the more I age, the more I respect her perseverance and endurance.
She raised my mother, and my mother’s sister and brother on her own. When abandoned by her husband, somehow, Granny with her children made the journey from Mississippi to North Carolina.
Another sweet lady was my Aunt Evelyn, one of my father’s sisters. The program for her funeral, postcards from traveling, and birthday cards are in that stack. In one note she apologized for not being as quick on her feet as she used to be when she and my father met our family at Disney World.
My mother’s sister, Mildred, and her daughter, Lora, loaded the box too.
Mildred was one of a kind.
She reminded me of Shirley MacLaine’s character Ouiser in the movie Steel Magnolias. But, under her tough veneer, Mildred was one brilliant woman, with a heart that always said in those notes that she loved me.
Lora still is one of kind.
She and her husband Graham were life long educators in Greensboro. They are two peas in a pod. Lora’s notes and cards convey love too, especially toward our children and in news about her grandchildren.
A newspaper clipping announcing the marriage of my sister is in the box. She is stunningly beautiful in that photograph, and she still is today.
There is card from students I taught where my teaching career started at Martinsville Jr. High School. They were acknowledging my marriage to the Commander Supreme.
Reading those names took me back 46 years. Some of those students really challenged my classroom management. But, in a unique way, I learned from their toughness. And reading those names made me wonder how they have managed life.
The box also has 25 Christmas card photographs of my Uncle John’s family. Each photograph shows John and his wife, Hedy, surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Those cards are all about the progression of love.
Shoved in a big envelope is a large assortment of cards and notes.
One of my favorites is a postcard from Ocean City, Maryland. It is from Jeffrey Callow, son of our college friends, Dan and Judy. Jeffrey is thanking me for a tape I made for him of songs by the Beach Boys. Now, Jeffrey has a son who I’m told has an ear for the Beach Boys too.
Seventeen years ago, I turned 50. Two cards in the box honor that occasion.
One is from my wife’s oldest sister, Susan, and her husband, Larry. And the other one is from Amber, the secretary at Lakeside Elementary School. I will never toss those cards. Susan and Amber have something very sad in common—the demon of darkness pushed them to take their own lives.
I expect to take some more time and go back through the box again. If I really work at it, I reckon I might be able to reduce the contents a tiny bit.
But, the more I think about the box, the more I realize the box contains something very, very special—love.
Nothing in the box is hostile, toxic, or negative.
That box, its contents are grounded in love.
How fortunate I have been to be surrounded by that love at every stage of my life. I imagine my life would have been quite different if not for that sustaining love.
Makes me wonder about some of the difficult people and the challenges of the moments I encountered with them. I wonder if anyone had loved them— even a tiny bit.
One of my favorite songs on the Beatles Rubber Soul album is “The Word.” The song is simply about the word—“love.”
In the song’s lyrics, the writer ask this question: “Have you heard the word is love?”
Is it possible that the troubling headlines we read everyday might be solved by asking a question about love at that very moment?
I know what you are thinking, Bill, you clearly have lost your mind.
That is quiet possible, but ask yourself this—what might the world look like if we were better at inserting love into our decision making?
Should love just be boxed up as a bunch of cards, notes, and letters passively stored on a shelf in a basement or in the corner of an attic?
Or should love be a word of action, a word of change that pushes us to reassess how we make decisions in difficult situations with people who haven’t been loved?
I think I’m obligated to share the love from that box.
How about you and your box of papers that show how you have been loved—aren’t you obligated to share that love too?
On Friday, February 5, I had lots on my mind and lots to do as I headed to work at Trinity United Methodist Church. But little did I know God had other ideas about my day.
When I walked into the church office, our Preschool Director was there. She quickly introduced me to a young lady sitting in a chair. I did not recognize this person. But, I was told she had gained access into the building, and needed some help.
This young lady who I’m going to name Audrey, did not waste anytime in telling me she had already reached out via e-mail to our senior pastor. Audrey was surprised that she had not heard back from him.
So, I explained that COVID-19 had changed our day to day operations, and most of our program staff works from home.
With that said, I asked Audrey what was her need? I wanted to know if there was a way we might be able to offer assistance.
Quite simply, she was looking for shelter.
Audrey had been staying at the Regency Inn at the corner of Parham and Quioccasin roads. Her credit card had been compromised in her attempt to pay for lodging. Audrey believed this breach had been the fault of the management of the motel.
She further explained it would be the first week of March before she would receive her monthly distribution from some type of retirement account she had. But, Audrey also made it clear touching one of her pockets that she had $250.00 in cash.
I listened.
My mind was trying to sort out fact or fiction, truth or not quite the truth. But, then Audrey had also tossed God into the mix.
This whole departure from upstate New York— south was on God’s shoulders. She described her trek like Jesus when he asked his first disciples to stop and drop what they were doing to follow him.
That is what Audrey told me, God had taken over her life, pushed her to follow his leads, and I could detect no hesitation in her commitment.
Now, hearing all of this, my brain is in a deep struggle.
So, I hit the pause button.
I asked Audrey to sit tight while I made phone calls to local agencies who might be able to offer her assistance.
At this very moment, I knew that the nonprofits and the systems in place to work with the homeless in the Richmond area were maxed out. But, I had learned enough over the years that it is about getting a homeless person into the system—that is the starting point.
I started with the crisis hotline and left my contact information.
Next, I called CARITAS, a local nonprofit that we have supported for years. They do practical, good work with the homeless, and now they have a new program and facility designed specifically for women. Left my contact information and a brief description.
Then, I reached out to a caseworker in the Social Services department in Henrico County. One of our Sunday school classes had worked with her in assisting two local families in December.
God must be watching my dials, the caseworker answers her phone.
I explain the circumstances, and I ask if she has a listing of local motels/hotels that rent to the homeless. She did, and she sent me the list via e-mail.
I saved the last call to our senior pastor. He picked up too.
Again, I gave him the background, and I asked if he had received an e-mail from Audrey. He confirmed he had received an e-mail from her. However the message only stated these words—“do not be afraid.”
I suggested that we consider putting Audrey in a room at one of the local hotels for five days. I would provide her the key phone numbers so she could get into the local systems, and I would gently explain to her this would be the only financial assistance the church could provide.
Our pastor agreed, and I headed back to the church office.
Back in the office, I pulled up a chair and explained to Audrey our plan. She seemed pleased, and I handed her a piece of paper with the phone numbers for the two nonprofits we needed her to call.
She was agreeable to this proposal, and once again, I departed to try and secure a room for her close by. I was sensitive to find a place near the bus line and also some restaurants within walking distance.
About three miles from the church at the intersection of Broad Street and Glenside Drive, I located an Extended Stay America. I made a phone call, explained the need, and secured a reservation.
Then, I sat down with Audrey again and informed her about the arrangements that had been made. Audrey reported she had made the two recommended phone calls, and I thanked her for her initiative.
In prepping for the drive over to the Extended Stay, I asked our church office manager to ride with us.
We learned a bit more about Audrey on the drive.
When we arrived, I found the office, confirmed the reservation, made the payment, and brought Audrey in so she could complete the required registration and be directed to her room.
With that, I made sure she had my information card, I wished her luck, and I departed.
At some point on the ride back to church my phone rang. We were stopped at an intersection, I did not answer the call. But, I assumed it was Audrey. When we arrived at church, I checked the the call, and it had been from Audrey. The message she left was simply one of thanks.
Two hours of my day were gone.
I spent the afternoon catching up my to do list, and thinking.
I thought about all of the needy people who had trickled into the building during the last ten years. Most, we never saw again despite their promises to repay us.
One person on a Sunday morning, we found out was a scammer. There are three other churches near us, and this person had visited all three and had been successful in securing a nice chunk of change from each.
But Audrey was different.
She was articulate, bi-lingual, sounds like she had a successful career at a community college, and yet, I wonder what was really going on inside her head.
The suspicious part of my brain, anchored by Deputy Fife took over.
Was she on the run? Had she committed a crime? Was law enforcement looking for her? Were her parents and her brother aware of this nudging by God to drop everything and follow him.
Was she a con artist? Had she really been at the Regency Inn? Did she roll some innocent companion for the $250.00? Did she use the God assertion for a soft touch like me, knowing that a church person would easily buy into that line of thought?
Next, I questioned myself. If I was any kind of real Christian, why didn’t my wife and I offer her the hospitality of one of the empty bedrooms in our home?
Was this God plucking the wiring in my brain? Was he nudging me to second guess my decision making?
Hey Bill, don’t use the Pastor’s Discretionary Funds to help Audrey, put her up at your house for a few days.
God continued—I thought you trusted me. I thought you cared about people. What kind of heart do you have?
About mid-afternoon, I took a break to check my e-mails, and there was an e-mail from Audrey.
The e-mail was basically a thank you note with a lot of heartfelt dignity to it.
But, there was also a paragraph where Audrey shared an experience in her life. In that experience, she put a stranger up in an empty room in her home. And in that paragraph, Audrey cited verses from the Bible to affirm her reasoning by opening up this room for a stranger.
After reading that paragraph, my brain really tore into me for how I opted to assist Audrey.
Before her checkout date, we exchanged a couple of brief e-mails. One was to confirm to her that I had spoken with a staff person at CARITAS about her.
As of this writing, we are four days past her checkout date, and I have not heard from Audrey.
Recently, our youngest daughter recommended that my wife and I watch the movie, The Dig.
The story takes place in England just as the British are anticipating war with Hitler’s Germany. A widower with a young son hires an excavator to unearth some mysterious mounds of earth on her property.
There is a scene when her son, Robert Pretty is in distress because he realizes his mother’s health is failing. Upon the death of his father, people had said to Robert that taking care of his mother was now his responsibility.
With his mother’s health declining, Robert sees himself as a failure, that he has let his mother and family friends down. He says— “And I failed. I failed.”(Moira Buffini)
The wise and patient excavator, Basil Brown, who is with Robert in this moment of self-torment says to him—“Robert, we all fail. Every day. There are some things we just can’t succeed at. No matter how hard we try. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”(Moira Buffini)
Screenwriter, Moira Buffini, words about failure ring true to me.
But they are hard to accept when God disrupts my day with a stranger.
Because I want life for this stranger and all the strangers in the world to be all right, ok, and safe.
I wonder what these words from Philippians 4:13 really mean to my heart now: “I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”
After today, I wonder if I really can do all things through him who strengthens me?
How will I react the next time God disrupts my day?
Who knows maybe God is done testing me.
Perhaps, I failed his test today with this stranger.
Second guessing is part of the learning from the unexpected, disruptions, and interruptions in life.
And even though I might be frustrated with myself and God, I think he knows in future circumstances that I will not stop trying to help strangers— even if I fail.
Hey God, even though I don’t understand you—thanks for the disruption.
On Saturday, January 30, 2021, Richmond and the central Virginia area were all wound up.
This being wound up was courtesy of our local television weather forecasters.
For the last couple of days, they have been whipping us into a frenzy. Chattering with a nonstop obsession, like people who had consumed gallons of coffee and caffeine loaded energy drinks.
Over, and over, and over again, this mantra of excessive repetition kept pounding into our minds this winter weather phenomenon—snow, snow, snow, snow, snow.
I felt like I was listening to a reading of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Bells.” Like Edgar with the ringing of ‘the bells, the bells, the bells,’ I was teetering toward the edge of mental instability with the cries of ‘the snow, the snow, the snow, the snow!!’
For me, the only forecast I need to know that snow is on the way is when the huge front in loader arrives in the back parking lot of our church.
When that massive piece of machinery is dropped off, I know the guys at the company who clear our parking lots believe the forecasters—it is going to snow.
So, on Saturday morning, I made a stop at our local hardware store. I was looking for a snow shovel to use at church that was designed to push snow off a sidewalk.
As soon as I entered the store, I saw all of the snow shovels positioned near the entrance. But, I walked deeper into the store, back to the aisle where all the long handled tools were displayed.
Once in that section, a friendly clerk asked if I needed help.
I told him no, and further explained I was just looking around.
He responded with, “Well if you need help, just holler.”
The clerk’s comment stuck with me.
Americans, myself included are good at hollering.
We hollered a lot in 2020, and we’re still hollering as 2021 begins.
In truth, we are a wounded and worn nation. Our hollering isn’t going away.
We need help in all kinds of ways.
I see it everyday in my work at our church.
As Brian Wilson sang in his song “Love and Mercy”—‘a lot of people out there hurting, and it really scares me.’
He was right. At this very moment, there are a lot of people hurting.
We’ve been hollering for a long time about housing solutions for the homeless, jobs for the unemployed, food for the hungry, equity in education, health care, and the list goes on, and on, and on.
The pandemic has pushed these systems beyond their capacities, and in all of those challenges there is one little holler that keeps gulping for air—mental health.
I can’t tell you how many Zoom meetings I have participated in since last March, but I can assure you in a lot of those meetings mental health surfaces.
The pandemic has frazzled people. Their thinking, emotions, reasoning, anxiety, and fears have been singed by this stress.
The instability created by all that frazzling is significant. There are a lot of people out there hollering—I can’t take this much longer, I need some relief, I need someone to listen, to hear me, to acknowledge me, —I am worn out, broken.
The movie Captain Phillips is based upon the real life hijacking of an American cargo ship by Somali pirates. Watching this movie is intense. It is not for a fainthearted viewer.
As the hijackers take over the ship, there is a lot of hollering. When the lead hijacker begins communicating with Captain Phillips, this scrawny, but fiery teenager tells Captain Phillips: “No problem, Irish, everything gonna be ok.”
At the end of the day that frazzled friend, neighbor, co-worker, stranger wants someone to assure them—“everything gonna be ok.”
As I continue to age, the word snow frazzles me. I no longer have the heart of a kid for it.
But, I will tell you this.
Last Sunday morning with the snow still falling, we ventured out into our yard with some happy guests—two of our grandchildren. They were visiting for the weekend with their parents from Summerfield, North Carolina.
And at some point, I stood still.
For a few brief seconds, the world was quiet, peaceful, motionless—the snow had silenced the hollering.
Oh, how I wish helping all those who are hurting was as simple as snowflakes falling from a gray sky.
All that hollering out there isn’t going away.
But, maybe we can help.
Maybe, in our hearts, we can be a kinder, more considerate people, as graceful with those who are frazzled and hollering for help as a gentle January snowflake.
The snow forecaster Trinity UMC parking lot photo by Bill Pike
I’m sure my parents breathed a sigh of relief when I walked off the stage with a diploma in hand. And, I am just as certain, the faculty and staff of Walter Williams High School silently cheered, or internally asked themselves how did he graduate as I exited the stage.
Thankfully, one institution of higher learning in America took a gamble and admitted me— Greensboro College.
After granting my admission, it is still hard for me to believe that the director of admissions kept his job.
Even though he is no longer living, my entry into Greensboro College had something to do with Don Gumm. Don was the associate pastor and youth director at Davis Street United Methodist Church. Don took me for a tour and an interview.
Maybe the fact that I was Methodist had something to do with my acceptance. Greensboro College is a Methodist supported school. Perhaps, the school has an unwritten rule, we take all Methodists even if their performance in high school was as low as a submarine snoozing in the deepest canyon of the ocean.
I didn’t deserve to go to college. I wasn’t a troublemaker in high school, I was just a goof off.
Prior to high school, the last time I worked to my potential was in the sixth grade. Only school year in my life when I made the honor roll and had perfect attendance.
So it should be no surprise that on March 24, 1972, I received a Student Progress Report in Dr. W. P. Weaver’s Religion 102 class for failing. So much for the Sunday school classes, vacation Bible school sessions, and the Methodist Youth Fellowship meetings, none of that religion was helping me now.
Somehow, I turned things around in Dr. Weaver’s class and finished with a C.
And in truth, that C is probably my grade even today as I continue to work to understand and apply the Bible to my life.
Clearly, I am no theologian, and I really don’t want to be a theologian, but at times I struggle with the Bible.
Who knows, maybe you do too.
I wonder if that struggle accounts for the 61 translation of the Bible found on the website Bible Gateway?
Does that mean these translations were attempts by theologians and translators to make the Bible a better fit for real life application?
With my brain being the size of spider mite, I do not have the capacity to answer that question.
But, all these translations are an indication to me— that someone besides me was wrestling to make the Bible relevant—to make sense of it— and all of its “good, bad, and ugly.”
Additionally, I wonder if anyone has ever considered editing out all of the bad in the Bible? Just give us the good. But then, we would miss the stories of hardships, the misery experienced by people. I guess this would limit our learning.
I don’t know about you, but I really struggle with verses from the Bible like these two from James Chapter 1: “My brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing, but joy. Because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance.”
How can a trial like life threatening cancer be a joy?
In that same line of thought, how can dying from COVID-19, being homeless, being unemployed, being falsely imprisoned, a life altering auto accident, abuse of any type, starvation— how can these be “nothing, but joy”?
I do not understand how these severe trials that people encounter everyday can be joyful experiences.
A creature of habit, earIy every morning, I read the daily devotional printed in the Upper Room. I also spend time reading and pondering the scriptures linked to each devotional.
Recently, I read the recommended scripture from Deuteronomy 10 verses 17-32. Iread a translation from the 1973 New Oxford Annotated Bible Revised Standard Version. That translation uses the word “terrible” twice in contrasting descriptions of God:
Verse 17—“For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great, the mighty, and the terrible God,”
Verse 21—“He is your praise; he is your God, who has done for you these great and terrible things which your eyes have seen.”
Just so you know, in current translations of the New Revised Standard Version, the New International Version, and the Common English Bible the word ‘terrible’ has been edited out.
I wonder what the reasoning was behind this edit? Maybe the editors saw it as a public relations move for God. How can we have a good God and a terrible God?
Remember, I’m no theologian.
And I guess for me that is my struggle, my questioning— if God is so good and if he is there with us in every nanosecond of life—why do these non-joyful things continue to happen to people?
I know.
God did not promise us a rose garden.
But, I will wrestle with that verse from James until I croak.
And, to be perfectly honest with you, I struggle with the division that the Bible causes. How we interpret and apply the Bible can often create divides in churches and in denominations.
I distinctly recall that the Bible directs us to love one another.
How can we love when some of the scripture interpretations in the Bible divide us?
Again, I will wrestle with this division until my last heart beat—wondering why we can’t overcome our divide with love?
If I even come close to entering the pearly gates, I imagine there will be quite an inquisition as my life is reviewed.
For certain, there will be lots of black marks by my name.
At least that’s how Alma Coble, our childcare provider, when I was a kid explained it to me.
God fearing Alma with no hesitation said when you do something wrong down here on earth, God, Jesus, or your designated guardian angel puts a black mark by your name.
All my black marks will be troubling for sure, but I anticipate hearing a more dangerous question like this.
Mr. Pike while on earth did you publish a blog called Might Be Baloney?
I will answer with a yes.
In those blog posts, did you ever on any occasion question the work of God, Jesus, or the contents of the Bible?
Again, I will answer yes.
And then, there will be an uncomfortable, extended pause of silence.
In that profusely perspiring pause, eventually, a throat will clear to inquire further, Mr. Pike, why did you question in such a manner?
Silence will reappear.
Impatience is ticking.
The guardians of the pearly gates are quietly thinking we’ve got him now.
My mind will stumble back to my childhood at Davis Street Methodist Church.
And I will mumble out this innocent reply: “Yes, Jesus loves me—for the Bible tells me so”.
At one time in the teacher’s lounge at Lakeside Elementary School, these words were posted: “Thou shall not whine.”
Sorry boys and girls, but I’m going to break that commandment now.
On Saturday, January 23 in the Richmond Times-Dispatch, I read the following headline: ‘Bigfoot’ hunting season sought in Oklahoma. (From wire reports)
Yes, a state lawmaker in Oklahoma wants to create legislation to allow a hunting season that would coincide with a Bigfoot festival held in the forest of the Ouachita Mountains each year. The legislator sees a hunting license for Bigfoot as a boost for tourism.
Perhaps, Representative Justin Humphrey has forgotten or never heard these words from another famous person from Oklahoma, Will Rogers: “I don’t make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.”
In an attempt to insure that my body will be properly prepared for my annual physical in April, I recently purchased a pack of sweet Italian sausages at Kroger. I figure anything I can do to assist my doctor to buy another vacation home is good for the economy.
Perhaps I missed this change in how foods are categorized, but I was surprised to see a sticky label on the sausage packaging that said “seafood.”
Photo by Bill Pike
Does this mean these sausages were made in a kitchen environment where seafood was present?
Or, does this indicate Kroger needs to revamp its food group identification training for employees? Maybe, Kroger should seek the counsel of third graders about food group categories.
And while we are talking about food groups, lets talk about beer, you know liquid bread.
As a long time follower of the craft beer industry, I am still in shock over the Total Wine insert in the January 17 edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch.
On page 7 of that insert, three well-established craft brewers had photos of their low-calorie beers.
Unbelievable, craft brewers brewing low-calorie beers. For brewers who worked so hard to establish their independence and to shun the footprints of the beers made by the big box brewers— this is a disappointment.
And with the hype of the Super Bowl upon us, here is another disappointment. For some reason, National Football League Commissioner, Roger Goodell, continues to ignore my pleas for changing the rules on how a touchdown can be scored.
Mr. Commissioner, eliminate the rules that allow a player to score a touchdown by breaking the plane of the goal line or diving to touch an orange pylon on the corners of the goal line. To score a touchdown, a player’s entire body must be in the end zone with the football intact—nothing else.
On Friday, January 22, my wife, the Commander Supreme, ventured to our local post office branch. She was mailing a package to her mother who resides in West Hartford, Connecticut.
The Commander paid for two-day Priority Mail. As of today’s date, Tuesday, January 26, the package is in Las Vegas, Nevada.
Not counting Friday, this is day four. We could have driven the package up the east coast in one day.
From Richmond to Las Vegas is 2,405 miles, and Las Vegas to West Hartford is 2,621 miles, and of course, Richmond to West Hartford is a mere 452 miles.
I am truly thankful for our postal workers. And, I am sure some postal executive has a reasonable explanation for Richmond to Las Vegas to West Hartford, but I’m not buying any explanation that defies the logic of real fifth grade geography.
And I know you will be disappointed that you missed it, but Monday, January 25 was National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day. I’ll be sure to mark that on my calendar for next year.
But alas, keep your composure, don’t be too downhearted because the most important national appreciation day will be here on Sunday, December 26, 2021—National Whiners Day.
According to the website National Day Calendar, National Whiners Day was established in 1986 by Reverend Kevin Zaborney.
The good reverend created this day with the hope of encouraging people to be thankful for what they have instead of being unhappy “whining” about what they do not have.
I know that I’m a whiner.
But in truth, I have no right to whine.
Here are some reasons, I should not whine.
Believe it or not, and despite my still growing list of imperfections, I know that I am surrounded by love. Some people in our world will never experience love.
I can go to my kitchen sink, turn on the faucet, and pour a glass of clean, fresh water. Not everyone can do that in 2021.
A long time ago, in the first grade at Elon Elementary School, my teacher, Mrs. Hughes, taught me to read. Try as we might, illiteracy has not been solved.
Within easy driving and walking distance to our home, there are six grocery stores. And yet, food deserts are plentiful in our community.
I live in an imperfect country that sometimes struggles with its understanding of freedom. But, I am free to write this gibberish. In some countries that freedom doesn’t exist.
Sure, whining might make me feel better.
But here is the question I need to ask myself—is my whining helping to solve any of the millions of challenges we face?
In the spring of 2020, I submitted an article to the American School Board Journal for publication consideration. Surprisingly, the article appears in the February 2021 issue of the magazine, as a part of their Online Only section.
might be baloney 