might be baloney

Part I: unhinged packing

During the week of June 29, stuff started piling up in different places of the house. That was the early warning signal.

 On the afternoon of Friday, July 3 just a few minutes after five, my unhinging started with the rooftop carrier. Beach chairs, my suitcase, a traveling booster seat, an inflatable pool, a bag full of required beach items, and a case holding a fly rod were to be stuffed into the carrier.

The installing of the rooftop carrier started quietly. But, by the ten minute mark, I snapped. 

Perhaps, it was the heat and humidity of the afternoon. Or maybe weariness from a long day of chores was the reason. Or maybe, it was my alter ego, the beach grump who took over. 

Getting that rooftop carrier properly positioned, secured, and loaded correctly was driving me nuts. My use of non-seminarian words ricocheted off the carrier and the items being packed. I was as repulsive as a prickly sand spur on hot beach sand.

My fear with roof top carriers is at some point during the trip, I’ll look into the rearview mirror, and I’ll note all of this debris sailing down the highway. Drivers of vehicles behind me will be swerving to dodge items that suddenly look quite familiar to me.  

Eventually, an ounce of sanity returns. The skirmish with the rooftop carrier and its contents are over. Properly positioned, secured, and loaded, that is one less item to deal with on Saturday morning.

Part II: on the road

For Saturday, July 4, the goal is to be on the road by 8 a.m. Surprisingly, we make that goal.

But, as we are leaving Richmond, I have to pull over at the River Road Shopping Center.  A couple of straps on the rooftop carrier are being a nuisance. They are slapping harmlessly against the side of the carrier. But, it is the type of continuous tapping that will drive me nuts. So, I stop, and retie the loose straps. 

I drive us to the North Carolina Welcome Center. Then the Commander Supreme takes over the drive. I think she could qualify as a NASCAR or Indy driver. She makes up time on the ground just like an airline pilot tells passengers he/she will make up time in the air for being off schedule.

We will drive to Raleigh, stop at the home of our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, and load all of her beach junk into any openings in our car. Sweet as she is, Elizabeth never has been and never will be a light packer. Pretty sure, she learned from me.

No blue lights trailed us into Raleigh, but the second round of packing pain was about to begin. Don’t ask me how, but all of Elizabeth’s beach junk found a spot in the car.

Elizabeth took over the drive from Raleigh to Atlantic Beach. The Commander Supreme was her co-pilot. I was assigned a six by six inch  square in the only back seat available. Elizabeth has her mother’s heavy foot. Cramped like a stowaway, I closed my eyes, and white knuckled anything I could hold on to for the ride to the beach.

My eyes did squint open enough to admire the flatness of the coastal plain of North Carolina. Rich farmland, and dense, thick forest scamper along beside us. I wonder if some of those forest are the same as they were hundreds of years ago, and I wonder how many generations of families have farmed the same acres of land.

As coastal plain towns disappear in the rearview mirror, soon we are on the outskirts of Morehead City. We merge with the traffic heading toward Atlantic Beach. The bridge carries us over Bogue Sound. It is low tide, and the sandbars of the sound are popular stopping points for boaters and their families.

It is probably a miracle, but we are able to pick up the key for the condo early. We find the place, figure out how to unload via stairs and an elevator, and then we collapse.

But, that collapse was short. We were scheduled to drive over to Beaufort for dinner at the Front Street Grill at Stillwater.

Wearing our masks, we find an open outside table at the restaurant. The staff is complying with all of the COVID-19 safety protocols.

Maybe, we felt a tiny bit safer sitting outside, but to tell you the truth, I really did not want to go on this trip— my reason COVID-19. I don’t trust it. No matter how compliant I am, I don’t trust this virus, and all of its mean characteristics.

I worry while we are here that we might unknowingly be exposed. I could not live with myself if that happened for my wife, our children, or grandchildren.

But, I’m here, and I will try not to be too grumpy.

Part III: invaders approaching

Saturday night was pretty quiet. The Commander Supreme and Elizabeth took the short walk to the beach, and from there, they could see multiple firework displays.

On this Sunday morning, July 5,  I promised myself to go for a run. I decided to go what in my mind is south along West Fort Macon Road. The town of Atlantic Beach has done a nice job of providing sidewalks and boardwalks along this busy road.

Eventually, my sidewalk runs out, and taking in the sights, I missed my crosswalk cue to move to the other side. I jog facing the oncoming traffic, I eventually find a cutover and get to the boardwalk path on the sound side.

I keep going, but not that much further. Just short of the entrance of the Hampton Inn, I decide to turn around and head back. This time, I don’t miss the crosswalk, and I work my way back to the Dunescape Villas where we are staying.

For cooling down, I cross over the main road to the parking lot across the road. This is the overflow lot for guest parking.

 Our oldest daughter, Lauren, and her two children are driving down from the Raleigh area later this morning. So, I wanted to check out the lot for her just in case all the guest parking spaces were taken near the condos.

While there, I note a singular swing and a picnic table. This is all under the shade provided by a pretty live oak tree. I also find a nice boardwalk that starts out under a canopy of live oaks. The boardwalk leads out to the sound where there is ample dock space for boaters, but also a good spot for fishing and crabbing.

On the walk back down the boardwalk, I recall a car I had seen on my run. The car was parked in a hotel lot. On one of the side window panels of this large SUV were these handprinted words: Jesus Lives along with a cross drawn in beside it.

I’ll be honest with you. In this crazy world of ours, I find myself wondering if the words—Jesus Lives— are true.

If he lives, why isn’t Jesus down here straightening us out?

Maybe Jesus thinks we are too far gone.

Somedays, I agree—we are too far gone.

But, then I remember, if I’m any kind of a human being, Jesus should be living through me.

And if Jesus is supposed to be living through me —what am I doing wrong?

Part IV:   Irreplaceable

From the time they arrived about mid-morning on July 5 until they departed on Wednesday morning, July 8, everything we did focused on our two grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson.

Can you say the word spoil? That was all that Elizabeth and the Commander Supreme did to Caroline and Hudson during their time with us.

It was a treat to have them and their Mom here.  We’ve seen more of Lauren, her husband, Doug, and the grandkids since their move from Chicago last summer. Having started a new job, Doug wasn’t able to join us.

The grands wasted no time getting ready for the beach. Lathering up, chairs, towels, toys, and numerous other necessary items were all hauled down to the beach.

Wave jumping, hole digging, forming sand towers, hunting for shells,  and wading in tidal pools became part of the daily routine.

Now, I rechecked the calendar to confirm that today was Sunday, July 5, but right at 9 that evening, the Fourth of July returned. 

Not sure who the sponsors were, but for a good 15 minutes fireworks were erupting again. We just knew Caroline and Hudson would hear all of those booms, but remarkably they slept.

From time to time, Caroline and Hudson are early risers. A bad habit probably inherited from me. On Tuesday morning, they both were up just as the sun was rising. So, Lauren and I quickly organized a short walk for them over to the sound side.

We crossed the quiet road, moved across the dry parking lot toward the start of the boardwalk path. As we worked our way along the boardwalk, we noted tiny crabs scurrying across the weathered gray timbers.

At some point, Caroline picked up on the low tide aroma of the salt marsh. She didn’t like it, but maybe someday she’ll appreciate those life sustaining ecosystems in all that muck.

Out on the boat dock, the new morning was still. The water’s surface was a flat mirror reflecting patchy clouds to the east with a bright sun coyly peeking behind them.

As we headed back to the condo, we stopped so Caroline could take a ride on the singular swing that was hanging from the sturdy limb of a live oak tree.

Live oaks are such beautiful trees in these coastal towns. I wonder why developers are so drawn to putting the non-native palm trees in so many places. Why not plant more majestic live oaks? They offer so much more than an out of place palm tree.

Our routine at the beach continued that morning, and the afternoon brought a treat—ice cream. 

We took a short ride to the AB Ice Cream and Candy Shoppe. For a grumpy old guy, there is nothing like a small cup of coconut ice cream on a hot and humid summer afternoon. And I’m assuming for grandchildren, not only do they like the ice cream, but they also appreciate whoever invented sprinkles.

Wednesday morning arrived too quick. Before we knew it, we were helping Lauren repack her car for the drive back to Cary. I was going to miss my two pals and the paces they put me through down on the beach. 

Now the condo would be different. 

The kid chatter, and the patter of bare summer feet on vinyl planking was gone.

Our entertainment had departed. 

And they were irreplaceable.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney together and individually have written many beautiful and thought provoking songs. Their catalog of tunes with and without The Beatles is impressive.

In two songs “Eleanor Rigby” and “Nowhere Man” some interesting questions are asked.

The chorus in “Eleanor Rigby” notes “all the lonely people” and asks two questions: “Where do they all come from, and where do they all belong?”

Loneliness is all around us. 

Loneliness comes in all sorts of shapes, sizes, angles, and personalities. 

It might be very obvious or buried deep in a person’s soul. 

I assume that isolation, lack of self-confidence, even the redundancy of routine can contribute to making a person feel lonely. And yet, like a barely audible whisper, lonely people call out. 

I wonder in my daily living how many whispers of loneliness I have missed. I wonder how I might position myself to be more aware of people around me who are confined by loneliness.

I have the same wonder about people I have misread, misjudged, mistreated, and failed to understand. How do I react when these people don’t fit in my world?

 Thinking back about my work with students in school environments, I encountered numerous students who were “square pegs.” They just could never seem to find the right fit. Why was that?

Did I fail them as a teacher, administrator, and human being? Did I in my desire to help them fit in my world miss what they were truly searching for as they attempted to navigate school? Did my misunderstanding of their needs only create more isolation, loneliness, and difficulty for them?

In The Beatles song “Nowhere Man” in describing the dilemmas faced by nowhere man, this question is asked: “Isn’t he a bit like you and me?”

The truth is if we really take the time to carefully look at ourselves, we would find bits of our lives that are similar to the lonely people, nowhere man, and the square peg.

In that truth is this:  deep, deep inside of us we all want to fit, we want to be accepted, we all want to belong. The same is true for the lonely, nowhere man, and the square peg.

So, with the time I have left on this earth, how do I improve my capacity to become better at understanding the lonely, nowhere man,  and the square peg?

Maybe the starting point is to not to overly focus on the differences in the people I encounter each day, but to dig deeper to find our similarities.

For years, I resisted saying goodbye to my flip phone. My wife being much wiser than I am, put her foot down and brought me into the world of the iPhone. That iPhone has more applications on it than Van Camp’s has pork and beans. It is clear I will never use all those apps, but I have enjoyed the built in camera.

Because of that camera, I have the ability to instantly snap a picture.

A few weeks ago I was mowing the yard on a sunny afternoon. 

For some reason, I took a quick look at our front porch. The sunlight in the western sky had perfectly cast a ray of light through the glass from the light fixture mounted on the brick wall.

Down on the dingy surface of the worn, peppered gray concrete was a rectangular shaped prism of rainbow colors. I quickly took a photo.

I have gazed into that snapshot quite a bit. Amazed at how the angle of light was just right to create that small splash of colors.

Love must be somewhere in that rainbow of colors.

Whether we want to admit it or not, lonely people, nowhere man, square pegs, you, me, we—we’re all in that rainbow.

Author Carson McCullers once stated:  “We are homesick most for the places we have never known.”

I think her words capture the lonely, nowhere man, and the square pegs pretty well.

Most likely, they have never known what they are searching for in their lives.

We have an opportunity to change that.

That change is the love in the rainbow.

People need it. 

Especially right now.

Honored to have a Faith and Values piece in the Richmond Times-Dispatch today:

https://www.richmond.com/news/local/faith-and-values-the-power-of-touch-and-light-when-time-is-precious/article_61d20a8b-c09f-51d2-a917-457a835bace7.html

On the afternoon of Sunday, June 14, I drove out to the Fairfield Library in Henrico County.  Located on Laburnum Avenue, the library was to be the starting point for A March for Unity. This event was put together by the Richmond District of the United Methodist Church.  The start time was 3 p.m.

For some reason, I did not find out about this march until Sunday morning. But, I determined I was going, and I went.

Before leaving the house, I covered my beyond pale legs in sunscreen, put on a long sleeved shirt, brought along a wide brimmed hat, and put in a pocket my newest friend—a handmade facial mask.

I stayed off the interstate on my drive to the library. It was a pretty June afternoon.

By the time I arrived, a small crowd was beginning to gather. With sun glasses, hats, and masks, it was tough to recognize people. But, early on, I did see a couple of friends, Ginny Willis and Elizabeth Compton,  who I knew from church work and the school system. I enjoyed catching up with them for a few minutes.

People kept trickling in, and it seemed like getting started was being delayed. But, eventually our District Superintendent, Pete Moon, started to get our attention. 

Pete was using a megaphone to gather us. Initially, it took a few minutes for all us chatterboxes to stop talking and listen to Pete. If nothing else, Methodist are methodical, and we eventually figured out we needed to be quiet.

Pete introduced and turned over the next few minutes to Reverend Rodney Hunter who offered prayer, march instructions, and some heartfelt thoughts about an important question:  Why are we here?

Once Reverend Hunter concluded his remarks, we started the very short walk on to Laburnum Avenue. We were heading west on Laburnum. Officers from Henrico County Police had blocked the two travels lanes. We had lots of room, but this crowd of about 300 was moving slow.

Along the way, participants waved signs, sang, chanted words of encouragement, shouted out the names of African Americans who had lost their lives from racial injustice, and acknowledged horn toots and hand waves of support from drivers in the east bound lanes. 

While walking, I recognized fellow Trinity member Anne Burch who was there with her husband, Bill. We listened and participated with our fellow marchers, talked, and at times were silent.

Once off Laburnum, we wound our way through neighborhood streets. Our stopping point was the home of the Worship and Praise Church. On the tree shaded front grounds of the church, we came to a stop.

Reverend Tim Kirven pastor of the church gave us leadership at this point. His wife Michelle sang a beautiful song, and then a young man from Woodlake UMC, James Lee, offered a scripture reading from Amos 5:21-24.

Before introducing the Bishop, Reverend Kirven offered some words of inspiration too. 

Our Bishop for the Virginia United Methodist Conference, Sharma Lewis is a busy lady. And, I will not pretend to remember every word she stated, but I will never forget what she asked us to do.

If we were physically able, Bishop Lewis asked us to kneel on one knee for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. This was the amount of time that George Floyd was pinned down by the Minneapolis police officer.

During this 8:46, Bishop Lewis made points of emphasis related to time. Occasionally, in the stillness of the shaded grounds, a random voice called out “I can’t breathe.” A few times other voices called out “momma.” And, the strained polite request “please” was also voiced.

Finally, the last seconds ticked away. Unlike George Floyd, we were able to rise, finish the march, and go home.

Nothing I have been through in my life compares to that 8:46—nothing.

I’m glad that Pete Moon and the Richmond District organized the march. It was a good opportunity to learn. Clearly, I have lots of learning left to do.

That learning will need to go much deeper than toppling statues, changing brand names, and peaceful protest that become violent and destructive.

America is still a powder keg.

It is like when the summer heat and winds have cooked every ounce of water from the undergrowth along a parched, dusty trail out in California’s Eastern Sierra Mountains. It only takes one tiny spark to birth an out of control wildfire.

The layers of our society are just as tense as that undergrowth. 

One disruptive agitation can ignite a ferocious reaction.

Somehow, we must find the path for dialogue. We must sit down, talk, and listen. And the key to this is having that conversation with people who I don’t know. Without these critical conversations, I worry that we will not be able to move forward and make long overdue improvements.

I am currently reading Osha Gray Davidson’s book The Best of Enemies— Race and Redemption in the New South. The book focuses on Durham, North Carolina and the integration of its school system. But, the author in constructing this story about Durham also includes lots of historical information about race relations in America, but particularly North Carolina.

After recounting the student led sit-ins in Greensboro and Durham, Davidson makes this point:  “It is no exaggeration to say that without the church, there would have been no movement.”

I wonder if our present circumstances are the opportunity for all churches to become involved in leading their communities to the critical dialogue needed to help us move forward.

Recently, two words from John Chapter 11 verse 35 caught my attention:  “Jesus wept.”

I would imagine that God and Jesus have shed quite a few tears over our current state. And, I’m pretty sure there have been times in my life when I contributed to their tears.

Stopping those tears is within our reach. It is a matter of truly embracing and putting to work the longstanding teachings of God and Jesus.

Even in the most difficult environments, we must: “Love our neighbors.”

When we find the courage to love our neighbors and put that love to work, then the words from Amos Chapter 5 will ring true: “Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!”

Back on April 1, my wife and I were in Raleigh. We were helping our youngest daughter with a move.

Outside her home, I spoke briefly with a UPS delivery driver. I asked him if the company was busy. He grinned and replied, “It’s just like Christmas.” 

The assist for his smile goes to COVID-19. 

This past Tuesday in our church staff meeting via Zoom, our senior pastor ended the meeting with some seed planting. In our  next gathering, he wants us to have discussion about Advent and Christmas. 

Today is Thursday, June 25. In six quick months, it will be Christmas Day.

Go ahead start hurling insults at me. I deserve it for bringing up Christmas in June.

Christmas might seem a long way off, but that day will be here in a blink. I wonder what Christmas 2020 will look like?

I’ll be honest with you, I have  already figured out what I want for Christmas. I want a soon to be released new gadget named a heart changer.

I don’t know about you, but I have a tendency to ignore my heart at Christmas. I become wrapped up in the annual pursuit of perfection through all of the commercial trappings.

Every Christmas, I quietly say to myself that I’m going to brush aside the madness it creates. But, in truth I never do. And the reason I never do is fear.

In the movie Home Alone, screenwriter, John Hughes develops an interesting dialogue between Kevin, an elementary aged youngster, and his elderly neighbor, Marley. The scene takes place in a church sanctuary on Christmas Eve.

Initially, for lots of untrue neighborhood rumors, Kevin is afraid of Marley. But, the polite Marley starts the conversation with “Merry Christmas.” Both Kevin and Marley open up about themselves. Marley shares the story of an old argument that he had with his son. That argument estranged the father and son.

Kevin encourages Marley to reach back out to his son. But Marley tells Kevin he is hesitant, he is afraid that his son will not talk with him.

With lots of respect, Kevin asks Marley, “Aren’t you a little old to be afraid?”

And Marley answers with this,“You can be old for a lot of things.

You’re never too old to be afraid.”

I don’t know about you, but since the middle of March, my brain has been swirling. Fear is at the center of that never ending spin.

I fear COVID-19. I fear  the inability of America to solve our longstanding internal problems. I fear the November election. I fear the future for our children and their children. 

Recently, I found a bit of comfort in Coach K’s comments about the turmoil in America when he said:  “I have been trying to find eloquent words to explain my thoughts regarding the recent acts of injustice in our country, but I cannot be eloquent about this. I am too emotional. I am angry! I am frustrated! I am disgusted and frankly, I am scared.”

Coach K scared? I always viewed him as being tough as nails. But, here is what I love about his comments— he spoke with honesty straight from his heart.

And, I will tell you the truth, that is my biggest fear in this chaos, I am not sure that we have the desire to change our hearts.

I expect the marketing and advertising for the heart changer to start soon. It will be presented in one of those fast talking, 30 second television ads. The cost of the heart changer will be an amazing $9.99.

If someone was really clever, they would run a quiet counter to the $9.99 heart changer with a PSA (Public Service Announcement). 

The PSA would simply be scrolled across the television screen:  

Christmas is coming. Give America a gift—the changing of your heart. Change your heart forever. America needs it now.

In the last stanza of the Christmas carol, “In The Bleak Midwinter,”  a quiet, but moving question is asked—“What can I give him?”

The response is very simple— “give my heart.”

Pulling America out of this mess will require giving and changing our hearts.

That will be tough work, but we have no options.

At the very least, that work will compel us to listen in different ways from what we have attempted in the past.

Courage, patience, and honesty will drive this listening.

Calendar is moving. Christmas is coming. 

And the truth is we don’t need a gimmicky heart changer for $9.99.

No, to change our hearts, we need to stop being stubborn, let go of fear, and work until we have solutions for every injustice.

Occasionally on the Andy Griffith Show, the Darlin family from the nearby hills would amble into the quiet town of Mayberry. Led by their father, Briscoe, he was accompanied by his daughter, Charlene, and her brothers, who in real life were actually a talented bluegrass band from Kentucky named the Dillards.

Usually in an episode when they appeared, at some point music from Briscoe and his sons would be played along with singing from Charlene. In encouraging Sheriff Taylor to pick guitar with them, Briscoe once remarked: “Got time to breathe, got time for music.” 

From my perspective when I think about singer/songwriter, Brian Wilson, I’m glad that he had “time to breathe and time for music.”

Today, June 20, Brian Wilson turns 78.

 It is appropriate that his birthday is today— as it marks the first day of summer. Probably no one in the history of pop music and possibly advertising did a better job of selling summer to teenagers around the world than Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys.

I’ve never met Brian Wilson, but I have met a lot of his songs. And for me, many of his songs are heart touchers.

When one considers his diverse catalog of songs, the strength of his composing, his production techniques, and his unique ability to construct precise and rich background harmonies, I think Brian Wilson stands alone.

What is even more remarkable about his success is this— Brian Wilson has virtually no hearing capacity in his right ear; all of these songs were written via his compensation for this loss of hearing.

And while we are on the topic of remarkable, as a long time fan of Brian and the music he has created with and without the Beach Boys, I find it remarkable that Brian is still alive. He has outlived his demons, and sadly his younger brothers, Dennis and Carl.

Brian is a survivor. 

Brian’s challenges are well documented: starting with a difficult father, a nervous breakdown in the early stages of the Beach Boys fame, substance abuse, and nonstop pressure to constantly produce hit records. Later in his life, the collision of all these factors finally led doctors to diagnose Brian with schizoaffective disorder and mild manic depression.

And yet, Brian has written such beautiful music that brings a happiness to people.

How can a person who has suffered through all these ups and downs create such magical music?

Personally, I think music was God’s gift to Brian. And, I think that gift of music even in the most rotten times of his life,  never abandoned him. Music is his heart, his soul. Music is his friend, his confidante, his safe place.

My Osher Institute teaching pal for the University of Richmond, Joe Vanderford, often reminds me of another Brian gift—his voice.  Go back and listen to his early lead vocals with the Beach Boys. No one could soar like Brian.

Even if you are a marginal fan of the Beach Boys, I think it would be very easy for you to name some of their hit records. I have no desire to walk you back through those songs. I’d rather take you to August 31, 1970.

By the end of 1969, the Beach Boys were bringing closure to their contractural commitments with their original recording company Capitol Records. The late 60s were not good to the Beach Boys. The hit records literally stopped. They were a square peg in the Woodstock generation of music. And yet, somehow, they kept afloat.

Part of treading water came from their concert touring especially overseas. The British still loved them. But, something else was taking place too. 

Brian’s bandmates, Al, Carl, Dennis, Mike, and Bruce had learned a few things by being around Brian in recording studios. Each of them in their own unique ways were finding their songwriting and production paths.

A new recording contract was signed with Warner Brother Records. The group would be a part of the Reprise label with the opportunity for their own Brother Records logo to be imprinted on the new label.

During the recording of their first album for Reprise, there was some special creative energy present in the studio. 

Each band member contributed to the songwriting. Brian was more active in the production. Recording engineer, Stephen Desper, superbly captured the richness of the instrumentation and vocals with each song. What transpired is that the band really worked individually and collectively on this record. A harmony, a cohesiveness existed.

The album named Sunflower was released on August 31, 1970. Despite supportive promotional efforts from Warner/Reprise, the album was a commercial failure. But, the critics, like Rolling Stone magazine’s, Jim Miller, loved it. From lots of angles, Mr. Miller gave the album high marks for many valid reasons.

Sunflower turns 50 this year. 

Unlike my old bag of bones, Sunflower has aged well.

If your ears have never listened to this album, you need to be brave and explore.

And what is really interesting about Sunflower is that the album in a unique way became a rejuvenation point for the Beach Boys. 

The next four years charted an unexpected rediscovery by American fans that brought the band acclaim for their concert performances and their studio recordings.

I could easily walk you through every track of Sunflower, but I will leave you with this one—“Add Some Music To Your Day.”

This song is like a gentle anthem of praise to music. 

And right in the middle, Carl Wilson’s lungs swell like the crest of a Big Sur wind blown wave, and he sings in his sweetest angel voice these true words:  “Music when you’re alone is like a companion for your lonely soul.”

I wonder how many lonely souls found a companion in the music of Brian Wilson?

My hunch is lots of people found that companion in his songs.

But, I’m thankful that Brian’s own soul found a companion in music too.

Happy Birthday Brian Wilson!

I pray there will be many more.

And for anyone who took the time to read this post, take Brian’s advice—go add some music to your day. 

It will be good for your soul.

Honored to have an op-ed piece in the Richmond Times-Dispatch today:

https://www.richmond.com/opinion/columnists/bill-pike-column-tough-work/article_42aefcb6-e008-5fef-9a3b-a04625be2604.html

For many reasons, June 9 is probably a special day for lots of people.

But June 9, 2020 was a hooray day for our friend, Lynn Berry. 

Mrs. Berry is a cancer survivor. This past Tuesday marked year number 15 for her being cancer free.

I don’t know about you, but I will take some good news like that in our current upside down world.

In fact, I will celebrate anyone’s proper beat down of cancer.

Of all the things human beings are asked to contend with in their lives, I despise cancer more than anything.

I will never ever, ever, ever forgive cancer for robbing the life of my mother.

My sister is a breast cancer survivor. I can still hear the pain in her voice from the afternoon she tracked me down by phone to share her rotten news.

And that’s the thing about cancer, it is rotten. Rotten to its cellular core. It has no redeeming qualities at all. 

Cancer is the evil of all evils, the meanest of the meanest. Cancer respects no one, I mean no one.

 Cancer doesn’t care if you are 3 or 93. Cancer doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, kind hearted, or mean spirited like cancer. Cancer has no conscience.

I still remember the e-mail from my cousin Alice when she shared the news about her three year old grandson, Eoin. He had been diagnosed with a form of childhood leukemia.

Eoin and his family were lucky. He, his parents, family, friends, and an extraordinary team of nurses and doctors beat it back.

I still wear my orange wrist band that states:  Eoin is a fighter.

Think about your own personal lives. Take a minute, remember the people you know or have known who have been involved in a skirmish with cancer. The names, faces, and connections add up too quickly.

A long time ago, Chester Fritz, a legendary football coach in the Richmond area once told me this little nugget. When your team’s quarterback goes back to throw a pass only one good thing can happen. That good thing is a receiver on the quarterback’s team catches the pass.

Perhaps the same can be said about cancer. The only good thing that can come from a diagnosis is that a person is able to battle the demon out of his/her body for eternity.

For 14 months, I had the privilege of pinch hitting as the school board representative for the Tuckahoe District on the Henrico County School Board. In fact, the member I replaced resigned to devote all of her energy to battle cancer out of her body.

While serving, I had to decide if I wanted to run to fill that spot for a four year term. I thought a lot about the possibility. Discussed what would be involved with my wife and some wise friends.

I concluded two things. Even though I love public education, I am not a politician. Second, I am not a fundraiser. I could not in good conscience ask a friend for a hundred dollars toward my campaign. I would rather that donation go to a good cause, like cancer research.

Perhaps, you remember Daffy Duck from the Warner Brothers Looney Tunes cartoons. From time to time in his own unique phrasing Daffy stated: “You’re despicable.”

Now, I don’t mean to offend you, but in America what we spend to have a candidate elected as president is despicable.

According to an article written by Christopher Ingraham for the April 14, 2017 edition of the Washington Post the estimated price for the entire 2016 presidential campaign was 2.4 billion dollars. Add another 4 billion, and that would include the amount for the congressional elections for the same year.

Despicable.

Thankfully, our research dollars toward  cancer are billions over that 2016 campaign total. 

But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t be wiser with campaign pennies. 

Wonder if a redirected campaign penny allowed a researcher in a lab to discover the cure, and in a blink, despicable cancer was gone.

But, until that day, I will be thankful for Lynn Berry’s 15 years of telling cancer to go to hell.

In that journey, I am thankful for her family, friends, nurses, and doctors that have been and will continue to be a part of her success.

And somewhere in that long, long road I am sure Lynn is thankful for all of the prayers.

Perhaps, Romans 12:12 states it best: Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. 

Amen.

Hooray for Mrs. Berry!

I know what you are thinking. 

Bill, there is something wrong with you. 

At the age of 66, is it true that you still enjoy doing yard work?

Yes, I confess I do.

With yard work,  there is only one thing that garners lots of non-church language—leaf raking. I despise it. If rankings were given, I suspect our Richmond neighborhood would have one of the highest ratios of fallen leaves per square inch as any place in America. 

Since I was kid, I have always puttered around in yards. First, out in my parent’s yard on West Front Street in Burlington. And gradually, I had a few yards that I took care of during the summers for neighbors.

When our oldest daughter and her family lived in Chicago, I even did some landscaping on the grounds of their condo building. 

Neighbors where my in-laws once lived in Farmington, Connecticut tried to steal me away for projects in their yards. 

When they asked me about helping them out, my standard answer was—you can’t afford me. I have three kids in college, or we’re planning a wedding. These nice people would nod, laugh, and continue their walk with disappointment.

And continuing with a relative connection, I’ve helped out in the yards owned by my sister and her husband too. Their farm yard in Snow Camp, North Carolina is a beauty.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, and I have even done yard work in the rental houses where our youngest daughter lives in North Carolina and our son in Richmond.

Now, our son his wife and their two daughters are in their first house just across Patterson Avenue from us.

This spring, the Commander Supreme, our daughter-in-law’s father, our son, and I have blitzed their backyard. For whatever reason, this backyard had been neglected by many previous owners.

 I fully expected some unclassified creature who had been hiding out in all of the debris and undergrowth since the founding of Jamestown to lurch forward and scare the living daylights out of me. Thankfully, that surprising lurch never happened.

But, all of this investment of time and energy into this yard did lead me to share the following observation with our son. 

One afternoon I told him, “You know it has finally dawned on me, that your mother and I have spent more time working in your yard, than you ever spent working in our yard at home.” He just chuckled.

I’ve helped out on the grounds at three schools where I worked during my education career, and from time to time I do some trimming and weeding on the grounds of our church. 

The other day a co-worker noted that I had done some work in one of the church gardens. She complimented me, and went on to recommend that taking care of people’s yards could be something I could do when I really retire. 

I can see the sign on the side of a truck now:  

Billy Bill’s Yard Care

    ( will work for beer and pound cake)

Over the last few years, the Commander Supreme has taken a keen interest in various aspects of our yard. The Commander has quite an eye. She has become a meticulous trimmer. And somedays, her assignments really wear me out.

But, I think that is one of the things I enjoy about the yard work—it is often a good work out. On those brutal humidity laden days, I believe I sweat just as much if not more than if I had gone for an early morning run.

If I happen to spend a summer day working in our yard, and helping out in the yard of our elderly neighbor across the street, then I know these words from Ecclesiastes 5:12 will hold true for me:  “The sleep of a laborer is sweet.”

During this COVID-19 isolation in our bi-weekly Zoom conversations with our college friends, yard work has been a common theme. Maybe, the biggest chuckle came when we learned that one pal uses a small blow torch on weeds.

Yesterday, in our Zoom chatter, this statement surfaced—“Life is tricky.”

Over the course of the last week, we have seen that life is tricky.

Why is life tricky?

Well, there are lots of possible answers.

But, just maybe, some of those answers are tucked deep down in our souls.

I sense that we have reached a point where those tucked away items need to be brought out and carefully placed in the sunlight.

They need to become conversation, opportunities to listen, to learn, and to gently push us out of our comfort zones.

I recently read an article by Dave Hyde, a sportswriter, for the Sun Sentinel, a south Florida newspaper. Mr. Hyde was writing about the passing of legendary Miami Dolphin football coach, Don Shula.

Mr. Hyde recalled the first press conference after Coach Shula had been hired. A reporter asked if he had a plan over a three to five year span to turn the losing Dolphins around. Coach Shula’s response was very simple, “My plan is to go to work.”

And go to work he did, he turned the team around. 

Right now in America, we must commit to “go to work.” 

Coach Shula saw a challenge, an opportunity.

America too has a challenge, an opportunity.

In some ways for a long, long time we have neglected our challenges.

When yard work is neglected, the challenge to get the yard back in shape is more difficult.

What lies before America is hard work, but it is work that must be done.

If I really love our country, then I must “go to work” so that I can be a part of helping our country solve our challenges.

I have four good reasons to support why I need to “go to work.” 

Take a look at this photo from our backyard.

It is a classic, a younger brother spraying his older sister on a warm spring afternoon.

I owe to the future of our four grandchildren and all children in America  to “go to work.”

Like my soul works in the yard, my soul needs to “go to work” for the future.

Whether you want to admit it or not, your soul needs it too.

And when we make this commitment, like the laborer in Ecclesiastes our sleep will be better.

On the morning of Sunday, May 31, I was bad. 

I did not Zoom with our Sunday school class, nor did I tune in via uStream for our church service at 11.

Instead, I was in our son’s backyard. 

Along with one of his friends, and our daughter-in-law’s father, we had been recruited to put the finishing touches of assembly on a swing set. 

 Just in case you don’t know, swing sets aren’t simple swing sets anymore. They are now elaborate play sets with all kinds of bells and whistles. 

The assemblage requires at the very least an on call consultant who has the ability to interpret the very simple instructions and drawings in the very thick manual. In this case, our son was lucky, the consultant was his very capable wife, who at least read the manual. 

I confess, I was tardy in arriving, but I did bring along the requested tools—a sledge hammer, 8 foot step ladder, and a drill.

My assignment was to figure out the linkage for the three swing options. The results were simple—I failed. But, after staring into the instruction page for 3 hours, 44 minutes, and 17 seconds I finally figured it out.

Turns out, my son, who I still love dearly, gave me the wrong pack of caliper clips for my assignment.

While I was staring into that instruction page, I took a phone call from my friend, Katie Gooch. Katie is the Director of the Pace Center for student ministries(Wesley Foundation) on the campus of Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU). 

Katie’s programming is housed in the former Pace United Methodist Church at the corner of Pine and Franklin just across from Richmond’s Monroe Park. Unfortunately, Katie was calling to give me some discouraging news. Her building had been a target from the demonstrations related to the protests of George Floyd’s death.

Out of the blue, a few years ago, I was asked to serve as the property chair for the Board of Higher Education for the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church. I basically was given the responsibility of keeping an eye on the Wesley Foundation properties on college campuses across Virginia. 

I knew the Pace building well, and I listened intently as Katie walked me through the damage. We talked, and she sketched out a game plan for securing the building. Her plan made sense, and Katie promised to follow-up as she organized her plan.

Without too many more hiccups, the play set came together. The final finishing touches were tweaked, and of course the final seal of inspection and approval came from, Josie, our soon to be three year old granddaughter.

Just as we were breaking for lunch, Katie called again to let me know that a team was assembling at Pace at 1 p.m. If I was available, she requested that I bring an extra step ladder and head down to assist.

With the play set christened by Josie, I departed for Pace.

I drove down Patterson Avenue, and then hooked a left on to Monument Avenue via North Thompson Street. It was a beautiful blue sky afternoon, perfect temperature. I saw people on the grassy medians of Monument sunbathing, some strolling with their dogs, and others just sitting in the sunshine. 

The deeper I drove down Monument, the more the traffic increased. And then, as I started to encounter the Civil War monuments, I saw what was creating the stir—the monuments had been severely defaced by the actions of some of Saturday night’s protestors. I did not stop and gawk, but the messages and damage was significant.

Monument changes to Franklin after the last statue, and at a house of worship further down Franklin, I noted plywood being installed over windows. Not sure if that was a preventative measure or responding to damage.

I reached Pace and found a place to park along Pine Street. The crew was already busy cutting plywood. Twelve windows had been damaged— nine along the back alley, and three facing Pine Street. It appeared the protesters picked up anything loose and hurled that object toward the windows.

Luckily, none of the stained glass windows surrounding the Sanctuary were damaged. But, it took the volunteers quite a bit of time to gingerly remove the sharp edged shards from the old metal window frames.

There was a bit of graffiti spray painted on the alley side brick wall. I’m sure attempting to remove it will be painful.

But, maybe in some respects, the Pace building was lucky. Ask the loading dock area of the VCU high-rise dorm that sits beside Pace. The dock and lots of its receptacles for removing trash and other items was torched. I mean in some instances melted to the ground.

Katie asked one of the volunteers to paint some kind messages on the plywood. Offering Pace as a source of help and hope for the community during this tragic crisis.

A group photo was taken of the COVID-19 masked volunteers. Katie and her property manager, Jean, worked out an additional security measure for the front doors. And then, I headed back home with no intention of working my way back along Monument.

It has been a few years, but I have never forgotten this quote in the Richmond Times-Dispatch when former United States Defense Secretary, Robert Gates, spoke at the Richmond Forum. Gates told the audience:  “The United States faces threats from extremists and unstable regimes around the world, but it’s the nation’s own political incivility that poses the gravest risk.”

America has been an imperfect union for too long. At this stage of my life, I would not call the state of our union sound. And, if I am truly honest with myself, our union has never been perfectly sound. There has always been something gnawing at our veneer. 

We are a spiraling mess. We are a country more capable of hurling astronauts into space than we are at solving years of social injustice, unrest, and our own incivility. 

I am a part of that spiraling mess.

I haven’t tried hard enough to fully comprehend and understand what is like to be an African American in our country.

And I haven’t tried hard enough to apply in my daily living the parable of the Good Samaritan. 

Jesus told the questioning lawyer how to live his life. Follow the example of the Good Samaritan in caring for your neighbor—“go and do likewise.”

When have I truly gone and done likewise?

When have I truly been the one who initiated mercy in the moment of crisis?

When have I advocated for justice, mercy, and understanding?

I think God will be disappointed in my answers.

Why?

Fear.

Fear has kept me in my silo.

Fear has prevented me from going out and doing likewise.

But, fear did not prevent the Good Samaritan from showing mercy.

Why?

Because the Good Samaritan at that very moment of decision grounded his actions in these words from the Bible:  “love your neighbor as yourself.”

In the movie, The Green Book, I’m not sure which screenwriter Nick Vallelonga, Brian Hayes Currie, or Peter Farrelly wrote this line:  “It takes courage to change people’s hearts.” 

Those words ring true to me.

God’s disappointment in me is really aimed at my heart.

And his real question for me is very simple.

In turbulent times, do I have the courage to change my heart, but also to help people change their hearts?

Heart changing isn’t easy.

Heart changing is grounded in: “Go and do likewise, love your neighbor as yourself.”