Tuesday, November 10, 2026 OPINIONS Richmond Times-Dispatch Fighting to address mental illness, stop soldier suicide VETERANS DAY
On the morning of Saturday, May 9, I was shocked to read in Facebook Messenger that our college classmate, John, had passed away.
That shock was grounded in having seen John at our 50th college reunion in October 2025.
At that gathering, John seemed like John.
He looked healthy and fit.
John’s engaging eyes still had a sparkle of mischief in them. I’m sure those eyes were critical to him as a Marine pilot flying missions in a helicopter.
On the evening of the reunion’s first gathering, I enjoyed talking with John.
John had a good memory. He asked about my career in public education. Specifically, he wanted to know about my work as an elementary school principal. I shared with him how fortunate I had been with that assignment.
I had lots of questions for John about his career and his life after the Marine Corps. John kept his attachment to the Marines by serving as a Junior ROTC instructor at a high school in North Carolina. However, the schedule for the evening put those questions on hold.
The hard truth of John’s passing has made me think more about him.
I remember reaching out to him when I was serving as principal at Lakeside Elementary School in Henrico County. For a career day, I was hoping John might be able to pull some strings that would allow a Marine Corps helicopter to land on our playground. John tried his best. Red tape kept this from happening.
John wasn’t shy about speaking his heart. There was no camouflage. You knew his convictions.
I’m sure in his daily living and his career that the ups and downs of life found John too.
I don’t know why, but something internally really gnawed at me about John’s passing. Based upon my class reunion encounter with him, this loss just didn’t feel right.
A few days after reading the Facebook Messenger post, I learned from a classmate that John had died by suicide.
I was crushed. Sadly, our family, our neighborhood, our church, our schools, and our community are too familiar with died by suicide.
My wife lost her oldest sister. Our neighbors lost their oldest daughter, a very gifted high school social studies teacher.
In my public schools’ work, we lost parents, students and peers. I’ll never forget losing a former secretary at a school where I worked.
America knows died by suicide.
The CDC (Centers For Disease Control and Prevention) reported that in 2024, 48,824 people died by suicide.
In 2023, the annual report from the U.S. Department of Veteran Affairs recorded 6,398 veterans who died by suicide. Even though each death is a tragedy, this number was down from the previous two years.
I can’t begin to imagine the despair felt by John and others in their struggles with living. And, I’m certain I’m not the only one asking — why do we continue to lose our veterans?
On Saturday, July 11, our family was traveling to Topsail Island, North Carolina.
Not able to check into our rental house until later in the afternoon, we stopped at the Salty Turtle, a popular craft brewery.
The Salty Turtle dates back to 2017. Two former Marines and a business partner were responsible for its opening. The Salty Turtle has done well in crafting its beers and giving back to the Pender County community.
While enjoying my beer, I noticed a flag on the wall stating: Stop Soldier Suicide.
From the wall display at the Salty Turtle (Photo Bill Pike)
Beside the flag was a large framed display. Inside the frame was everything related to Master Sgt. Andrew G. Sullivan’s career in the Marine Corps.
His dress uniform, medals, and the American and Marine Corps flags were a part of the display.
Curious about the display, I asked a server about it. I learned that Master Sgt. Sullivan was a friend of the two Marines who started the Salty Turtle. Sadly, Master Sgt. Sullivan died by suicide.
The display honored Master Sgt. Sullivan, and it conveyed to customers that died by suicide continues to impacts our veterans.
I am deeply sorry for the loss of John.
I know from experience that the impact on family and longtime friends is difficult.
I hope John is at peace. America should never be at peace until died by suicide is no longer a reportable statistic.
Mahatma Gandhi said: “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”
Don’t we owe it to our veterans to “lose ourselves” in support of their mental health?
Don’t we owe it to our veterans to ensure that services are in place to support their mental health?
Not just on Veterans Day, but every day, with real urgency, we must answer yes.
Note from author: I was honored to have this op-ed published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch on Tuesday, November 10, 2026. Be sure to thank a Veteran today, and in truth, everyday. Bill Pike
As a product of the North Carolina public schools, I remember those first week of school writing assignments about the summer break.
As a retired public schools educator, I probably issued that same assignment to my students too.
During the summer, I can remember attending vacation Bible school at our church. I also played on softball teams for two different churches. With no cares, I rode my bike to practices and games.
Yet, when I think of the summer break, I think of my parents. My father was one of ten children. Early in my mother’s life, her father deserted his wife and my mother’s two siblings.
My gut tells me that a vacation was never a part of growing up in their post-depression world.
For my mother, once the desertion occurred, my grandmother moved her family from Mississippi to the mountains of North Carolina.
I’m thinking for my father his enlistment into the U.S. Navy during World War II was the most he ever traveled. He was stationed on the coast of Washington.
Despite these hardships, I think my parents were determined that life would be a bit different for my sister and me.
Our vacations were never extravagant. Those trips were based upon the frugalness of my parents. They put aside whatever they could to be able to afford getting away for a few days, sometimes a week.
Food was part of their thriftiness A picnic lunch was packed for those trips. Looking for a roadside picnic table around noon was an adventure. Especially, in the middle of nowhere, but we usually found one.
Those getaways were regional—North and South Carolina, and Virginia. I believe education was a part of their agenda too. Colonial Williamsburg, Monticello, and the heritage of Cherokee including the outdoor drama Unto These Hills were all visited.
On occasion, my mother’s mother, Granny, traveled with us.
If we ventured to the North Carolina coast, Granny was up early looking for seashells and sand dollars. Today, when our family is on the coast, I’m certain my early morning rising came from her.
I’ve never forgotten her comment when traffic slowed down in Canton, North Carolina. Canton was home to a huge pulp mill.
An unpleasant aroma came from the processing of the pulp. From the backseat of our car, Granny shouted to my father, “For God sakes Bill, don’t stop here!”
Life was a lot simpler in the early 60s.
I was content with those uncomplicated summer getaways from our hometown, Burlington.
And at the time, I’m sure that I had no clue about the sacrifices made by my parents for those trips.
The growing up years for my parents had been grounded in the sacrifices made by their parents.
I have no concept for being one of ten children. I have no comprehension for being deserted by your father.
However, it is through the endurance and sacrifice found in those families that my parents framed their lives together.
On some sleepless nights, I travel back to those days of sacrifice.
I recall black and white photographs of our family along the Blue Ridge Parkway.
My mother, Granny, and me. (Photo courtesy of Pike family scrapbooks)
On a hot summer day, I can feel the damp coolness of Luray Caverns.
Driving toward Carolina Beach, I remember the flatness of the coastal plain.
My father and me on the North Carolina coast (Photo courtesy of Pike family scrapbooks)
Memories like that and many more drift through what’s left of my old brain.
Those memories are forever linked to the sacrifices of my parents.
I will cherish them until my last breath, and pray that I’ve made the right sacrifices for our children.
Author’s note: I entered this piece into the O’Henry magazine’s essay contest. I wasn’t the winner, but I enjoyed thinking about how lucky I was growing up.
Recently, flock cameras have accrued many headlines.
As an imperfect driver, I attempt to abide by the rules of the road. Yet, I wonder in our “impatient, me” world if we are capable of following those rules.
This reluctance to hold ourselves accountable has pushed localities to install a camera technology to capture our driving shortcomings.
Despite efforts by local governments to improve crosswalks for pedestrians, slow neighborhood traffic with speed humps, using traffic circles to provide a constant, but controlled flow of traffic, and radar speed signs to remind us that we are speeding, we appear to be incapable of a self-imposed monitoring of our driving.
An improved crosswalk in our neighborhood (Photo Bill Pike)
In our attempt to be supportive grandparents, my wife and I attend soccer games for our granddaughters through the Tuckahoe YMCA.
At these games, I notice that all the coaches wear a t-shirt with the following words printed on the back: caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility.
How many of our problems related to our driving habits are because of our inability to care about ourselves and those we encounter when we drive?
How does our lack of honesty with ourselves to admit that we are the problem behind the wheel factor into this reckoning?
Have we lost so much respect for ourselves and the drivers we encounter that the responsibility to reasonably comply doesn’t matter any more?
I think the answer can be found in how many close calls I’ve had at intersections when multiple cars run a red light, when yield signs are completely ignored, and despite a clearly marked crosswalk with flashing lights drivers disregard the right-of-way of pedestrians.
We can “flock” all we want.
However, the real question is how our human compass handles caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility when we drive.
At a church building, the transition of heating and air-conditioning systems with the change of seasons can be a challenge.
I love October, but sometimes its cool mornings might require that we fire up a boiler, or two, or three at our church.
On the morning of Sunday, October 25 at Trinity United Methodist Church, I made a decision to turn on the boilers that serve the Sanctuary and Welcome Center. Thermostats in these large areas were reading 65 degrees.
To save pennies, I usually try to hold out to the first 32 degree morning before firing up a boiler in the building. Maybe my aging has made my HVAC heart softer for making the congregation feel comfortable on Sunday mornings.
The boilers fired properly. Within an hour the Sanctuary and the Welcome Center were losing their coolness.
That was not to be the case on the other side of the building.
Earlier in the week, I had turned on the boiler that provides heat for the Trinity Hall wing. That wing gets lots use by our congregation and community.
As I was coming into the building this morning, I noticed that the windows in the East Entrance stairwell were steamed up. True, it was cool outside, but not really cool enough to steam up those windows.
Curious, I made my way into the stairwell. I checked the door at the bottom of the stairs. This door leads into the mechanical room. The door was warm and moist to the touch. That door isn’t supposed to feel warm and moist.
When I opened the door, I could hear water spilling on to the hard concrete floor. The room was warm and steamy like a sauna.
With the lights on, I walked toward the hot water boiler. In the lower part of the ceiling, hot water was rapidly showering out from the middle section of a large pipe.
The water was spewing out from a link located between two mounted pumps. Quickly, my broken brain prodded me into action.
Water escaping (Photo Bill Pike)
First, I shutdown the boiler, followed by turning off all the pumps in the room. Even turning off the pumps did not slow the shower of water.
Next, I shutdown the hot water heater and the single pump that distributes hot water into the wing.
I traced down the two shut off valves for the leaking pipe.
With an assist from an old, wobbly, wooden ladder, I attempted to turn those valves. Formed like a small steering wheel, I couldn’t budge either valve.
I moved some junk away from the spewing water. Next, I made sure that the water wasn’t going to intrude on anything electrical.
To remove the steamy air, I opened one of the doors that empties out into the freight well. I propped open the door to the mechanical room and the exterior door on the ground floor, and opened a window at the top of the stairwell.
I put in a call for service to our HVAC company.
While waiting for the technician to arrive, I let our senior pastor know what was taking place. I went back into the mechanical room and walked into the freight well.
Armed with a broom and a bucket, I cleaned out the leaf debris near the drain. Once that was clear, I started sweeping the water into the freight well drain.
The HVAC technician called me. He was working his way down Interstate 95. I explained the challenge to him. He was about twenty minutes out.
When he arrived, I walked him into the mechanical room. He double checked my findings with the shutoff valves.
Being younger and a lot stronger, he had no trouble in turning off the first valve. However, the second one was lots of trouble.
He described the valve as being seized up. Trying to find just the right angle for his tools to work, he finally found it. It took some minutes, but the valve started to turn.
Gradually, the water shower began to slow to a trickle out of the pipe.
With the soggy insulation cut away, I could see where the pipe expansion joint had failed.
We discussed a plan for further assessing the failed joint. He would notify the proper people in his company for this assessing on Monday morning.
The weary expansion joint (Photo Bill Pike)
I started to think about the people who would be using the building on Monday. This would mean communication to our staff and building users.
As the tech and I were preparing to leave the mechanical room, he commented how it seems that HVAC problems tend to appear at the most inconvenient time “on Sunday mornings.” I agreed with his assessment, and thanked him for letting me disrupt his Sunday morning.
The failed expansion joint was original to the construction of the building in 1986. An expansion joint is designed to absorb movement and vibration as chilled or hot water travels through HVAC piping.
I was appreciative of the forty years of continuous service from the expansion joint. Like my old body, parts of me are slowly wearing out too.
On some days, deep inside of me, I think to myself—this old building is wearing me out. How many more unpleasant mechanical surprises are lurking in places that the congregation never see?
I wonder if God and Jesus feel the same way as they look down upon this old world?
Are they quietly saying to themselves—this old world is wearing us out. In this old world today, how many more unpleasant human experiences will erupt and break our hearts?
From all my years working in large school buildings and this cantankerous old church, I learned it is impossible to satisfy each person’s individual human thermostat. Despite this fact, my old heart tries to make people comfortable.
And perhaps at the end of the day, whether it is a failed expansion joint or a human tragedy on the other side of the world, it comes down to our hearts. How will we respond?
Maybe up in heaven, God and Jesus are still hoping that our hearts will wake up and that we can figure out how to stop breaking their hearts and ours too.
On John Lennon’s first solo album is a song titled “Hold On.”
Under two minutes in length, this pretty little song has a simple reminder for us:
“Hold on world, world hold on, it’s gonna be alright, you’re gonna see the light. Oh, and when you’re one, really one, well, you get things done like they’ve never been done, so hold on.”
Like God and Jesus, I keep hoping this old world is going to see the light.
And when that happens, we’ll figure out the path for working together and getting things done.
Even when expansion joints fail on a Sunday morning, and the world headlines continuously reveal our shortcomings, I’m trying to hold on.
Despite my theological shortcomings, I do think about the Bible and wisdom from 1 Thessalonians Chapter 5. Verses 16 through 22 caught my attention.
“Rejoice always” it is tough to rejoice when an expansion joint fails and a school shooter ruins lives in Bend, Oregon.
I do “pray continuously”. Even in my bleakest moments with a crabby church building and an unsteady world, my prayers haven’t stopped.
I do attempt to “give thanks in all circumstances.” Maybe the failed expansion joint could have been worse. In Bend, Oregon if the shooter hadn’t been confronted, the results would have been even more tragic.
These verses also tell us to “reject every kind of evil” and “hold on to what is good.”
Around our world, I wonder if we are truly capable of rejecting every kind of evil? Have we lost the capacity to counter the evil in the world and in ourselves?
Is our inability to reject those evils, keeping us from seeing the light and finding the good in the world and ourselves?
That’s a lot to think about.
In truth, you, me, we, us are beyond the thinking stage.
We must find “what is good” and put that good into action.
The weary hearts of God and Jesus can’t take much more.
On the afternoon of Friday, October 9, 2026, our yard needed to be mowed.
Before I could start mowing the front yard, I needed to remove about ten million acorns.
In truth, I can’t believe we have so many acorns. I thought the summer’s excessive heat and timid rainfall might curtail the acorns this year. I was wrong.
The acorns have been falling from a stately oak tree that lives in the corner of our neighbor’s yard.
This majestic oak has quite a canopy. The spread of this canopy intrudes into our yard.
There are so many acorns that even squirrels are disinterested. Wacky as squirrels are, they might regret their indifference this winter.
Our flower border along the fence line and a mulched section under the dogwood tree have some of those ten million acorns.
The acorns thud when they hit the ground. They bounce off the asphalt. The acorns pop loudly when they careen off the roof of my parked car or its windshield.
Driving over the acorns, sounds like ice cracking on a road surface on a frozen winter morning.
After I had finished raking as many as I could out of the yard, a neighbor who was walking by looked at my pile. She commented, “Wow, that’s a lot of acorns.”
She is correct. I expect after the acorns stop falling that between both yards we will conservatively estimate close to twenty million.
Acorns to be shipped to you (Photo Bill Pike)
Perhaps you remember from the movie, Forrest Gump, this introduction from Forrest’s new best friend: “My name is Benjamin Buford Blue, people call me Bubba.”
You might recall that young Bubba was all about starting his own shrimping business after the Vietnam war. Bubba could reel off all the possibilities for preparing and selling their harvested shrimp.
Based upon Bubba’s list, I’m beginning to wonder if there might be a market for acorns. According to several sources, some reliable, and some probably unreliable, acorns can be eaten.
If I believed more in the reliable, I could like Bubba name multiple culinary possibilities for the acorns—acorn pancakes, acorn ice cream, acorn muffins, spiced acorn cider, lightly salted acorns, acorn brittle, acorn upside down cake, emulsified acorn soup, acorn slurpy, acorn pudding. You get the idea.
Perhaps, it might be worth calling the Rose Bowl Parade. I’ll bet those clever float makers could find a place for the acorns on their floats.
Seriously, I’m thinking about reaching out to the Virginia Department of Forestry. They might take a million of the higher quality acorns off my hands for potential seedlings.
I know next spring at least half of our front yard will be sprouting oak leaves from the buried acorns.
Meanwhile if you live in a part of America where there are no oak trees producing acorns, for $29.95, I will gladly ship you a pound of acorns.
Before heading out to the Richmond Folk Festival on the afternoon of Saturday, October 10, we had grandparent soccer duty.
The Commander Supreme drove west to the Shady Grove YMCA facilities to watch our third grade granddaughter, Josie, play soccer.
The Commander left early so that she could survey the sale at Tweed. Tweed is one of the most dangerous retailers in Richmond for wives to visit. Husbands cringe when their wives say I’m going to Tweed.
I made no stop at a retailer on my way to Tuckahoe Middle School where our first grader, Ellie, would be playing her game. Both Josie and Ellie play in leagues coordinated through the Tuckahoe YMCA. Ellie’s team holds their weekly practice before the start of the game.
I think the Tuckahoe YMCA does a good job with this program. I particularly like the wording found on the back of the t-shirts worn by the coaches. It reads: COACH CARING, HONESTY, RESPECT, RESPONSIBILITY.
Tuckahoe YMCA t-shirt (Photo Bill Pike)
Despite efforts from my friend, Robb Spotts, who played collegiate soccer, coached at the high school level, and still officiates local soccer games, I do not understand the rules of soccer. Perhaps our granddaughters can assist my soccer mentor, Coach Spotts, in my tutelage.
Despite my soccer denseness, I do appreciate with lots of patience from their coaches how these young ladies improve their soccer skills.
I know grandparents are not supposed to brag about their grandchildren, but I’m going to break that rule.
The Commander Supreme reported to me that Josie has improved her skills. Josie scored a goal, and she had multiple saves when playing goalie.
At one point during the game on Saturday morning, I saw that improvement in Ellie’s soccer skills. I have no photographic proof, but here is what I saw.
The other team had the ball. One of their players was pushing the ball down the sideline on the side opposite from where Ellie was positioned. The player had an open field down that sideline.
Ellie from the other side of midfield saw this player breaking away. She ran with the grace of a yearling who had just discovered its stride. Ellie turned on her afterburners, caught up with the player, steered the ball away from her, took the ball back up field, and with some soccer gods’ luck kicked in a goal.
I wanted to see a replay. I wanted to hear a commentator compliment Ellie on her field of vision, her foot speed, and her pivot to work the ball back down field to score a goal.
Until I croak, I will replay Ellie’s play in my mind forever.
The remnants of Hurricane Isaias came to Richmond with a much needed, gentle rain on Sunday morning.
In opening up our church, Trinity Methodist, I was greeted with a text message from our Kids Director, Jen. A slow rotting pumpkin had slimmed a carpet tile in a classroom.
And, I remembered that I needed to replace a burned out light in the mini-kitchen in the Welcome Center.
I popped up the carpet tile, replaced it with a substitute, and disposed of the rotting pumpkin. With warm soapy water, I scrubbed the stained carpet tile, rinsed it, and placed the soggy tile in the Trinity Hall mechanical room to dry.
Next, I worked my way to replacing the burned out light.
Someday, I would like to have a long conversation with the designer of the light fixtures that grace our Welcome Center. That conversation would also include the architect who thought it would be a good idea to install these fixtures in the Welcome Center.
My battles with these fixtures are not pretty.
Troublesome light fixture (Photo Bill Pike)
God’s ears burn when the confrontation with the dead bulb starts. Any slim chance that I had for even seeing the pearly gates of heaven slip further and further away when wrestling with replacing these lights.
This Sunday morning was to be no different.
Armed with a ladder, a Phillips head screwdriver, a pencil, gloves, and a new bulb, I started.
The first challenge is to remove the bulb from the socket without it breaking. Just so you know these bulbs are not your standard screw in type. With a gloved hand, I gently try to remove the bulb. Step one failed.
Eventually, I was able to coax the bulb to release. With its cracks, I placed the bulb, into a small cardboard box.
Next, I used the screwdriver to unscrew two screws holding the metal canister in place in the ceiling tile opening.
Quickly, with the pencil, I attempted to push in the new light bulb. The pencil is just the right length, and with the eraser I can apply pressure to push in the bulb. Rushing, I failed again. I did not have the new bulb snug in its four sided opening. The bulb landed hard and cracked on the countertop.
More muttering of unacceptable language spewed.
So, I regrouped. Went down into Eaton Hall to grab a new bulb. Came back into the Welcome Center, repositioned the ladder, and started over.
This time the bulb was snug. I put the bulb back into the cone, realigned and tightened the two screws and shoved the fixture back into the ceiling. Unfortunately, the base of the fixture was not flush with the ceiling tile.
Now, I had an unacceptable gap. I removed another ceiling tile, shoved my head into that space, and saw the problem.
To hold the fixture in place on the metal grids where the ceiling tiles lie are two adjustable metal bars. These two bars were not positioned properly. With the assist of more rotten language, I finally found the correct position for the bars. Now the base of the light canister was flush with the ceiling tile.
If you’re still reading this baloney, you are either laughing hysterically, crying for my incompetence, or wondering why, why does God and this church keep this old guy around?
I can’t answer that question.
But, I do think about the words on the back of that YMCA t-shirt worn by their coaches.
Where have caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility gone in our world?
Have they become lost in the chaos of our headlines?
What do acorns, a soccer game, and a light fixture have to do with those words?
The over productive oak tree is simply being responsible to the rules of nature that it has followed since its birth.
Luckily for our granddaughters, the YMCA is still an organization that values caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility. Just imagine the impact we could have on each other and the world if we thoughtfully applied these words.
As for me and that light fixture, despite all of the heartburn it gave me, I do respect the light it provides.
And continuing on the as for me, my wife will tell you that at times I care too much.
I had a school leader tell me one time that I was “honest to a fault.”
And as for responsibility, it is in my DNA.
Where are caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility in our collective DNA?
Maybe acorns pinging off our noggins, the innocent hope of children on a soccer field, and the stubborn collision between an old grump and a light fixture will remind us that we need caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility more that ever.
You, me, we, us need to reconnect with these words.
They are in our DNA.
Winston Churchill said, “Words are the only things which last forever.”
You, me, we, us need to make sure that caring, honesty, respect, and responsibility last forever.
My wife, the Commander Supreme, can confirm this for you.
She knows that if it wasn’t for her, I couldn’t travel.
I’d never make it on to the plane.
This trip was not about Paris, Texas, or London, Kentucky.
No, this trip was about Paris, France, a cruise down the Seine River, Normandy, and London, England.
I recall the exact moment when this trip was pitched, discussed, and booked.
In October 2025, we were in Greensboro for our 50th college reunion. We were invited to breakfast at the home of my college roommate and his wife, Butch and Marian Sherrill. Our friends, Dan and Judy Callow were there too.
After breakfast, the ambush occurred. The trip was pitched. I thought wait a second, a few months ago we all returned from our trip to Alaska. Now, my pals are pitching another trip. Where is the economic recovery from that trip in your thinking?
Things started moving faster than a Frenchman swallowing a snail.
Next thing I knew, a call to Grand Circle was taking place.
Next thing I knew, we were signed up for this trip.
My wife and our cherished friends were all smiles—mission accomplished. The morale of this story— be wary of a simple breakfast invitation with beloved friends.
From September 1 thru September 19, we were in constant motion. I find that you endure that constant movement because of your traveling partners.
In our case that meant the Callows and Sherrills. I don’t know how or why, but in our mental makeups, there is a tolerance, a patience, a give and take, humor, and wisdom that gets us through these journeys. Even in nerve plucking moments, our hearts guide.
For this trip, we worked with Grand Circle. The Callows and Sherrills have traveled multiple times with this company. This was our first trip with Grand Circle.
In my limited travel experiences with cruise lines, it all boils down to their personnel. Do they have the right people working behind the scenes, and do they have the right people in public? Fortunately for us on this trip, Grand Circle did.
For this trip, I selfishly had three goals—make it to Normandy and the D-Day beaches, the Churchill War Room, and the famous crosswalk where the cover for the Beatles’ album Abbey Road was photographed.
Thanks to my wife and our pals that mission was accomplished.
Trips like this don’t happen without brains better than mine doing lots of planning.
On Thursday, June 25, the Sherrills drove from Greensboro to Richmond. They spent the night with us. On Friday morning we drove to Maryland where the Callows live.
Outside of Frederick, Maryland, we had a delightful lunch and visit with the Callows son and his family.
After lunch, we drove to Highland where Dan and Judy reside. For the remainder of Friday and a good portion of Saturday, the Callow’s dining room became our “war room.”
Months ago, our reservations had been confirmed and secured with Grand Circle. This planning was figuring out our three days in Paris prior to boarding the ship, and our three nights in London after leaving the ship.
Previous traveling experiences, detailed lists, maps, computer apps, phone apps were all put to use to carve these days. I sat quietly and watched.
A final session on Sunday morning confirmed assignments and deadlines. These were not assignments for slackers. Success in Paris and London depended upon making reservations and purchasing tickets when necessary.
During July and August, phone calls, text messages, emails, and an occasional Zoom molded and shaped the itinerary. By August 30, we questioned how our packing was going, and on August 31, we were in motion.
The Callows had a direct flight into Paris from BWI in Baltimore.
As we all know the pricing of airline tickets can go from very reasonable to outrageous. To avoid the outrageous, it was cheaper by $1,500 dollars for Betsy and me to drive to Greensboro to fly to Philadelphia to Paris than attempting to do that via Richmond.
So on August 31, we drove to Summerfield where our oldest daughter, Lauren and her family live. We left our car in their driveway, and Lauren drove us to the Greensboro airport—a short drive.
Arriving at the Greensboro airport (Photo Lauren Reinking)
The Sherrills live in Greensboro. One of their sons-in-law dropped them off, and once we checked in and cleared security, we met in the American Airline terminal and waited.
I’m impatient in waiting to board a plane. I don’t sit. I walk the terminal. I figure I’m going to be sitting on a plane a long, long time, so, I keep moving until the call to board is announced.
Our flight to Philadelphia kept getting delayed. Eventually the travel gods cooperated. The plane arrived, we boarded the EMB145, the pilot gave us an update, and we were off.
Coming into Philadelphia, thunderstorms were brewing. This line of storms didn’t impact our landing, but a storm did erupt over the airport. Fortunately, this line of weather moved quickly. Its impact on our departure was minimal.
Approach into Philadelphia (Photo Bill Pike)
No matter what airlines try, boarding a plane is a nightmare. The massive 787 was built to carry lots of passengers and their junk, but boarding is still a pain.
The Captain told us to expect a delay in departing. To his surprise air traffic controllers gave him the green light to go sooner than anticipated. With that he gunned the engines, and we were barreling down the rain-slicked runway bound for Paris.
I wonder what Charles Lindbergh might think about this big sheet metal monster compared to his Spirit of St. Louis.
Soon, the lights of Philadelphia and the east coast of America were gone. Darkness consumed this big bird in its flight path across the Atlantic.
On long flights, I never look at my watch or track the plane’s path. To me that only makes the anguish of the flight longer.
If the plane’s technology is working, I watch movies to escape the slow moving hands of time.
On this flight, none of the new move releases interested me. I watched Stand By Me, the first Toy Story, and a documentary about Lorne Michaels, the creator of Saturday Night Live. I know at times I dozed off. That dozing kept the clock moving.
Thank the good Lord for tailwinds. Those winds helped the pilot and crew to bring us into our approach for landing at Charles De Gaulle Airport sooner.
Departing the plane is more madness.
Once off, we regroup, get our bearings, find a restroom, and start working our way toward customs, luggage, and finding our Grand Circle representative.
With some luck, everything works, and soon Grand Circle personnel have us loaded with our luggage into a van.
We have a good driver who finds his way to our hotel without too much heartburn.
Check-in at the Hotel Le Bellune is seamless.
It is here that we meet our key Grand Circle contact person, our guide, Matt.
For the next fourteen days, Matt will be our pivot point. From France, Matt speaks impeccable English. More importantly, he knows how to work with people, all kinds of people, even wacky American tourist like us.
Later in the afternoon, we have a welcome, a briefing, and then a tour led by Matt of the neighborhood surrounding the hotel.
At the briefing, we are given our Metro passes, a listening device nicknamed “whisperer” and an overview of the game plan until we board the ship on Saturday.
With the tour of the neighborhood, our first lesson is about the bicycle lanes that run parallel to the sidewalks. Look both ways, lots of Parisians ride bikes.
Matt gives helpful hints about interacting with shopkeepers and restaurant staff. We see the locations for a grocery store, pharmacy, and a bank. Matt knows the neighborhood so he quietly points out places not to enter.
After the tour, we opt to have dinner in the hotel. We finalize our departure time for day one of exploring Paris, and then we head to our rooms and collapse.
Late on the afternoon of Friday, August 21, 2026, long time Trinity member, Ken Hart, showed up at church.
Ken arrived with his leaf blower. The crepe myrtles in the Bicentennial Garden drop their pretty pink blossoms on the brick paver sidewalk.
Those blossoms track into the building. This is especially true after a passing summer thunderstorm.
When I saw Ken on Sunday morning, I thanked him for his work.
I also told him that the sidewalk was covered again this morning with those pretty pink blossoms.
Somedays, sidewalks go sideways.
Early on that same Sunday morning, I used a couple of brooms to clear the sidewalk again. As I was sweeping those pink blossoms, I looked down into the pile where I saw a motionless butterfly.
I picked it up and placed it on the top of one of the brick columns. The butterfly was a monarch. Stunning in its color, its patterns were perfectly designed and sequenced, a flawless example of an angel on earth.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
I felt bad for the butterfly. I thought back to all of the times Eric Carle’s “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” had been read to our children before bedtime.
Somedays, life goes sideways for butterflies.
Out on Patterson Avenue, Virginia Route 6, where Normandy Drive empties on to Patterson there is a water line leak. Water has been bubbling for over two weeks now.
That bubbling created a large pot hole. The pot hole was large enough to be a hindrance for drivers. Despite shutting that travel lane down, and using orange traffic cones and gravel as a band-aid repair, none of that has kept right front tires from slamming into the hole.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
One morning, I watched a county school bus make a very awkward turn on to the open lane on Patterson. I don’t think the bus driver enjoyed making that turn.
Somedays, life goes sideways for water lines.
This week, thousands of miles from Richmond, Virginia, life went sideways in Nepal. I have never seen such immediate and catastrophic flood destruction. There was no blink. Didn’t matter if you were a human being or a man made structure, you were gone.
Somedays, life can unexpectedly go sideways.
A few weeks ago, life went sideways for our new senior pastor, and her husband, who is also a pastor. He was diagnosed with a very rare, but dangerous oral cancer. His second round of surgery was yesterday.
Cancer always makes life go sideways.
Somewhere in America there is a small business owner who is feverishly attempting to figure out how to make payroll for this week. The business owner understands loyalty and sacrifice. Deep inside, the owner wonders how much longer loyalty and sacrifice will last.
Making payroll makes life go sideways.
My sister and I always remember August 31, 1992 and September 1, 2002. Those were the days when we lost our parents.
Losing a loved one makes life go sideways.
Up in heaven, I wonder if life goes sideways for God and Jesus?
My guess is life goes sideways every day in heaven.
Twenty-four seven, there is no down time. There is always a crisis.
For people like me, who try to be good, who try to understand and apply the teachings in the Bible to my daily living, my belief in what I have held on to for all these years can go sideways too.
I want to know why life goes sideways?
Yes, this is a reoccuring whining theme for me.
But, the truth be told, this is a reoccuring, whining question for you too. You want to know why life goes sideways.
Quite honestly, God and Jesus are tired of me and my why.
And all my whys are grounded in the New Testament of the Bible—the miracles. Why was sight restored to someone? Why were demons cast out of a young man? Why were lepers cured? Why did a judge finally cave in and rule in favor of the woman who had consistently pestered him? Why, why, why, why, why?
Every August, I keep an eye on a gardenia shrub. The gardenia is located on the west side of our home. It is in a narrow border beside our trash cans and recycling container.
That gardenia blooms in the late spring. Sometimes in August, the gardenia surprises me with a few fragrant singular blooms.
This August, the gardenia didn’t disappoint me. I caught a whiff of its fragrance when taking out some recycling. I searched the shrub and found the single white bloom buried among waxy green leaves.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
That gardenia always circles me back to my parents. They had prolific green thumbs. For this gardenia, its roots are linked back to my parent’s yard. It’s blooming in August always makes me think of our mother and father.
There have been years, when life had gone sideways for the gardenia. Challenging winters with coatings of ice and harsh northwest winds have on several occasions burned its green foliage.
Despite the bitter winter, the gardenia finds a way to persevere.
When life went sideways for our parents, I think their perseverance came from their faith.
Clearly, there is no stopping of life going sideways.
Perhaps when sideways arrives, I need to think more deeply about this quote from Helen Keller: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.”
Instead of me constantly whining why about sideways, I need to commit to help those who are still here with the “overcoming it.”
It will be difficult for me to overcome my whining why.
The extreme heat warning was first issued for Richmond, Virginia on Thursday, July 2, 2026.
Two days later on Saturday, July 4, the extreme heat warning was still in place.
When I left for my run that Saturday morning, the temperature was 77 degrees, humidity 88%, dew point, 73 degrees, and wind out of the south at 3 mph. If you moved an inch in any direction on this miserably uncomfortable morning, you were guaranteed to perspire.
For the next 35:49, that’s all I did. When I finished my run, I was drenched. No part of my old sack of bones was dry.
Despite these conditions, I saw walkers, a couple of runners, and neighbors walking their dogs. One neighbor said to me that he was simply trying to beat the heat.
The only way to beat the heat on a day like this is to hope that you have an air conditioned home.
Despite the heat, I did enjoy my run.
Yes, I said I enjoyed my run.
It is always an enjoyable run if I spot a bluebird.
This morning near the end of the service road that runs parallel to Westham Parkway, a bluebird briefly zoomed in front of me. Just like the blue on a blue crab, there is nothing like the blue of a bluebird.
Bluebirds are so flitty. Rarely do these pretty birds stay in one spot. Any movement causes them to quickly exit.
Once I was back home, I was fortunate to see another favorite bird the gold finch. This was my first spotting of the summer. Two of these bright yellow birds were enjoying a breakfast of coneflower seeds.
Even though the harsh, bitter cold of our 2026 winter is gone. Winter in a very small way is still hanging around our neighborhood.
On this run, there is an unusual intersection. Brookside Road and Bryn Mawr Road empty out on to Westham Parkway. There are three stop signs, one for each road.
Where those roads intersect, I find the remnants of winter.
To try to help drivers gain traction on our ice covered roads, snowplow drivers sometimes spread a mixture of salt with tiny granules of gravel and sand. As winter melted away, those particles of gravel and sand with the help of wind, rain, and car tires have worked their way down Brookside and Bryn Mawr.
The grit of winter still hanging around (Photo Bill Pike)
Unless we have a succession of cloud bursting showers, I don’t think this left over grit from winter is going to be leaving the flat area of this intersection.
I admire the grittiness of these tiny particles of sand and gravel. They have endured a harsh winter, the energy of spring, and the stubborn heat and humidity of summer.
Who knows some day, they might be washed into Westham Creek and flow into Westhampton Lake on the campus of the University of Richmond.
From there it is conceivable to flow over the spillway by the student commons heading toward the Kanawha Canal, the James River, and the Atlantic Ocean. I can only begin to imagine such a journey.
But, it is also possible that most of the gritty particles will stay put. They will not be swept away by rainwater, blown by the wind, or dispersed by the friction from car tires.
Deep in what’s left of my old brain, I compare those grains of sand and gravel to people. People who stand at the intersection of their lives.
Maybe they are trying to figure out a new direction in life.
Maybe they are worn and frazzled by the daily struggles they encounter.
Maybe they are weary from being run over by the meanness of life, the struggle to find stability and success.
Maybe they are in a vicious generational cycle full of instability and constant failures.
Maybe, they are in need of hope, grace, and mercy.
Maybe, they just need someone to reach out to them.
Someone to listen without judging.
Someone to acknowledge that despite the burdens they are carrying, these people at the intersection of life do matter, and the struggles in their lives matter.
To them hope, grace, and mercy might be just as flitty and unattainable as a streaking bluebird or gold finch.
1 Thessalonians Chapter 5 verse 11 offers these simple words of wisdom: “Therefore encourage one another and build up each other.”
At church, this past Sunday, I spent a few minutes talking with one of our older members. When I asked him how he was doing, the dedicated husband and father talked about his wife.
For many years, his wife has been impacted by the devastation of Alzheimer’s disease. Recently, her conditions took a turn for the worse.
This change necessitated a different living arrangement. His wife needed more around the clock care. He told me how much he missed having his wife with him.
In these difficult circumstances, I attempted to follow the guidance from 1 Thessalonians Chapter 5 verse 11, but I’m certain my words were way off the mark. His sadness is breaking his heart.
If you are looking for a good piece of fiction to read, I recommend The Correspondent by Virginia Evans.
The book focuses on Sybil Van Antwerp. Sybil was an accomplished attorney who uses her letter writing to try and make sense of her life and the world around her.
In a letter she wrote to Larry McMurtry, the author of Lonesome Dove, she states: “and I suppose, back then, I was reading fiction in search of assurances that there was still a reason for hope.”
Clearly, I’m not the brightest grump in this old world, but at the challenging crossroads and troublesome intersections of life isn’t that what we are searching to find—just a tiny grain of hope?
In the miserable heat and humidity of another summer in the South, might the gritty remnants of a weary winter give us a bit of hope?
And I wonder what might give that much needed hope to those trapped in the crossroads and intersections of an unstable life?
I think the answer depends how much you, me, we, us can put into action these words: “encourage one another and build up each other.”
The sound I could hear coming from the Trinity Hall Mechanical Room wasn’t a happy one.
For sure, circulating pumps make noise when they are working. But these sounds were beyond the normal whirring of a motor that was working properly.
I could hear metal vibrating and bearings that were thinking to themselves—“I’ve grown weary of this same predictable redundancy day after day, I’m ready to check out.”
Eventually, the I’m not happy sound was annoying staff members who could hear something, but they weren’t quite sure what that sound was.
Our associate pastor asked, “What is that sound?”
I responded, “A pump in need of its last rites.”
So, I asked our HVAC company to stop by to offer an assessment of the ailing pump.
Their assessment was bleak.
The pump needed to be placed in mechanical hospice.
This highly reliable and well-built pump had been circulating chilled water during the often brutal Richmond summers since July 1987. The pump kept people in the Trinity Hall wing of the building from melting on those unbearable summer days.
The estimated cost for the pump’s funeral was close to $13,800. The pump alone was nearly $8,000.
I protested the high cost of that funeral to the estimator. I asked him to sharpen his pencil. He obliged this request. The price reduced almost a thousand dollars.
There was no way that our current budget could afford the funeral cost for a new pump. The harsh winter had been rough on our HVAC systems and budget.
I pushed back.
I thought to myself.
I appreciate the almost forty years of loyalty from this pump.
In this fast-paced, every changing world, I sense that loyalty is becoming a scarce commodity.
I asked if the loyal pump could be rebuilt?
Our lead HVAC technician said that was a possibility.
So with a bit more investigation, we determined that we could shutdown the pump and still keep that section of the building cool.
Late on Thursday afternoon, I pulled down on the arm of the singular circuit for that pump. In a matter of seconds the pump was quiet.
On Friday morning, another technician stopped by to remove the pump. This was no easy task. The pump is bulky, heavy, and in a tight location. Eventually, the technician won.
The pump was transported to Roy’s Electric. For over seventy five years, Roy’s has developed a reliable reputation for assessing old pumps and determining if they are salvageable and able to be rebuilt. This $90.00 assessment will hopefully give us a positive answer to rebuild the pump.
If the pump can be rebuilt with new parts and quality hands on assembly, the cost to bring it back to life is $3,000.
My fingers are crossed that the pump can be rebuilt. Our church budget will appreciate the difference in price.
Keeping an eye on the daily workings of a church is not much different from keeping a daily eye on the workings of our own bodies. Just as mechanical rooms are complicated—so are our human bodies.
We never know when our bodies might opt to have a difficult conversation with us.
I’m sure God and Jesus hear difficult prayers everyday from people around the world.
These people are reaching out because a loved one might be nearing the end.
Clearly, human beings are a lot different from mechanical room HVAC pumps. A pump can be replaced, or maybe rebuilt.
That’s not always the case for human beings. Sometimes, doctors with lots of dignity, grace, and respect must tell families— I’m sorry, but we have no other options.
If I’m lucky before the end of June, I’ll turn seventy-three.
I think how fortunate I’ve been. I wonder how many more birthdays I might have in me?
Despite my efforts to take care of myself, I wonder when will my luck run out?
Today at church, I had a long conversation with a friend who had lost his wife to cancer. Despite this devastating loss, he found comfort in a recent research breakthrough for the type of cancer she battled. That breakthrough was a ray of hope for the future.
Isaiah 41:10 states: “Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with My victorious right hand.”
In her book, “The Wings of Hope: Survivor,” Lailah Gifty Akita wrote: “Hope is hanging on to the promises of God.”
Doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with a weary old HVAC pump, or the frailty of human life, sometimes, the only hope we have is “hanging on to the promises of God.”
In the Eaton Hall mechanical room, there are two boilers. A hot water heater. A couple of air handlers. All kinds of electrical panels—some dead, some living.
There are pumps, pipes, conduits where phone and communication lines merge and disperse.
We even have a tunnel.
A crawl space that connects the Eaton Hall mechanical room to a small mechanical room in the basement of the Preschool.
Maybe, the youth should forget about selling pumpkins in the Fall. Consideration should be given to transitioning to a haunted bowels of the basement tour at Trinity during Halloween.
Who knows Chip and Flip could make cameo appearances as the sump pump mudmumblers or the boiler buzzards with a guaranteed admission discount slashed from $39.95 to $19.95.
Mechanical rooms in this old church building make me weary.
Financial disaster, in the form of a piece of equipment failing is always lurking in a mechanical room. Its the law of the darkness— where deep inside a pump a worn coupler shreds, fails. The pump squawks and shrieks in its mechanized death until the power is cut.
For months, we’ve been carefully monitoring two sump pumps in a well deep in the concrete floor. These pumps perform a critical function—they remove intruding ground water.
On Tuesday, a skilled technician who is familiar with cantankerous sump pumps came back to install a new switch for a supposedly faulty one.
In preparing for this installation, the technician discovered a loose screw. This screw was impacting the proper operation of that pump.
The technician simply tightened down the screw. Following this reconnection, he adjusted a float mechanism, and turned back on the electricity. In a matter of seconds, the pump was engaged and working properly.
When the technician reported his findings, I was relieved to hear this good news, and yet, I wondered why can’t the complications of daily living be so simple?
How different this world might be if it simply came down to finding and tightening a loose screw.
James Taylor is a gifted songwriter, singer, and musician.
He is also a survivor.
At some point in his career, Mr. Taylor had to tighten the screws of his lifestyle in order to make it to another day.
In the third stanza of his song “Fire and Rain,” Mr. Taylor wrote: “Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus? You’ve got to help me make a stand. You’ve just got to see me through another day. My body’s aching and my time is at hand, And I won’t make it any other way.”
In this chaotic world, at this very moment, there is a human being who is hoping that Jesus is looking down upon them. That person no matter his/her circumstances needs help in making a stand.
What does it take to be seen through another day when no other options seem possible?
What are the chances that the right person with the right screwdriver will arrive and tighten down the loose screw for the person in need?
Might that screw tightener be you, me, we, us?
The other day, I stumbled upon this line of scripture: “Let me alone, for my days are a breath.”
Those words came from Job chapter 7 verse 16.
“For my days are a breath” reminds me of how quick time moves.
For that person who needs a screw tightened his/her time “is at hand.”
How will I respond if it is up to me to help that person to “make a stand?”
