Good News/Bad News

What follows is a good news/bad news story. First, the bad news.

Despite two solid months of diligent work done clearing my yard of fallen leaves cumulating in the pre-Thanksgiving sweep, the relentless downfall continued over the weekend. I was informed Sunday evening by my ever-vigilant wife that the County of Henrico was scheduled to visit our neighborhood to pick up bagged leaves this week. So, when I finished lunch yesterday afternoon I thought I would at least make a start. I decided to use the leaf blower to collect all the leaves in my driveway into a large pile first. After this uneventful task I turned my attention to the back yard, where I decided that I would simply pulverize the offending leaves with my lawn mower and dispose of the resulting mess into bags. This took a little less than an hour. At that point, I probably should have called it a day and gone back to the office. But for some reason I decided to bag up the leaves in the aforementioned pile in my driveway. Once the bag was in place I bent over to scoop up my first armful of leaves when I felt a sharp pain in my lower back. It was excruciating and quite familiar…almost one of those seeing stars moments which may or may not have resulted in a brief face-plant in the pile of leaves. Fortunately for my self-respect, there were no witnesses to this episode. Once back on my feet, I eventually managed to get inside the house where I spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between heat and ice compresses.

I know what some of you are wondering. So, you went to the doctor or Patient First or something, right? The answer to that question is a resounding “NO”. Could I use a few muscle-relaxers right now? A couple decent pain pills? Sure. But in order to obtain them I would have to go to a doctor’s office and sit next to germ-spewing, flu-besotted people for half an hour. That’s a hard pass. Besides, I know how this throwing out your back business works having experienced it many times before. It’s painful and annoying for three or four days before it eventually works its way out of trouble and back to normal. I would rather suffer through the next few days than risk coming down with the FLU. 

So today, despite taking almost ten minutes putting my shoes and socks on, I limped in to the office for a while and actually accomplished a couple of things that were on my list. I intend to keep a lunch appointment at noon with a friend. After that I will collapse into my recliner and set my vibrating heating pad to STUN for the rest of the day.

So, what’s the good news? Well, the good news is that this back thing didn’t happen the last day I was getting leaves out of my yard…Thanksgiving Day. What a bummer that would have been. There’s always a silver lining to every dark cloud. Mine was timing…and the fact that there wasn’t anyone with their cell phone camera filming me in that pile of leaves!

The Blank White Paper Protest

Well now. It would appear that the Chi-Com government is having a moment. It seems like only yesterday that Xi Jinping granted himself another five year term as supreme leader, looking for all the world like an autocrat at the peak of his power. Thomas Friedman’s man-crush had never been more fervent. The next thing you know, there are thousands of Chinese citizens in the streets holding up blank pieces of paper demanding freedom. What in the name of Mao Zedong is going on?

It appears that the teeming masses in China have about had it with their government’s Zero-Covid policy. Apparently, even a population that has lived under communism for nearly three generations now can tolerate only so much oppression. Lockdowns enforced by armed troops is proving to be a bridge too far for a people who have endured everything from the Rape of Nanjing to the Cultural Revolution. 

It has always been a subject of fascination to me how any totalitarian enterprise could exercise autocratic control over a population of 1.4 billion souls. Just think about how difficult a time America has governing a mere 330 million Americans. And yet, with the notable exception of the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989, the people of China have been amazingly docile under Communism’s heavy hand. Until this weekend.

Still, if history teaches us anything its the painful fact that he who has the guns makes the rules. It’s hard to imagine these protests ending well for those brave souls holding up blank white paper…

A Defense of Family Photographs

After each major holiday on the American calendar, social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram become filled with photographs of happy families enjoying the day. Then, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, come the denunciations of these platforms as phony, guilty of painting false narratives of American life and, worst of all, the sin of being…boring. I wish to offer a defense.

Long before the internet got invented by Al Gore, if you wanted to see family photographs you had to break out the moldy old picture album. This thing weighed ten pounds and had loose pictures falling out of it all over the place. You would sit on the sofa with ten other people all leaning in to catch a glimpse of old black and white shots of your glum looking grandparents dressed in wool suits in the middle of July. With each turn of the page the pictures looked less bedraggled and just a bit more clear, but still very few frivolous moments. Back then taking pictures looked to be deadly serious business, no time for tomfoolery. But then, somewhere around 1960, the photographs began to show signs of life. There were more shots of kids, dressed in more comfortable clothing doing more normal things. Less posing, more smiles. With each turn of the page and each subsequent decade the pictures became more entertaining. Then suddenly…color. All bets were now off. It became a free for all of goofiness. Thats when the ten people on the sofa began to laugh and point and say, “remember when?”

But nowhere in even the oldest family photo album will you find somber shots of your Aunt Ruth trudging across the courthouse parking lot, leaving her divorce hearing. Nobody ever took a candid picture of your Mom and Dad in a knock down drag out fight over the family finances. There aren’t any photographs of your sister sobbing in her bedroom after her boyfriend broke up with her. No one ever thought to bring a camera along when the family dog got hit by a car and had to be removed and buried in the back yard. There are several good reasons for these omissions from the official record. First, its none of anyone else’s business. For another thing, why on earth would any family wish to immortalize their dirty laundry for perpetuity on the public record?

So, families have been careful what images they allow outsiders to see long before Zuckerberg came along, and I for one am eternally grateful for this discretion. Nobody cares or desires to hear or see other people’s dysfunction for the simple reason that we have plenty of our own to work through. When I see thousands of photographs of happy people sitting around Thanksgiving tables, I smile and am glad to see them all together. At the same time, I am grateful that they weren’t stupid enough to publish the screaming, alcohol-fueled political debate between Uncle Ben and Aunt Betty.

When I often hear the phrase, keeping it real, my eyebrows raise a bit. Really? Do we really want people on social media to keep it real? A quick google search of social pathologies plaguing the American family will disabuse you of any desire to keep it real. I’ll take the pictures of three generations of Smith’s sitting on the front steps of the house any day of the week and twice on Sundays compared to some somber testimonial to despair.

So, keep those beautiful family shots coming people! I love them all.

A Memory Painting

Pam came home with this painting a couple of days ago. She’s into seasonal artwork, and this one spoke to her in a Thanksgiving/Christmas sort of way. Like any painting it is best appreciated when examined closely, something that a mere photograph cannot do. We’re not talking Rembrandt or Picasso here. This was probably brushed together in a sentimental art factory owned by some Chinese conglomerate by child artists working 16 hour shifts for all I know. Be that as it may, whoever painted this managed to capture something.

I look at this painting up close and I want to walk through that door. I already know what it looks like inside because I’ve been there before. There are old, scarred oak pews with straight backs and no cushions and a single aisle dissecting the room. Its cold inside and I’m the only one in the place. At the front there is a mahogany sacraments table with a large bible opened to the 23rd Psalm, with two brass candle sticks on either side. To the left is a black spinet piano with two or three dead keys. On the podium sits a beautiful polished wood pulpit with a cross carved in the front. Behind it to either side are two high back cushioned chairs. Behind the chairs there’s a recessed chamber that holds a baptismal pool. On the wall above the pool there is a painting of a receding river lit up by an oversized ray of sunshine, a white dove soaring in the air.

 I take a seat halfway up on the aisle. The place smells familiar. It is the smell of old men’s after shave, of dust and candles. A memory drifts by of animal crackers, kool-aid and vacation bible school. I am transported back to a simpler time when bald-headed men and white-haired women rustled my hair and tried to teach me important things. I remember all the squirming done in these pews, all the restlessness. But now, I am still. My eyes are closed and I feel an overwhelming gratefulness for this old building. I attempt a quick prayer of Thanksgiving but the words seem listless and ineffective. So I stop trying. Instead I open my eyes and look around again. This time the pews are filled with my family. All of them are there, even those long passed. I see friends I haven’t seen in years, every one I’ve ever been lucky enough to make. They are all here in the beautiful old church. I hear the piano come to life. We all stand to sing an old song…We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing. Suddenly I feel the warmth generated by the crowd of witnesses.

Thanksgiving is nothing without memories. And this marvelous painting has brought them all back to me this morning.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Walmart Tragedy

It is Thanksgiving Eve in 2022 America, and I wake up to news of seven dead in the break room of a Walmart less than two hours from my house, murdered execution style by one of the managers of the store.

So, while I spend my day preparing for the arrival of family for tomorrow’s festivities, there will be a cloud of sorrow for the workers and their families who will never celebrate another Thanksgiving without the crushing memory of this tragedy.

It’s Thanksgiving and I Have a New Job

This being the week of Thanksgiving, I have a new job—Pam’s Executive Assistant.

Here’s how we roll here at the Dunnevant house. 2022 is the year that we host the White family for Thanksgiving. In addition, Jon, Kaitlin and Jackson will be coming for several days. Patrick, Sarah and Frisco unfortunately will be Thanksgiving-ing in Nashville. This means that we will have somewhere between 12 and 14 souls here for the big meal.

My dear wife has taken the liberty of an entire week off from her day job to devote to this task. Why? A few reasons. First, she needs a break from sitting around a tiny table in a cramped room surrounded by phlegm-spewing elementary school students. Second, there is much to do to prepare for the festivities. If you have ever had the pleasure of attending a holiday get-together at my house you will know that Pam does it about as well as it is possible to do. She tends to the tiniest detail, leaves no stone unturned trying to make each day special. This is where I come in.

I am the sort of man who struggles with authority. Starting with my parents, then several unfortunate teachers, then professors, then bosses, I have consistently resisted taking orders. Ultimately all of this authority resistance resulted in me starting my own business. It suited my temperament. But there is one exception to this rule. I have never had a minute’s trouble completely submitting to my wife’s authority when it comes to the issue of…hospitality. The reason is simple. She is great at it. I have watched this woman plan and execute dinners, holiday parties and other special occasions for almost 40 years now. What I have learned over those years is that this woman is a beast who knows exactly what she is doing. In the early days of our marriage I might object to this order or that because it seemed..well…unnecessary or frivolous. Back in my ignorant days I might challenge her on one of her crazier requests.  Not any more. I have learned that if she wants something done a certain way at a certain time, there is a reason for it. When the results are consistently fabulous at some point you just shrug and say, “I’m all over it, sweetie.”

So, if she decides that since this year’s meal won’t begin until 4:00 it might be nice if we have all the outside Christmas lights put up so we can do a grand illumination after dinner, guess what I’m going to do? I’m putting up the lights. If she needs to clean bathrooms, vacuum the house, travel to Thailand to pick up some rare spice that she couldn’t find at Publix, I’ll get on a plane. The reason for my happy compliance to every request is simple—I know how great it will be, how much happiness and warmth she will be responsible for by the end of the day. And even though she does it all happily, I know what she really wishes she were doing…drinking hot chocolate while watching Hallmark movies with our daughter.

Tragedy Outside of Paris

What an awful experience. There I was sightseeing in a beautiful small town just outside of Paris when I heard a loud explosion. There was broken glass flying all around me. It was a miracle that I came out of it alive. But when I walked out into the street I realized that the explosion was at the cheese factory down the street. It bleu cheese everywhere, the Da Brie was scattered all up and down the street. Along with everyone else, I stumbled down the street in shock until I came across Alfredo who was unconscious. Someone shouted, “I havarti called emergency services!” But unfortunately Alfredo didn’t survive the blast.

As I walked through the rapidly melting streets, being especially careful to avoid the sharp cheddar, I took a whiff of the dairy air and wondered if this was a queso fire negligence. But a local then told me that there had been a string of cheese factory explosions. All I could think to say was, “Holey Crepe”. I will cheddar tear over this.

Three Disturbing News Stories

Three stories are competing for my attention this morning. I read about the latest dangerous escalation of the war in Ukraine, a missile of unknown origin having landed in Poland killing two. Then I learn more details about the murder of three football players at the University of Virginia by a former player, a resident of Henrico County. Lastly, I am informed that Donald Trump kicked off his campaign for President in 2024 last night. All three of these stories give me a queasy stomach and play hell with my confidence in humanity.

First, Ukraine. If it turns out that the missile in question was launched by the Russian military intentionally, there’s big trouble in River City. Poland is a NATO member, meaning that any attack on her must be treated as an attack on all member states, most notable—us. This is the worst case scenario for anyone hoping that this conflict will not conflate into a European-wide war. One is left hoping that the Russian high command will rise up and take Vladimir Putin out. Meanwhile we pray that the Poland missile was a stray anti-aircraft surface to air Ukrainian missile instead.

The killing at UVA involves yet another young man who appeared on UVA’s threat assessment team twice earlier this year. Signs of trouble were everywhere in this kid’s background, with the clear and bright benefit of hindsight. He was a victim of hazing, a participant in series of fights in schools in Henrico County, having endured his parent’s bitter divorce during high school which was so bad he had to relocate to Petersburg to live with his grandmother. So the news that he gets his hands on a firearm and starts shooting at his former teammates on a bus surprises absolutely no one—which is the worst part about the story, that we are not surprised.

The Trump announcement was expected. I suppose there is nothing to be said about him in this space that I have not said before. The fact that he thinks he has done anything to justify a second term is a monument to his colossal self regard. The only thing about the announcement which qualifies as good news from my perspective is the fact that it did NOT get top billing on Drudge. The minimal coverage and lack of breathless hype might be considered a sign that even conservative news aggregators are tired of him.

Sore Monday

Note to future self: It is not wise to spend two hours getting up leaves the day after running an 8k. This sort of thing would have been self-evident to any normal person, but for someone like me who still thinks he is indestructible it has been a painful lesson. 

Now that this thing is in the rear view mirror I can now turn my attentions to the final six weeks of 2022. This has not been a particularly enjoyable year from a business standpoint. Bear markets never are. Financial instability tends to make other areas of life unstable, which for a person of faith seems hypocritical. Shouldn’t my faith grant me a measure of confidence during times of great instability? Yes, it should. To the degree that I still struggle suggests a certain level of hypocrisy. But I am a work in progress, always have been.

These next six weeks are full of great joy and great anxiety. The joys of Thanksgiving and Christmas do fierce battle with the anxiety of preparing for both. But isn’t that the way life works? Everything of value and worth comes with challenges. Nothing is ever easy…except one thing. Lucy’s life…

Sore Monday

 Note to future self: It is not wise to spend two hours getting up leaves the day after running an 8k. This sort of thing would have been self-evident to any normal person, but for someone like me who still thinks he is indestructible it has been a painful lesson. 

Now that this thing is in the rear view mirror I can now turn my attentions to the final six weeks of 2022. This has not been a particularly enjoyable year from a business standpoint. Bear markets never are. Financial instability tends to make other areas of life unstable, which for a person of faith seems hypocritical. Shouldn’t my faith grant me a measure of confidence during times of great instability? Yes, it should. To the degree that I still struggle suggests a certain level of hypocrisy. But I am a work in progress, always have been.

These next six weeks are full of great joy and great anxiety. The joys of Thanksgiving and Christmas do fierce battle with the anxiety of preparing for both. But isn’t that the way life works? Everything of value and worth comes with challenges. Nothing is ever easy…except one thing. Lucy’s life…

Team Dunnevant at the 2022 Richmond Marathon

 Yesterday morning at precisely 7:00 am I found myself standing in the middle of the intersection of 8th and Broad Street surrounded on all sides by my fellow man. It was an unnerving feeling, the kind of which I have spent a lifetime trying to avoid. It occurs to you that you are as trapped as it is possible to be. At the point of maximum claustrophobia, an eleven year old girl began belting out the National Anthem through an on-again, off-again microphone. To take my mind off the uncomfortable presence of so many people, I began taking a video of all of them. At the exact moment that my panning cellphone camera caught my own face, the poor girl’s microphone stopped working for the first time. My expression pretty much sums up the level of my discomfort.

Soon after, my 8k race began. I stumbled along for several hundred yards trying not to trip or be tripped by the million other feet competing for pavement. About the time I passed Miller and Rhodes—less than a quarter of a mile in to a five mile race, I realized I had to pee. For the rest of my race, instead of visualizing the finish line, I was visualizing a porta-john. 

This was a first for me in many ways, not having to pee, but running in a race. Not only had I never run a race, I had never even run with a single other person before, running for me being a solitary exercise I have always done for the single purpose of not gaining a hundred pounds. But several months ago, my son talked me in to doing the 8k version of the 2022 Richmond Marathon. He was planning on flying in from Nashville for the half-marathon and thought it would be fun. Soon, my nephews Ryan and Isaac were on board. It would be Team Dunnevant.

So, I spent the past several months “training”, not an official training protocol devised by Runner’s World, but rather a hodgepodge of my own creation, since I have never liked anyone telling me what to do. During this very unscientific training the best time I had managed for five miles was 47 minutes and 28 seconds. But yesterday wasn’t training, it was the real thing…and I had to pee.

My Apple Watch informed me that my first mile came in at a brisk 9 minutes and 5 seconds. I was quite surprised since it felt like I spent that entire mile trying to find a less crowded piece of asphalt. When the second mile time was announced as 9 minutes and 8 seconds, I thought that I should probably slow down since this seemed an unsustainable pace. The next two miles were mid 9 minutes. But when I crossed the 4 mile marker, something happened to me. Although my hips and knees were loudly barking, I knew from the race map that I had studied carefully, that the last three quarters of a mile was straight down hill on 5th street all the way to the finish line on Brown’s Island. That’s when I made the decision to break into a full sprint, or what passed for a full sprint for a 64 year old man who had already run over 4 miles. I crossed the finish line with an all-time personal best time of 45 minutes and 44 seconds. Then I promptly threw up. But, by the time I saw the large row of porta-Johns in the distance, all was forgiven and forgotten!

Meanwhile, the younger members of Team Dunnevant were busy. I soon found Ryan, who had beaten me by 4 full minutes, walking around the post-race hospitality area looking fresh as a daisy. Youth is indeed, wasted on the young! Isaac, the baby of Team Dunnevant and easily the most fit was flying around his half marathon course like making us all look like slugs. “Youth”, again being served. My son, meanwhile, was at the 5 mile mark and on a terrific pace. I was tracking his progress on an app he had downloaded on my phone the day before. Seeing as how he and Isaac still had quite a ways to go, I decided to head back home, shower off then head back later to be at the finish line for Patrick. In a cruel ironic twist, I received a text from Patrick around mile 7 telling me he was fighting a couple of cramps. He hates running when its warm. His last half marathon was in Nashville last November when it was a crisp 28 degrees at the start of the race. The heat was giving him a lot of discomfort and he still had another 6 miles to go. What made this text cruel and ironic was the fact that I received it while I was soaking in my jacuzzi, giving me a big time case of “dad-Guilt.” The good news is that Patrick gutted it out like a boss and was running at the finish line. I was super proud of him for his toughness and determination. 

Since this was Team Dunnevant we are talking about, Pam and Paula had prepared an after race high carb brunch and photo-session for all the participants.

I was told after the race that the 8k had 86 runners in my age division, which was 60-64. I finished 17th. I’ll take it, even if it resulted in vomiting.

Patrick is already urging me to consider stepping up to a 10k with the not so subtle reminder that the Rock and Roll Nashville 10k is coming up soon. I’m going to wait until every joint from hips to ankles isn’t hurting before making him any promises.

Election Observations

My observations about the 2022 Midterm election results:

- Having secured his third consecutive ass-whipping electoral loss, Beto-O’Rourke has emerged as the leading candidate to manage the Texas Rangers.

- The voters of the state of Pennsylvania have proven their Islamophobic credentials by deciding that they would rather vote for an incapacitated stroke victim than elect the first Muslim senator in United States history. On the flip side, Pennsylvanians have saved all of us from potentially embarrassing lectures from Dr. Oz on the Senate floor about the benefits of monthly bowel-cleansing.

- Stacey Abrams has called a press conference for later today where she is expected to outline the reasons for her second loss to Governor Brian Kemp. Vegas bookmaker’s have set the odds for The Patriarchy at 3:1, Institutional Racism at 4:1, and her plan to fight inflation by making abortion available statewide at 5:1.

- Despite being on the ballot in every state, Democracy got no votes.

- Under the category If you thought this election was horrible—Donald Trump is expected to announce his Candidacy for President next week.

Three Pearls

A couple weeks ago I accidentally clicked on an iHeart radio station called Classic Country, while driving to an appointment. I’ve been listening ever since. Eventually I will tire of it, I’m sure. Some of the songs are horrible, honestly. But occasionally I hear songs that are so beautiful, so achingly tender, so filled with pain and truth they stagger me. I suppose that every genre of music is this way, great melodies with poetic lyrics sprinkled in with lots of hot garbage. Just in case you’re wondering, there are three songs that I fell in love with. I was familiar with all three from years ago, but it had been a long time since I’d heard them. 

I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry by Hank Williams

Making Believe by Emmylou Harris

She’s Got You by Patsy Cline

Do yourself a huge favor this week, Google these three and give a close listen. You’ll thank me later.

Leaf Wars

Every year its the same. Starting around the middle of October all the trees in my yard begin shedding their leaves. There are lots of trees and lots of leaves. Oh, and pine needles, lots of pine needles. So, I have a strategy that has always involved a leaf blower a lawn mower and a rake, along with a meticulous schedule. I remove every leaf from my yard twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I gather them into four strategically located piles in the corners of my back yard. Then, once the battle has been won, I call my man Tim Robinson to come haul them away for me. Its a beautiful plan that has stood the test of time. The reason I use the bi-weekly schedule is a simple one. If I just waited weeks and weeks for every leaf to fall before getting them up, there would be so many the task would be beyond my strength. So, basically I break the job down into manageable pieces. Like I said, its a great system.

But then, yesterday happened.

Leaves were everywhere. It was nuts. I had just cleaned them up a mere three days ago for crying out loud! So I went to work. In just under two hours The yard was immaculate. It was around noon when I finished. I took a shower and settled in for a delightful afternoon nap. But when I woke up my yard was ankle deep in leaves and pine needles! I couldn’t believe it! It was as if my trees decided to lose all their leaves in one day. What in the Sam Hill was happening?

Well, there was no way I was going to let this outrage stand. Yes, I knew perfectly well that if my neighbors saw me heading out there getting leaves up for the second time in less than four hours they would be laughing behind my back. Yes, I knew how Don Quixote-ish it would all look, but it was the principle of the thing. So outside I went. This morning I woke up to this…

Seriously? I’m reminded of the old prophet’s warning—There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.—or at the very least, more work!

Evil in Iowa

It was early in the morning. I had just taken my first sip of coffee, just barely awake. I saw the headline and was very close to ignoring it in favor of a story about the Federal Reserve, but I made the mistake of clicking. I have not been able to shake it out of my mind since.

There was a 16 year old high school student in Iowa who had just received a bad grade from his Spanish teacher. He scheduled a meeting with her to discuss her many deficiencies as a teacher. He left the meeting having not secured any accommodation. His poor grade would stand. Then, he recruited a friend, another 16 year old, to follow the teacher after school ended. They knew that she would stop at a nearby park after school to take a walk before driving home. They met her there and proceeded to beat her to a pulp with a baseball bat. Afterwards they dragged her body into the woods and covered it with a tarp and some railroad ties, then drove her van several miles away and abandoned it on a back road. It wasn’t hard for the police to track them down after they discovered her body since they had boasted about it on social media. When the police took the boy into custody and asked him for an explanation he replied, “the grade in my Spanish class was messing up my GPA.”

There were photographs with the story…

Here are the killers. The one on the right is the boy who’s GPA had been ruined by his poor grade in Spanish. The one on the left is his accomplice. But, there was another picture, this one of the victim…

Meet Nohema Graber, 66. It was when I saw this photograph that I was overcome with what I can only describe as deep sadness along with an emotion that I’m not sure I have ever experienced before…hopelessness. 

This is the kind of story that will live rent free in my head for several days. I will ponder it and try to make sense of such a death as this. There’s just something about her face, sturdy and proud. She could have been retired, probably still worked either out of economic necessity or of a love of teaching and devotion to her students. But now she’s dead, beaten beyond recognition and left under a tarp by two boys capable of unimaginable cruelty. I am left to think about the human race and our limitless capacity for evil.

I ask myself, why this case? What makes it special? The answer is—nothing. There is nothing noteworthy about two teenagers committing cold blooded murder anymore. This is America after all. We are especially adept at this sort of thing. At least they didn’t use a gun. If they did all anyone would be talking about is the scourge of gun violence. Good thing the killers weren’t black or illegal immigrants. Then the subject would be racism and our porous border. But since this didn’t involve any of those things, we are left simply to contemplate how such a thing could be possible? On the other hand, because it didn’t involve either of those things maybe we don’t even talk about it at all. I stumbled on this story almost by accident. Have any of you heard about it?

This murder took place almost a year ago. It was in the news because it is finally now going to trial, the two killers will be tried as adults.

In all honesty, I have never been the most empathetic person in the world. Especially when I was younger I was much more tough love than a shoulder to cry on type of guy. My default reaction to hearing someone’s tale of woe would eventually involve an eye-roll or two and the advice to stop belly aching and do better. In other words, I’ve never been a bleeding heart. But more recently I have discovered a surprising well of emotion living inside me that comes out at the oddest times. Here I was, alone downstairs in my house before dawn reading this awful story and coming across this photograph of 66 year old Nohema Graber and suddenly it was everything I could do to keep from crying. Why? Why this story and none of the thousand others even more brutal than this that have come before? I don’t know. I have no answer other than the fact that I am tired, tired of the manifestations of evil in our world. I’m tired of people murdering other people in cold blood with no remorse. I’m tired of the death of innocents. Hell, I’m even tired of the murder of bad people.

The more I think about this case the more it occurs to me that I don’t know the back stories here. Maybe these two boys have horrible, idiot parents. Maybe they come from unfathomable dysfunction. For that matter, maybe this teacher is no bargain either. Maybe she was abusive and dismissive of these boys, maybe she was a terrible teacher with a vendetta against the kids. But whatever those back stories might be, none of it would justify this outcome. Nothing would.

My church is in the midst of a sermon series on angels. A question has arisen about why it seems easier to believe in the existence of evil spirits than it is to believe in angels. After this story I am tempted to believe that the reason people believe more in demons than angels is that we see far more evidence of demonic work than we see of the angelic. No matter where we look, evidence for evil exists, now to the point where even a story like this one hardly makes a ripple in our consciousness. 

But, I am reminded of the words of the Apostle Paul in the Book of Romans where he tells us, “Be not overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

I’m trying, Paul, honestly I’m trying. But some days are better than others.

Ignorance of the Law is no Excuse

Pam and I have lived in the Wythe Trace subdivision in Short Pump, Virginia for over a quarter of a century. In all that time I have never known how to refer to my neighbors. Are we Wythe Tracers, Wythe Tracians or should I go with the Old Testament Wythe Tracianites? Whichever it is, all residents of this fine community should pay attention to the following public service announcement.

Henrico County’s finest have posted a new speed limit on our beloved Pump Road from the intersection at Broad Street all the way to the intersection at John Rolfe Parkway. I am told by reliable sources that ignorance of the law is no excuse, so proceed with caution. I assume that the purpose of this new speed limit is to lower the actual speed that people drive on this section of Pump Road from 55 to 45. If they really expected us to drive 35 they would post a speed limit of 25, but that’s just ridiculous. I tried driving 35 on this stretch yesterday and I felt 85 years old, but the law’s the law. 

So, just to be clear, Henrico County has now a major road in the west end which when driven from Broad Street all the way to Patterson Avenue features three different speed limits, 45, 35, and two different school zones that when flashing mandate a 25 mph limit. Good luck.

On another note, as I was returning from my record breaking 4 mile run* yesterday morning, I happened to notice the new message recently added to the North Gayton Baptist Church sign. Incidentally, what is it with Baptist churches in this town? Here’s North Gayton Baptist sitting proudly on Pump Road, nowhere near North Gayton, while Grove Avenue Baptist stands squarely on the corner of Ridge and Parham?! But, I digress. What I wanted to point out was the message on the sign…

What a beautiful truth. An Amen is in order, I think. Well done.





* 37:12, average pace of 9:17