might be baloney

On the morning of Sunday, February 10, I was a tad late arriving at our church to open it up. Instead of 5:30, it was closer to 6 by the time I pulled into the parking lot.

This was commitment Sunday, the first step for our congregation pledging their financial support for another year. Perhaps, the unwritten name for this Sunday should be Tension Sunday or Anxiety Sunday, but that’s another story.

I entered the building at a quicker pace. Shutdown the alarm, and started my routine—unlocking doors, turning on lights, checking PA systems, and gauging the temperaments of our three boilers. It was 19 degrees this morning. 

As soon as I walked in the Sanctuary, I knew the steam boiler was being cantankerous. I double checked the thermostat. The setting had not been changed. So, I walked down into Eaton Hall where this boiler lives.

In the mechanical room, my relatively young friend sat idle, cold, and with its red alarm light on. My internal muttering started—you blankety, blankety, blankety, blank. Yes, in God’s house on a Sunday morning, but I was muttering internally, so maybe He couldn’t hear me.

I hit the reset button. The red light went away. The boiler fired. My heart had hope. The boiler sounded like it wanted to work. I heard the cadence of its normal clicks, the water level was good, and then silence. In a blink, the boiler shutdown, the red alarm light beamed back to life. The only sound was the return of my blankety blanking now a whisper of exasperation.

I walked back in the Sanctuary and placed an SOS call for service to our HVAC company. Then, I continued my opening up routine.

The routine was predictably normal until I came into the foyer where the women’s restroom for the Welcome Center is located. My nose picked up an odor, a stench. I knew the culprit, a small floor drain in the closet for the hot water heater. 

This is an under used drain, and when the water in the trap dries out the wonderful aromas of the connecting sewer line seep into the air. More blankety blanking, except now I’m sure the big guy upstairs can hear my whining. 

I remove the drain covering, start a flow of hot water from the large custodial sink down the hall, pour some Lysol down the stinky drain, and then pour more hot water down the drain. The odor dissipates, and I continue the building opening.

A phone call comes alerting me that the HVAC technician is in route. By that time, our altar guild leader, Mrs. Berry, and senior pastor, Larry Lenow, had arrived. I let them know about the blankety blank boiler, and I walk down to my office.

At 7:25, my phone rings. I expect it is the HVAC technician, but it is my wife, the Commander Supreme. As soon as she starts to talk, I know something is wrong. She isn’t in tears, she is in pain. While reaching to shutdown the alarm clock with her left arm, something went wrong. My wife, the Commander Supreme isn’t a whiner like me. She needs me at home immediately.

No sooner than I hang up with the Commander, my phone rings again. It is the HVAC technician. 

He has never been to Trinity before. I figure out where he is on our grounds. I find him, and direct him to the closest entrance to the mechanical room. 

On the way, to the mechanical room, I let Mrs. Berry know about the challenge awaiting me at home. 

I get the technician into the mechanical room, explain what has transpired, apologize for leaving,  and head home.

At the house, upstairs, I find the Commander in pain, but trying to ready herself for the ride to the emergency room. Somehow, we complete those now cumbersome tasks without too much blankety blanking.

Gingerly, we make it down the stairs. I grab her coat and purse. I get her in the car and buckled in. Then I realize my wallet is in the house. Another unwanted pause, I hustle back in and out.

The drive to Henrico Doctors is short, but not without pain. Some bumps in the road and quick turns jar the left shoulder.

We park into front of the emergency room entrance. Slowly, we walk in, give the attendant a brief explanation, he quickly takes basic check-in info, the computer reacts positively, a young nurse walks us back into a singular room, an explanation for the visit is given, and then I go move our car.

Things move pretty quick. A doctor appears, more questions, then a plan is hatched—IV for pain and X-rays are ordered. 

A nurse arrives. The commander is hooked up to a vital signs monitor. The nurse bravely searches my wife’s overly soft veins for an entry point. Even though I’m not looking at this expedition, I announce that I am bailing out. Poking needles and blood work are not one of my passions. 

The x-ray tech arrives, and the Commander is briskly whisked away.

She returns from the x-ray work, she is reconnected to the monitor and the IV, and we wait for the doctor.

It isn’t too long, and he comes back. He confirms the shoulder has popped out of joint, no tears or chips can be seen.

The doctor explains a mild, short lasting sedative will be used, so that he can properly manipulate the shoulder and pop it back in place.

But, he did offer some comforting words about the sedative and how a patient might react to it. With this sedative, he states:  “Your breathing might stop, but don’t worry, we are well equipped to handle such an occurrence if your body reacts in that way to the sedative.” 

I’m thinking to myself, I’ve been stepping in cow pies all morning, and now you just tossed out the ultimate one.

Even though the risk is slight, the doctor is required to bring us those words of comfort.

At that point, I leave the room, and wait in a small room reserved for parents who have a child in the pediatric emergency room. 

Silently, I pray to my blankety blank Pal. I am still trying to figure out why He continues to tolerate me.

Within a short period of time, the doctor comes out. He confirms to me that the procedure went well. But, to be sure, he has ordered another set of x-rays.

I re-enter the Commander’s room. She is sleeping. She looks content. Gradually, she stirs. Then sleep returns. The nurse checks in, more time is needed before we depart to allow the sleepy drug to wear off. 

There is one more follow-up from the Doctor the x-rays confirm the shoulder is back in place.

I sit and listen. 

I hear the cries of a child. The pediatric ER is just a few steps from us. Next door, ER staff and ambulance personnel are prepping an elderly patient to return to a retirement facility. I can hear the care in their voices as they transition the patient from one gurney to the other.

The extremes of the human condition are present everyday of the year in this hospital.

And of course, before we leave, the grim bandit of finance appears. 

Armed with a computer on a cart, I joke with the finance person—I was hoping we could escape before your arrival. She laughs.

We pay what the hospital requires for this visit, and since we paid on the spot, there was a slight discount. Even though our health care system is out of whack, I am thankful that we have health insurance.

The grogginess has dissipated. Arm in a sling, loaded with paperwork, we walk out.

It has been an interesting story morning— a stubborn boiler, a stinky floor drain, and a pesky shoulder. What more could a director of operations want?

 Well, how about wedding vows?

Maybe you remember some of those words especially—“in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,”

Come on Bill, are you going to tell me after all of that blankety blanking you did about the boiler and the floor drain that you now “love and cherish them in their sickness and health”?

Well, I might. Think about it.

 It is tough being a boiler. Imagine generating all of that heat. That’s a lot of stress, parts are going to wear out.

And for the floor drain, just consider being connected to the flushing of all that human body waste. We’re not talking about pleasant fragrances lilting through the air like a French perfume on a perfect spring morning.

So maybe, I do have a different perspective for the boiler and the floor drain.

But, I do think about those wedding vows and that young ER doctor and those troublesome words he used —“ your breathing might stop.”

If I lost my Commander Supreme, my breathing might as well stop too.

Life is unpredictable. 

Doesn’t matter who we are.

If I expect to have a chance at surviving boilers, floor drains, and the Commander Supreme’s wacky shoulder, I need to improve my connection to 1 Corinthians 13:

 Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

At home, I have a t-shirt from the Wesley Foundation at Virginia Tech. The director of this campus ministry, Bret Gresham, gave me the t-shirt a few years ago. 

Printed on the back of the t-shirt are the following words:

“Love out loud”

Remember life is unpredictable.

Loving out loud is acceptable.

If I can blankety blank out loud, I can love out loud too.

I suspect every church has one, or maybe had one—a pound cake maker.

Growing up at Davis Street United Methodist Church in Burlington, North Carolina, I remember Ethel Foster’s pound cake.  She had the touch. There was nothing like Mrs. Foster’s pound cake, and the congregation knew it.

 At any covered dish dinner, Ethel Foster had a pound cake on the table of desserts. I suspect her cigar smoking husband, Clifford, was probably sad at the end of those events. I’m guessing the cake platter that was taken home only held pound cake crumbs.

Perhaps, you are thinking, but Bill how about your own mother’s pound cake? Well, Louise’s cake baking skills fell into two distinct styles—angel food and German chocolate. Each were winners in their own right.

My brother-in-law’s mother, Jan, is quite the pound cake maker. Word on the street is that Jan at one time had a special source for her vanilla—the local pharmacy.

Depending upon your research source, the origin of pound cake can be traced back to northern Europe. Everyone agrees that the name pound cake comes from the four key ingredients: flour, butter, eggs, and sugar. A pound of each of those ingredients was used to make the cake, thus the name pound cake. (Wiki)

Even though I failed in my confirmation attempts, somewhere in my memory is an interview I heard with journalist, Cokie Roberts. Early in her career a boss told her to eat pound cake to sustain her through the long hours of developing a story on the run. The point was all of the eggs in pound cake offered protein. I’m sure a skilled dietician might counter that opinion with—yes those eggs offer protein, but what about all that butter and sugar?

Regardless, pound cake is a Southern staple, and there is nothing like a homemade pound cake. It is a soothing comfort, grounded in hospitality, and a welcome guest for any occasion.

But, I also have a worry, a concern, and I’ll go ahead and state it— a fear.  I sense we are losing our pound cake makers, particularly at churches.

On January 15, 2018, members of Trinity United Methodist Church said goodbye to Lane Dickinson. A celebration of Lane’s life was held that day. Lane was quite a lady. She had many admirable traits. I loved her honesty. Lane never beat around the bush with her opinion. She had a servant’s heart. And, I’m sorry, but I loved Lane for her pound cake. There was nothing like it.

Her family knew Lane’s pound cake reputation, so they included her recipe on the back of the funeral bulletin. 

For years, the congregation at our church longed for a gathering place after each worship service. We had no space large enough for people to chat and interact with each other. Where people gathered in lobbies and hallways created bottlenecks, human traffic jams.

In February 2010, our new Welcome Center was dedicated. An unused exterior garth that sat between the Sanctuary and the Children’s Wing was transformed into a magnificent gathering space. In this case, the garth had been a rarely used garden plot, with a brick floor, surrounded on three sides by brick walls and facing a connecting brick walkway.

The Welcome Center allows us to gather after worship services, but it has become much more too. At weddings, it is the staging area for bridesmaids and the bride to enter the Sanctuary. We have hosted meetings, dinners, and the space allows us to stage chairs for extra seating at Christmas and Easter.

But, I think the most important work the Welcome Center does is it provides comfort to families at a time of loss. How can a room do this? Well, if a family makes the request, our bereavement team will stage a reception for the family and their guests immediately following the funeral service.

This reception is simply heartfelt hospitality. 

Families are sustained by fellowship with their friends and with the food provided. These receptions take an ounce of pressure off the grieving family. Their sadness is temporarily distracted, and I think that is good for them.

But since, January 15, 2018, I’ll selfishly admit these receptions have been bittersweet for me—no more pound cakes from Lane Dickinson have graced those tables.

And, I’ll add another concern to the absence of a pound cake. When I look at the age of our bereavement teams, I wonder how we will replace them? At some point, these women as strong as they are will wear out. They will hang up their aprons.

Churches today are faced with lots of challenging questions. 

I never suspected that one of those questions might be what will churches do when the pound cake makers are gone?

What will churches do when bereavement teams age out and hang up their aprons?

No matter how we frame our lives, our lives evolve around our connection to people. 

As I reflect back upon every job I’ve had, any success I found was anchored in people. The same can be said for my church experiences—people. My early molding and shaping came from my family, and the people who surrounded them. 

Pound cake makers and bereavement teams are people, people with giving hearts. Their hearts sustain people in need.

As churches look to figure out their futures, it is all about people. Understanding the needs of people will be one of the keys. Meeting those needs will always be tied to having a congregation with compassionate hearts.

Maybe, you are thinking, Bill you are too grounded in the past. Pound cakes and receptions for grieving families are old school.

You know, you might be right.

But there is going to be a point in your life and my life when I’m going to need a piece of homemade pound cake and the love of giving hearts. 

For a long, long, long, long time churches have been the place where people can find that sustenance in times of need.

Churches can’t forget this.

 As churches peer into their futures, searching for a path to sustain them, I hope homemade pound cake and giving hearts are not overlooked.

  Monday, August 20, 2018

Well, we were packed; and ready for our day of flying back to Richmond.

Abby was going to drive us to the Flyway in Van Nuys. There we would take a bus into the madness at LAX.

Art was leaving for work, and we were able to say goodbye and thank him for all of his hospitality.

Seemed like it was going to be another quiet, warm day out here in the high desert. The sun was just about finished casting its early morning shadows as it continued to rise. Our pace was calm, we made last minute checks of our bags and the room where stayed, and then a text arrived on Betsy’s phone.

The airline was notifying her that our flight had been canceled.

Instantly, this tranquil California morning became chaos. The Flyway bus plan was tossed. Abby was going to drive us to LAX. We quickly moved about the house, grabbing our bags, and backpacks and hustled them and us into the car. Clearly, this was going to be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Abby worked her way through the twisting canyon road, and in minutes she had us out on the highway. The pace and progress was good along this long route. We had no delays, no slight pauses, we were always moving. Even when we connected with the larger freeways we were optimistic that getting to LAX and meeting the departure requirements was going to work.

Abby kept her focus, choosing the correct lanes, making the right moves. In a few spots, we slowed a bit, but we kept moving. Soon, we were approaching the exit for LAX.

Amazingly, we made it off the freeway, onto the main street heading to the airport, and then it grabbed us. 

Our luck changed. The luck that had escorted us from Agua Dulce to the LAX exit vanished. That luck disappeared like jet wash on a runway. It was gone with no intention of returning. We were stuck, stopped, frozen, immobile. Even when a stoplight changed, we didn’t move, not an inch.

All hope was gone. No miracles were to be found.

Tension inside our car could have ruptured a pressure relief valve on any type of pipeline. I could picture a newspaper headline in my mind— Church Employee From Virginia Arrested After His Meltdown In Stalled LAX Traffic.

Gradually, we started to move. But, the movement would not register on the speedometer. We moved at slug pace.  I suspect a sure-footed turtle on a sidewalk with a good GPS would beat us to our departing terminal.

Even when there was movement, it was short-lived. Lanes of traffic had to converge into the airport’s travel lanes. At one stalled point, I briefly got out of the car to look ahead. That scan only brought more discouragement as I saw no hope.

Somehow, we continue to creep forward, and we reach the point of the log jam, and at that moment, I almost had that meltdown.

I have a deep respect for police officers. In my previous life as a school administrator, I worked with many police officers who were always of great assistance to me no matter how difficult the circumstances.

Right at this critical merge of irate drivers and their passengers sat three LA police officers on their motorcycles. That’s correct, they were perched on top of their motorcycles taking in this scene not even contemplating an attempt to sort out this mess by directing traffic.

I couldn’t believe it. So, I used really bad juvenile adult judgment. As we drove by the officers, I rolled down my window.  I shouted out, “Thanks a lot!” One of them heard me as he looked in my direction. 

At that point, I thought Abby was going reach into the back seat and grab me by the throat, but luckily for me she still had to drive the car.

Abby got us to our terminal. We made sure we had everything out of the car, said our goodbyes, and hustled into the madness of trying to get on a flight back to Richmond.

Gradually, the luck returned. The airline booked us on another flight. We had a bit of a wait in an overly crowded terminal. 

Eventually, the opportunity to board the plane started. The flight was packed. We taxied away from the terminal. The pilot waited for permission from the air traffic controllers to depart. A flurry of activity continued around us. Planes were landing, taking off, and poking along on tarmacs.  I’m not sure an airport is ever motionless.

Our clearance came. The pilot goosed those massive engines and all that power lifted this big bird up. He made a wide turn and for several minutes we were out over the Pacific. I could see its magnificent blue surface shined and polished by a sparkling sun. 

The plane continued to climb and turn. Soon the Pacific blue was gone. 

But, once again, California had done its duty. 

California and all its charms had etched into me more memories. Memories that I will hold and cherish until the good Lord has had enough of me.

 

Our next door neighbor, George, is 87. 

Just before Christmas, George hit a bad streak.

One afternoon, he described to me being run off a busy road by an aggressive driver. George’s car was damaged, but he had the car repaired and made no police or insurance report. All of this commotion happened too quick for him to process. I sense the events of that encounter lie in a state of confusion in his mind.

Then on the afternoon of Saturday, December 22, we were  hosting an engagement party for our youngest daughter and her fiancee. I don’t remember who, but someone at the party caught my attention and told me I was needed next door.

So, I walk over to George’s house. His old Ford station wagon is on the back of a tow truck. Our neighbor in all of his tall, lanky self sees me and starts telling me what has transpired.

It takes some doing, but we are able to get his other car out of the driveway, and the tow truck driver is able to back the wrecked wagon into the driveway.

Another neighbor, Barbara, is walking to our house for the party, and she stops to assist me in getting George settled and back into his house. A plate of food arrives from the party, we ask George for his assurance that he will eat, get some rest, and worry about sorting this all out on Sunday.

Of course, his stubborn mind doesn’t work that way, but at least we said it.

On Sunday morning, December 23, I have returned to our home  from opening up our church. The phone rings. It is George. He tells me he is having chest pains. He wants me to drive him to the hospital.

I make arrangements to do this.

Slowly, we make it out of his house and into my car.

The drive to the hospital is short. Immediately, the staff at the emergency room entrance respond to George because of the words—“chest pain.”

George has three children. I contact the daughter who we have worked with before in previous health situations. She makes arrangements to drive to Richmond.

Back in the Emergency Room, lots of questions are being asked and tests are scheduled.

Eventually, George is transferred to a room. His daughter is in route. By noon, I’m heading back home and to church.

George stays in the hospital through Christmas. I go to visit him the day after Christmas. Tomorrow, Thursday, I’m driving my 90 year old mother-in-law back home to Connecticut.

I walk into George’s hospital room. His mind is a restless whirlwind.

Apparently, the chest pain was accident related—chest hitting the steering wheel.

He wants to go home. 

The doctor wants him to do six days of rehab in a local facility. George is fighting this. A few years ago, he had a not so good experience at a rehab facility after cracking some ribs from a fall. Despite the disorganization in his mind, George hasn’t forgotten this experience.

From the soundtrack to the movie Midnight Cowboy, singer/songwriter, Harry Nilsson, had a hit record with his recording of the Fred Neil song—“Everybody’s Talking”. I feel like a line of lyric from that song characterizes George at this stage of his life:  “Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

His daughter, the doctor, the nurses, friends from the neighborhood, everyone is talking at him, trying to gently persuade him that six days of rehab would be good. But, George isn’t buying this. He only hears the echoes in his mind of the not so pleasant experience from the previous rehab stint.

Somewhere inside of me, I sense that fear can drive stubbornness. George fears six days of rehab, so he becomes more obstinate, head-strong, difficult. 

Before, I leave George, his daughter and another friendly neighbor arrive. I encourage George to be compliant. I take his hand and offer a parting prayer.

“Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

Fear continues to drive his stubbornness. 

Internally, he has made his decision. While driving my mother-in-law back to Connecticut, George takes matters in his own hands. He gets dressed and walks out of the hospital.

It is raining. A police officer spots him, stops, picks him up,  and drives him home.

Stubbornness wins. Love and its common sense fail. 

I love our neighbor, George. 

Fear fuels every ounce of his stubbornness.

And that dogged, determination to remain at home, to hold on to the last ounce of his independence is not going to be instantly tripped up by the love of his family and neighbors. 

“Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

My hope for George is that with time, his hearing aids will allow him to truly hear. 

That will take lots of love to wear him down. 

Love grounded in patience and with a gentle energy that is just as strong as his unbending balkiness.

Psalm 56:3 states:  “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

George and those of us around him need to find that trust.

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Somehow, the items we brought with us are packed up and back in the cars. 

The pleasant, cool early morning temperatures will be missed. Heat and humidity are still hanging around in Richmond awaiting our return.

Heading out to the highway the familiar town landmarks are fading out of view.

 I hope Mammoth Lakes and the whole state of California and other parched areas in the western parts of the United States receive rain or lots of winter snows. It is mighty, mighty dry out here. So dry that it feels like even a harsh, misplaced word could spark the start of a fire.

All along the drive back home, I’m reminded of the landscape. As I have stated before, no matter the direction I look there is a view that captures my attention. I hope we will have another opportunity to visit the Eastern Sierras. 

As we work our way south, the landscape continues to change. Nothing like this back home.

We stop in Lone Pine to charge up the car’s batteries. In fact, the charging station is in the back parking lot of the Lone Pine Film History Museum. Recharging doesn’t take long.

 

While waiting, I take some photos of the Trails Motel. A friend back in Richmond at one time had family ties to this place. It appears to be well maintained and holding its own.

With the charging complete, Art has us back on the road.  

Somewhere well south of Lone Pine, we can see this black plume of smoke. As we come upon this extensive plot of wind turbines, we can see that one of those wind turbines is on fire. It is burning up. There is no indication that anyone is concerned.

This ride back to Agua Dulce featured another opportunity to learn about an excursion Art took with a friend. They hitch hiked across America. Art is a lot braver than me, and that was a long, long time ago. In the craziness and uncertainty of our world today, hitch hiking appears to have lost a bit of its allure.

Gradually, we make it back to the house. Lucy has been picked up and is back ruling the roost. 

It is a lazy afternoon.

Later, we take a short ride into Agua Dulce for dinner at the Maria Bonita Mexican Restaurant. I’ve never had a bad meal at this place—good, good Mexican food creations.

After dinner, Betsy and I do a final check of our luggage prep. 

Hard to believe we’re heading home tomorrow.

California Day 13: Back To Crowley Lake by Bill Pike 8/18/18

I’ll admit it, my heart wasn’t really up for going back to fish Crowley Lake this morning. I was worried about embarrassing Art again with my imperfect fly rod skills. 

But, like they say when you lose your balance and fall as you attempt to learn to ride a bike, you have to get off the ground and get back on the bike for another try.

So, I’m tagging along for another try at Crowley.

We make the drive, park the car, make the short walk down to the dock, and start prepping the boat. I’m reminded of the humor from the dock attendant on Thursday. I’m sure I could be a good target for some comedy with my angling skills. That thought makes me chuckle.

It doesn’t take long as the boat engine fires, and Art has us creeping out of the harbor.

We’re heading back to the same general spot that we fished on Thursday.

Other fisherman are in the area as Art positions the boat and drops the anchors.

With the rods rigged, we start to work. It is another pretty morning, and I’m just hoping I don’t repeat Thursday’s performance.

For a long period of time, we work the water, but no bumps for either of us.

Hearts of fishermen are constructed differently. They hold on longer with hope. Hope that a fish will be drawn to the bait, lure, or fly at the end of the fishing line.

I think at this point, my hope is beginning to fade. It is quiet on the water—not much action around us.

But that suddenly changes.

Art has a tug on his line. This is not just a teaser, a real tug. The rod is bent.

He can feel the weight of the fish. Excitement is rushing through his veins. The fish is making his presence known. 

And then a funny thing happens. The fish starts to work his way around the boat.  

And then a real act of heartfelt courage occurs, Art hands the rod to me.

Now the pressure is on, I can feel this fish, I have seen him break the surface, if I lose this fish, I’ll be banned from fishing in California and maybe the rest of the world.

Thankfully, Art is coaching me as I work the fish around the boat. My ears are working taking in the recommendations from Art. 

The fish is fighting. Hoping that I will make a bad move. 

Art keeps up the coaching, he is ready to land the fish with his net in hand. Gradually, the fish tires,  and I work him toward the side of the boat where Art is waiting.

Gently, he positions the net under the fish, and we have him. 

It is a beautiful brown trout.

I’m thankful that I didn’t lose this fish. Photos are snapped, and then Art gently releases the brownie back into the lake.

Art quickly reworks the line, and he puts me in his position at the back of the boat.

I cast out the line, no disaster occurs. The indicator is properly positioned on the line and from what I can tell in the water.

Within a matter of minutes, my line is bumped. The indicator sinks, and I react by hopefully setting the hook.

Sure enough, the fishing gods at Crowley are with me. I have another good sized trout on the line.

Art’s coaching begins. The fish is tugging, attempting to rid itself of this fake bait, hook, and plastic line.

Whatever move the fish makes, Art, from his experiences tells me how to counter the fish.

Again, the skills of the coach prevail. Art is positioned with the net, and he lands a rainbow trout. The trout is probably equal in size to the previous brown trout.  

I feel extremely lucky to have caught back to back really nice trout. But, what really humbled me during this excitement was the willingness of Art to give up the rod on that first fish. His big heart afforded me that experience, and I will hold on to his kind sacrifice and hospitality for a long time.

We fished a bit longer, but the trout were taking a break. Pretty soon, we pulled up the anchors and headed back to the marina.

The trout success was a hot topic when we arrived back at the condo. But that was short lived as we made arrangements to drive out to McCleod Lake for a short hike.

Once again, we are blessed with another spectacular day. Lots of people are out enjoying this nice weather and all that Mammoth has to offer in the Eastern Sierras.

As we start the hike, we can see the impact of the carbon monoxide seepage as lots of once healthy trees are now bare, weather worn, skeletons. But what really catches my eyes on this hike is how clear the lake water appears.

Also, as we work the perimeter of the lake, people are scattered along in places enjoying what nature has carved out for them in this spot. No matter the activity, people seem happy and content in this beautiful setting.

The trail taps out at little over 1.5 miles. Even at a leisurely pace and with one extended stop, it doesn’t take long for us to finish the loop.

We head back into town with the hope of having lunch at Mammoth Brewing, but it is packed and there are deep lines of hungry and thirsty people.

So we take a short walk up the street for lunch at Toomey’s.  Around since 2012, Toomey’s is a favorite of locals, and its chef/owner is known for developing and showcasing his culinary skills at of all places a Mobil gas station near the entranceway into Yosemite National Park. We grab a table outside, and place  our orders.

After lunch, it is time to explore a new nano brewery in town named Black Doubt. Tucked into a tiny storefront in a shopping center, this compact brewery offers quite a punch with a variety of styles for the beer lover.  

The remainder of the afternoon was quiet. Eventually, we ended up at the pool and another stay in the jacuzzi. 

We ordered some local pizza for dinner, and tried not to think about the packing up and the drive back to Agua Dulce on Sunday morning.

I thought about the start of this last day. I was reluctant to make the fishing trip to Crowley, but look what happened. 

Thanks to Art’s kind and unselfish heart, I now have two memorable trout stories to hang on to for as long as my old heart beats.

 But what I’m really thankful for is the love, friendship, and hospitality that Abby and Art always grace us with when we make this California trip.

Someday, I’ll be too old to make this trip, and that will be sad. But hopefully, my mind will still afford me the opportunity to daydream, and replay every step, every cast, every panoramic view, and every shared laugh.

 

On Sunday, December 30, 2018, I had the privilege of speaking at all three worship services at Trinity United Methodist Church located at 903 Forest Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. The coupon graphic was created by communications specialist, Kim Johnson.

This Coupon Has No Exclusions by Bill Pike

Before we start, please join me in prayer:  Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us here this morning. Over the course of the next few minutes, slow us down, focus us, and open our hearts. In your name we pray, Amen.

Most pastors with an ounce of common sense know that for the Sunday between Christmas and the New Year, it is a good idea to book a naive, unsuspecting speaker.

 Thus, my appearance this morning, so, let’s get started.

Well, it is over. 

The hustle and bustle are gone.

 I can relax now. 

Pretty soon the remnants of Christmas will be shoved back into our attic. Forgotten until next December arrives. 

I can stop being Mr. Scrooge, the Grinch, and the despiser of all things glitter.

 Now wait a second, I know what you are thinking. 

Come on, go ahead admit it, grab your gumption, and tell me your thoughts: 

 “ Bill, how can this be? You are the snarky Scrooge, the grumpy Grinch, and Mr. Anti-Glitter all of the time, not just at Christmas.”

Well, I appreciate the courage of your constructive criticism. 

Your assessment is true. 

In fact, if it wasn’t for my wife, the Commander Supreme, there would be no Christmas at our house. 

The decorating, the Christmas cards, the gift buying, present wrapping, the baking, the meal planning, holiday personality management, and all logistics for the family are thankfully under her eagle eyes.  

When I finally decide to shop for Christmas, I’m always last minute.

I head out into the chaos, but I am not fearful. I have a secret weapon, coupons. 

Snuggly tucked into my worn wallet, I’m loaded with an assortment of coupons. 

Coupons that I have neatly cut out from the newspaper. Coupons that are going to get me the best deal ever.

Inside the store, I find the gift on my list. 

I walk to the check out line. My turn arrives. 

I hand the weary cashier my purchase and the appropriate coupon. 

The cashier scans the price tag, scans the coupon, and then politely tells me, “Sir, I’m sorry, this coupon doesn’t apply. The manufacturer excludes the item you are purchasing.”

Now, inside, I’m raging. I’m close to a nuclear meltdown.

Sherwin Williams could add a new hue to their paint chart:

Christmas Coupon Failure Red

 I should have  known better. Read the fine print.

With the spirit of Scrooge, the Grinch, and Mr. Anti-Glitter, I make the purchase. 

So much for a good deal.

But speaking of good deals, I have one for you. 

Relax, there are no exclusions, no fine print. Check out the front of this morning’s bulletin:

 

 Colossians is the twelfth book of the New Testament. It was written by the apostle Paul while he was in prison. 

The letter is written to the people of Co – los  – sae, a town smaller than a postage stamp, but where Paul had sent E-pa-phras to preach there in a new church. 

Gradually, word trickles back to Paul that all is not well with the new church start. 

A group of “false teachers” who claim to have expertise of divine matters are leading this young congregation astray. Paul sends this letter as a course correction for them.

Bible scholars break the book of Colossians into two parts: “the doctrinal section and the practical exhortations.” (May, Metzger, New Oxford Annotated Bible RSV 1973)

It is the practical application of these six verses that we need to ponder. 

These are words of encouragement from Paul, but some might suggest that Paul is giving the Colossians a not so gentle warning too.

I had no idea that Paul had expertise in fashion, but he clearly suggests that we need to clothe ourselves in compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.

And a little further along, Paul makes another clothing recommendation by stating:  “Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love.

Where are those words in my daily living? 

Where can I find them in me?

How can I apply them to those I encounter?

Why should Paul need to send me a letter reminding me that as a Christian those words should be an expected part of my daily living?

Why is it challenge for me to be compassionate and kind, while  being grounded in humility and meekness?

Where is my patience?

 Where is my love for people who are not like me, for people who I don’t understand, for people who have no reason at all to have hope?

Perhaps, in my daily living, I’m no better than that coupon full of exclusions.

If you, me, we, us are truly Christians how can compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love be buried in our fine print with an asterisk that reads:

*Oh, by the way if you are homeless, a substance abuser, a person with special needs, someone who is emotionally unstable, a refugee, someone who is traumatized, unemployed, temporarily lost, etc.—These exclusions apply: I have no compassion, no kindness, no humility, no meekness, no patience, and no love for you.

In the eight year run of the Andy Griffith Show, the producers only did one Christmas show. It was the eleventh episode in the series, and the show aired on December 19, 1960, the first year the award winning show was on television.

Bill, that was 58 years ago, how could a Hollywood script from that long ago have any relevance today?

Well, at one point early in this show, Sheriff Taylor with great determination states:  “No by dogged, there’s more than one way to pluck a buzzard.”

In this case, Sheriff Taylor was referring to Ben Weaver a local merchant who is being a buzzard behaving like a very mean spirited Scrooge on Christmas Eve.

But as is often the case in Mayberry, Ben Weaver is transformed by the townspeople who gradually wear him down with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love. 

Sometimes, I’m like Ben Weaver. 

I’m a buzzard. I need to be plucked.

I need to hear and embrace Paul’s words of encouragement. 

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love should always be a regular focus for me. Paul’s words should not be in my rear view mirror, nor should they be on the outskirts of my field of vision.

While it is important not to lose sight of those reminders, I know and you know the expectation from Paul and his boss—  as teammates we must make those words action words, not excluded or restricted words.

Back in August, I received an out of the blue nudge from God. He blindsided me, but it was a gentle blindside. 

Has God ever done that to you?

For some reason, I think God enjoys blindsiding me. I have lots of examples to prove this to you. That snowstorm on December 9 would be a case in point.

But this August nudge was to apply to fill out a term on the Henrico County School Board for the Tuckahoe District.

I did not expect to be selected.

Deep inside, I thought to myself, ok God, I think I understand your nudge—it is quite clear that you are attempting to kill me with this appointment.

Deep inside, my friends were thinking the same thing. While they were quick to congratulate me, they were also silently giving me their condolences.

So far, the learning curve for me on the School Board has been steep. Somedays my pulse is barely detectable, but I’m hanging on.

One night I was driving back from a school board meeting. I was on 64 west coming up on the 95 merge. The words on this billboard caught my eye.

It was an advertisement from the United States Marine Corps, the words were very simple:

“Battles are won within.”

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love are  battles fought within ourselves.

Paul knew that.

 God knows that.

 I wrestle every day with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love.

Remember, I’m a buzzard. I need to be plucked.

“Battles are won within.”

There are other strong words found in these verses from Colossians. We can’t gloss over:  forgive, harmony, peace, hearts, teach, wisdom, and thanks.

At age 65, I still have much to learn, and there are clearly times when I need to revisit lessons that I have been taught from an early age. There was so much wisdom around me in my younger days, I wish my heart had been a better sponge absorbing that advice.

I wonder about my heart a lot. 

While I exercise to keep my physical heart in shape,

 I wonder about my emotional heart.

Does my emotional heart have the capacity to forgive?

 Are harmony and peace in my heart somewhere?

 Is my heart truly thankful for my blessings?

Can my heart love people who are not like me?

Paul’s message to the Colossians was designed to make them think. He did not want them to miss opportunities to transform themselves, or the people they encountered on a daily basis.

Perhaps you noticed during Advent that we asked children to be scripture readers during our Sunday services.

Having children as readers broke a predictable part of our Sunday morning worship. Their voices made us listen more intently to the scripture readings.

Why was this?

Perhaps,  children are more capable of leading us to embrace Paul’s advice to the Colossians.

Maybe, children know more than we suspect about winning battles from within.

American singer, songwriter, Brian Wilson has fought a lot of battles from within. Wilson’s emotional stability, the expectations of his Beach Boys’ family, and challenges with substance abuse are well documented.

I might guess that many of you have not heard a Beach Boys’ song titled “Surf’s Up.” That song is a clear departure from the California lifestyle captured in the Beach Boys’ early recordings.

Just as Paul, references “perfect harmony, with gratitude in our hearts through our songs and praise,” to the Colossians, the closing tag of the song “Surf’s Up” is a swirl of harmony as well with one key line of lyric:

“I heard the word, a wonderful thing, a children’s song, have you listened as they played, their song is love, and the children know the way.” (Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks)

One more time—“Their song is love, and the children know the way.”

Friday afternoon, I was on Amtrak train #95. We were stopped in Ashland. After passengers had loaded and departed at this stop, the train started to slowly pull out of the town dubbed the “center of the universe.” 

I noted Christmas lights decorating the station building, and one strand of lights on a section of fencing caught my eye. The lights framed the word— Love.

Folks as we prepare to depart 2018 and board 2019, don’t be like me and toss Christmas back into your attic.

Don’t be like me, a buzzard looking to pluck the best deals in life by putting my hope in coupons that exclude and restrict.

No, if you really want to win that battle within yourself, then choose Paul’s letter to the Colossians, Chapter 3, verses 12-17.

That is best coupon for your wallet or purse. 

There are no exclusions, no expiration, and it is available for all.

None of us will have immunity from battles in 2019.

But, we can be better prepared if we ground ourselves with Paul’s wisdom, and that one key word—love.

That love was found in a manger, a long, long, long time ago.

That child has tried to teach us about love.

When it comes to love, I think my heart has been letting him down.

How about yours?

Don’t shove the love and hope of Christmas back into storage until next December.

Shove that love and hope into your heart, and use it everyday in 2019.

After all, Jesus is counting on us.

As I have stated many times, I am no Biblical scholar.

But, I do wonder about the stories in the Bible.

Maybe you do too.

One story that I wonder about quite a bit is the Christmas story.

Perhaps you recall that in the book of Luke,  God sends the angel Gabriel to have a conversation with a young lady named Mary. Mary resides in the town of Nazareth, and she is engaged to Joseph.

Gabriel really knows how to start a conversation with a young lady as he states: “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.”

Mary is pretty sharp.

We are told this is what she is thinking:  “But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.”

Gabriel continues to share God’s plan with Mary, and he begins with these words: “Do not be afraid, Mary.”

Clearly, these are words of great comfort. 

But, to her credit, Mary sticks around.

She lets Gabriel finish this life altering news story.

I don’t know how she did it, but Mary gives Gabriel the answer I’m sure he was hoping for:  “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”  

Mary is one trusting soul.

I’ll be honest with you, I’m not so sure my old soul really, really, really, really trusts God sometimes.

I wrestle with him. Silently, I call him out. Especially when hearts are broken. God, where were you?

Sometimes, I need God to show me that he is at work. 

I need to know that the pulse of my trust can be revived, renewed.

And sometimes, he shows me.

On August 10, 2016, baby Charlotte came into this world. Three days later she was gone.

Charlotte died from a rare birth defect— heterotaxy syndrome. The defect impacts the heart and other organs. It causes these key internal organs to be located in abnormal places in the chest and abdomen. (Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia)

On Saturday, August 20, a memorial service, a celebration of Charlotte’s life took place at Trinity United Methodist Church. In my role as director of operations at our church, I’ve attended a lot of funerals over the years, but not one like this.

Charlotte’s life was celebrated. It was clear that in her short life, Charlotte was loved by her parents, her siblings, and grandparents.

Somehow, Charlotte’s parents regrouped from this setback.

As I parent, I’m not sure my faith would have carried me forward. 

How could the tragic loss of one child possibly bring about the life of another?

But in this case, for these young parents their faith and trust in God did.

On August 23, 2018, these trusting and faithful parents welcomed into this world Nora Elsie.

Right now, I’m pretty sure God is looking down upon me. He is thinking— how about that story for reviving your pulse, Bill? 

Does that help you to believe that I still report to work? 

Has the faithful trust of this young family taught you anything?

This fall like Mary pondered her interaction with the angel, Gabriel, I have been pondering the arrival of Nora Elsie.

Nora Elsie’s story is worth pondering.

Her story is remarkable. 

It is an affirmation of this line of scripture from Luke 1:37:

“For nothing will be impossible with God.”

There are days when the world looks impossible to me.

Days when things go well beyond wrong.

And I guess on those days that’s when I need the Christmas story the most.

I need its hope.

 

Fishing was the first piece of business on the docket for Friday, August 17. Art and I were heading to the Owens River this morning.

The drive out to the Owens is pretty simple. The tricky part is picking an access point from the numerous dirt roads that will put you on the banks of the river.

Once Art found us a good stopping place, we had a nice posted notice from the state of California. 

The Owens had tested positive for the invasive species, the New Zealand Mud snail. Fortunately, the posting date had expired, but anglers were given careful instructions about how to clean waders and other fishing gear to slow the spread of the New Zealand Mud snail. One option was to freeze your waders for six to eight hours. I’m sure many wives were startled when they opened their freezers to take out dinner only to find frozen waders.

As Art prepared the fly rods, I took in the scenery. The first time we fished the Owens, we had a guide with us from a local company. Doug, the guide, had the patience of Job with me. He refreshed me on very basic casting techniques and advised as I practiced. 

But for me, the most amazing skill that Doug possessed was reading the water. He could tell be where to cast, and after several casts to that spot, a trout would usually hit. I’m sure the ability to read the water came from working with his fellow guides, but also from all of the experiences of working with challenging anglers like me.

I am so thankful for the teachers who taught me how to read. That important life skill allows me to read the newspaper or become lost in a book. However, I think I overlook how we are exposed to other types of reading in our daily lives.

With the rods ready, we start walking toward the Owens. Art is looking for spots were casting is easy from the banks without too many obstacles along the river’s edge. Often, I am much more skilled at catching the limb of a shrub than a trout.

The first spot, we had good access, and the focus here was to get the line out into the current, and let the current take the fly downstream. This also meant figuring out good points for casting so the fly could slip through areas shadowed from the sun. Sometime still sleepy trout gather in these out of sunlight pockets.

For a pretty good period of time, we fished this section, but we had no luck.

Moving to the next spot wasn’t difficult. I always look down as some of the land around the Owens is used for cattle grazing and the last thing I want to do is slip on a fresh cow pie.

Art sets me up in an ideal spot. We step off the bank on to a point of sand where the water runs through at a good pace and depth. I can cast a short distance upstream to my right, and my fly will float by me into a deeper pool. 

Art decides to work further down stream from me. But, before he leaves, I cast out. My fly is taken by the current and scuttles downstream. As I’m reeling the line back in, I feel a slight tug. It disappears, then appears again. I reel some more, and I see my hook grazed the side of a small trout. I pick him up off the rocky bottom and return him to his freedom.

Sadly, that was the only action for the time we spent on the Owens. Still, it is one of my favorite places to fish. I feel like I’m nestled in my on little world for a while. It is quiet. The water barely makes a sound as it carries my fly downstream. The real world seems far, far away.

We walked back to the car. Slid off the waders and our boots, and drove back to the condo. Abby and Betsy were taking it easy, a recovery day from the Sherwin Lake hike.

Later in the afternoon, we took a walk into town for chips and margaritas at Gomez’s. We also checked out some of the shops before catching the trolley back to the condo.

On Monday, December 3, Joe Andrews, Bill Burch, and Joe Toler arrived at our church around 9:00 a.m. For almost three years, this group of volunteers with an occasional sprinkle of others have been showing up to do chores for the church.

Bill Burch is the leader. Two Mondays per month, minus the summer, these talented, dedicated gentlemen come to their church, and work on a list of assignments that we need completed. Over the years, they have had some challenging chores. They have never backed away from anything. But on December 3, I think I pushed them.

This list for Monday read as follows:  Sanctuary lights, Welcome Center lights, and Chrismon tree.

To gain access to all of the lights, we were going to use an extension ladder and an antique electric lift. 

Although made of aluminum, the extension ladder is commercial grade. It is heavy, cumbersome to carry, and challenging to stage.

The old lift runs off a battery charge. It is like a tank in terms of construction. Minus the wood platform in the crow’s nest, the lift is all heavy duty metal framing. Moving it around sometimes requires two people. With a bit of coaxing, the lift can be fit on to an elevator, but it reminds me of trying to lead a stubborn horse into a singular stall.

First, we staged the ladder in the chancel area of the Sanctuary. Bill, Joe Toler, and I gathered up the ladder from the outside cooling tower. We walked it through the parking lot, across sidewalks, and up sets of steps. 

Once in the Sanctuary, we made one interesting turn so we could walk it down the main aisle up to the Chancel. At that point, the brains of Mr. Toler and Mr. Burch took over for figuring out how the ladder would be staged. Really what they were focused on was how we would position and raise the ladder without killing ourselves and damaging the church.

The real key was this simple measure—we slowed down. No step, no maneuver, no tilt, no lifting was done without each of us being in sync, and we moved liked turtles. Because of this, we reached a reasonable access point without a challenge.

With the ladder safely positioned, I climbed up to take a look at the light tube needs. Immediately, I saw a number of non-burning tubes.  My stock was limited as these tubes are old and difficult to find from electrical supply houses.

From that first look, we devised a way to use our new tubes to eliminate the visible dark spots. Joe and Bill traded off handing me tubes on the ladder. We fixed one area, and then we had to re-position the ladder. Once again, we moved like turtles, but we transitioned to the next spot without damage or a casualty.

While working at this next spot, Bill Burch and Joe Andrews peeled off to start bringing the lift to the Sanctuary. In a couple of spots where we needed to be, the lift was our only option.

I know it took some coaxing, but soon they returned with the lift. We worked to position the lift, and Joe Andrews took the ride up to assess. In both spots, we were able to make lighting improvements without harm to the building or us.

In the Welcome Center, a smaller extension ladder was used. On one wall is a large stained glass piece that was once in place as a window.  Now this former window is mounted on a wall with masterful wood trim work framing it, and the beautiful stained glass is back lit. 

Somewhere behind the stained glass, lighting had failed. The stained glass was not fully illuminated.

Bill Burch figured out how to open the two access panels on both sides. Once he removed those, Bill saw four tube lights. Two had failed. 

I took one of the failed tubes and drove to our neighborhood hardware store looking for a replacement. Of course, they had similar tubes, but not the exact size. Then I drove to the closest electrical supply company. Struck out there too. Turns out this was a unique tube that could only be special ordered.

While I was away, the two Joes assembled the Chrismon tree in the Sanctuary.  According to the United Methodist Church website here is a brief history of the origin of the Chrismon:

Ornaments made from Christian symbols (or Chrismons, a contraction for ‘Christ monograms’) were first developed by Frances Spencer and the women of the Ascension Lutheran Church in Danville, Virginia. Many churches display a Chrismon tree during the Advent and Christmas season decorated with handmade ornaments.

Thanks to the Joes,  the sometime cantankerous tree was now ready to be decorated on Wednesday afternoon.

Gradually, we worked to return the ladders and lift to their storage areas. Noon had arrived quickly. Time for our crew to head home.

I often lose perspective on the things that take place behind the scenes for the good of the cause. The pace of life today is so fast, I wonder if our congregation knows all the details it takes to put the pieces of the Advent season together.

I learned so much from Joe, Bill, and Joe today. I hope some of their wisdom rubs off on me.

Little things like flipping a light tube to stop it from flickering. Slowing down my steps to safely position a ladder, and the value of teamwork.

Somehow, there is even teamwork in the Christmas story. 

Mary and Joseph managed to find trust in each other and God. They were a team.

While the detail appears to have been small, someone provided a bit of shelter for Mary, Joseph, and their new son. This person was on the team.

After shaking off being significantly startled  by an angel in the dark of night way out in an isolated pasture, those shepherds became a part of the team.

Although I have been an imperfect teammate, in my 65 years of living, the Christmas story has always been a part of my life.

Why is that?

Well, there are lots of potential answers.

But, I think all through my life, I’ve been surrounded by quiet angels like Joe, Bill, and Joe. 

These angels were always working behind the scenes to mold, shape, and nudge me no matter how resistant I might have been.

Maybe this Christmas, you can take a few minutes to reflect on the angels in your life who molded, shaped, and nudged you. 

Ladders, lifts, and lights aren’t managed without them.