might be baloney

Our youngest daughter is a graduate of East Carolina University located in Greenville, North Carolina. The school’s mascot is a pirate. As a parent, I can officially say the tuition for our out of state student made me feel like I had been robbed by a band of pirates. But, she did earn her degree, and she was happy.

On our initial drives to Greenville, I was captured by the flatness of the coastal plain in that part of North Carolina. That table top flatness led to clear views of acres  of farmland. 

These drives gave us the opportunity to watch the seasonal transitions for these fields, and I marveled at the dark richness of the soil. Clearly, this soil was very fertile as the planted seeds seemingly always sprouted into lush green fields.

Other travels through the Northern Neck of Virginia, the Delmarva peninsula, the flatlands of northern Indiana and central Illinois, and rolling sections of Pennsylvania along I-81 reveal farms with that same rich, dark fertile soil.

But the robust appearance of these farmlands aren’t immune from conflict. I suppose one of the biggest challenges farmers face is the whims of weather patterns. Additionally, certain pests can impact those plants, and woven into this would be fertilizers and assorted chemicals used to promote growth and reduce pests.

Just like these stunning fields are not immune from conflict, nor are human beings. In fact, at times,  we appear to be fittingly fertile for conflict too.

Families are a proven test ground for conflict. 

On that first scan of the family field everything might appear lush and green, void of any upsetting intrusion. But families, no matter how hard they attempt to project a healthy image are not immune from rattled nerves, stinging words, and bruised egos.

Could be as simple as the name chosen for a new grandchild. I just knew they were going to name that child after me, why didn’t they? I am going to give my niece an earful the first chance I have.

Who is on the wedding guest list? You’re not inviting our friends that we haven’t corresponded with for thirty years, how could you be so inconsiderate? Because of your thoughtless decision, we will not attend the wedding.

Even planning a funeral can be challenging. Who is going to sit by momma during the service? I was her favorite, I think it should be me. Now, wait, a second, I was momma’s favorite. Everyone knows that. You both are wrong, I was the favorite, you will both be sitting on the pew behind us.

And if you really, really want to spice up family gatherings  just bring up the “p” word, you know, I’ll whisper and shrink it— politics.

But, ranked up there in the fertileness of conflict with families is an unassuming, quietly reserved, tranquil place— the church.  Bill, are you kidding me, a church. God’s holy house ripe for conflict, no way, this is absurd. 

Churches are supposed to be about loving, caring, giving, supporting, nurturing, comforting, and the Golden Rule. 

Bill, I’m not buying that a church can be just as fertile for conflict as families. No sir, that is a flawed observation. You are way off target on that one.

Well, I am no great historian, but I’m pretty sure many examples exist that would validate my claim. But put history aside for a minute, and let’s move to present time.

Since my baptism, rightly or wrongly I’ve been a Methodist. Without question, this is not the same world that raised me into who I am today 65 years later. The world has changed.

This week, the United Methodist Church decided to “tighten its ban on same-sex marriage and gay clergy.”(NY Times)

Yes, churches are fertile for conflict.

I’m sure much will be written and discussed about this decision by experts and non-experts like me. 

The turmoil in this decision has the potential to hurt and impact many people from lots of different angles.

We live in a world loaded with hurts. Sadly, that might be one of our best attributes, intentionally and unintentionally hurting people.

The future of the Methodist church is tangled in that hurt. 

Whether the Methodist church can untangle itself from this hurtful policy remains to be seen. Perhaps, that depends on how fertile we are inside to wrestle with this position.

One question I keep coming back to is this—how am I supposed to love someone that I disagree with on any significant social issue? Maybe my inability to love that person is grounded in fear.

Fear drives lots of decisions. Fear drives emotions. Fear drives the unknown.

I wonder what can we learn from fear? I wonder what we are willing to learn from our fears? From my fears can I learn to love those with whom I disagree?

On Tuesday, February 26, the Richmond Times-Dispatch published a column by David Brooks of the New York Times.

I found the column— Social Fabric:  A nation of weavers to be very interesting.

Mr. Brooks also gives speeches a couple of times a week in various parts of America. His topic is about social isolation and social fragmentation. The topic and travel has allowed interaction with all kinds of Americans, and his take away from these encounters is “They share a common thread:  our lack of healthy connection to each other, our inability to see the full dignity of each other, and resulting culture of fear, distrust, tribalism, and strife.”

That shared “common thread” is full of negatives— lack, inability fear, distrust, tribalism, and strife. Sadly, I think these words match pretty well with the United Methodist decision that was made this week. They are in sharp contrast to words that I often associate with a church— loving, caring, giving, supporting, nurturing, comforting, and the Golden Rule.

On my Saturday morning run, I noted at the corner of Beechwood and Westham Parkway the same house empty lot that I pass whenever I take this route. The lot is filled with weeds and an assortment of trees. I note the beech trees on this lot. Beech trees are the last to drop their leaves. 

Today is the second day of March, and the beech leaves colored like sun baked newsprint for whatever reason are stubbornly committed to their DNA—they are not leaving the tree.  

Seems like the United Methodist church has a similar stubborn grip on its past DNA, hanging on no matter how much it will potentially hurt the present and future of the church.

The brand promise of the United Methodist church open hearts, open minds, and open doors isn’t going to work with this week’s decision. But maybe, we have an opportunity to shore up that branding with one faithful word—hope.

I hope Methodist congregations are willing to search and find the fertileness inside our hearts and souls to think deeply about the impact of this decision. 

I hope we are willing to talk, share,  and explore how to convey that we do have open hearts, minds, and doors to those who now think we don’t.

 I hope we are willing to learn and to use our learning to bring about inclusive change. 

I hope we will be risk seekers by understanding silence is not an option. 

And, I hope our discernment will move us to hold these words from Esther 4:14 in our hearts:  Perhaps, this is the moment for which you were created.

Church, there is no perhaps, this is the moment.

As I’m writing this morning (2/20/19), it is lightly snowing outside. The ground is covered. But, so far the snow is not falling hard enough to blanket the road in front of our house. Maybe the two hour delay in opening our schools was the right decision. Give those weather angels up in the wild gray yonder a shot at figuring out.

Perhaps you are like me— I’m tired of winter. I suspect winter makes us more weary than the other seasons.

Winter is cold. At times, it is dreary, painted in battleship gray. Often winter is wet for what seems like endless days. Winter can also be a tease. 

For example, sixteen days ago I went for an afternoon run on February 4. The temperature was 66 degrees. We all know it’s not supposed to be 66 degrees in February in Richmond. A few days prior to the 66, we were in the grips of the polar vortex. Come on winter don’t tease like that!

On the afternoon of the 66 some people were taking advantage of the tease.

 I saw a lady relaxed in a chair in her front yard, shades on, with her chair angled perfectly toward the sun. A few turtle steps later, a car came by me with its convertible top down, and kids riding bikes or shooting hoops were in shorts and t-shirts. Even I was running in shorts.

I guess teases like this are good. They give us hope. Hope that spring is out there somewhere.

Spring is about footwork. As we all know to get to spring, our footwork has to walk us through winter.

Recently, at the Tuckahoe YMCA, I was riding an upright stationary bike in a connecting foyer between the gym and a huge workout room packed with fitness equipment and people. Little did I know that I was about to see a lesson in footwork unfold in front of me.

The bike I ride is equipped with a viewing monitor, and the computer brains of this bike allow me to choose a location where I want to ride. I’ve ridden in Ireland, Paris, the Swiss Alps, and Sequoia. It is a cheap way to travel.

 This morning, I went back to Sequoia. At one point, I glanced away from the screen and just a few feet in front of me a young man with a trainer showed up. The young man was dancing on his feet while shadow boxing. He was moving through this space like he was in a boxing ring, working every inch of the corridor bobbing and weaving with his nimble feet propelling him.

The trainer was coaching. He quietly directed commands toward his pupil. With his seasoned words, he offered corrections in his student’s upper body movements. And, the trainer carefully watched the young man’s footwork.

 This was a brief, but enlightening distraction from the bike ride. The young man in a short span of time really worked hard.

 Who knows, perhaps we need the unexpected intrusion of a spring like day in winter to distract us. 

Maybe those intrusions lighten our footwork. Maybe our lighter footwork gives  a bit of confidence. Maybe, we start to think, ok, I can count this down one day at a time. I can hang on— keep my footwork moving forward, and spring will arrive.

But those unexpected, warm intrusions in winter always give me pause. Silently, I wonder what lies ahead, winter isn’t over. I don’t trust it. Winter can still sting with a stiff north wind, that can rapidly drop temperatures, and rain in a blink can change to snow. 

The same can be said for life. It too can change in a blink.

Recently, two friends have experienced a blink—the return of an unexpected, unwanted intruder—cancer. 

Talk about a downer, I can’t imagine anything worse. If a human being survives one unbearable skirmish with cancer, he or she should be given immunity from any future encounters—period.

But, clearly, life does not work that way.

Makes me wonder, where is God’s footwork in this? I thought God should be able to out maneuver the devil’s footwork, especially when it comes to the repeat performance of cancer.

Well, there you go again Bill blaming God. I’m surprised God has kept you around for 65 years. Talk about footwork, you better keep an eye on yours. 

You know you are right about my God blaming. I’m sure He is tired of me. 

But, let’s be honest, I think we all have our God blaming moments.

 And you know what God blaming really comes down to? It is trying to understand Him. 

God what are you thinking? Where are you? How are you working on this?

Now, if I’m starting my second battle with cancer, I might really have a difficult time buying into Jeremiah 29:11:  “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

How can a second battle with cancer be a future with hope?

The only hope there is in cancer is if your footwork allows you to find the strength to punch it out of your body for a second time.

American writer, Dashiell Hammett once stated:  “You got to look on the bright side, even if there ain’t one.”

I can find some bright sides to winter. 

I love the unobstructed view of bare trees framed against thickened gray clouds. On a crisp, cold, clear day the rich blue sky is an endless daydream. After a cold night of rain, the breaking dawn air feels like it has been scrubbed and cleansed. And, the fading light of an almost full moon peek a booing through a cloud bank makes me stop and stare.

And I’m sorry, but I can’t find any bright side in the meanness of cancer, especially when it shows up for round two in my friends.

But, just as that trainer kept a helpful eye on the footwork of his boxing student, I must do the same for my two friends. My  footwork needs to be a bright side for them.

And even though I don’t always understand God, and I’m sure he doesn’t understand me, I must trust his footwork. I need him to coach my footwork to support my friends.

My blaming Him will not help the footwork of my friends in their cancer battles.

They need me, they need you, and they need God.

Our footwork in life will face many challenges. 

But, it seems in those difficult life moments, my footwork will have a better chance if I’m grounded to these words from Psalm 94:18:

When I thought, “My foot is slipping,” your steadfast love, Oh Lord, held me up. 

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.