writing – might be baloney

Life Is Difficult: Penny Dollar Farmer, Julian Barnes, Piedmont, Alabama, and Lara Love Hardin

February 1, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

The email arrived on January 15, 2026.

It was from Tommy Yow.

At one time, Tommy had served as the Youth Director at Davis Street United Methodist Church in Burlington, North Carolina.

Davis Street was the church we attended when I was growing up.

The email was from the North Carolina Conference of the United Methodist Church. It was a request for prayers.

Penny Farmer a retired Methodist minister had been moved into hospice care.
When I was growing up at Davis Street, Penny Farmer was Penny Dollar.

Penny was a part of the youth group at Davis Street, and she was a classmate at Walter Williams High School. We graduated in 1971.

I often wondered how she felt about her name. Did people tease her? Dd they ask foolish questions as jokes? Hey Penny, you dropped a penny. Hey Penny, do you have any dollars?

I will confess I haven’t been a good friend or Christian in keeping up with people over the years.

Yet, Penny had a distinguished and impactful career as a Methodist minister. No matter where she served in eastern North Carolina, no matter her title, people in those congregations held her in high esteem.

Her accomplishments, her leadership, and her ability to impact the lives of people no matter their age was impressive.

Penny’s partner in life has been her husband, John, who is also a Methodist minister.

With the news about hospice care, I added Penny to my prayer list.

On Saturday, January 24, my sister, Lisa, texted me that Penny had passed.

Moments like this make me pause. I pause and ask lots of internal faith questions.

I know Penny’s health had been declining, but I also always want to know why such a good person, a loyal servant, and a person who walked the walk and talked the talk much better than me isn’t still with us.

I also question the sad losses that Penny experienced in her life two brothers and a granddaughter, how can these losses happen to a committed Christian?

I know, I know what you are thinking, Bill, that’s the way life is. Bad things happen to good people everyday. You can’t do anything about it.

Yes, that is all true, but I always want to know why didn’t God intervene?

Where are God’s angels?

Where is the gentle touch of Jesus?

I think about all of those New Testament stories in the Bible where just the touch of Jesus or the presence of Jesus changed circumstance for individuals.

Where was that touch for Penny and others like her?

Come on Bill, you always get riled up and question God in moments like this. One of these days, God is going to say—all right Pike, I’ve had enough, you’re out of here.

But, deep in my heart, I know that you have the same questions, you’re just not as crazy as I am.

By now, you know that I listen to the National Public Radio Show Fresh Air. I listen to Fresh Air because I always learn from the interviews.

Recently, I listened to an interview with British author, Julian Barnes. I confess I have never read any of Mr. Barnes’ books. Part of that interview with host, Terry Gross, caught my attention.

In 2008, Mr. Barnes lost his wife in thirty-seven days from a very aggressive brain cancer. Mr. Barnes stated this was the most “appalling, the blackest” thing to happen in his life.

Mr. Barnes describes himself as an agnostic. He doesn’t believe in God.

Terry Gross asked Mr. Barnes: “Do you ever wish you could believe in a loving, comforting God who was your friend and a heaven where you’d be reunited with your wife of 30 years, and, you know, things would be calm and beautiful?”

Mr. Barnes responds: “No. I’ve never thought that. I’ve never had any religious belief. I think that life is all we have, and there’s nothing after it. It’s very hard to believe in a calm and loving God when you look at the state of the world.”

As the interview continues, Mr. Barnes cites an interview he heard with actor, Stephen Fry. Mr. Fry was asked: “So give me one reason why you don’t believe in God. And Stephen Fry answered, child cancer.”

To this line of thought, Mr. Barnes adds more comments:
“If he’s a loving God, then why does – why do the just do badly? Why do the unjust succeed? Why does – why do innocent people get suddenly killed? It makes no sense, except that the defense from the religious angle is God moves in mysterious ways. We simply don’t know. We’ll find out later. That’s sort of not good enough for me.”

I think about what Mr. Barnes stated.

Part of me reckons, if we are truthful with each other, we have asked those questions at various points in our lives.

We still subscribe to Southern Living magazine. I love the Grumpy Gardener, but I love even more the column by Rick Bragg. Mr. Bragg makes me laugh.

Perhaps you know that Mr. Bragg is a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist. His book “Somebody Told Me” is a compilation of newspaper stories he wrote for the Birmingham News, St. Petersburg Times, and The New York Times.

The first chapter of the book is titled—Survivors. In this opening chapter, Mr. Bragg writes about the devastating tornado that struck Piedmont, Alabama on March 27, 1994.

Twenty people were killed when the tornado hit Goshen United Methodist Church. It was Palm Sunday.
Six of the dead were children. One of those children was the four year old daughter of the church’s pastor, Reverend Kelly Clem. Her husband, Dale is also a minister.

In Mr. Bragg’s article, Robyn Tucker King states: “We are trained not to question God. But why? she said. Why a church? Why those little children? Why? Why? Why?”

Could it be that God might wish that “why” wasn’t a part of our language?

And yet, the curiosity of “why” can also be applied to Lara Love Hardin and her book—“The Many Lives of Mama Love.”

A New York Times Bestseller and an Oprah Book Club pick in 2024, this book is a true store of the author’s downfall and ultimate redemption. It involves the ugliness of addiction, arrest, incarceration, and the post-jail challenges of breaking free.

Some how, some way, Lara Love Hardin beat the odds, reinvented herself, and encountered a remarkable redemption—why?

Was it her random heartfelt prayers?

Was it her unyielding resolve not to lose her four sons?

Was it her relentless determination not to become another statistic of recidivism?

Was it luck, timing, her long buried gift of writing?

Why does Lara Love Hardin turn her life around, and thousands of other women who have been incarcerated fail?

Everyday, Tommy Yow forwards me an email. It is a meditation from Richard Rohr’s Center For Action and Contemplation.

On Friday, January 30, the meditation was written by Liz Charlotte Grant. The topic was how she reads the Bible today.

The last paragraph caught my attention:
“You too have permission to question the sacred without fearing a backslide into unbelief. Knock loudly. Listen to your gut and let your tears run. Reject answers that do not admit complication. Seek the resonance at the base of the story. The seeking is the point. Because there, in your wandering, God is.”

It should be obvious that I would be drawn to “permission to question.”

I will also admit that losing good people like Penny Dollar, Julian Barnes’ feelings about God, and that Piedmont, Alabama tornado make me contemplate “a backslide into unbelief.”

Yet, some how, I’m still a wondering wanderer.

Maybe, Lara Love Hardin’s turnaround has something to do with that.

Late on the afternoon of Thursday, January 29, 2026, I needed a quiet place to organize paperwork at Trinity the church where I work.

The winter storm that hit Richmond made the first three days of this week challenging. The challenge was attempting to clear the church’s sidewalks of a ridiculously thick layer of frozen snow, sleet, and freezing rain. Why God didn’t you just send snow?

I went to room 317, the classroom where the Book Seekers class meets on Sunday mornings. This group of ageless wonders has lots of wisdom.

As I was finishing up my work, I looked at the whiteboard on one of the walls.
Scribbled out in black dry-erase marker was some wisdom.

The first line caught my attention—Life is difficult.

I think to myself, yes it is.

Followed by—Character of God—always there, loving, dependable. Share our burdens.

Here, I start to struggle.

Always there, loving, dependable—is he? Shares our burdens—does he? Immediately, I’m thinking about troublesome headlines in America and the world.

Last line starts with a question—How do we respond? Wait and hope. Don’t give up-never give up. Remember God’s providence.

Maybe God is waiting for us to respond to those troublesome headlines.

Is he in a holding pattern up there?

Is he looking down hoping that we will wake up?

Is he hoping that we will never give up on ourselves or God’s providence?

Penny Elizabeth Dollar Farmer knew life was difficult.

Penny saw it with her own family and the congregations she served in her career.

But in the burdens of difficult lives, she knew and saw in her work the character of God—always there, loving, and dependable.

No matter the circumstances, Penny always responded. She could wait out with hope, she never gave up.

Why?

She always, always remembered God’s providence.

And so should we.

Thank you Anthony Romanello

January 27, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

When I served as an assistant principal at Hermitage High School in Henrico County, Anthony Romanello was one of our students.

By the time Anthony was a senior, the faculty, staff, and his peers knew there was something special about him.

They also sensed no matter where Anthony’s future took him that he was going to have an impact in a positive way.

In 2025, Anthony announced that he would be leaving his job as Henrico County’s leader for economic development.

Truthfully, I was a bit sad by this announcement. I thought Anthony might become county manager in Henrico some day.

No matter the cities and counties where Anthony has served in Virginia, he has made a difference.

In his two books, “Random Thoughts: Reflections of Public Service, Fatherhood, and Middle Age” and “The Girl Who Lived on the Third Floor,” we learn about Anthony’s most reliable asset—his heart.

Starting with “Random Thoughts: Reflections on Public Service, Fatherhood, and Middle Age,” readers experience an up close look at Anthony’s leadership heart in action.

His heart reveals the importance of building relationships, listening, visioning, hard work, teamwork, empathy, loyalty, and two simple words—thank you.

With “The Girl Who Lived on the Third Floor,” the focus shifts to Anthony’s daily interactions with his wife, Diane, and their children. This book is based upon the commitment Anthony and Diane made as foster parents.

In 2016, with four of their own children, Anthony and Diane made a decision to adopt an eleven day old baby girl into their family.

From this adoption, we see Anthony’s heart from a different angle— an angle that reveals how his successful management skills can be impactful in a family setting too.

I believe those attributes and his compassion for people will continue to allow Anthony to grow in his new role as a managing partner for a local consulting firm.

But what I really hope is no matter how difficult the decisions might be that local leaders make, it is important for them to listen to their hearts.

When leaders disregard their hearts in making decisions, the people they serve lose.

Luckily for the people in the communities where Anthony Romanello has served, he has humbly listened to his heart.

Long may his heartfelt service endure.

America’s firestorm

January 26, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

It has been a year since wildfires devastated parts of Los Angeles, California. Recently, I have read and listened to follow-up reports about these deadly and destructive fires.

From the NPR show Fresh Air, I listened to host Tonya Moseley’s interview with journalist, Jacob Soboroff, about his new book “Firestorm: The Great Los Angeles Fires And America’s New Age Of Disaster.” Soboroff interviewed one firefighter who said, “there’s no fire season, it’s fire year.”

In truth, I feel that way about America at this time. I sense America is in a firestorm. From “sea to shining sea” and beyond our borders we are a raging hot spot.

We are burning out of control. There is no immunity. Every state and country has kindling ready to ignite.

ICE shootings in Minnesota and Oregon.

Another mass shooting in Clay County, Mississippi with six people dead. The victims range in age from 7 to 67.

A arson fire in Mississippi that burned through a historic synagogue destroying its library. In 1967, the same synagogue endured a bombing by the Ku Klux Klan.

Beyond our borders, America’s foreign policy has intense flames in Venezuela, the Ukraine-Russia war, the unrest in Iran, and the always volatile Middle East.

And despite these hot spots, the hottest, most intense fire burns in our nation’s capital.

The mentality of our leadership is fueled by greed, disrespect, incivility, selfishness, abusive power, vindictiveness, and a complete disregard for the truth.

As badly as we might want 2026 to be a better year, it is already “a fire year.”

In 1962, James Baldwin wrote in an essay for the New York Times: “Not everything that is faced can be changed; but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

America we are overdue to face ourselves.

Author’s note: This piece was submitted to the Richmond Times-Dispatch as a letter to the editor on January 13, 2026. To the best of my knowledge, it was rejected.

Love, it will take more than a sign

January 3, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

On the evening of Friday, January 2, 2026, my wife and I visited the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden.

Our purpose for this trip was to view the Dominion Energy GardenFest of Lights.

This annual trek didn’t disappoint.

No matter where our footsteps took us, we like children were captured by the colorful and creative displays of lights.

GardenFest at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden (Photo Bill Pike)

If you are a follower or occasional reader of my blog, Might Be Baloney, you know by now that I’m a pretty good whiner.

I try to whine for what I believe to be good reasons. I’ll let you figure out if the whines are on target.

Rightly or wrongly, I sometimes send a Letter To The Editor to newspapers across America. Quite often, my letters are rejected.

Though I’m disappointed from the rejections, I also try to see these rejections as an opportunity to learn. And no matter if a letter is accepted or rejected, our voices need to be heard.

I recently sent letters to the Chicago Tribune and the Washington Post.

I’m sharing these letters with you today.

As you will see, the frame of both letters is identical.

The letters were changed to meet word count requirements. All newspapers have word count requirements for a Letter To The Editor. Those word counts can range from 150 to 400.

Either way, the point in both letters is this— if we truly want to change our world, we must figure out how to love.

That love must be more than a pretty sign.

I leave you with both letters, and a hope and prayer that 2026 will be a gentle year for you and your loved ones.

Be safe, love, Bill Pike

Sent to the Chicago Tribune December 17, 2025

In the song “The Christmas Waltz” written by Sammy Kahn and Jule Styne is this lyric: “It’s that time of year when the world falls in love.”

While that optimism might be true for individuals who find the right person to fall in love with, it appears to me that our world is incapable of loving one another.

Where is our love for each other in these headlines:

Stockton, California at a birthday party, four people shot, killed, three of those were children, and thirteen injured.

In Palmyra, Syria, two U.S. military personnel and a civilian working as an interpreter were ambushed, killed, three others injured.

At Brown University in Rhode Island, two killed and nine injured at a shooting.

Sydney, Australia at Bondi Beach at least fifteen killed at a Hanukkah gathering.

Commenting after the attack on the U.S. military personnel in Syria, President Trump stated there will be:
“a very serious retaliation.”

As an imperfect American who loves my country, but who doesn’t always understand my country, I want to know when are we going to take “a very serious retaliation” against ourselves.

By retaliation, I mean when will we fully commit to unraveling our mental illness and our dependency for solving any personal problem by shooting people.

It is disgraceful that we are politically unwilling to find the middle ground and backbone to discover a practical solution.

Why do we constantly fail to see what we are doing to ourselves?

Isn’t the carnage in schools, houses of worship, shopping centers, and other public settings enough?

How many more lives must we lose in America and other countries to violence from firearms?

Will our disrespect of our hard fought and blood stained freedoms bring America to our demise?

No matter the magnificence of America’s accomplishments, those achievements mean nothing if we can’t resolve the on-going erosion of our human infrastructure.

That erosion has emptied our hearts of compassion and courage.

Incivility, selfishness, division, and disregard for the truth have refilled our hearts.

What kind of America have we become to allow our leaders and ourselves to showcase such contempt?

Blink, and December 2026 arrives.

In that blink, we must embrace this wisdom from Martin Luther King, Jr. : “I know that love is ultimately the only answer to mankind’s problems.”

If we hope to change our headlines, we must love.

Sent to the Washington Post December 17, 2025

As reported by the Washington Post, Stockton, California, Palmyra, Syria, Brown University, and Sydney, Australia have unfortunately joined an elite club—communities where mass shooting have occurred.

This time of year, holiday songs like the “Christmas Waltz” suggest—“it’s that time of year when the world falls in love.”

In those heartbreaking headlines, no world is falling in love.

After the attack on U.S. military personnel in Syria, President Trump stated there will be:
“a very serious retaliation.”

As an imperfect American who loves my country, I want to know are we ever going to take “a very serious retaliation” against ourselves?

By retaliation, I mean unraveling the source of our mental illness to understand our dependency to solve personal problems by shooting people.

It is a disgrace that our political backbones are unwilling to work cooperatively to solve this sickness.

Why do we constantly fail to see our shortcomings?

Isn’t the slaughter in schools, houses of worship, shopping centers, and other public settings enough?

How many more lives must we lose to firearms?

Our earned freedoms were hard fought and blood stained. Will our disrespect of these rights be America’s demise?

No matter the magnificence of America’s accomplishments, those achievements mean nothing if we can’t resolve the on-going erosion of our human infrastructure.

That erosion has emptied our hearts of compassion.

Incivility, selfishness, division, and disregard for the truth have refilled those hearts.

What kind of America have we become to allow our leaders and ourselves to showcase such contempt?

Blink, and December 2026 arrives.

In that blink, we must act upon this wisdom from Martin Luther King, Jr. : “I know that love is ultimately the only answer to mankind’s problems.”

Any hope to change those headlines means we must learn to love.

Pretty sign from GardenFest at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden (Photo Bill Pike)

More rejections from William Whiner Part II: snow days

December 30, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

A long time ago when I was a public school student in Burlington, North Carolina, I prayed for snow. Now as a rapidly aging, grumpy, geezer, snow has lost my affection. That endearment to snow has been shifted to our four school age grandchildren.

Even with my 31 years of work in public education, I watched faculty and staff members do their chants, dances, and prayers for a snow day. There is something about a snow day that is good for morale and a weary teacher’s mental health.

The challenge with snow is that it disrupts our regular routines. For parents with school age children that means being able to adjust those routines so that the daily needs of the children are met. Not every family has the built-in luxury of having grandparents who can pinch-hit when a snowstorm upsets those routines.

For school superintendents closing school due to inclement weather is never an easy decision. No matter the choice made by the superintendent that decision is always under the scrutiny of the public.

Thus far in the Richmond area, two storms have disrupted the routine for local school systems. It is easy to second guess those decisions.

For example, I wonder if the mild winter storm that closed schools in the Richmond area on December 5 could have merited a delayed opening?

With the December 8 storm, the snowflakes really didn’t start to accumulate on road surfaces until late morning. Could schools have opened and then closed early in the afternoon?

I know superintendents and their staffs do not take weather related closings of school lightly. In making that decision they carefully review the forecast, consult with local police and road departments about street conditions, and depend upon personnel in pupil transportation to make real time assessments.

Despite every effort to carefully make the right decision, a superintendent can’t please everyone.

I experienced this when I served as an assistant principal at Hermitage High School. Several days after a significant winter storm schools reopened.

With that reopening, a phone call came in from an upset mother. While driving to school that morning, her son had been involved in an accident. She was angry at the school system for reopening. Nothing I said calmed the mother’s fury.

Honestly, at the heart of closing a school system for winter weather, you will find an attorney. Attorneys are thinking about safety from multiple angles. They ask lots of questions all related to reducing the potential for liability:

Can school system maintenance personnel properly clear parking lots and sidewalks?

Can bus drivers safely maneuver their buses through less traveled neighborhood streets?

Can faculty and staffs, student drivers, and parents who are responsible for transporting their children arrive at school safely?

No one associated with the school system wants any injuries from slippery sidewalks, fender benders in high school parking lots, or a school bus accident.

Perhaps, the greatest pressure is on school bus drivers. Driving a school bus under normal conditions is challenging enough. Mix in frozen winter precipitation with impatient civilian drivers who believe they are invincible with their all wheel drive vehicles, and the potential for accidents rises.

Recently, another phenomena has occurred in the decision to close schools related to winter weather. More frequently, superintendents are closing schools before the first snowflake has fallen.

I suppose this early announcement helps families to better implement their alternative plans for a snow day. However, I can only imagine what a superintendent will endure if that forecast fails to materialize.

As difficult as it is to close schools, making the decision to reopen can be challenging too. Depending how much instructional time has been missed, superintendents must also figure out how to recoup the missed time.

Perhaps, these questions are worth reviewing:

Do superintendents know of alternatives beyond the traditional make up days or extending the hours of the school day for regaining instructional time?

Might developing a year round school calendar reduce winter weather interruptions?

Could attorneys find a year round school calendar more compatible for reducing potential liability?

Do superintendents solicit post-winter storm feedback from students, parents, teachers, bus drivers, and maintenance personnel as a means for helping to shape future weather closing decisions?

And of course, there is always the insights of our friends and neighbors from other parts of America who rarely close their schools for winter weather. What might Southern superintendents learn from these “no fear of snow” superintendents?

As we waddle our way through the remainder of winter, maybe the weather gods will be kind to us with no more snow days. While that might disappoint students, superintendents will sleep better.

Note from the author: This rejected Op-Ed piece was sent to the Richmond Times-Dispatch in response to December 2025 school system closures from wintry weather. Bill Pike Richmond, Virginia

School bus with snow along its roof line (Photo Bill Pike)

Monday morning key fob blues

December 6, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

I’ve got the Monday morning key fob blues, that old key fob has made me weary right down to the soles of my shoes. Like a vengeful woman on Sunday night, that key fob battery has made my revengeful Monday morning a sorrowful plight.

On the morning of Monday, December 1, I had a plan.

Step one—drop off a letter that had been incorrectly delivered to our home to a US Postal service mailbox at a neighborhood shopping center.

Step two— open up Trinity United Methodist Church.

Step three—return home and work out on my old exercise bike.

Just before 6:30, I started my plan.

I drove to the shopping center.

I did not park in a parking space. I looped my car around parallel to the building with the car pointing in the direction I needed to go to exit the parking lot.

Turned off the car, walked a few steps to the postal box, and dropped in the letter.

Walked the few steps back to my car and attempted to start the car.

The car would not start.

A message flashed on the panel in front of me: Key ID incorrect.

No matter what I tried. The car would not start. The message remained the same—Key ID incorrect.

How in the world could the Key ID be incorrect? I wondered if the key fob had been overtaken by some outer space alien who wanted to disrupt my Monday.

A young man from a local construction company pulled in a parking space in front of the 7-11. I politely interrupted his entry and asked if he had any ideas?

He didn’t, but we had a good conversation about his company who had replaced the steeple at our church a few years ago.

With that I started a walk home. I was worried that my improper parking might get the car towed before I could get home and return with the backup key fob.

The Mobil service station was open. I stopped in and asked Jeff, the attendant, if he had any ideas. He suspected the key fob’s battery, but was perplexed by the message.
I thanked him and returned to my walk back home.

At the corner of Rock Creek Road and Forest Avenue, the young man from the construction company pulled over and offered me a ride to my house. I gladly accepted. Turns out two of his four children attend Trinity’s preschool.

I thanked him profusely, and rushed in the house to get the second key fob.

With that key, I started my walk back to the shopping center.

I decided to stop at Trinity on the way back to open up the building.

Once that was done, I started a slow, sprint back to my car.

It was cold and my fingers were frozen. When I arrived at the car, those frigid fingers had a hard time working the second fob.

Unfortunately, the key fob gods were not in my favor on this Monday. The second fob greeted me with the same message— key ID incorrect.

Good thing I didn’t have a hammer.

I noted that my friend, James, was working in the 7-11. James also works part-time at the Mobil station. I walked in and explained to James my Monday morning key fob blues.

James walked outside and tested the fobs for opening the car’s doors. Neither fob responded—both fob batteries were dead.

As James walked back into the 7-11, Jeff from the Mobil station pulled up in his truck. Jeff had done an internet check. He discovered that by holding the fob directly against the ignition button that the car should start.

I got back in the car. My still icy fingers struggled to make the proper connection.

I tried a couple of times with no luck.

With Jeff’s insistence, he suggested that I align the fob again, and for whatever quirky reason—the car started.

Again, I thanked Jeff for his diligence.

Back home, I explained to my Commander Supreme what had transpired. She couldn’t believe it. I felt drained.

But, my Monday morning key fob blues were not as draining as this headline: 4 dead and 10 wounded in shooting at banquet hall in Stockton, California.

Among the dead were three children ages 8, 9, and 14. This event was a birthday celebration for a child.

Regrettably, this event only reconfirms what we already know about America—the trigger puller had no respect for his/her life, nor the respect for the lives of the people attending the birthday party.

San Joaquin County, Sheriff Patrick Withrow, made this statement: “I am confident in our team and with the work that we have done so far that we will find these animals that did this and bring them justice, but we still need the public’s help.”

“Animals”

Is this what America has sadly become?

I’ve got the Monday morning Stockton, California birthday party blues, with broken hearts that never heal as senseless shootings continue no matter the venue in a disrespectful America with a dying red, white, and blue.

My troublesome friends (Photo Bill Pike)

Thankful For Fifty

November 29, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Original photo Deford Dechert (West Hartford, CT)

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.

Thanksgiving: “I don’t get no respect.”

November 27, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

Rodney Dangerfield was a gifted comedian.

His self-deprecating humor made me laugh.

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.

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.

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.

A Mrs. Schmidt production (Photo Bill Pike)

Yes, I know it’s November: “be still”

November 22, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

My old body knows when I fail to exercise.

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.”

Don’t ignore that voice.

Listen.

Take the time and “be still.”

October finger-tippers

October 15, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Even though I know that the dew covering the windows on my car will soon become frost, October, I’m glad you’re back.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Maybe that hope is in the October bloom of a camellia shrub.

Maybe that hope is the shiny red berries from a dogwood tree.

Maybe that hope is early morning sunlight coming through window shutters as it cast a pattern of light against a sanctuary wall.

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.”