On behalf of the Pike and Reinking families, we are honored to have you with us for Thanksgiving.
Back in October, our world was flipped over when Betsy’s left shoulder took one last clunk on the sidewalk at the corner of Rock Creek and Forest.
In a blink, plans for her seventieth birthday and our fiftieth wedding anniversary changed.
That’s when family and friends took over and planned this Thanksgiving Day gathering.
Without this support and your willingness to pitch in, we’d be eating Jimmy John’s turkey subs this afternoon.
A special thanks to Lauren and Doug, Andrew and Kathryn, Elizabeth and Jackson, Ken and Adrienne, Norman and Jo, and Jay and David for their assistance.
Tucked in there too are the nieces and nephews—George, Lydia, and Sarah, Nana’s heroes, her grands—Caroline, Josie, Ellie, and Hudson, and we can’t forget Jay’s daughter, our Olympic swim coach, Katie, who is with us this afternoon. Katie, we could have used some of your deep breathing techniques when the turkey caused some kitchen tension earlier this afternoon.
Fifty years ago today (11-27-75), we were in Milton, Massachusetts for Thanksgiving at the home of Bertha Avery Crosby.
That was Betsy’s grandmother. Everyone called her Nammer.
We had quite a feast with the Crosby and Cloud families.
Two days later (11-29-75), Betsy and I were married in West Hartford, Connecticut.
There are many reasons why marriages fail and work.
For Betsy and me, I think we had good role models in our parents— Ken and Liz and Bill and Louise.
They weren’t perfect, but their loyalty, support, sacrifice, and teamwork were hard to beat. I think these qualities rubbed off on us.
On the night that I finally mustered the courage to ask Betsy’s father for her hand, I used two words that Betsy’s oldest sister, Susan, told Betsy that I must use—love and respect.
I can still hear my quivering voice—“Mr. Cloud, I love and respect your daughter.”
Despite all of the things I do that drive her absolutely bonkers, Betsy, I still love and respect you as much as I did on that night fifty years ago.
In 2020, a German advertising company created a holiday commercial for the European pharmaceutical company, Doc Morris.
This heartfelt commercial ends with these words—“So you can take care of what matters in life.”
Betsy, for these fifty years, thanks for taking care of what matters in our lives. Here’s to Betsy.
In his rapid fire delivery of jokes, he always found a way to work in what became his identifying line—“I don’t get no respect.”
For lots of reasons, that’s how I’ve come to feel about Thanksgiving.
Over the last several years, it appears to me that our respect for Thanksgiving is eroding.
Retailers know this.
For example, the National Retail Federation expects Christmas sales in 2025 to “exceed a trillion dollars.”
Forecasters predicted that Halloween sales for 2025 would be in the range of twelve billion.
Thanksgiving is projected to be in the four to five billion range.
Growing up in North Carolina, Thanksgiving was always a drive on U.S. 70 to my grandmother’s home in Greensboro.
Sometimes, there was a stop on this twenty minute drive at Mt. Pleasant United Methodist Church for a morning Thanksgiving service.
The spread of home cooked food for our lunch time gathering was amazing. As an overweight kid, I was in heaven.
And yes, I like pumpkin pie. However, my favorite Thanksgiving dessert was persimmon pudding. I think my Aunt Evelyn always made sure we had persimmon pudding.
The other thing that I remember about those gatherings was being huddled in a small den with a television that projected a black and white picture of the Detroit Lions and Green Bay Packers playing their traditional Thanksgiving Day game. At the time, that was the only game broadcast or played.
Money has changed that. From Thursday through Sunday, football games at the collegiate and professional level are non-stop.
In November 1975, I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home. I was in Milton, Massachusetts, a pretty New England town just south of Boston.
I was with my future wife’s family. Two days later, that beautiful lady and I were married in West Hartford, Connecticut.
Lots has transpired in those fifty years.
And even though, Thanksgiving is squashed between the billions and trillions of Halloween and Christmas, it continues to survive.
We must never take the survival of Thanksgiving for granted.
The survival of Thanksgiving depends upon you, me, we, us.
We can’t let Thanksgiving die.
If Thanksgiving dies, so will we.
Maya Angelo said it better: “If we lose love and self-respect for each other, this is how we finally die.”
For Thanksgiving to continue to have a life, we must ensure that our children and grandchildren understand why it is so important to be thankful.
Being thankful can’t be taken for granted.
In the fall of my sophomore year at Greensboro College, biology professor, Dr. Kemper Callahan, put that into perspective for me.
This is what I have come to Dr. Callahan’s Thanksgiving Lecture. He simply told our class that we should never take Thanksgiving for granted. That included appreciating all of the people who make Thanksgiving happen. Dr. Callahan put a strong emphasis on farmers—no farmers, no Thanksgiving.
Successful Farming reported in July of 2025: “More farms nationwide filed for bankruptcy in the first three months of the year this year than across the entirety of 2024.”
What will the continuing struggles of our farmers mean for future Thanksgivings?
While I love the Thanksgiving food, Thanksgiving is also about family.
How lucky I have been to have been nurtured by a family every day of my life. That is a luxury not available to everyone.
As crazy as families can be, even an ounce of stability can make all the difference in a person’s life.
I see that generational stability in our Thanksgiving gatherings. Internally I ask—how different would my life have been without that stability?
I also ponder how much better America could be if that stability was present for all of our families. We might be surprised at how lives could improve by solving those generational cycles of instability.
In my work at Trinity United Methodist Church, I see hope for Thanksgiving. That hope comes through the art work of the children in the preschool.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
I love walking through the hallways in the days before Thanksgiving. I get to see the Thanksgiving artwork gracefully resting on the floor or gently hanging from a wall mounted hook. These masterpieces are in their curing stage with glue and paint drying before they are transported home.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
Who knows maybe these heartfelt creations will be cherished and preserved for future Thanksgiving celebrations.
Isn’t that part of what makes up respect—preserving what we value?
Rodney Dangerfield figured that out.
Mr. Dangerfield learned that his audiences anticipated and valued his famous line—“I don’t get no respect.”
I can hear him now.
Thanksgiving is coming. I gotta tell you, when I was a kid Thanksgiving got a lot of respect. Not now. Thanksgiving is like a panini sandwich flatten on a press by Halloween pumpkins and retailers overstuffing our Christmas stockings.
I hope you and your families have a good Thanksgiving.
And remember to endure, Thanksgiving needs our respect, our hope, and our thankful hearts.
My body talks to me, “Bill, its been ten days since you have been for a run. What’s wrong with you?
I respond, “I’ve been busy. Life gets in the way.”
My body counters, “No doubt. That’s an easy excuse. I don’t like excuses. Go for a run. Now. Not tomorrow. Now. Go!”
On the morning of Friday, November 14, I went for that run.
I have a route that runs a neighborhood 5K course in reverse. The distance might be a bit more than a 5K, but I’m usually back at the house in 35 or 36 minutes.
This morning, I was inspired by our next door neighbor, Al Lockerman. As I was heading out to open up Trinity, Al was leaving for his morning run.
Al is a big guy. Yet, he runs like fast moving freight train. He goes all out on his runs. I admire his stamina.
When I return from opening up Trinity, I ready myself for my run. At the end of the driveway, I encounter Al again. With a cup of coffee in hand, Al is returning from walking their dog, Bambi.
I tell Al he inspired me to go for a run. He commented about the temperature. It is hovering at 33 degrees. That is about his limit with enduring cold weather runs.
Old man that I am, I have dressed in light layers for this run. That includes some worn knitted gloves and a stocking cap.
Al hopes I have a good run, and with that I’m off.
I note frost on the windshields of cars. This is the first real frost of the season.
Light frost on windshield (Photo Bill Pike)
Heading down Stuart Hall Road hill, at the intersection of Baldwin Road, the county is in the process of repaving.
The company doing the work has a massive asphalt eating machine. This contraption is called a cold milling machine or cold planer. The steel carbide tipped teeth of the milling machine peels back the top layer of the asphalt.
A good thing about the milling process is that the old asphalt surface is recycled. That planing of the top layer in some places reveals the foundation of the road— our pale orange Piedmont clay.
Milling machine’s work (Photo Bill Pike)
As I head up the hill, I turn left on to the front driveway at Trinity. On the front lawn, the pumpkins are gone. We conduct this annual sale to raise money for our youth group.
I admire the people who purchase our pumpkins. They are what I call heart buyers. These consumers could easily buy their pumpkins at a big box store at a much lower price.
At the bridge over the creek on Rock Creek Road, I wish I had a camera with me. Floating on the still creek surface is a pretty pattern of colorful fallen leaves. Also perfectly captured on that mirrored tranquil surface is blue sky with scattered clouds.
With the milling work on Baldwin, the road surface is uneven. The footing can be tricky, but I’m watching where my feet are taking me.
Occasionally, I see leftover signs from the November 4 election. I’m sure the mute button on the remote control for our television is thankful that campaign ads have stopped running.
The nonstop pace of those ads have now been replaced by incessant ads for Christmas. Of course, the big box retailers started telling me it was Christmas in September.
As I chug along, some front lawns still have Halloween decor. Others have rapidly transitioned to their Christmas theme.
Skeletons dominated many Halloween displays this year. I wonder if there will be a new big selling hero for Christmas on lawns this season?
Thankfully, I can block out those commercialized distractions with the brilliance of leaf colors along the way. The last few days, the trees seemed to have hit their peak.
Golden leaves from a Gingko tree (Photo Bill Pike)
At the corner of Horsepen and Devon, I come upon four young fathers who have finished up monitoring their sons and daughters at the bus stop.
I interrupt their discussion by gently shouting out, “Let me know when you guys figure it out.”
They laugh, and one of them replies, “We’ll be here a long time.”
I chuckle and keep trudging toward Westham Parkway.
My mind keeps reminding me this is November.
I know you know this is November.
However, just in case you haven’t noticed— when we hit November, the pace of the year accelerates.
That acceleration is like a pilot of a jet fighter plane hitting the afterburners. We are thrust, blasted, and hurled into a supersonic march.
From now until December 31, we are in blinding blitz. The G forces of the season pull, contort, and rush every fiber of our bodies.
Seasonal to do lists rush us. Retailers rush us to early Black Friday sales. Our overbooked calendars rush us to holiday events. And perhaps the most demanding, the pursuit of seasonal perfection rushes us.
We are overly consumed by this pursuit of seasonal perfection. And while we can deny the seasonal pursuit of perfection, truthfully, that relentless pursuit is our downfall.
In all of the hustle and bustle, I wonder if that pace results in an increase of pacemaker surgeries related to how this seasonal rush impacts our hearts?
At the stop sign on the east end of Rock Creek Road, I’m about to turn left on to Sweetbriar Road. That final straight stretch on Sweetbriar will bring me back to where I started.
In the whirlwind pace of November into December, I wonder how this season might be different if my human layers were stripped back and revealed by a human cold milling machine?
What would that human cold milling machine find in me?
Part of me thinks it would reveal that I need the first two words from Psalm 46:10: “Be still.”
With the reminding roar of November that zooms us into December’s blitzing sprint, at some point your body’s internal voice will remind you to “be still.”
Sadly, on August 27, 2025, the Washington Post reported on another school shooting. This one at Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis, Minnesota killed two students and injured seventeen.
Everyday across America, families send their daughters and sons to school. Those families trust that their cherished daughters and sons will come back home.
Too frequently in America, that trust is violated. Children aren’t supposed to come home in a body bag.
There is something wrong with a country whose innocent school students continue to be murdered in alleged safe settings.
No matter our legislation, school rules, intruder drills, and school security officers, we are unsuccessful in preventing school shootings.
I spent over thirty-one years working in education. In my career, I had experience working in public, private, and department of correction schools.
As different as those school environments were, none were immune from disruptive behaviors from students. In those unique school settings, I kept coming back to a recurring concern—the erosion of our families.
In 2019, the Pew Research Center reported that “America has the world’s highest rate of children living in single-parent households.”
A 2022 report by the Annie E. Casey Foundation found that more than 23 million children live in single-parent homes in America.
To be clear in my career, I worked with many competent single parents.
Yet, I believe for too many years, we have failed to understand the impact on students in our school environments when the parent or family is dysfunctional in providing the support a child needs in school.
That instability makes me wonder how many of our school shooters came from unstable homes? Regrettably, I wonder how many more might come from those stressful settings?
In James H. Cone’s book, The Cross And The Lynching Tree, he quotes Dr. Martin Luther King, and a comment he made after the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Dr. King told his wife: “This is what is going to happen to me also. I keep telling you this is such a sick society.”
Dr. King was correct—we are a sick society.
Our mental sickness has left its blood stains on every school shooting that America has endured.
America is overdue to cure our sickness.
This is urgent.
Failing to solve guarantees more school shootings.
Haven’t we had enough?
Written by Bill Pike submitted to the Washington Post on August 28, 2025.
Dismissal of Virginia Tech Football Coach
I have no allegiance to Virginia Tech football. Our oldest daughter is a Hokie. From this connection, I have quietly pulled for the Hokies. In life or death losses, the extreme pain of Hokie friends has eluded me.
Contrary to some Atlantic Coast Conference(ACC) fans I was not opposed to the expansion that brought Virginia Tech into the ACC. Academically and geographically, this invitation made sense to me.
In today’s college athletics, not much makes sense. The transfer portal and Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) have completely changed how conferences and coaches function.
I’ve never met Brent Pry who was relieved of his coaching duties at Virginia Tech on Sunday afternoon. Yet, I have no idea why anyone wants to coach college football.
The internal and external pressure to win is relentless. Getting those wins means a coach puts his life in the hands of young men who are 18-21 years old.
Recruitment of players can be ruthless. Despite a coach putting his heart and soul into signing a player that doesn’t mean the player will be loyal and play all four years for that coach.
Loyalty and patience are dead in college athletics. Money is the sole driver.
With Virginia Tech’s three losses, no one from Tech’s President, the Athletic Director, or alumni were willing to be patient— might Coach Pry turn the season around?
The humiliating loss to ODU on Saturday night in Lane Stadium was too disgraceful. Impatience exploded.
In President Sands announcement to the Hokie Nation, he has essentially given his blessing to a task force that in short order must: “develop a financial, organizational, and leadership plan that will rapidly position the Virginia Tech football program to be competitive with the best in the ACC.”
Too bad the charge for those Virginia Tech leaders can’t be to return common sense to college athletics, with an emphasis on financial saneness, and a realistic strategic plan that molds an athletic department into an equitable portion of the university— not an isolated empire.
Written by Bill Pike submitted to the Roanoke Times on September 17, 2025.
Author’s note: No matter how passionate the writer, submitting letters to the editor of a newspaper is never a guaranteed acceptance. Yet, I think I will continue my writing whine until my last breath.
Even though I know that the dew covering the windows on my car will soon become frost, October, I’m glad you’re back.
(Photo Bill Pike)
You are my favorite month.
I don’t want you to leave.
I know when you depart, November moves me one step closer to winter.
Mentally, I fight winter.
While I still respect winter, I’ve lost my constant school boy hope and prayer for snow.
At 72, my old brain doesn’t revere snow anymore. That wish for snow is for our grandchildren and school teachers.
So October, I’m going to cherish you.
The last few days the harvest moon has been like a spotlight in the predawn western sky. Its brightness teasing as it hovers by church steeples and plays hide and seek descending behind tree lines.
(Photo Bill Pike)
To my west, cold fronts hurtle their northwest winds over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Rushing east toward Richmond, these winds paint your sky with the clearest, bluest blue my eyes have ever seen. I want to daydream into that blue forever.
Although I dread my annual battle with your fallen leaves, I adore the palette of colors found in the bright sun against that blue sky backdrop.
Even though, my affection for today’s baseball is gone, October brings the world series. I remember sneaking my transistor radio and earplug into Miss Avery’s sixth grade class at Hillcrest Elementary School. She figured out that I was trying to listen to the world series. For some reason, she didn’t kill me.
And just to be fair, I can grumble about October too.
I whine about the retailers who thrust Christmas on us way too early. I couldn’t believe that even our neighborhood hardware store had a Christmas Sale display today.
(Photo Bill Pike)
And to continue the fairness, I will confess that I do not understand our increased fondness for Halloween. Yards throughout our neighborhood are transformed with all kinds of displays. I’m surprised someone hasn’t come up with a tacky Halloween tour like we have for tacky Christmas lights.
On a recent morning run, I turned off Horsepen Road and made a right on Devon. A few yards down the street two houses across from each other are decked out in Halloween gear. What caught my attention were the skeletons.
Each yard has an array of skeletons. Yet, my eyes were drawn to the high wire that stretches across the street from a tree in each yard. Skeletons in a variety of positions dangle from that high wire.
In particular, there is one skeleton that I really focused on. High above the yard, this skeleton is hanging by its fingertips. I wonder how many people I encounter on a daily basis who are hanging on by his or her fingertips?
(Photo Bill Pike)
I worry about those finger-tippers.
Unless we are completely oblivious, day to day living in this challenging world is tough.There is a tension that makes people more fragile, more vulnerable.
What really worries me about those finger-tippers is I might never know how close they are to letting go.
The constant barrage of discouraging news headlines makes me a pessimist at heart. I wonder when are we going to wake up? Perhaps that’s what keeps a bit of optimism—a bit of hope in my old heart. Hope that we will find our hearts again.
Maybe those finger-tippers can find some hope in October.
Maybe finding hope requires us to strip away the layers of hurt in our hearts like stripping layers of paint off on an old battered door.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is in the October bloom of a camellia shrub.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is the shiny red berries from a dogwood tree.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is early morning sunlight coming through window shutters as it cast a pattern of light against a sanctuary wall.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is you, me, we, us realizing that a finger-tipper is in close proximity.
Maybe that hope is you, me, we, us starting a conversation with the finger-tipper.
Bruce Springsteen said: “At the end of every hard day, people find some reason to believe.”
Maybe for finger-tippers, you, me, we, us, and October can become a reason to believe at the end of their hard day.
After all, 1 Thessalonians 4:18 states: “Therefore, encourage one another with these words.”
Over the last year, I’ve thought about 72 quite a bit.
On August 31,1992, my mother died courtesy of one the cruelest things on earth— cancer. She was 72.
I always wondered if I would make it to 72.
In June of 1972, I turned 19.
I had just finished my freshman year at Greensboro College.
It is unbelievable to me how quickly the last 53 years have passed.
Time is not on my side.
Truthfully, I don’t think time has ever been on my side.
I often reflect about how badly I have managed my time on earth. I could have been better at so many things.
I could have been more thoughtful, patient, kindhearted, and friendly.
I could have read more books, been more attentive to the needs of those around me, less judgmental, and less whiny.
Yet, I am thankful that I might just make it to 72.
This verse of the day showed up recently in my daily early morning quiet time. It’s from Psalm 121 verses 7-8: “The Lord will keep you from all harm— he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
When the news isn’t good, how in the world can a person of faith or a person who struggles with their faith believe those words?
With the bombing of Iran, the word “obliterated” was used to describe the destruction at the country’s nuclear facilities.
Obliterated applies to human beings too.
A neighbor for the second time is battling cancer. Her most recent post indicated that the cancer is obliterating her body.
Nothing that the oncologists have tried is slowing down or killing the cancer. Too bad we don’t have a 30,000 pound bomb that we can drop on her cancer.
And despite this discouraging report, our neighbor wrote, “I’m not losing hope.”
How in the world does she hang on to hope when her body has been betrayed by the words in the Psalms?
Clearly, her body hasn’t been kept from harm, and in her going and coming she must feel like she hasn’t been watched over.
On the afternoon of Sunday, June 22, I was running some errands. I was listening to a rebroadcast of a live concert from Mountain Stage.
A Kentucky duo named The Local Honeys was performing. One of The Local Honeys, Montana Hobbs, introduced a song that she had written about her grandfather.
Back stories fascinate me, and this one didn’t disappoint.
Her grandfather came from a large family. Unfortunately, his parents died early. This meant the children were shipped off to relatives to be raised.
In those challenging circumstances, Miss Hobbs’ grandfather ran off twice. Eventually, he joined the Navy and became a pilot during World War II. Somehow, her grandfather survived his plane being shot down and crashing in the Pacific.
With time, the roots of this family and their stories came together. When Miss Hobbs had the opportunity to visit her grandfather, if she asked him how he was doing, his standard reply was “better than I deserve.”
That reply from Miss Hobbs’ grandfather punched hard at my old soul.
At this point, my life has been “better than I deserve.”
And yet, I will complain until the day I die when a verse from the Bible, promises to protect, but from my downcast perspective the words fail.
In the May 23 edition of the news magazine The Week, I read an obituary about Joseph Nye. Dr. Nye was a political scientist who had a distinguished career in academia and politics.
The Washington Post reported that the future Dr. Nye grew up on a farm. He attended Princeton University. It was at Princeton that “he briefly considered studying for the ministry—until he read the Bible all the way through.”
I wonder what in the Bible changed Nye’s mind about pursuing the ministry? Was it a day when the news wasn’t good, and he knew that the hopeful words of scripture had let another person down?
If I make it to Friday, I will be thankful.
And on Friday, when I compare my life to the lives of others who are struggling to hang on, I’ll think about the words from Montana Hobbs’ grandfather “better than I deserve,” and with respect to the doubt of Thomas, I too will not lose hope.
Author’s note: I wrote this piece as a devotional for a staff meeting at our church on June 24. It was not my intention to draw attention to my birthday. The purpose is simply to remind you, me, we, us how fragile and unpredictable life can be. Love you all, Bill
Window at Trinity UMC Richmond, Virginia (Photo by Bill Pike)
TRUSTED BY LOCALS AND LOVED BY VISITORS SINCE 1915
Memorable trip Dear Editor,
In early May, my wife and I had the privilege of exploring California from Point Reyes to Point Lobos. No matter where our plans took us, we enjoyed our journey.
The enjoyment of our visit was grounded in the vision and will of Californians to preserve such precious land.
No matter the vistas in the seaside parklands or along the 17 Mile Drive, we cherished the restless Pacific, its stone masonry on the shoreline, and the pretty blooming flowers along many trails.
Our lives have been enriched by graceful redwoods, the backstories found in Alcatraz and Angel islands, the coffee-colored soil in farmland near Watsonville, and the magnificent Monterey Bay Aquarium.
Additionally, we were impressed by the patience and wisdom of employees in the state and national parks, appreciated the knowledgeable waitstaffs in every restaurant, and were thankful for an understanding man, a transplant from Austin, who sensed we were lost in locating the famous Fairytale Cottages in Carmel-By-The- Sea. This stranger might have saved our almost fifty years of marriage.
In Robinson Jeffers’ poem “The Beaks of Eagles,” he writes about the life of a mother eagle. The author notes: “The world has changed in her time,” and despite these challenging changes, the mother eagle continues to find the way to survive.
Like the mother eagle, it is my hope that California with stubborn persistence will repel any wacky Washington attempts to dismantle these priceless plots of unparalleled beauty.
Our aging hearts will hold this trip forever, thank you.
Bill Pike,
Richmond, Va.
Author’s note: Today, I was honored to have this letter to the editor published in the Carmel Pine Cone, a weekly newspaper in Carmel-By-The-Sea, California.
Coastline, Point Lobos, California (Photo Bill Pike)
During Holy Week at our church, for some unknown reason, termites decided to erupt out of the wooden baseboard in the Forest Avenue foyer of the Sanctuary.
Our head building caretaker had been spiffing up the old black and white tile floor when he noticed my new best friends.
Sure enough, the termites had staged quite an invasion. They were curiously crawling around and inspecting these unfamiliar surfaces.
Maybe they were communicating to themselves, “Hey, where did the soft wood go, how did we end up here, we’re usually crunching wood in the dark, where did this light come from, who is this old guy holding a spay bottle?
Down on my knees, I probed deeper. Sometimes when we probe deeper into the outer layers more challenges are revealed. As I gently pried off the first piece of stained wood, I quickly saw that the next piece of trim work had been decimated by the termites.
No telling how long they had been silently chomping on the wood.
With a touch of agitation, I grabbed the spray bottle of Windex with ammonia in it. I started spraying. A long time ago, an exterminator told me that Windex with ammonia can temporarily help in eliminating creatures that show up at the wrong time.
I made the call to the company who has our termite contract. One of their technicians would stop by early on Thursday morning.
Not long after that encounter, a church member told me she forgot to tell me that ants had been sighted by one of the windows in the nursery on Sunday.
Sure enough, the ants were all over the window ledge and the HVAC register.
Once again, the ants met Windex.
Maybe in their defense, the ants were responding to the disruption they had experienced during our summer of 2024 building renovation project. That extensive project had peeled back all layers in one section of our building. I’m sure we intruded into the ants’ space.
Perhaps, the ants were seeking revenge. My guess is they were on a secret mission. The ants were working their way to the office of our Kids Director, Jen Williams, and her stash of Peeps. The ants were planning to disrupt Easter.
Again, I made a call to our pest control company, and our reliable technician was scheduled to visit the ants on Friday.
In the interim, I spent time cleaning up the ant massacre. I’d learn from past encounters its about eliminating access. I found no evidence of intrusion from the outside, so I concentrated on caulking up any openings and seams around the window trim and the HVAC unit.
Early on Thursday morning, I met the termite technician. He confirmed that the visitors were termites, not flying ants. For a few minutes, he share his options for treating the damaged area. For sure, he would treat the visible wood, but he also wanted to get inside the plaster wall above the trim work.
With this, we agreed on him drilling three small holes into the plaster. This gave access for treating the inside of the wall area. In turn, I agreed to patch the three holes.
Later on Thursday afternoon, I was able to get the damaged baseboard presentable for Easter.
Over in the nursery, the caulk work from Wednesday afternoon worked. No ants were scurrying around the window or the HVAC unit.
Easter Sunday was a pretty, warm day in Richmond. We had made the switch over to the summer season with the HVAC systems in the older sections of the building. Initially, these chillers with their compressors, pumps, and air handlers fired up properly.
While that initial start up had gone well on Thursday afternoon, that wasn’t the case on Sunday morning. The chiller for the Trinity Hall wing of the building was a bad bunny. The chiller despite prompting would not fire up.
Luckily, no one croaked from heat stroke in that section of the building on Sunday. However, the news wasn’t good when the unit was checked out by our HVAC service company the following week. One of the compressors for that chiller decided—“I’m done, I’m not working another Richmond summer, find another compressor to battle that heat and humidity.”
Now, our Trustees are reviewing a quote for replacing the uncooperative compressor. The cost is not pretty.
On Friday, May 2, the call came on my cell phone at 9:28 a.m.
Our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, had started her drive to Richmond from Raleigh. She was coming to attend a dance recital for two of our granddaughters on Saturday afternoon.
But this call wasn’t about how much napping I would do during the recital. No there was a sense of urgency. I could hear concern in Elizabeth’s voice.
She explained there was a noise coming from the dashboard of her car. The noise reminded her of the type of the scratching sounds that an agitated squirrel or mouse make when they are trapped inside the wall of a house.
Elizabeth was convinced that some crazed furry creature was going to explode through the dashboard or floorboard of the car as she sped up the interstate.
When I finally was able to settle her down, we walked through a series of unscientific tests. No creature exploded out from under the hood, nor from the dashboard.
At the gas station where Elizabeth had pulled over, a nice man noticed the raised hood. Clearly, he saw this young lady going through a sequence of unusual maneuvers while holding a cell phone. Possibly, he thought she was about to lose one or all of her marbles by the actions he saw.
He decide to investigate. With me listening in on the phone, he asked if she needed help?
Calmly, Elizabeth told him about the noise and what she was attempting to do.
Upon hearing her concerns, this kind stranger suggested that leaf debris might be in her ventilation system. He talked about the “squirrel cage” for this system and how debris can become trapped and blown around.
For now, that explanation made sense.
Elizabeth thanked him for his willingness to help. She continued her drive toward Richmond.
Later on Friday afternoon, we had a father-daughter bonding session.
First, we removed all tree debris from the windshield wiper area of the car and under the hood too.
Then, per the advice of the helpful stranger, we went inside the glove box of the car to remove the air filter for the car’s HVAC system. Yes, the filter for the HVAC system is located behind the glove box.
Despite watching helpful Youtube videos on how to access the filter, this work was not profanity free.
But inside the filter and the surrounding area, we did find leaf debris particles that could have been the noisy culprit.
During this endeavor, I did as all fathers are supposed to do. I put my hand into the cylinder for the vent, and I let out a scream. A scream that conveyed a furry creature had my hand.
Of course, this tactic worked. Elizabeth’s was initially quite startled, but not impressed with her immature father.
Elizabeth led the way in getting the filter and glove box back into the proper positions. Remarkably, we didn’t break anything.
Usually, situations with ants, termites, compressors, and car creatures can be remedied. However, that is not always the case for human beings.
Right now, despite fighting with all of their strength, and the best efforts of oncologists, someone within this hour is going to lose their battle with cancer.
Today, a darkness so deep and desperate will push a person to die by suicide.
With the end of another school year in sight, a single parent with three elementary age children wonders how they will survive the summer. Her concerns are based on the gutting of funding from leaders in Washington who have no clue about the reality of real American life.
Easter is over.
For me, Easter, despite its resurrection ending, is a difficult story.
Life is a difficult story too. Disruptive challenges are always, always part of that difficulty.
But with Easter, I always come back to Thomas. That’s right Thomas.
I identify with Thomas because he is honest. Like me he doubts. He doubted that Jesus had appeared before the disciples after his death.
Thomas wanted proof.
He wanted to see the wounds Jesus had suffered during his crucifixion.
How do we confront our doubts during life’s challenging moments?
Maybe, the key is to always hold on to hope.
Even when we doubt, and our faith is fading, we must not let go of hope.
And here’s why— Romans Chapter Five verses three and four: “because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 4 perseverance, character; and character, hope.”
Remember in the post Easter story, someone you encounter needs your perseverance, your character, and your hope.
Doesn’t matter if this person is confronting ants, compressors, car critters, termites, or the true reality of real life— someone needs hope.
On those bad days in an old church building when I’m convinced that God is out to get me, maybe he’s simply reminding me, “Hey knucklehead, someone you encounter today needs to hear that hope from Romans. Don’t let them down.”
I wasn’t looking forward to Monday, February 17, 2025. I knew what was coming.
For the next 48 hours, I was to be flat on my back. The only exceptions—restroom and meals.
I knew this drill because in December of 2023, I had surgery on my left eye to address Fuchs Dystrophy and cataracts.
To put it simply, Fuchs Dystrophy is when a person’s cornea begins to misbehave. My eye doctor had been tracking this behavior for a few years. After an exam, the comment was always the same—“you’re not ready yet.”
When you’re ready, the surgeon makes arrangements to secure a healthy cornea from a donation bank, and then the surgeon works his magic.
This morning, the plan was the same, but the focus would be my right eye.
I had completed the pre-surgery prep. A laser is used to zap a small entry point into my right eye. This is followed by a regimen of eye drops to prep the eye for the surgery.
The Commander Supreme and I had an uneventful drive to the surgery center. We parked and walked into the large waiting room.
The room was packed. I’m certain this facility is a cash cow.
Since, I had already signed my life away, the check-in process wasn’t very cumbersome. On a monitor, we could see my name, and track its positioning with the other patients. It wasn’t too long before a nurse came into the lobby, and called my name.
She gave a few instructions to the Commander, and then I was on my way.
The nurse and I chatted to the staging area. She asked many questions to ensure that I had followed the required protocols.
I had one last shot at bladder relief before stretching out on the gurney. A preheated blanket greeted my feet, and the magic touch of the nurse properly positioned my old sack of bones. My right eye was marked to alleviate whacking out the wrong part of my body.
My vitals were cooperating, and soon the knockout doctor appeared. Again more questions, and a short while later I was out.
When I awoke, I slowly noticed I had a dull throbbing pain in my left eye. It seemed like forever before anyone stopped again to check on me. I let them know about the eye pain, and they were perplexed.
I continued to wait. The longer I waited the more anxious I became. I didn’t remember waiting this long the last time.
Another check on me, I asked how much longer? I guess I was like a kid on a long road trip with his family—are we there yet?
Soon, the knockout doctor returned. Something was removed from the left side of my face, and the pain around my left eye immediately disappeared. He asked me if I was ready for some more sleepy juice, and I said yes.
I couldn’t feel anything, but I do recall the doctor working on my right eye.
I don’t remember the ride, but the gurney was wheeled back to the spot where I started. And it wasn’t long before my left eye could see the Commander Supreme.
At some point, we learned that the surgery went well. The patch over my eye could be removed for the drops, and we had a chart for recording the dispensing of the drops.
My post-surgery appointment on Tuesday morning would reveal more.
I was alert now, alert enough to know I needed a pit stop. I was transitioned to a wheelchair and wheeled to the restroom.
Back in the wheel chair, a nice nurse pushed me out to the departure circle. The Commander was waiting for us.
With the seat reclined, I entered the car, connected the seatbelt, and we headed for home.
I’m a very lucky person. My back rarely causes me any stress, but my back doesn’t like being flat for 48 hours.
The last time I had this surgery, my back was the challenge, and unfortunately, this time, my back again chose to bother me.
No matter how pillows were used in support of my legs and feet, my back tightened and cramped. I had permission to take Ibuprofen and Extra Strength Tylenol. They dulled the pain, but the aching never totally disappeared.
That first night, I’m certain Alexa was just as happy as I when morning arrived. I kept making requests, and Alexa kept playing the music.
A bit after eight, we started the drive to the doctor’s office. It is a different passenger experience being reclined in a moving car.
With my eye still covered with its patch, we made our way into the waiting area. I was a bit uneasy.
When I was called back, the first nurse to assess me learned quickly that I had barely any vision in my right eye. I don’t remember this from the previous surgery, but this time the absence of vision was alarming to me.
My eye picked up light, but that was all. It was like there was a film covering my eye.
She didn’t seemed too concern.
Next the doctor came in. He took a look through the fancy machine, and he liked what he saw. The four sutures were in place, and the inserted bubble in my eye was still helping to hold the needed pressure.
The doctor showed the Commander how to monitor the bubble. If everything worked properly, the bubble gradually disappears.
We didn’t pepper him with too many questions, and before leaving we set up the appointment to have the sutures removed in a week.
During the remainder of Tuesday, somehow, my back and I tolerated each other. Waiting for dawn the second night seemed longer. Once again, Alexa honored my music requests.
On Wednesday, I continued to go for flat time. I didn’t want anything to go wrong with the surgery. Late on Wednesday afternoon, I took a shower. There is nothing like a shower for a weary soul.
By late Saturday afternoon, Betsy had good news—the bubble was gone.
On Thursday, February 27, I drove myself to the appointment. When the nurse started checking my right eye vision, she was pleased. This morning, I could read letters to her from large to very small.
When the doctor came in, he was pleased with what he saw too. Some drops were applied to numb the right eye, and now he was ready to remove the four sutures.
Once the sutures were out, I was given some different instructions for the eyedrops, and then I heard the best news from the doctor: “Your post-operative progress is ahead of schedule, you can resume normal activities.”
I was elated.
I thanked him and the nurse, and I made an appointment to come back in a month. I hope my progress continues.
This whole process amazes me.
According to the National Library of Medicine, the first corneal transplant dates back to 1905. An Austrian, Dr. Eduard Zim, used his ophthalmologist skills to perform that surgery in what is now known as the Czech Republic.
Since that surgery, countless doctors have been involved in improving and refining the process. I can’t begin to imagine figuring out the need for a tissue bank, the special tools needed to suture inside an eye, developing the eye drops, and how to use a laser to form an opening for the surgery to take place.
Why can we figure out this complicated surgical procedure, but we can’t figure out how to bring a lasting peace to every corner of the world? What is wrong with us? What have we to fear from a lasting peace?
In this process, I’m thankful for the care provided to me by the Commander Supreme, the meals from neighbors and friends, and heartfelt prayers.
And in both surgeries, I’m appreciative of the skills from the doctors, nurses, and support staffs.
But more importantly, I’m deeply appreciative of the family who made the decision to donated the cornea to the tissue bank.
How can I be so lucky and others are not?
I wonder how the good Lord might answer that question?
Eye drops and eye shield. (Photo Bill Pike)
Author’s post surgery note: Today, March 27, I had my one month appointment with the eye surgeon. Everything looks good, and he has released me. Again, I’m so thankful.
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
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