Fridays With Willis

When I was in first grade, my family became friends with a quaint family that lived away off the beaten track. Their home was a large log cabin with a covered walkway from the house to the kitchen. I learned that they put the kitchen a distance from the house—in case the kitchen caught fire it was more likely the house could be saved. They had no electricity and grew all the food they needed on their farm. To me one of the strangest quirks was how they would tell time; they called it “sun time.”.” There was no clock in their house. Sun time, also known as solar time or apparent time, is a way to measure time based on the position of the sun in the sky—-the way a sundial tells time.

Time Zones became necessary over 200 years ago, because railroads needed precise schedules. Poo-bahs of time divided the earth roughly into twenty-four time zones. GMT or Greenwich Mean Time or Coordinated Universal Time. UTC. marked the international starting point (my term). In an economic move during WW I, The Standard Time Act of 1918 established DST as law in the U.S. The law also established the five time zones that are still in use today.  The United States switched back to Standard time in 1974; it was short lived, for in 1987 we were back to DST.

In the United States, Arizona and Hawaii, do not observe DST and never change their clocks. In 2021 the State of Georgia Legislature passed a law establishing a permanent Daylight Saving Time—-However, the law cannot go into effect unless and until Congress makes it law. I could be quite happy if DST became permanent—in many ways life could be made more convenient and in my humble opinion, safer.

Meanwhile, we live in a bifocal state of time. Therefore unless your electronics do it for you—this weekend you will need to move your clock back one hour at 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, November 3—The compensation is that you get one extra hour of sleep (that hour you lost last March). I am quite happy for my electronics to make that late-night change for me; but for my other time-pieces, I start around noon on Saturday setting to EST—in anticiipation of that extra upcoming hour.

This discussion is a focus on -chronous —a measure of time. There is yet another kind of time; Kairos–as in the time has come, or the fruition of time. The Gospel of Luke describes Kairos as the birth of the Christ child—or it may be said, in God’s own time. Time does not change—only our perception or use of time. Kairos is an important way Christians perceive and use time. Another way of thinking of Kairos is, “in the fullness of time.” Kairos provides a wonderful sense of readiness, being patient and ready—in God’s own time.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Next week an age-old tradition—-with a plethora of new twists—will be celebrated—Halloween. Scary ghosts, goblins, and mechanical manipulations are already in action. I was in a local retailer recently and a big, ugly, scary creature jumped out at me. I wasn’t scared. I was in that department. I knew all the stuff was simply merchandise striving for my attention—and credit card. Fake fright merchandising has become a commercial staple; Here where I live, former malls, become staging arenas for strolls through ghastly, gruesome, grisly—quite realistic scenes—and long lines form. Some of these productions last for weeks.

Scary thrills range from roller coasters to horror houses—simplistic or spectacular—such are already cropping up to celebrate Halloween. Scary becomes Scarred—or scared to death. Medical science says a person can be scared to death, literally. Oh, you’ve probably said, “That nearly scared me to death!” But you’re still alive. This from Cleveland Clinic Health Essentials: (It is) caused by your brain’s fight-or-flight response occurring after physical or emotional stress.This is also called broken heart syndrome or Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. Stress-induced cardiomyopathy means stress has caused (most often temporary) dysfunction or failure of the heart muscle. “The symptoms are similar to those of a heart attack,” according to cardiac surgeon A. Marc Gillinov, MD

Many people enjoy being scared; they seek out—and gladly pay great sums of $$$ for horror movies, thrill rides, adventures that frighten. An article in 2924 Behavioral Health posits research that being scared can not only be fun but also good for you. Fear arises out of our flight-fight DNA. When threatened, or feeling threatened, our entire being leaps into the protection mode. That is good. It is basic survival.

Usually we are pretty sure we are safe when we put ourselves into scary situations, and those same impulses leap into action. I characterize it like the ubiquitous “Emergency Alert System” test that interrupts broadcasts. Here is one of those occasions when being scared can be a life-saving benefit. In such cases, being scarred can be—if not a benefit—well, a least is a blessing.

I see a paradox here. It is a little like the car I bought a couple of years ago; if I veered out of my lane, a signal beeped, if I failed to buckle my seatbelt, again, a beeping—and so on with safety signals. The fun of driving a car is interrupted when danger lurks. The alarm is for protection; in a word you are scared so you won’t be scarred! It harks back to the primeval flight-fight warning system that comes with your brain.

This Halloween let your fun only scare you—don’t let it scar you. We human beings are far more advanced than new vehicles that warn us of impending hazards; we can find both safety and fun in our daily encounters. The Psalmist virtually exulted over how magnificently and intricately God made us human beings.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

I have the opportunity to gaze deeply into a small window of my life a way back. Several weeks ago I received a phone call. Someone had found a box of my personal items, left in an in attic decades ago; the caller ticked off a list of some of the contents in the box—items I recognized—then he asked, “Do you want this box?” Of course I did! even a couple of the items he listed would be treasures in themselves.

The box arrived. I won’t bore you with its contents, but out popped that wondrous window into my past. As I sorted through the contents, memories flashed through my brain; some recall was clear and cherished. Other items brought only vague recollection. The surprise was that some reminders were entirely different from my current memory; “Oh! I don’t remember it that way!” But there it was, physical documentation of time, place, or event.

I was (and maybe still am) having confabulations; which happen to people often. The reality of confabulation is such that “eye witness” testimony has proved to be questionable, if not unreliable. We all have confabulations. It is quite likely that when you went to a class reunion, you discovered that you remembered a person’s name or their relationship differently—which caused a pause, if not embarrassment.

I did not pack this box as a time capsule but it turns out to be one. It accurately captures a window into my past, and offers opportunity to reminisce. An unexpected opportunity, is that it offers my children and grandchildren an accurately curated recall of “The way it was.” At any rate, these items will somewhat verify some of my tales .

I have to admit I get a profound sense of joy as I finger through the contents of this box. I have no deadline, and I don’t have to answer any test questions. This is simply an unexpected serendipity. One of the joys life has to offer is an unexpected, unearned excursion, adding new dimensions to the day. That phone call certainly was unexpected and like Mary Lennox’ s discovery of the secret garden in her uncle’s estate, it opened wonderful vistas of past times.

Looking back can be a helpful guide to moving into the future. There is just enough content in that box to help a little with that effort. One helpful point is to handle past, present, and future relationships with grace. No one is perfect. A window into the past, as minute and brief as it may be, invites opportunity for grace.

Lest you suspect that I discovered a reminder of some egregious deed, I did not. Although I do have memory of my wrong deeds, words, and unkindness—that is not my focus here. I recall what St John of Patmos wrote—that if we confess our sins, God will forgive. That is grace of which I speak.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

I wanted to write a memorable op-ed piece about the importance of a bridge—not any bridge in particular—Merriam-Webster gives fourteen different definitions of “bridge.” But a childhood memory prompted me to this: bridges fascinate and frighten me. One of my earliest encounters with a bridge was the one on Deepstep creek beside Mr. Pittman’s grist mill. I was sitting on the wooden curb of that bridge when a pickup truck rumbled across. As it crossed near me, a board pinched the calf of my leg making a blood blister. Not that the bridge was unsafe—-I was just sitting in the wrong place. It made that bridge memorable!

That bridge, the millpond dam, and Mr. Pittman’s grist mill are long gone—-giving way to the paved road crossing the creek. Most bridges are essential. A bridge, planned and built well in a strategic place is an immense benefit. Then there is The Bridge to Nowhere. Located in the San Gabriel Mountains of California—the bridge truly goes nowhere. That large, sturdy bridge, unlike some useless bridges, was not a boondoggle. It was part of a new important route through the mountains. However, after the bridge was completed, dramatic shifts in the mountains in other parts of the route created insurmountable costs to complete the plans.

A bridge should connect. Physical bridges connect communities, travel routes, and add beauty fo the landscape. The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco comes to mind. This bridge was built against all odds; scientific advice, natural elements, costs, loss of lives—nevertheless, it was built and stands as as an engineering marvle of the ages.

A bridge of greater value is a bridge connecting relationships. Most of us read, heard, or remembered history of the Constitutional Convention of 1787. While we praise and admire the product of that event—These United States of America—it came with great travail. After gaining independence from the King of Engalnd, these Colonies struggled dramatically, and from that struggle built a bridge—one could safely say—several bridges of consensus to create this nation.

Like the physical bridges throughout our land that need repair, renewal—if not replacement, our human bridges need constant care and feeding; understanding, trust, and effective compromise are vital to the integrity of our relationship bridges. This from an article published in Web-MD to maintain a close friendship… Be present. Make the time you spend together count. Put away your cell phone. Avoid distractions. Ask questions, and be an active listener. Engage in the conversation. Use good eye contact. If you want to “cross a chasm” it follows that you must build a bridge.

I think of an old Jewish guy who had two sons-–one was practical, the other had wanderlust—staying at home on the farm was confining. He wanted freedom. He got it; and he got a genuine life-lesson. Upon hitting bottom, he realized he was alone. The only bridge he knew was home, and his father. He thought it was a bridge too far, but had no other choice. Returning home, “with his tail tucked between his legs,” he found redeeming love. His father too, crossed a bridge that tradition deemed too far. But a Father’s love is never a bridge “to nowhere.”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

I am convinced that Grandmother Veal could make a brown stick sprout and grow. I spent hours at her house often in her flower garden—always glad to help. I guess she asked me to water her exquisite dahlias—-I don’t remember. I gladly did so, and every other chore that had to do with the lovely flora enveloping her yard and house. I wish I had paid more attention to other plant names, for now I only remember a few.

I remember the beautiful dahlias, gladiolus, Queen Ann’s Lace, and ligustrum she loved. Her care was year-round to see that flowers and shrubs bedecking the yard around her farmhouse. She—and as many of grandaddy’s “farm hands” as he would spare—managed to remake the landscape each season. It was spectacular. Grandmother did not try to make a cover of Better Homes and Gardens, she only went for the “look” she wanted.

I remember one project she convinced grandaddy to undertake—more accurately to hire built. In order to keep favorite perennials from freezing, she wanted a flower pit. I do not know whose design won. The result was a recessed concrete pit with tiered shelves to maximize sunlight to the plants. It’s covering was salvaged windows from houses grandaddy had repaired. The pit would accommodate her plants providing space, with access to sunlight during winter months.

Most, if not all of grandmother’s plants, were from cuttings a relative or neighbor provided. Grandmother would take a cutting and groom it in a fruit-jar of water in her kitchen window. When the cutting developed adequate roots, she potted it until it was mature enough to put in her flower garden. Today, when someone wants a flower or a shrub, a trip to a local garden center is the only planning needed.

I think there was something symbiotic about grandmother’s approach to her flower garden. That, I think, is why I have always believed she could make a brown stick grow into a lovely plant. She put her hand, heart, and soul into growing her plants and flowers. Grandmother paid attention. She tended their bruises and provided nourishment, access to air, sunlight, and water.

We human beings can, and often do, provide encouragement and growth to others and ourselves. We are born into community; at the most sparce level, a child has a mother and a father. Some have the benefit of a wider community. It is sometimes said that to grow a child, “it takes a village.” I know it did for me. I remember encouraging words and examples; I also remember corrections by relatives and neighbors.

There is a plethora of examples of successful people who were thought to have been “brown sticks.” However, under the influence of a caring community (thin or thick) they blossomed much like grandmother’s garden.  In this life we have three great lasting qualities—faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

To Autumn, by John Keats’; Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

After a scorching, dry August, the balmy cool first two weeks of September, here in Atlanta, bore portents of Fall—or as Keats said, “Autumn.” Both Paige, my late wife, and Jennifer my daughter, could smell Autumn in the air before any Meteorologist even mentioned it. Like Honey Bees guided by the angle of sunlight, those two just nailed, or hailed the season change. Even when school openings moved nearly to the end of July. and they had been in class for several weeks.—the “Smell” of Autumn caressed their psyche like a gentle masseuse. It was uncanny.

Early September in our area was blessed by two simultaneous tropical systems, one a few hundred miles to the West—the other a few hundred miles to the East. Both created balmy temperatures, and cool breezes—making it feel as if Fall had skipped its early herald, and was coming a few weeks early. But for the dramatic lack of rain, it was wonderful. Now—in the midst of writing this—in the last days of September Hurricane Helene is giving the Southeast a proper drenching and more—including all of the State of Georgia, and most of the Southeast.

Autumn is filled with—–well, just filled; there is football, and well, there is football ad infinitum. But for those who manage to break away from the big screen, Autumn affords a marvelous medley of sights, sounds, scents, and activities in the out-of-doors. It is exciting to find farms that open varieties of events in Autumn. Not only their stores of home grown fruits, vegetables, and preserved delicacies, but also activities families can enjoy. These opportunities give farmers a chance to add to their income behond mere marketing wholesale. An example is the corn labyrinth; GPS technology gives farmers a means to create interesting, elaborate, and amusing patterns to their labyrinths. These spectacular mazes amuse both children and adults.

Autumn is something of a packing up of summertime fun as we build store for winter. The growing season has ended, harvest begins, leaves drift down, and nuts fall. Cool temperatures portend nearness of winter. These cycles of change provide delicious diversity to life. During my Pastoral Clinical Education residency, Cuban doctors lived down the hall from me. As winter gave way to spirng, it was interesting to see their excitemnt. Their home climate had a solemn sameness, but this new variety of season change in Middle Georgia made them glad.

Commerce rushes the seasons, as in having Christmas sales in July. However, there is something nourishing to the human spirit to drift through a season, savoring its flavors. I think of turmoil the Prophet Elijah went through. He searched for calm and safety. Earthquake, wind, nor fire gave him peace. Then he listened for “…the still, small voice…”which gave him peace. As I read that I thought it was an Autumn in Elijah’s life. A change of pace is a blessing.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

My childhood home had a wooden back porch with rickety steps. During high school, while enrolled in Vocational Agriculture, I learned about building concrete block steps. My dad’s job kept him on the road so his time at home was limited. Usually when he was home he was doing maintenance on his truck. He and I agreed I could make a stab at building concrete steps. He bought the supplies, and pretty much stepped (no pun intended) aside so I could build them.

Shovel and trowel in hand, I tackled the sand, mortar-mix, concrete blocks, water, and dug (literally) into the project. I must have used a plan from class, because I do not recall where I got it. The main thing I remember was how the finished product looked. Better Homes and Gardens would have never posted the picture I never took—but in my mind’s eye, even today—it was beautiful.

The beauty lay in 1) tackling a task I never dreamed I could accomplish, 2) the grit to plow on through to completion, and 3) the joy of knowing someone trusted me to try. True, it was a generic set of common concrete-block steps that no one saw unless they came around into our tiny back yard. But it is a paradigm of setting out and accomplishing a vision.

Recently, in a conversation with my grandson, I told him how pleased I am that he feels happy and fulfilled in his profession. I learned, but kinda knew all along, that it all began in a vision of his future life, and the steps he took to get there. Although he recognizes the “village” that surrounded him, he is due accolades for his persistence and tenacity. History is replete with those who had virtually nothing, or faced seemingly insurmountable obstacles—yet their names are carved in history’s stone for posterity.

You will remember the old Chinese Proverb: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” It is attributed to Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu. Almost any goal, achievement—or venture must take steps—-beginning with first one. The highly successful “Twelve Step” recovery program begins with, well, steps. And each step matters.

While writing this, a lifelong friend texted me joyfully about steps—a great-grandson’s FIRST steps. Those steps are the beginning of the proverbial “… thousand-mile journey” that little tyke will take. He just launched out and took those steps—at 9 months old. My first daughter, Melanie was talking when she was born. It took her five years to take her first steps… (you are forgiving my hyperbole, aren’t you?) Different children take different lengths of time taking their first steps.

The Bible has numerous stories of people who thought they couldn’t do some great task laid out before them; Abraham, Moses, Gideon, Daniel, and even the disciples of Jesus—at least twice! Almost anyone may recoil at facing a colossal challenge. Wise ones make assessment of the task, consider available resources, and choose appropriate steps. When the disciples were flummoxed by the hungry crowd and made pitiful suggestions to Jesus, he essentially said to them, “What do you have?” And they took the smallest step possible and made the greatest result imaginable

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

I grew up at the edge of Deepstep Creek. My cousins and I often played in its shallows. I even caught fish in the creek. Before the Kaolin mine contaminated the creek, I saw schools of bream, catfish, and pike swimming along. Over the years, I have often crossed the creek and streams into which it flowed. I never traced it by walking its banks or paddling from its head to its final destination, but I know its confluences.

After leaving our place, Deepstep Creek flows southeast into Buffalo Creek, and in turn into the Oconee River. The Oconee flows into the Ocmulgee and their confluence becomes the Mighty Altamaha River near Lumber City. From there the river meanders across Southeast Georgia, into the Atlantic Ocean between Darien and Brunswick, GA. I think of the collage of counties which host or touch that little creek and its confluent streams as they flow—finally sweeping into the Atlantic Ocean. Reaching journey’s end, they provide a crush of aggregates to that great body of water. It reminds me of Ulysses who said, I am a part of all that I have met;/ Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’/ Gleams that untravell’d world/ whose margin fades/ For ever and forever when I move.

Every stream, from Deepstep Creek to the Mighty Altamaha River, contributes to the Atlantic Ocean. Seeds are distributed, living creatures, fish wildlife, insect life, all live and move in connecting streams supplementing the ecology of Southeast Georgia. Not all of its haul is good; insecticides, trash, garbage, or invasive plants, contaminate the waters. Yet, to a huge degree the flowing water works transformation through sunlight and its lading as gifts downstream. Seeing and appreciating those connecting streams are calls to heal what is broken.

For me, mentally to trace the flowing waters from the top edge of my property to their entry into the ocean is a mental odyssey. As my friends know, I am a printed-map nerd. Always my car had two or more Official Georgia maps tucked inside. I pore over maps as a hungry man scans a dining menu. When I cross the Oconee River south of Dublin, or the Altamaha south of Lumber City, I tend to recall that some of that river water may have poured from Deepstep Creek.

This odyssey is something of a human principle; from birth, we pass through a life of experiences. Along the way we gather, and in some cases, encase contents that shape our destiny, some we choose, others are absorb into who we become. In reality, we become that which we fasten onto. The flowing stream is like the early computer aphorism –GIGO—Garbage In Garbage Out. The ancient Proverb says it this way; More than anything you guard, protect your mind, for life flows from it.We humans are different from streams and rivers, however; we have a choice of what we keep, and most of all we can choose how we respond to our encounters. We can choose joy whatever our circumstances.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

It is September and my mind turns to Spider Lilies, those beautiful botanical plants. When I was in third grade at Deepstep school, Melba Faye Giles brought Spider Lilies to class every day the first week of school. I thought they were beautiful—the Spider Lilies. Melba Faye’s beauty took my breath away—which is why I have such a vivid memory of September and those spectacular lilies. I could remember to breathe if I looked at the lilies instead of gazing at her.

Melba Fay’s mother had a beautiful flower garden in their front yard, enclosed in a white picket fence. Our school bus passed it every day on the way to school. Although it was very pretty, those Spider Lilies gracing Miss Mary Lizzie’s desk; The first week of September, they gave a special spirit to that otherwise ordinary rural classroom.

Therefore, every September, if I see Spider Lilies, they cheer me. Fond memories add a special spice to ordinary days. People that grow and tend plants such as Spider Lilies add joy, beauty, and—health to our lives. Both my grandmothers, Veal and Moore, were such people. Since I grew up a stone’s throw from grandmother Veal’s house. I could often be found outside watering her dahlias, forsythia and petunias. I believe she could make a plain wooden stick grow and blossom.

I once lived in a town where the hospital board planned to landscape the grounds, The plan was to beautify it for ambulatory patients and families to stroll, enjoying the out of doors. A county commissioner almost killed the plan, complaining that it wastes money. He wanted to keep the grounds around the hospital plain, and only spend money to cut weeds. Thankfully, the project was completed, adding pleasure for patients, families, workers and passers by.

Earlier today, before starting to write this, I was sitting at the edge of my daughter Jennifer ‘s beautiful flower garden. Bees and butterflies gently flitted among little blossoms. It was nature’s joyful display of beauty. With school getting underway, maybe that’s why memories of spider lilies came pouring into my thinking.

Beauty matters to the human soul, and natural beauty surrounds us. I recall a church I was assigned to. It was plain, cookie-cutter, yet lovely. When I discovered that flowers on the altar were fake, I prevailed upon the Altar Guild never to use fake flowers. I said, “If we cannot afford fresh flowers, or no-one donates them, then leave the altar plain.” From then on there were fresh flowers adorning the altar. I may have over reached, and said it offends God.

Ray Stevens’ hit song, Everything is Beautiful underscores the reality that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Botanists will point out that …A weed is (simply) a plant that is considered undesirable in a given situation. Weeds can be plants that are difficult to control, hazardous, or aesthetically unappealing. They can grow in places that conflict with human needs, goals, or preferences.  The ancient writer said, God looked on all that was made and said, “That’s good!”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

The first time I climbed Stone Mountain I was a kid, —actually, “climbed” is a stretch; I more or less ambulated up. But I digress. I was astonished to find plants growing in that monstrous, pink-granite dome. The span of that dome of stone is wider than my hometown, Deepstep. It is over a mile and a half high—made of granite, quartz monzonite, and granodiorite. There I found little blossoms, plants, and small pine trees growing. The surface is solid “stone” yet each plant was alive and thriving—its seed caught in a little fissure in the stone.

Plants making a home in a little fissure evoke awe and wonder in me. Over time, a fissure cache gathers enough moisture, soil, and sunlight and plants grow; the phenomenon is that roots make room in rock for growth. Tiny roots seek out micro fissures, working their way into these minuscule openings giving the plant a solid grip on planet Earth. It never occurs to the plant that it cannot open more space in rock. It just gets a grip and makes its home there.

High Hopes written by James Van Heusen with lyrics by Sammy Cahn, is a joyous boost to that empirical reality: Just what makes that little old ant/Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant/ Anyone knows an ant, can’t/ Move a rubber tree plant/ But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes/ He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes … Once there was a silly old ram/ Thought he’d punch a hole in a dam/ No one could make that ram, scram/ He kept buttin’ that dam/ ‘Cause he had high hopes, he had high hopes/He had high apple pie, in the sky hopes …So any time your feelin’ bad/ ‘stead of feelin’ sad/just remember that ram/ Oops there goes a billion kilowatt dam.

Barriers and resistance are everywhere in life. Not all are as they appear, nor do all pose stark roadblocks. Nor does every one pose an absolute barricade. The appearance of a wall may be just that, appearance. I was driving on U. S. 84 East entering Jesup, GA—as I rounded the first curve, about 3/4 a mile ahead there appeared a solid obstruction sitting on all four-lanes. Getting closer, I could see a dip in the road—below the “barrier”—under a railroad bridge!—where the highway dipped below. There was no barrier at all.

When God told Abraham that his and Sarah’s descendants would be as numerous as grains of sand—each was past child-bearing age—, well, Sara laughed! I’m pretty sure she had not laughed that hard in ages. But God saw what they could not see. There was a break, a little fissure, if you will, in their childlessness; with just one more descendant—for the generations to flow. What appeared to be not even a little fissure was all God needed to grow generations.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024