Fridays With Willis

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

A childhood prayer begins —“Now I lay me down to sleep…”; it can be a very enticing thought. After a hard day’s work a good night’s sleep beckons. Certainly on a cool winter’s night the thought of pulling up a warm blanket and, cocoon-like, curling up for a good night’s sleep is seductive. Another enticing Siren call is an afternoon nap. I grew up on a “one-horse-farm” (actually, a one-mule farm). I remember my dad coming in from the field at noon for dinner. After a hearty meal he would lie down on the cool hallway floor and take a nap—before he and Mac-the-mule returned to the field. I regret to say, I often interrupted that nap by crawling all over him, and, very likely bouncing on his tummy as only a two-year-old can. The nap was a vital part of his workday. It rejuvenated him for the balance of the day.

According to National Institutes of Health (NIH), …sleep deprivation is not only unhealthy, it can be downright dangerous: Sleep deficiency can interfere with work, school, driving, and social functioning. You might have trouble learning, focusing, and reacting. Also, you might find it hard to judge other people’s emotions and reactions. Sleep deficiency also can make you feel frustrated, cranky, or worried in social situations.

During college one cold night, after finishing one of my part-time jobs, I lumbered nearly frozen into my dormitory room. The warm room, and the old army blanket enshrouded me in coma-like sleep. I was so deeply asleep that I slept through a crucial job appointment the next morning. It nearly cost my job. Fortunately no one was endangered by my sudden surge of narcolepsy. Loss of sleep can be catastrophic for many endeavors; vehicle drivers, machine operators, parenting, to name a few—yes, parenting. An adult in charge of a small child—especially around water (bathtub, wading pool, beach). It takes fewer than twenty (20) seconds for a small child to drown!

A report from The National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute says; Sleep deficiency can cause problems with learning, focusing, and reacting. You may have trouble making decisions, solving problems, remembering things, managing your emotions and behavior, and coping with change. You may take longer to finish tasks, have a slower reaction time, and make more mistakes.

I have, as apparently a large number of Americans, deprived the body, mind, and, spirit of essential sleep. The CDC reported that over thirty percent of adults aged 18 and older suffer from lack of sleep. Going further, over forty percent of all adults also experience serious lack of sleep. Wouldn’t you think sensible adults would recognize the great joy of sleep, not to mention hindering healthy living? The Psalmist points out how irrational it is for us so to fill our lives with busyness that we loose the gift God gives us all—Sleep. It is a gift! don’t miss it!

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Boy Scouts of America was established February 8, 1910, based on the leadership of British military veteran, William Boyce. The organization has undergone numerous iterations and imitations. The latest version, as of May 2024, the Boy Scouts of America announced that it would be rebranding as Scouting America. This designation includes troops for boys and troops for girls. Another big change in this version is that girls can now earn Eagle Scout.

The Scouting program at my church, Embry Hills United Methodist, is flush with Scouting; Troop 15 for boys, Troop 2115 for girls, as well as Cub Scout Packs and Dens. The calendar is full of meeting times. For over fifty years the church sponsored an awesome annual BBQ. A “perfect storm” — capped by the 2020 Pandemic brought it to a screeching halt. Now with the enthusiasm of a renewed (and expanded) Scouting ministry a bright future is glowing.

I am not drumming up business for the BBQ—by the time you read this, it will be too late to sign up for this BBQ. My point is that it is very interesting that a staid, sobersided organization like Scouting can be resilient and thrive, adapting to the living of these days—while staying the course on building character, life-skills, and the joyful pursuit of ethical accomplishment. It way past time that girls should be able to earn the Eagle Scout designation! Learning to cook, make clothes, plan parties, etc. are skills indeed, they are not limited to one gender. Nor are skills like map reading, building rope ladders, and othe Merit Badge rungs in the ladder to Eagle limited to one gender.

When I was a Campus Minister at GSU, dormitories were still single residents. Nation-wide th antie in loco parentis (Latin for “in the place of a parent”) movement was going strong. Basically it was saying—we are adults and should be able to live as adults. While dormitories were single-gender residences, friends the same age as the students living and working already could live where they wanted.

We have come a long way in clearing the way for all young people to persue goals and accomplish dreams regardless of their gender. Scouting America took a major step in opening doors and expanding opportunities for our youth. Having accompanied a family member through the years of earning Eagle Scout, I can say with great Joy, “You Go Girls! The door is flung wide open! (Sign up for Scouting this Fall, if you havent’s already!)”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

The term “thin place” is a Celtic Christian concept referring to a location or moment where the distance between Heaven and Earth seems to collapse. In these places, the veil between the world and the spiritual realm is said to diminish, making it easier to connect with God and feel His presence. Thin places can be physical locations, such as traditionally religious sites, or they can be mindful, unhurried moments. (Copied.)

My thin place tends to be a book. Not a specific Book, but a book whose author speaks deeply to my soul; Henri Nouwen, Thomas Merton, Dallas Willard, Richard Foster, the Psalmist—to name a few. When the printed word effuses deep thoughts, or sends me into a considerable thought-room my spirit becomes sublimely ruminant—sometimes stills. I think the Celts got it right. The thin place is solace for the human spirit. Today’s culture-pressures tend to deprive us of that treasure.

Our culture today insinuates its noise into our very soul: In the ubiquitous visual medium—each view three seconds long—or fewer, the camera switches to another angle, input, or view—90% of the time; it imbeds an inner attention clock that infects our mental state. It has become a cultural acclimation pacing our attention to a 3-second grasp— resulting in that 3-second-attention focus.

Commerce relishes focus-flurry, pulling our attention the direction of its own choosing. Scent is another powerful memory flash back. Personally, I am glad “Smell-a-Vision,” never caught on (not as of yet). In 1960 movie producer, Mike Todd introduced the use of smells related to on-screen-action. It did not catch on. Then. Hopefully, never; although various attractions tried.

Milledgeville, GA writer, the late Flannary O’Connor, created a physical place to host her thin place; in her own room she turned a tall chifforobe toward the wall—then turned her desk to face the back of it—a kind of cloistered writing space apart from interruption. To each your own. Some people find their thin place hiking alone or on a spiritual pilgrimage. Last year Melanie, my daughter, made the Mary Magdalene Pilgrimage in Province, France. It became a thin place for her with deep meaning. Others were there, but it was her own thin place. Do you have your thin place?

Jesus understood how distractions can mess up your mind. He taught his followers by example and saying so. He said, take some time away form all the hubbub around you. Go where you can have a quiet mind and let your thoughts and concentration have free-range. You can be inspired a lot that way. (RWV The Revised Willis Version.) Your thin place is your own. It is unique to you.

As my friends know, my favorite ancient mentor is Brother Lawrence, a 17th century a brother in the Carmelite Order of monks. He is better known for his writings about “The Practice of the Presence of God”—-he could experience the Presence of God as well while scrubbing pots and pans in the galley or, as he said, “…in receiving the Blessed Sacrament”—either was his thin place. So there you go; your thin place need not always to be in isolation, or quiet, or cloistered. I think a mother holding her tiny infant, can be in such a thin place.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024