Fridays With Willis

It is a Deepstep term for managing difficulties. My grandparents and my parents, lived through The Great Depression. The blessing was that they lived on a farm, and though times were difficult, they survived. Their term for getting along was “We will make do;” meaning, we will find a way. And they did. Getting up before dawn, building a fire, even in Summer, to cook meals; in Winter it was even more harsh—house not insulated, water drawn in a bucket from an open well, and meals cooked on a wood cookstove; wash-water was heated, outside in a cast-iron “wash-pot.”

Life was not easy and days working sun-to-sun were hard. In order to make a living, raise a family, and find joy in life they learned to “make do.” Torn clothes were patched; missing recipe ingredients for meals were improvised; worn out/broken tools were mended, repurposed, or saved because…”we might need it someday.” My home church was built during the Great Depression, so it had few comforts; Sunday School rooms were corners of the sanctuary. For classroom space, my grandmother cleaned out a broom closet—put a bench in it and—though crowded we “made do”—at least we had a room.

Learning to make do served me well; my first dormitory room in college was in an over crowded building; six of us were placed in the former apartment of the resident House Mother. We learned to make do. My first room at Emory was a former storage closet—repurposed to house students. My roommate and I learned to make do. I do not remember being embarrassed or feel put upon in situations where I had to make do. I can’t say I always happily received each experience—but I can say I learned from each experience. Tough times can teach us important life lessons because we must learn to make do.

Nativity stories in the Bible barely mention Joseph and Mary’s expectations for a nursery for Jesus. There is only a passing comment that there was no room for them in they inn. Therefore they had to “make do.” While over the centuries we have romanticized the Birth of Jesus, we do not come close to knowing difficulties they faced—finding a place for Jesus’ birth and all that pertains thereunto. (Think comparison of that stable to the maternity ward of any Hospital).

When you come to a point where you have to “make do” you are likely to discover that you can be more creative, resilient, enduring, and patient than you ever realized. In a word you faced a test. Tests allow (or force) us to discover new ventures, strength of character, and depth of Faith. Even Jesus had to face tough tests before he launched his earthly ministry. Both Peter and Judas faced tests of character; Judas failed, Peter stumbled—but grew strong in the process and came through victoriously. Making do helps power us through life’s tests.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

My inspiration for this post came from a fragment of a recent weather forecast. “…there will be snow…” Here in Atlanta, GA the idea of snow excites a “blue million” responses—ranging from virtually ignored, to rather indifferent, to frenzied. We have never experienced heavy, long-lasting banks of deep snow. At worst, even heavy snow is typically gone after a week or so. However a perfect storm of climate change, increasingly large paved interstate highways, heavier tractor-trailer, and auto traffic has given pause to our traditional snow-come ice attitudes.

It is no longer strange in winter to see in Atlanta snow plows, Quonset Huts filled with salt, brine tanks standing ready, sand, and snow/ice warning signs in Department Of Transportation preparation. To a great extent Snowpocalypse, eleven years ago this month begot all that. Although blamed on the snow fall, the overwhelming culprit was Black Ice hiding under just 2.5 inches of show. tractor-trailers skidded, jackknifed, cars lost traction, and for a good while nothing could traverse the multiple interstates leading into, out of, and around the city.

That Winter was a far cry from singing I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, while sitting by the fire watching Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney sing about snow, in the classic Christmas Movie, White Christmas. Here in the South, we often think longingly for a White Christmas—-but we only want a photo op, the brief thrill, and not messy entanglements. People who live in the land of snow, know from cradle-to-grave, how to plan for it, adapt to it, and find their own ways for joy in it. It is called adaptation.

Snow, those glist’ning houses that seem to be built of snow / Snow, oh, to see a mountain covered with a quilt of snow-–lyrics from the song in White Christmas make the idea of snow a dazzling treasure. I think snow is beautiful. I love to see pictures of snow, and hear stories about snow, and sing songs about snow. An average snowflake is about 5 millimeters in diameter and weighs about 4 milligrams. A typical rose petal weighs about 0.2 grams in comparison. The snowflake seems to weigh nothing—but when enough snowflakes fall on a shed, or roof, or city—enough of those snow flakes can be deadly, cause catastrophe—in a word, cost a king’s ransom.

How can something so lovely, so attractive, even fun in many ways—be such a villain? Snow is not the only thing in nature that is lovely to look at, but harboring deadly possibilities. Plants, animals, well, even people can likewise be lovely/lethal. Although Samson (The Book of Judges) was a wise judge, he was also a fallible human being. As such he fell for the beauty of Delilah—which in turn was his downfall. It doesn’t have to be that way. “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting” is a quote from Proverbs 31:30 in the Bible. The quote highlights the contrast between temporary, external qualities and the enduring, internal quality of godliness. (Quoted from Overview).

P.S. Couldn’t have anticipated this, but now, just as I’m ready to publish this post–the front yard—and as far as I can see—everything is covered in a thick blanket of—SNOW!

©Copyright 2025 Willis H. Moore

A Path becomes a path by continual treading. All my life, until my parents died, there was a path to my maternal grandparent’s house. My mother’s “continual treading” curated that path. It was a simple dirt trail from our house that crossed the road, wandered up a slight embankment to their house. The path was a silent symbol of our love for and connection with our grandparents. I always loved that path. In my adult years, I came to appreciate a deeper significance of that vital connection.

Metaphorically speaking, a path has significance to us humans. Paths are created by common connections (continual treading, maybe) in our neighborhood and emerging social relationships. Sometimes our paths end or fade. Significant paths have a way of being sustained, or revitalized. In recent years, for various reasons, I renewed a few paths—some of which go back for decades. Some of these simply popped up through chance reconnections. Some others virtually sailed into my current path due to family crisis—theirs/mine—nevertheless significantly. Reviving and curating these paths has not only been a source of joy, but also filled with happy surprises.

The City of Atlanta and PATH are working together to create a region -wide trail plan. Abandoned railroad beds and other convenient paths gave the start. Connections with The Silver Comet Trail—between Atlanta and the Alabama line along withThe Beltline in Metro Atlanta—provide original the scope of PATH; which includes paved trails, gardens, outdoor-recreation areas, and a wide variety of marked pathways. PATH continues to expand as its patrons increase.

Near my childhood home there is an ancient trail. It follows a ridge several miles north of my home; it runs between the Oconee River to the West, and the Ogeechee River to the East—a distance of about sixty miles between. The original trail is basically a path. It originated as a Native American trail—centuries ago, beginning just above the Georgia Fall Line and ending at Oconee River near Balls Ferry. Over the years as settlers came to Georgia it migrated to a dirt road. About circa 1980 it became a paved road. A wag once said that town and city streets in Georgia followed old cow paths; not true of all of them but you get the point. I think most of the main roads originated like that Native American trail.

The Psalmist thought that when we have a choice, and often need guidance about which path to take. Sometimes it is right to take the path of continual treading—if it is a trusted path. Sometimes we shouuld take the path suddenly offered—as in renewing significant old relationships. I believe that it is sometimes good to branch out into new paths, such as PATH Atlanta offers—in variety, relationships , and opportunities—always with wisdom, a willingness to grow, and reliable guidance.

 ©2025 Copyright Willis H. Moore

This title turned out to be an inspiration. Anticipating my next installment, I typed in “next” as a place holder while I mulled over the launch. As I came back to the title later, it hit me; no one knows what is next—not even the next moment. Have you awakened, facing a dreary, or troublesome day, and suddenly a phone call gave you a new direction? or a text message threw back the gloom, opening an entirely new direction for you!?

It can happen that a very common, ordinary day turns dramatically in an unexpected direction. But we already know that; and too often dreading the bad. Here is a dramatic, turn-around experience I had; midway through college—I needed a job so I could stay in college—that Summer, an uncle who owned a restaurant in the North Georgia mountains, offered me a job washing dishes and cleaning. I could live with him and his family at no charge, and save what I made in the restaurant for college in the fall.

I packed up and said goodbye to family and friends, and packed for the trip North. Before bedtime, another uncle, a minister in South Georgia called. He was scheduled for continuing education for the summer and needed help. Since I was a ministerial student, I could lead weekday services, visit hospitals for him; I cold also help baby sit my cousins. He would get me a community job that would actually pay, and I could save for college. Not only was this a 180 degree geographic change in direction, it also changed the direction of my life. Following a curious, labyrinthine—five-year—journey it led to my marrage to Paige, the love of my life.

Everyhere along that journey, from that unexpected phone call to fifty-seven years of marriage— “next” tagged along like a presumptuous puppy, cheerfully—and otherwise tripping along at my heels. I could not have foreseen the outcomes—the highs and lows of those decades of “next.” I am, however, astonished at the exceeding outcomes good of many of those “lows.” Of course I am thankful for the joys that many of “next.”

In a few days, it will be “Next” year. A plethora of resolutions, calendars, and dreams flood our minds. These can help navigate the hours, days, and months ahead. But none of us knows exactly what is next. It is a blessing that we do not know exactly what “next” has in store. If we did know, we would live in terrific anxiety; the bad things would paralyze us with fear; the good things would immobilize us in hopeful anticipation. I think Ira Stanphill said it best in I Don’t Know About Tomorrow;  I don’t know about tomorrow;
I just live from day to day.
I don’t borrow from its sunshine
For its skies may turn to grey.
I don’t worry o’er the future,
For I know what Jesus said.
And today I’ll walk beside Him,
For He knows what lies ahead.

© 2024 Copyright Willis H. Moore

Our first year out of seminary, Emory University’s Candler School of Theology, Paige and I married, and I was appointed associate pastor to a city church. For Christmas Eve service that year Paige, an enchanting story-teller, was asked to tell a treasured old Christmas story—Why the Chimes Rang, by Raymond MacDonald Alden. It is about little Pedro and his younger brother who lived outside the city, and their sacrificial offering for the baby Jesus.

Pedro and his little brother had saved their earning so they could to give a gift to the Christ-child on Christmas Eve. On that special, snowy Christmas Eve Pedro and his brother braved the snow to take a silver coin that they had worked for all year; a gift for the Christ Child. They also hoped to hear the glorious chimes in the ancient cathedral ring on that Christmas Eve. Rumor had it that the most meaningful gift would cause the ancient chimes to ring. The chimes hadn’t rung in ages. They hoped that maybe this Christmas Eve someone would bring that most favored gift and the chimes would ring..

However, on their way, they found an old woman in the snow. Pedro stooped to discover the woman needed more help. Paedro did not want his brother to miss the grand Christmas Eve service; so he sent him on, saying he should take their little silver coin and place it at the altar. Reluctantly, little brother made his way to the crowded church and edged through to the altar.

Paige, had arranged ahead of time for an electronics engineer to set up in the balcony; the chimes would ring at the appropriate moment in the story. Paige told of the wonderful service, then of princes and others bringing their gifts; finally—the King laid his crown on the altar hoping to cause the chimes to ring. Silence. Quietly, Paige spoke on , “…then little brother quietly laid their little silver coin on the altar, and suddenly….” From the balcony of our church, chimes could be heard rising, first quietly, then louder. As the first notes sounded in our quiet sanctuary, Ryan,—a little kindergartner called out—“I hear them! I hear them! I hear the chimes!”

It made Christmas. It made Christmas for everyone present that night. Paige’s sparkling blue eyes filled with joyful tears. Christmas joy often comes in surprising ways. Although the the sound-effects engineer and Paige planned it—they could not have planned that spontaneous burst of joy—from Ryan—and its joyful ripple effect on the congregation.

Echoes of the world make a cacophony of jangled sounds with their overmuch focus buying, sumptuous parties, and laborious schedules. Expectations tend to be as excessive as they are dysfunctional. Maybe we need to allow a little time for spontaneous surprises; the possibility of joy. This Chimes story brings joy to my heart, as it has to many over the years; each retelling brings Joy to our hearts!

©Copyright 2024 Willis H. Moore

I love the Christmas season, though my natal family did not make a big deal of it. My parents lived through The Great Depression and were conditioned to frugality, and continued to live penny-wise. We lived in Deepstep, GA and advertising was not awash there. However, we did get the Sears Roebuck Christmas Book, which hypnotized me, taking my imagination far. The first Christmas tree that I remember in our house was real, but barely a tree—meagerly decorated. That Christmas Santa Claus left a toy boat, fruit, and hard candies. It was delightful!

In time, I somehow grew into the Christmas spirit, and wanted a proper Christmas tree. One day Mother was busy with my little sister, and daddy was at work. We lived on my grandfather’s farm; it was populated plentifully by trees, and among them were some cedar trees. I took a brazen step, not asking permission I ventured out; with axe in hand, and my dog Barkley in tow, we wandered among wooded areas of the farm. We searched for a the Christmas tree. Fortunately, reality hobbled my hopes for the perfect tree—because; 1) I would have to chop it down and, 2) I would have to get it from the woods down the dirt road to my house—with no help from Barkley.

I delighted in finding and bringing home—my first self-cut Christmas tree. I fell in love with that tree, because I had done it myself. I got the box of our meager decorations and set to work. I do not remember anyone helping me. I am sure I did a sloppy job, and my baby sister was too disinterested to be a critic. It was probably late afternoon and my mother was very likely tending the wood-stove preparing supper. But that Christmas we had a proper tree.

In time, Paige, the girls, and I shopped tree lots, wearing baby-packs, pushing strollers, and finally walking together. Growing older, they had opinions about choosing a Christmas tree. On one occasion we brought a tree home to set up in our den. While stringing lights, there was a rustle in the lower branches, and a small bird fluttered out—it was not a partridge!

Paige’s natal family made a big deal about Christmas; my faith pilgrimage had given me a deeper and broader appreciation of the reason for the season. Paige gently guided me in making the celebration central to our family—preparing home decorations, delicious foods, welcoming friends joining in celebration; We loved joyous music and Christmas Eve worship which far out-shines all shiny attractions.

Reflecting on that long ago day, I see I was overly presumptuous; I launched out with axe and Barkley, in search of a Christmas tree; it was as if I was the only person in the world. I took for granted that it was OK for me forage on granddaddy’s farm—and—chop down any tree I chose. In a word, I was embraced in Grace.

©Copyright 2024 Willis H. Moore

One cold Sunday morning in December Circa 1950, Cousin Reginald Mills went into the Deepstep Methodist Church early. He did this on cold Sunday mornings to light space heaters. The sanctuary would be warm by the time worship started. I was excited about today’s service; Erma and Erica Weber would sing for worship. The Weber family was living in one of my grandfather’s rental houses, next door to my house. Their family, German refugees from WW II, included six children—only the the children spoke English—and that barely; the adults spoke none. An interpreter arrived with the family. After much too short a time of orientation, she was gone.

Erma and Erica were younger than I by a couple of years. I had heard the girls sing as they did their home chores, and knew they sang beautifully. Our church choir director also knew the girls sang well. She persuaded them to sing Silent Night at church this Sunday, just before Christmas. Their English was wobbly so they chose to sing the hymn in German.

Erma and Erica, dressed in their native clothing, stood at the chancel rail; the pianist played an intro to Silent Night. As they sang, their harmony wafted heavenly into the sacred air; the all-too-familiar tune, written by Franz Xaver Gruber, was now being sung in a language unfamiliar to us—-yet Silent Night was understood entirely: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh! —-sleep in heavenly peace!

W W II had ended nearly a decade. before. The Methodist Committee on Overseas Relief (MCOR–parent of UMCOR) had been helping in Europe for years. Healing was under way, and here—worshipping with us is a family who serve the same God (I had even noticed Mr. Weber reading his Bible—probably not the KJV!). The music we were listening to—and later joined singing in English —and German—gave us, in those moments, Peace on Earth!

Music has been called the universal language. It certainly touches the very soul of our being; I am convinced it does so on many levels. Almost any accomplished musician will tell you that music, in the midst of stress or anxiety, has renewing quality.

The youth David, playing music on his harp, became a skilled musician. As a result he was recruited to play music when King Saul had his bouts with depression. David’s harp-playing was therapeutic to Saul, so he was signed on for a regular gig.

I sympathize with store employees who have to listen to “Little Drummer Boy,” a million times, October to January. However, the best of Christmas music is here to stay—especially the core carols and chorales such as Silent Night and The Messiah. Paige Moore felt that Christmas had not fully arrived until she had heard a magnificent choir performing Handel’s Messiah.

© 2024 Copyright Willis H. Moore

Growing up on the Fall Line of Georgia, I was more familiar with pine trees. Of course cedar trees were sprinkled among the post oaks, white oaks, and assorted others—but mostly there were pine trees. While a student at Emory University, Atlanta, GA, I dated a girl at Reinhardt College, Waleska, GA . One beautiful afternoon in late October she suggested we make a leaf tour in the North Georgia mountains. I had never heard of a leaf tour. Dutifully, I agreed; it was a spectacular trip—I have never forgotten it. It’s beauty opened my eyes to the palette of Fall; not only in Georgia, but also the beauty of Fall landscapes wherever they may be found.

I often admired pictures of colorful fall foliage before. Nothing compared actually to seeing the undulating mountain ranges glowing in full fall colors. As I think about that trip now, I am sure I was a disappointment to my date. I expressed appropriate “oos and ahhs” and probably said it was a good trip. At the time, I gave it a passing grade; barely.

There are seven large hardwood trees within our circular driveway; White oak, hickory, post oak, and two smaller dogwood trees. Elsewhere in our yard there are a couple of beech, and poplar trees. As I write this, two million leaves per hour are falling onto our driveway and yard (please pardon the hyperbole). Yes. The leaves are a pain—and bothersome for a bit. But what joy they bring with their palette of color—and shade during hot sunny days.

Sometimes a twig breaks off with three or four leaves with an acorn or two. The other day I found such a cluster; I picked it up and stuck the stem with its colorful array of leaves and three acorns into a geranium pot. Jennifer at first thought I had brought some decorations. A friend of mine loves the drive to church along a strip of I-85 near our house; this time of year the median is ablaze with its own palette of fall colors—we call it “picture perfect.”

The Psalmist stood in awe of the beauty, the intricacy, the wonder of Creation. However, the beauty and majesty of Creation is beyond my ability to describe. I remember with joy how Jesus commented on the splendor and magnificence of Creation. He even said the masterpiece of human creation cannot hold a candle to the beauty of the lilies of the field (RWV. Revised Willis Version).

The leaf/twig that I found on the driveway and put in the geranium pot reminds me of how often I overlook the simple beauty in our surroundings. Too often I have brushed away a twig, leaf, or limb, being otherwise focused. It is a great reward suddenly to notice something of beauty in its natural state, unnoticed before. It can open a whole new spectrum of beauty.

© 2024 Copyright Willis H. Moore

My family made Thanksgiving the pinnacle of our family celebrations. Even when our only vehicle was dad’s truck, we got up early on Thanksgiving day, had a sturdy breakfast, avd left for the trip from Deepstep to Dacula, GA. We would spend the day with Grandaddy and Grandmother Jewel Moore. It was a treat from day one. Their farm, several miles from a paved road, was neatly manicured, and well tended, surrounded by assorted fruit trees and shrubs.

One Thanksgiving celebration we watched a portable cider mill grind apples from his trees. It was a first for me. Apple trees were plentiful on his farm, but my favorite tree was the large cherry tree near their water well. Living that far in the country, there was no water or sewerage system. Grandaddy had a deep well. I now know why the well was only about eight inches wide; being that near Stone Mountain, they had to drill through a significant piece of granite to reach underground water; so they drilled as little of the granite as necessary.

Grandmother Jewel, a public school teacher, was organized and punctual with the meal. A delicious array of food was spread on the family table; our family did not get into the turkey-and-all-its-fixings. Instead we usually feasted on roast beef, or chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, beans, cornbread, and a congealed fruit salad. She also baked an excellent coconut cake. Grandaddy was a quiet man, who when he spoke, though in gentle tones, he was heard. My seat at the table was next to him.

There was a bonus in later years; my own family began going in to Atlanta Thanksgiving night. Rich’s Department Store at the corner of Alabama and Broad Street had a four-story bridge across  Forsyth Street to its adjacent building. On Thanksgiving night, each bridge was lighted and filled with colorful Atlanta choirs that sang Christmas songs and Carols. The climax was when the huge Christmas tree atop the bridge blazed into lights at he final note of O Holy Night. The crowds on the street below erupted into cheers and applause.

On Friday morning we joined the throngs as the doors opened for shopping. Paige and I scurried along through all the toy sections letting our two little girls marvel over and wonder at what Santa might bring on Christmas Eve. Rich’s had a two-hour child care opportunity, which Paige and I used while we hurried back to purchase those “necessary” toys, which we hid in the car for the trip home.

We topped off with a trip on the “Pink Pig,” a suspended Pig-shaped-monorail on the roof of Rich’s; some winters it was a cold, but still a fun ride. I hate to say it, but the sad replacement for the Pink Pig being used today is an embarassment to its legacy. Actually, I don’t hate to say it. The original Pink Pig was classy, unique, and sheer fun for the kids!

Happy Thanksgiving, to one and all!

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

The red clay hill above the house where I grew up had been terraced for years for farming. Over time a red oak, wild plum trees, blackberry bushes, a few persimmon trees, and sassafras saplings took up residence along the terrace edges. A few Red Oak trees grew in the edge of the fields. That hill was a virtual apothecary of native herbs and fruits. Bark from the red oak, soaked in herb-treated hot water—and carefully wrapped in a red-clay poultice eased a sprained ankle; sassafras roots boiled in spring water soothed sore throats, and castor oil was a truth serum—should an attempt be made to skip school by feigning sickness—it was addressed with a dose of Castor Oil—healing was miraculous! Those wild fruits along the terrace edges were delicious calls to culinary comfort and joy.

Over time, I often enjoyed hot sassafras tea as a beverage. It smells good and tastes good—well, sweetener added to it helps. You may recognize the taste of sassafras; it is the Root Beer taste. Sassafras was used in root beers, candy, and other tasty treats until 1960, when it was banned by the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA). There was good reason to ban it, because the root contains a carcinogen;  safrole, a key component of sassafras oil.

Steven Foster—known to be one of the great luminaries of, and advocates for, herbs in our generation, said,—for public safety a ban, such as that of the FDA in 1960, is needed. Samuel Thayer, author and wild plant expert said, “Sassafras as a drink has the effect of tasting good and there is no reason to remove the safrole…The amount of safrole is very small and is mostly or wholly eliminated through boiling.”

An article in the Journal for Nurse Practitioners, states that For thousands of years, traditional indigenous medicines have been used to promote health and wellbeing for millions of Native people who once inhabited this continent. It is my unscientific observation, that modern manipulations in merchandising put so much focus on manufactured meds and “the bottom line” that attention to health risks has been sketchy—causing unintended consequences.

Until the ban, A & W Root Beer, and a few candy companies had been using enormous amounts of products containing safrole. However, according to a number of naturalists, small amounts, such as in an occasional cup of tea made by boiling sassafras roots, had hardly any measurable hazard. As was mentioned, boiling the sassafras roots in the process of making tea apparently diminishes any hazard significantly. That is the way my grandmother made sassafras tea, much to my delight.

I am reminded of the aromas of sacrifices mentioned in the Bible, which were a kind of ethereal reaching out to God. The Apostle Paul, writing to the Church at Phillipi, commented on how well he was getting along made an interesting comparison; he said the marvelous provisions the church had provided for him were like a sweet smelling sacrifice offered to God. Aromas are dramatic stimuli to the memory, and to healing. In something of a similar vein, for me, the aroma of Sassafras is a kind of aroma therapy.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024