God’s nerves, ice melt, missing wake up calls

Bill PikeLeave a comment

I don’t know about where you live, but in Richmond, Virginia, winter has returned.

The last couple of years, winter was tame— not this year.

We’ve been hit by two lightweight snowstorms.

The first one started as snow. At some point during the night, the precipitation changed to sleet, and it ended with the dreaded freezing rain.

A few days later, the second storm hit. It was a light, fluffy snow. Maybe three inches covered the ground.

Cold temperatures have been a part of these storms. With night time lows in the teens and a couple of days where the thermometer barely went over the freezing mark.

We still have a fair amount of snow on the ground. Old timers called that hanging around snow—seed snow. Meaning it was hanging around for more snow to fall.

When he was growing up, our son, Andrew, a real lover of snow, despised these quick hitting Southern snowstorms. Andrew wanted to be in Buffalo or some other northern city where the snowstorms weren’t wimpy. He wanted accumulations in feet not puny inches.

Growing up in the heart of North Carolina, in the winter, I prayed for snow. Sometimes, that praying worked.

Today, I’m too old for snow.

My fear is making the wrong slippery snow step resulting in an ungraceful fall, and maybe a cracked noggin.

I also struggle with the weather forecasting.


Television stations seem to employee dozens of meteorologists who yak and yak and yak about the pending winter storm. I think all that mindless chatter is probably a conspiracy of some sort with grocery stores in cahoots with bread and milk suppliers.

Local forecasters are trying to stir up another tiny snow maker for the Richmond area this weekend. I’m more concerned about the Arctic air that will blast us after the moisture passes.

For the Richmond area, we have a couple of days where the high temperature will be 23 with a night time low of 7. Clearly, not weather for shorts and a t-shirt.

This afternoon, Thursday, January 16, I sensed that God might be getting nervous about this developing snowstorm. That nervousness pushed me to our neighborhood hardware store.
Once there, I purchased five fifty pound bags of ice melt for our church. You know God likes churches to be open on Sundays no matter the winter forecast.

In all honesty, I can’t let go of the predicted bitterly cold temperatures.

I can only imagine what that frigid blast might be like for a homeless person.

Maybe that homeless person hangs on to these words from Joshua Chapter 1 verse 9: “I hereby command you: Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

I question how that scripture applies to people ravaged by Hurricane Helene, the wildfires in Los Angeles, the war between Ukraine and Russia, and the cease fire between Israel and Palestine.

Sadly for Americans, that scripture must apply to our addiction for solving our individual conflicts with another person by senselessly shooting and murdering that person.

As God looks down upon us, I wonder how weary he is with all this turmoil. I’m curious if he follows the advice in the Bible where we are told not to worry?

I sense what worries God more than anything else is that we keep missing his wake up calls.

Myself included, we seem oblivious to the challenges we face and unwilling to make the needed sacrifices to solve our problems.

Why are we unwilling to confront gun violence?

Why do we have a housing crisis?

Why are people homeless?

Why can’t we build wiser to prevent potential destruction from hurricanes and wildfires?

Why can’t we prevent cancer from returning to a person who has beaten this scourge once?

Every week, our church collects food for three local food pantries—why do we do this?

Where has our moral compass gone?

After a national tragedy occurs, we briefly grieve and reflect. Fingers of blame are pointed. Politicians babble and promise changes. Within a few days, we are ready for normal to return, and we attempt to resume our lives.

In all honesty, normal never returns to the people impacted by any catastrophic tragedy. The hurt in their hearts never ever leaves.

And then at some point, the next speck of catastrophic neglect appears in our rearview mirror. We are blindsided, overtaken, and the whole vicious tragic cycle starts again.

I love the music created by the Asheville, North Carolina based Americana band the Steep Canyon Rangers. These musicians are thoughtful songwriters, masterful pickers, and singers with a gift for flawless harmonies. Do not turn down a chance to see the Rangers performing in concert.

In September of 2023, the band released the album Morning Shift. Four lines from that title song make me ponder my day to day living:

“When I wake up this morning to when I lay down tonight, I want to know that I’ve done something, I’ve done something right.”

I wonder how many days I have where I can confirm that “I’ve done something right?”

As he looks down upon us, does God think about his opportunities to do something right?

On those days when the world goes right for God, might he worry less about us— is he less nervous about our future?

Maybe that is a question for our hearts, and a reminder from James 1, verses 2-3: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”

In this mean old world, the trials of life never stop, not even for God.

And, I’m sorry, but there is no joy in the trials of life.

Yet, somehow, we must persevere.

It is through that perseverance, that we have the chance to do something right.

And God knows this weary, old world needs us to do something right.

I hope I can.

Nervous ice melt (Photo Bill Pike)

Rejected by the Washington Post

Bill PikeLeave a comment

In David Halberstam’s book Summer of ’49, he writes about the pennant race between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees. But, he also captures, the importance of daily newspapers for baseball fans.

He writes: “After an early dinner, men and boys would hustle down to the nearest candy stands where every evening bundles of New York City newspapers were dropped. Those fans couldn’t wait to buy a copy of their favorite newspaper to read the recaps of the day’s games and to study the boxscores.”

As a youngster, 525 miles from New York City in Burlington, North Carolina, I awaited the delivery of our afternoon paper, The Daily Times News. On those hot summer days when the paper arrived, I quickly turned to the sports section and the box scores.

Those cherished days are gone. And if we aren’t careful, newspapers, one of the foundations of our communities might soon be gone.

In October 2021, my wife and I stopped receiving a hard copy of the Richmond Times-Dispatch in our home. Subscription cost kept rising. Without explanation devoted journalist at the Times-Dispatch kept disappearing, and the depth of reporting stories across the metro area diminished.

We now subscribe to an on-line version. I despise it. Newspapers and the newsprint they are printed on are meant to be held in the hands of readers.

That story of canceled subscriptions has played out across America. The impact of these cancellations can be found in sobering research from the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University.

Consider these findings: “The loss of local newspapers accelerated in 2023 to an average of 2.5 per week, leaving more than 200 counties as “news deserts” and meaning that more than half of all U.S. counties now have limited access to reliable local news and information.”

At this point in America, we need more than ever newspapers to give Americans full access “to reliable local news and information.” Sustaining our country and shaping its future depends on newspapers.

I have no journalism expertise. Yet, I believe newspapers have failed to adequately report their decline.

Don’t readers of newspapers deserve the same type of transparent reporting about the day to day challenges that publishers and editors face in keeping newspapers afloat?

Based upon a December 9 report by National Public Radio(NPR) the answer is no.

According to NPR, acting Post Executive Editor Matt Murray blocked publication of a story about the paper’s Managing Editor, Matea Gold’s departure. Gold is leaving the Post to take a similar role at the New York Times. Murray stated that “the paper should not cover itself.”

By opting not to “cover itself” Editor Murray is missing an opportunity. Part of me senses that the survival of the Washington Post and newspapers in America depends upon a newspaper’s ability to cover and tell its story.

Failure to “cover itself” is a sharp contrast to the commitment that post reporters and editors have made in reporting critical stories about the ups and downs of America. The Pulitzer Prizes earned by the Post didn’t come from timid leadership. Those Pulitzers were grounded in courage.

It takes courage to be a journalist. Early in his political career, Jimmy Carter learned this.

Mr. Carter was running to become a state senator in Georgia. He had uncovered voter fraud in Quitman County. Despite his findings, Georgia democrats and local press were unwilling to investigate this story.

Undaunted, Mr. Carter reached out to John Pennington, a reporter, with the Atlanta Journal. Pennington agreed to look into Mr. Carter’s claims. It was Pennington’s courageous, in-depth, fact driven reporting that exposed this corruption and help Mr. Carter to be elected.

Subscribers to the Washington Post and any other newspaper in America deserve the same courageous, in-depth, fact driven reporting in doing the difficult work of “covering itself.”

The Policies and Standards for the operation of the Washington Post covers many topics that are at the heart of journalistic integrity.

In the Opinion section, I read clearly about the paper’s “solemn and complete” commitment to keep news columns separate from the editorial pages.

However, I was curious about the following statements: “This separation is intended to serve the reader, who is entitled to the facts in the news columns and to opinions on the editorial and “op-ed” pages. But nothing in this separation of functions is intended to eliminate from the news columns honest, in-depth reporting, or analysis or commentary when plainly labeled.”

If the Post’s readers are entitled to honest, in-depth reporting, then why did the paper fail to run the story about Matea Gold’s departure?

The publisher and editors of the Post must understand that if “democracy dies in darkness” so can a newspaper.

Author’s note: I submitted this op-ed piece to the Washington Post on Saturday, January 4, 2025. I knew the piece would not be accepted. I know nothing about journalism and the daily operation of newspapers. But I believe newspapers in America have failed to adequately report the unraveling of their internal challenges. To me that is disgraceful to subscribers and readers of newspapers. We need transparent reporting of America’s continuing story more than ever. That transparency must include newspapers “covering themselves” not cowering to their owners.

Heartbreakingly disgusted whining: dog poop, college athletics, more murders

Bill Pike7 Comments

Isolated in the back parking lot of our church is a dumpster. This dumpster is clearly marked for recycling materials.

Despite our attempt to be good neighbors, the dumpster was periodically contaminated by people who loaded it with items that can’t be recycled. As a result, we had to add padlocks on both sliding doors.

I don’t understand how a person can misunderstand the purpose of this dumpster.

Late on the afternoon of Friday, January 3, I walked across the parking lot with some cardboard to recycle.

When I unlocked a padlock on one of the sliding doors, I noted on the floor of the dumpster a small, tied off plastic bag. It was loaded with dog poop.

Disgusted, I asked myself how could a person do this?

Growing up in Burlington, North Carolina, I will always cherish playing baseball, basketball, and football with neighbors, friends, and cousins.

An empty field behind two houses became our “field of dreams” where we played baseball.

Out front, two lawns merged together nicely to form our football field.

And of course, whether dirt, concrete, or an asphalt court even on the coldest of winter days, we played basketball.

That love of sports made it easy to follow the basketball and football teams from the Atlantic Coast Conference(ACC).


Four of the founding schools, the University of North Carolina, N. C. State, Wake Forest, and Duke were in close proximity to Burlington.

I read newspaper accounts, listened to radio broadcasts, or watched on television games with the ACC teams.

Founded in 1953, the original conference has been destroyed by an expansion that completely disregarded geography, but was entirely grounded in a full court press for money.

That fixation on money has trickled down into the athletes too.

Now Name, Image, and Likeness—NIL allows college athletes to profit not only from their skills, but by marketing and promoting themselves.

Additionally, a transfer portal allows athletes to freely shop their skills. Loyalty to the school that originally wooed the gifted athlete is no longer a consideration.

Just before Christmas, several media outlets reported that Duke University’s athletic department will be paying Darian Mensah, a redshirt, transfer quarterback from Tulane University eight million dollars to play at Duke for two years.

I guess a degree from Tulane or Duke means nothing when stacked against eight millions dollars.

I wonder what Duke University employees who work behind the scenes for the football program think about this eight million dollar deal.

And I also wonder if those program sustaining employees ever see any extra pennies in their paychecks from the payout when the football team plays in a post season bowl game?

While we’re talking about paying millions for a college football quarterback to play for a couple of years, a school might opt to spend several million dollars to build a team in hopes of winning a national championship.

Again, media outlets have reported that the current edition of the Ohio State University Buckeyes football team came from twenty million dollars raised by “the school’s collectives.”

With these millions floating around in the pursuit of gifted players and national championships, I find it interesting that at these two prestigious universities, both schools have food pantries for their students who are food insecure.

Back on December 28, 2024, the football teams from East Carolina University and N.C. State University played each other in the Go Bowling Military Bowl.

An exciting hard played game was marred by a brawl as the last seconds of the fourth quarter were ticking away.

Players involved in this fray were out of control. It took too much effort and time for the coaching staffs and game officials to get the players on both teams under control.

One of the referees was injured as he tried to help settle down the players from both teams.

Watching this melee on television, I was disappointed by the lack of self-control from individual players, and their disrespect for the coaching staffs and officials who tried to quell the disorder.

In this madness, sportsmanship was dead. I kept hoping that the referee would stop the game, and send both teams to their locker rooms.

When order was finally restored, a few players from both team were ejected. The final seconds of the game were completed. Then the teams were directed toward their respective locker rooms.

I’m heartbreakingly disgusted with bagged dog poop in a recycling dumpster, money driving collegiate athletic conferences and their student athletes, and a college football bowl game marred by players in a brawl.

Disgusted as I might be, I should not be surprised. We’ve been losing our minds for a long, long, long time.

Yes, what’s left of my old brain shows that I’m losing my mind too, but losing my mind is grounded in worry.

December of 2024 brought us more to worry about than bagged dog poop and athletic madness.

The CEO of United Health Care was brazenly murdered in New York City.

At the Abundant Life Christian School in Madison Wisconsin two students were murdered by one of their classmates.

And just as the New Year started more innocent people were murdered by a traitorous driver who plowed his vehicle into the streets of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Yes, we continue to break hearts, we continue to be disgusted, and we continue to be paralyzed to solve our madness.

At this point, you must be thinking, Bill, with these blog posts, all you do is whine, whine, whine, whine. Is your whining ever going to stop?

Fair question, and I don’t disagree with your assessment.

Maybe my whining is grounded in these questions for myself from Isaiah Chapter 1 verse 17: “when am I going to become better at helping to cease evil, when am I going to become better at doing good, when am I going to become better at seeking justice, and when am I going to become better at rescuing the oppressed?”

Perhaps, the answer can be found in Fritz Knapp’s book— The Book of Sports Virtues.


In one chapter, Knapp writes about Branch Rickey. Early in the 1940s, Branch Rickey was the general manager for the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball team. Mr. Rickey helped to break the color barrier in major league baseball when he signed Jackie Robinson to be the first African American player to play major league baseball.

Mr. Rickey’s motto was “Education Never Stops.”

If I want to stop my heartbreakingly disgusted whining, then I must not let my education stop.

That learning is the only chance I have to become better at working toward ceasing evil, doing more good, seeking justice, and rescuing the oppressed.

In the time I have left in this wobbling old world, I will be heartbreakingly disgusted with myself if I don’t use my learning and my voice to keep poking at those challenges.

How about you?

Maybe your answer can be found in these words from Stephen Hawking: “Quiet people have the loudest minds.”

Thanks for putting up with me, love, Bill

Bagged dog poop inside recycling dumpster (Photo Bill Pike)

Nowhere is safe from violence

Bill PikeLeave a comment


In James H. Cone’s book, ”The Cross And The Lynching Tree,” he quotes Martin Luther King Jr. and a comment he made after the assassination of John F. Kennedy. King told his wife: ”This is what is going to happen to me also. I keep telling you this is such a sick society.”

King was correct – we are a sick society. The tragedy that occurred in New Orleans on New Year’s Eve is one more heartbreaking confirmation of our sickness.


From ”sea to shining sea,” no American is immune from encountering life-threatening violence.

It matters not where one ventures schools, houses of worship, stores, entertainment venues, the potential for being in harm’s way is a reality.


In 2012, former U.S. Defense Secretary Robert Gates told an audience in Richmond: ”The United States faces threats from extremists and unstable regimes around the world, but it’s the nation’s own political incivility that poses the gravest risk.”


Twelve years later, that incivility hasn’t been bridled.


Our inability to solve the vicious generational erosion of our society’s human infrastructure is unacceptable.


How many of our perpetrators and their acts of violence stem from our failure to provide strong mental health programs? Are their horrific actions caused by our inability to assist dysfunctional and unstable families?


Perhaps the answer to those questions can be found in the script to the movie, ”A Few Good Men.” During a heated courtroom exchange, a witness shouts at the prosecutor: ”You can’t handle the truth!”


As Americans, is that our problem? We can’t handle the truth of our inability to solve our propensity for incivility and violence?


Maybe the sickness of this horrendous act would have been prevented if the Ten Commandments had been posted on every street corner in New Orleans.


BILL PIKE
Richmond, Virginia


Author’s note: I was honored on Monday, January 6, 2025 to have my letter to the editor published in the New Orleans newspaper, the Times-Picayune. My letter was one of several printed in the paper related to the recent tragedy in the city. Bill Pike

Post Christmas 2024: Welcome to the family Tom and Linda

Bill Pike2 Comments

It was after midnight when I arrived back at our home on Christmas Eve.

The last worship service had started at 11 p.m.

No cleaning up the sanctuary this evening, I’ll carve out time for that on Thursday.

For now, it was turning out lights, securing doors, turning down thermostats, and alarming the building.

A bit after ten on the morning of Thursday, December 26, I made the short walk to Trinity.

The building was quiet. This was a holiday for our staff.

We had a small wedding scheduled for Friday afternoon.

I needed to touch up the Sanctuary from our four Christmas Eve worship services. That included making sure the restrooms were in good shape too.

Around one o’clock, with the tidying up completed, I started my walk back home.

I crossed over the creek on Stuart Hall Road. Safely crossed the quiet Baldwin Road. Worked my way up the steep Stuart Hall Road hill, and at the top merged into Sweetbriar Road.

As my feet turned me into our driveway, I noticed a red envelope on our front porch. I walked over, picked it up, and entered the house via the side entrance.

The infamous envelope (Photo Bill Pike)

In the eat in kitchen, family members were finishing up lunch. I handed the envelope to my wife, the Commander Supreme, to open.

The envelope was addressed to Betsy and Bill Pike. No address, and no return address.

Inside was a nice Hallmark Christmas card with this message on the cover: “Love is an amazing thing, if you pass it on, there’s no stopping it.”

The Hallmark wisdom (Photo Bill Pike)

On the inside the Hallmark message was: “Sending love to you. At Christmas and always.”

Additionally, there was a handwritten note: “Bill and Betsy, Merry Christmas!! We heard all the children will be in town after Christmas, that is wonderful. We hope to see you soon. Treat the Grandkids!” Tom and Linda

The heartfelt note (Photo Bill Pike)

The ability to treat the grandkids would come from the one hundred dollar bill that was also inside the card.

The Commander and I were stunned and dumbfounded. We knew some Toms and Lindas, but our brains could not figure out a couple in our circle of friends named Tom and Linda.

For several minutes, we racked our brains,

The Commander insisted that we had no one in our address book listed as Tom and Linda.

Her insistence was that the card must have come from someone at church. Someone that knew me, but maybe who also knew the Commander on the periphery.

I scanned through the church directory. I found Toms, but no Lindas, or I found Lindas, but no Toms.

Our two daughters, Lauren and Elizabeth, chimed in with possible suggestions, but we had no match for Tom and Linda.

The Commander suggested Richmond writer, Tom Allen, as the possible delivery man, but his wife isn’t a Linda.

Again, the Commander reiterated that Tom and Linda must be from Trinity. She thought of a Linda from Trinity that we both knew. But, I reminded the Commander that Linda passed away a few years ago.

Even our two grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson, chuckled at the back and forth banter.

In silence, our son-in-law, Doug, watched the unproductive search for Tom and Linda. Elizabeth’s friend Jackson was a quiet observer too.

Like a bulldog with a bone locked in his jaws, the Commander was convinced that Tom and Linda had a Trinity connection. She encouraged me to reach out to my fellow staff member and family friend, Judy Oguich, to see if she could identify Tom and Linda.

With my search of the Trinity directory complete, I was walking out of the kitchen to return the directory to its resting place. That’s when our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, shouted out: “Christmas prank.”

The Commander and I had been duped. Even our grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson, knew this was a prank.

Shocked by this elaborate deception, we did the only thing we could do— shook our heads in disbelief and laughed.

For the next few minutes, the clever schemers revealed that the idea had come from an internet prank.

The names Tom and Linda were the parents of a friend where Lauren and her family live in Summerfield, North Carolina.

Elizabeth at some point on Thursday morning had purchased the card.

Her friend Jackson addressed the envelope and scribbled the note inside. He also provided the one hundred dollar bill. Jackson was concerned about his loaned investment. He was assured that the one hundred dollar bill would be returned to him once the scam had been completed, and it was.

Deep inside, Elizabeth knew that I would see the envelope on the front porch. She also knew my instincts— that I would pick it up, bring it inside, and hand it off to the Commander Supreme which is exactly what transpired.

I’m still trying to figure out how Caroline and Hudson played their roles so well. Like everyone else in the room no one gave a hint that a prank was at play.

In retrospect, we should have suspected something. Unnoticed by the Commander and me was our daughter, Lauren, who was inconspicuous in using her iPhone to film her floundering parents.

When I was a high school English teacher, I loved introducing students to American writer and humorist, James Thurber. His quote about humor has stayed with me: “Humor is emotional chaos remembered in tranquility.”

For about fifteen minutes there was a baffling mental chaos taking place between the Commander and me. That chaos was stirred by some timely prodding from Elizabeth and Lauren.

Yet, since Thursday, in a couple of quiet, tranquil moments, I have found myself chuckling as I relive the pranked script.

For the rest of our lives, Tom and Linda have become a part of our family.

Their legacy has already been appearing— I wonder if Tom and Linda will stop by this afternoon, or maybe will see Tom and Linda at the Jefferson on Friday.

Not wanting to lose the euphoria of having pranked her parents, on Friday afternoon during our annual visit to the Jefferson Hotel, Elizabeth snookered her unsuspecting brother, Andrew, into the prank. Initially, Andrew bit, but not as fully as his clueless parents.

The best part of Tom and Linda’s fifteen minutes of fame is they made us laugh.

In a mentally healthy way, my hope for you, me, we, us is that gentle humor and laughter will find an entry point into your life. Good Lord knows, we all need to laugh to take the sting out of a tough day.

Perhaps like me, since Sunday, you have been taking in the news coverage of the passing of Jimmy Carter.

While we were watching the evening news, a reporter was revisiting Mr. Carter’s devotion to his church and God.

In this segment Mr. Carter was asked about God and his ability to answer prayers.

Here is what Mr. Carter said: “God always answers prayers. Sometimes it’s yes. Sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes it’s you gotta be kidding.”

Mr. Carter’s answer was perfect, especially, “you gotta be kidding.” That last line made me laugh.

Tom and Linda made us laugh.

Maybe the irony of them becoming a part of our family is linked back to the words on the cover of the Hallmark card: “Love is an amazing thing, if you pass it on, there’s no stopping it.”

There is no kidding about the power of love. I’ve been fortunate to have been surrounded by love my entire life.

Jimmy Carter knew the power of love.

He humbly lived it his whole life.

I hope in 2025, my old heart can be better at embracing the power of love and passing it on.

I think Tom and Linda would like that, and so would Mr. Carter.

Thanks to all you readers of Might Be Baloney, love you all, be safe, Bill Pike

Upstaged by Santa

Bill Pike3 Comments

On the Beatles’ Revolver album, the band’s lead guitarist, George Harrison contributes three songs. One of those songs—“Love You To” features Harrison playing the sitar backed by other musicians from India.

The opening line to the song is “Each day just goes so fast, I turn around its passed.”

Right now that’s the way I feel. I keep asking myself how did Christmas arrive so quickly this year?

As to why Christmas arrived so swiftly, the answer is very clear—it is my aging.

My days move fast. I barely recall what I did yesterday.

However, I do remember the Christmas of 2023. That Christmas will always be remembered as the one dominated by germs—stomach crud, flu, and COVID-19.


We were in Summerfield, North Carolina with our daughter, Lauren, and her family.

Before the germs attacked, I remember us sitting around the dining room table. I’m not sure what sparked this observation from our oldest granddaughter, Caroline, but I’ve been carrying her question around with me for a year—“I wonder how baby Jesus feels about being upstaged by Santa?”

At his birth, Santa was not on baby Jesus’ mind. Yet, I’d wager that Jesus might ponder Santa quite a bit today.

Back in October 2024, the National Retail Federation predicted Americans might spend “between $979.5 billion and $989 billion in total holiday shopping. This is a 2.5 to 3.5% growth from 2023.”

Santa and a few of his reindeer hanging over Devon Road in Henrico County, Virginia (Photo by Bill Pike)

Contrast that spending to these findings from the Pew Research Center. For many years, Pew researchers have been keeping track of religious trends in America.

A Pew report released on March 15, 2024 revealed the following: “80% of U.S. adults say religion’s role in American life is shrinking – a percentage that’s as high as it’s ever been in our surveys.”

In truth, I’m not surprised by this projected spending increase and the decline of religion in our lives.

It is difficult to block out the commercialization of Christmas. Retailers drum Christmas into our every waking moment. This relentless pursuit of our attention starts in October and ends when the last store closes on Christmas Eve.

For church leaders there is a pursuit, but it isn’t relentless. They don’t have the advertising pennies. Their focus is grounded upon too much reliance on tired and predictable templates.

I sense churches fear change. Perhaps, churches are like the wisemen in the Christmas story. When the angel of the Lord came upon them, “they were so afraid.”

Those wisemen moved past this initial fear. Churches must move past their initial fear of change too. No longer can change be a quiet whisper in the resistant souls of churches.

Perhaps, you recall the opening chatter of voices from the movie, It’s A Wonderful Life.

Multiple prayers from family and friends of George Bailey have sounded an alarm in heaven.

The powers that be in that blue yonder summon a wingless angel, Clarence, to become George’s guardian angel.

In briefing Clarence about George, the script reads as follows:

CLARENCE’S VOICE
You sent for me, sir?

FRANKLIN’S VOICE
Yes, Clarence. A man down on earth needs
our help.

CLARENCE’S VOICE
Splendid! Is he sick?

FRANKLIN’S VOICE
No, worse. He’s discouraged.

I don’t know about you, but in my day to day living I often feel discouraged.

My feeling discouraged is grounded in headlines: school shooting in Madison, Wisconsin, man sets fire to passenger on a New York City subway, car plows into German Christmas Market, and in my own county—17 year old found dead in backyard after shooting.

Those heartbreaking headlines are a far cry from the Christmas song written by George Wyle and Eddie Pola that emphatically sings to us “it’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

You, me, we, us know there is nothing wonderful to be found in the Madison, New York City, Germany, and Henrico County headlines.

Even these unacceptable headlines do not slow down the retail drive of Christmas.


And yet, I wonder if these tragedies push caring, kind people further away from the church? I assume they question just like I question—where were God and Jesus? Couldn’t they intervene with a miracle? Maybe in our mean old world, miracles only happen in Hollywood scripts.

In their Christmas song “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” I love this line from songwriters Hugh Martin and Ralph Bane—“From now on, we’ll have to muddle through somehow.”

Perhaps that’s what people have been doing for thousands of years, finding a way “to muddle through somehow.”

I think muddling through life depends upon our hearts. I wonder if the perpetrators in these senseless killings lost their hearts?

A new year is on the horizon. As George Harrison noted in his song, our days will continue to go fast.

In a blink, Christmas 2025 will be here, and undoubtedly Caroline’s observation about Santa upstaging Jesus isn’t going to change in a year.

Despite feeling discouraged like George Bailey, I do find glimmers of hope.

On some morning runs, a flitting flash of blue with fluttering wings will dart in front of me. I find hope in bluebirds.

I find hope in medical updates from my cousin Alice in her battle with cancer. I love the hope in these words from her doctors: “the tumors are shrinking, and some have completely disappeared.”

In attending holiday themed dance recitals for two of our granddaughters, I find hope in the courage of dancers who fully embraced their roles despite not fitting the typical physical image of ballerinas.

On cold December mornings, I find hope in the light of the rising sun as it rays angle into the heart of our church building—the sanctuary. I know that light can put hope into hearts.

For some reason every Christmas, the carol “In The Bleak Midwinter” resonates with me. Something about the last three words: “give my heart.”

On the evening of December 11, I met three friends for dinner. We call ourselves the 53. That name came from our founder, Don Purkall, who figured out we were all born in 1953.

After that cheerful dinner, I was driving back home on Grove Avenue. At the corner of Grove and Wisteria, I saw a pretty, meticulously kept house.

On its front porch was a huge peace symbol adorned in strings of colorful lights.

That image stayed with me.

Early in the still dark dawn of December 23, I drove back to Grove and Wisteria.

I parked my car and quietly walked to the house.

With my dependable iPhone, I took a few photos of the fully lit, but resting peace symbol.

Peace symbol on front porch in Richmond, Virginia (Photo by Bill Pike)

Silently, I returned to my car and drove off.

I wonder how discouraged the world is by the tragic headlines we create every year?

I believe our spinning, wobbly world is tired of being discouraged.

The world wants the same in its heart that you, me, we, us want in ours—peace.

Maybe the path to that elusive peace can be found in these words from Psalm 23 verse 3: “He restores my soul.”

The path to restoring our souls is our hearts.

As we muddle through the remnants of another Christmas and head into a new year, we can’t let fear upstage our hearts.

When a school day goes wrong

Bill PikeLeave a comment

In Henrico County, sleep might have been non-existent or extremely restless for school system and county government personnel on the evening of December 4. Earlier that day, a student was stabbed at Henrico High School.

Shortly after twelve noon, two students were involved in an isolated confrontation. One student used a knife to attack and stab a fellow student.

Early news reports stated that the wounded student was fighting for his life. Today, Thursday, December 5, local media reported that following surgery the student’s condition had stabilized.

I’m sure that news brought a slight sense of relief to the victim’s family and the personnel who responded to this unacceptable behavior.

As the investigation continues, maybe we will learn the reason for such a vicious attack. What school system and county leaders learn from this severe disruption of the school day might help to prevent similar conflicts in the future.

For 31 years, I served in the public schools of Virginia. As a teacher, assistant principal, and principal, I remember difficult moments when the day went wrong. When the life of the school is disrupted with extreme violence, students, parents, and school personnel can’t push an erase button. That day stays with them.

No matter how much is budgeted toward security systems, resource officers, extensive safety training for personnel, state and federal legislation, and a stringent code of conduct for students, school systems have no immunity from unsafe, violent disruptions of the school environment.

During the course of a school year, our Virginia public schools are required to make reports about student code of conduct violations. I’m not opposed to the reporting of this data. But, I want to know how the Virginia Department of Education and school systems use this data.

For example, can the review of this data be used to help schools reduce severe disruptions in the school day?

What can we learn about the frequency, timing, and location of these disruptions?

How early are we able to track tendencies of non-compliant student behaviors?

What triggers their non-compliance? Is it unsuccessful academic performance? Poor interpersonal skills? Instability at home? Mental/physical health trauma?

What might we lean about the two students involved with the stabbing at Henrico High School by asking similar questions?

Additionally, more probing questions must be directed at public school systems to understand how non-compliant students impact the morale of the school. For example:

How many students do we have in our high schools who should be rising seniors, but who are still considered freshmen because of not earning enough academic credits?

What type of audits are in place to determine if alternative education programs are truly meeting the academic and behavior needs of non-compliant students?

How many faculty and staff members file workmen compensation claims based upon injuries from breaking up dangerous fights or attempting to restrain an out of control student?

How many teachers resign each year from the pressure and stress of attempting to work with difficult students in challenging school environments?

If we have all of this data, and we aren’t using it to ask deeper questions to find ways to reduce disruptive behaviors and to make our school environments safer and more conducive for learning, then why do we continue to value its collection?

In the movie Moneyball, Peter Brand, an evaluator of the skills of baseball players, tells his general manager, Billy Beane, “There is an epidemic failure within the game to understand what is really happening.”

With our public schools in Virginia, I think there is an “epidemic failure” to understand the impact that vicious generational cycles of community neglect have on the daily performance of students who struggle academically, behaviorally, or both.

I will go to my grave wondering why we fail to see how the erosion and instability of our families impacts our schools. If we think our families aren’t in challenging circumstances, then how do we explain the creation of Family Advocate positions in our school systems?

As the investigation of this life threatening stabbing unfolds, we can expect finger pointing. Finger pointing makes for headlines and sound bytes, but rarely does it solve problems.

In our classrooms, data is a part of our instructional curriculum.

To improve our schools, when a school day goes wrong, don’t we owe our students, parents, teachers, and communities a thorough review of each incident including pivotal corresponding data about students and their families?

We know the answer is yes.

If we neglect the study of this information, we can expect more serious student incidents in our schools and less sleep for students, parents, teachers, and communities.

And that is unacceptable.

(Photo by Bill Pike)

“I believe in Opie”

Bill PikeLeave a comment

Scripture: James 1:6

In the 1960s, the Andy Griffith Show was a popular television series. Set in the fictional town of Mayberry, North Carolina, writers created scripts that made viewers laugh while offering wisdom too.

One episode, finds Sheriff Andy Taylor struggling to believe his son, Opie. Andy assumes Opie is using his imagination to create an imaginary friend, Mr. McVeebee. When Andy confronts him, Opie is adamant—Mr. McVeebee is real.

After hearing Opie out, Sheriff Taylor, despite his doubts, tells his Aunt Bee and Deputy Barney Fife that he “believes in Opie.”

Unlike Sheriff Taylor who believes in his son, when it comes to the Christmas story, I’m like James 1:6: “you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”

Clearly, there have been many times in my life when our complicated world has ‘blown and tossed’ me further away from this Christmas story of love.

And yet when I drift away, it is the loyalty of love found with Abraham and his son, Isaac, the Good Samaritan saving the beaten, robbed stranger, and Mary’s unshakeable love of God, Joseph, and Jesus that draws me back to believing.

Even Sheriff Taylor wasn’t tossed by the sea. His power of believing was affirmed when he really encounters Mr. McVeebee.

This Christmas, it is time to toss my doubts, and believe.

Prayer: God, this Christmas anchor my heart to believe in your loyal love. Amen


Note from the author: On Friday, December 20, 2024, I was honored to have “I Believe In Opie” published in the Advent devotional booklet by the Society of St. Andrew.

Cover for the Society of St. Andrew Advent devotional booklet. (Photo of cover by Bill Pike)

Christmas Glue

Bill PikeLeave a comment

Recently, in a classroom at our church’s pre-school, the tabletops looked like a disaster area. Boys and girls were making Christmas decorations. Everyone was busy with materials and glue. Some students were even covered in materials and glue. One student asked his teacher about glue. How is it made? Where is it made?

Preschool glue (Photo by Bill Pike)

That tidbit of conversation made me think about glue from a different perspective. What bonds my life together? What keeps me from unraveling? Who is the glue in my life?

During Christmas, the pursuit of perfection can make a person become unglued. It all starts before Halloween when big box stores start displaying Christmas decorations. In the words of Barney Fife, those early unnecessary displays “just frost me!”

When I consider what holds me together, I think of my late parents. I grew up in a stable family with a mother and father who were strong role models for loving, caring, and providing for my sister and me.

In that framework was a weekly guarantee—going to church. Unless someone was “half-past dead,” we were in church on Sunday. I’m not sure that is always the case with families today.

Just before Christmas in 1972, my mother and sister were on their way home from running errands. A driver who ran a stop sign broadsided my mother and sister. The impact severely injured our mother. In the aftermath of the accident, one of the key factors in her recovery was her faith and the support of our church. That unwavering glue helped her to heal.

In my life, my wife is a vital piece in keeping me intact. Without my commander supreme, I’m in trouble. Her “to do lists” are a reminder of her attention to details, details that drive her professionally and in managing our home.

However, I’m certain my wife would tell anyone that the traditional expectations of Christmas and all its trimmings create extra stress. Christmas isn’t as simple as it once might have been.

For years, I was an Easter and Christmas church person. With the arrival of our children, we returned to church. Today church is part of my glue. In many ways, church is another family for me. Without a daily devotional, scripture reading, prayer, and interaction with my church family, I would unravel.

I can name people who continue to be a part of the glue in my life, but Christmas glue boils down to my heart. A time worn Christmas carol “In The Bleak Midwinter” states what the good Lord needs from me: “Yet what can I give Him, give my heart.”

Turbulent headlines from around the world can make our hearts bleak, but in the book of James, we are encouraged to: “be patient, strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near.”

Undoubtedly, the commercial blitz of Christmas is a distraction for me.

Yet each Christmas, part of my Christmas glue is— hope. Hope that my heart can shift away and change from being overawed by the commercial marketing of Christmas.

To do this, perhaps I need to revisit the simple innocence of the chaos created by the children in that classroom with their glue and materials.

I wonder how these words from Kathleen Norris apply: “Disconnecting from change does not recapture the past. It loses the future.”

Maybe with guidance from those creative and curious pre-school children, I can use scissors, materials, and glue to figure out how to disconnect from the commercial weariness of Christmas.

Pursuing that change means means finding a balance from the past to ensure that in the future my heart is strengthened by the hope found in the glue of Christmas.

Author’s Note: On 12-17-14, this piece was submitted to the Richmond Times-Dispatch for publication consideration for the Faith and Values column. I believe it was published with submissions from other local contributors in the Christmas Day edition of the paper. The version posted here was edited for the blog post.

Hey Clarence, can you get us back?

Bill Pike1 Comment

Tucked away deep in the storage vaults of our brains are memories. Neatly filed away, available for recall, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and categorized on just about any subject matter, like Christmas.

Over the last several days, I’ve put my brain in the search mode for Christmas memories.

Because of my great dependence upon my parents, I can remember as a youngster being pushed out of my comfort zone to talk with Santa Claus at the Sears in downtown Burlington, North Carolina.

I can also recall as a fourth grader looking for something in my parents’ closet one afternoon. Surprisingly, I found unwrapped toys. These were the same choices that I had communicated to Santa that I wanted for Christmas. I was puzzled.

I was even more puzzled as an adult taking an early morning run on a reservoir trail in West Hartford, Connecticut. It was a cold Christmas Eve morning.

At some point, I looked up and saw Santa Claus. He was gliding over the gray tree tops of the Connecticut hills in a hot air balloon.

Alma Coble triggered a Christmas memory. Coble as I called her was a kind hearted former neighbor.

Early in our lives, my sister and I spent a lot of time in Coble’s house. Coble and her family took care of my sister and me and other children while our parents were at work.
Coble was a true Southern cook who made real fruit cakes. Her kitchen was an like an artist’s studio at Christmas.

Family visits with the relatives were simple. Christmas Eve with my Dad’s side of the family, Christmas Day with my mother’s side of the family.

On Christmas Eve, before heading to Greensboro where the Pike’s gathered, we drove to Snow Camp. Snow Camp is where Uncle Everett lived all alone. Everett was my grandmother’s brother.

Everett was almost toothless, difficult to understand his speech, and missing a finger or two from working in the feed mill. The big heart of my dad always made sure that Everett was present at the Christmas Eve gathering. Everett left those gatherings with a covered plate of food and a few gifts.

My mom’s side of the family had their equivalent of Uncle Everett —Aunt Nellie. She wasn’t toothless, had all her fingers, and she was articulate in her speech.

Aunt Nellie was a loner too. She lived by herself, but I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe she was difficult to be around or maybe, she was misunderstood. As a kid, I remember hearing whispers about her. I never recall Aunt Nellie attending a Christmas gathering.

As a lover of snow, I recall one Christmas that was almost white. Seems like a freezing rain, with sleet pellets, and a few snowflakes storm hit us the day before Christmas Eve. It wasn’t pretty, but maybe it extended my winter weather hope.

When I married Betsy in 1975, the potential for snow at Christmas improved. We started spending this holiday time at her parents home in West Hartford.

One year, a few days before Christmas, in our tightly packed Ford Pinto, we left Martinsville, Virginia headed for New England. North of Baltimore, the sky was winter gray.

As we neared the Delaware state line, cars heading south had snow on them. By the time we reached the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was snowing so hard that we could barely make out the massive framing of the bridge.

Yet, I think my best snow memory was a Christmas Eve in West Hartford. There was no prediction of snow, but when we came out of the midnight service at St. James Episcopal Church everything was covered in snow.

To contrast the beauty of that snow covered scene, there was the Christmas of 1972.

My dad and I were at home trying to figure out what the game plan was for dinner. My mom and sister were out shopping. Even though we didn’t say anything to each other, I think my Dad and I knew that they were way overdue to be home by now.

Then, the phone call came. It was the Burlington police. My mom and sister had been broadsided by a car that ran a stop sign. The collision had been on the driver’s side of the car. Our mother took all of the impact. It was too close of a call.

My sister had bumps, cuts, and bruises. Our mother had multiple internal injuries including a nasty concussion. Yet, somehow she had the strength and the will to recover.

The arrival of our children dramatically changed operation Christmas. Packing our car for the road trip to Connecticut wasn’t fun. I cursed the luggage, the presents, and all of the items needed to sustain three kids. I dreamed of loading the car and all that stuff into the cargo bay of the massive military C-5 Galaxy cargo plane.

Without a doubt, the craziest trip was the one where we planned to drive through the night to West Hartford.
Our parental instincts convinced us that the three kids would sleep during this dark trip.

We were wrong. Maybe an hour from West Hartford the car was finally quiet.

However, it was the stress of these pilgrimages that helped us to put our feet down. We diplomatically told our families that we were starting our own Christmas traditions by staying at home in Richmond. I can tell you that the first one in Richmond was the most relaxed Christmas we’ve ever had.

Christmas memories, everyone has them, and I could easily fill a few more pages, but I want to talk about Clarence. You know Clarence, the angel recruit who is trying to earn his angel wings by redirecting George Bailey back to reality in the classic holiday movie, It’s A Wonderful Life.

Clarence and George Bailey. (Photo Public Domain)

As Clarence helps George to reflect about his life, he finally gets George to the point to where George desperately states to this hopeful angel: “ Clarence, get me back.”


During this Christmas season, it seems to me that like George Bailey, we are in dire need for Clarence to “get us back” too.

This Christmas as we reflect about the year that is almost at its end, what will we remember— the country that was demolished by Hurricane Mitch, the possible impeachment of our President, the ethical struggles of Congress, bombs dropped and cruise missiles fired toward a devilish leader that will probably never hit him, or the people of America who appear to be slowly losing their way from acknowledging the heavenly Clarence and his colleagues.

Clarence knew that George Bailey had the capacity within to get himself back and regain his senses. To do this Clarence had to help George regain his sight, both internal and external.

In fact, the opportunity to renew that capacity within ourselves is only five days away when we celebrate the birth of Clarence’s teacher, coach, trainer, mentor, and leader.

When Clarence is successful in getting George back, the bell rang , and he earned his wings.

The bells ring for us each Christmas with the arrival of a very special angel—Jesus.

Let this be the Christmas that we hear the bells ring within our hearts to carry forth the work of Clarence and his very special friend.

Author’s note: This piece was written as a devotion for the Outreach Sunday School Class at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on Sunday, December 20, 1998. This post has been edited. Merry Christmas.