Fridays With Willis

Cecil was a classmate of mine, grades one through twelve. His family lived down the road from my house—in a tenement house on my granddaddy’s farm. In our early years, Cecil and I spent a lot of time playing together, either at his house or mine. Our parents always knew when we were at Cecil’s house or mine. The world was still recovering from devastation of WW II so our lives were quite simple.

WW II Rationing had been lifted for a good while, yet families still struggled for necessities. Toys were not necessities and not widely available. I don’t remember worrying about that. There was no constant advertising of toys. My only memory of advertising for toys was the annual Sears Wish Book. Cecil and I made up games and created toys to enjoy. We turned our attention to what we knew—the jobs our dads did every day.

Cecil’s dad was a mechanic in my uncle’s automobile repair shop. My dad was a truck driver. Our fathers’ vocations had strong influence on our everyday lives and our playing . Sometimes Cecil and I worked on and drove “trucks.” We ran around the yard “driving” big trucks, making growly sounds like their motors, or grinding manually shifting gears—or making fun sounds of being stuck in the mud “spinning” wheels.

Cecil’s creativity impressed me . In their back yard, he created two reasonable facsimiles of truck cockpits—he made one for me and one for himself. There were brake and accelerator petals, gear shift levers, and crude, but recognizable steering sectors; we used wood stumps from the woodpile for seats. We drove, careening around make-believe roads intently hauling our imaginary cargos—growling dramatically impressive sound effects.

Cecil’s parents were easy going, hardworking folks. They had good character and from a respected family in our community. “Mr. Nath,” as everyone called Cecil’s dad, was quiet, congenial and always a willing helper for someone in need. “Miss Mary,” as I knew Cecil’s mother, was a hard working mother, caring for Cecil and his two younger sisters.

Later, they moved to their own home on the East side of Deepstep, closer to the grandparents. As pur friendship circle grew our interests began to diverge. By high school graduation the closeness of our early childhood lives went different directions, vocationally and geographically. Unlike Ruth and Naomi, our lives gave way to our to widening horizons.

Reflecting on it, in our friendship, Cecil and I cluelessly lived out three of the four levels of friendship cited by the Penn State Presidential Leadership Academy; 1-Acquaintance, 2-casual friendship; 3-Close Friendship. We did not reach level— 4; Intimate Friendship. Not that it matters. Those two little boys in Deepstep, Georgia, joyfully made their own fun, while shielded from the rampant fears of Communism, being kept from under their mother’s busy feet—who were doing their best to cope with a rapidly changing world.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

We all have experienced endings; death of a pet, graduation, moving away from your natal home, the end of your first romance. Some of my readers, and their family members recently experienced an abrupt ending of their careers. Ends are fraught with complexity, for no two endings are the same. Every pastoral change I served had an ending; each one was different. There is more joy in some endings than others.

Moving to a new location involves a melange final feelings; friends, familiar happy places, neighbors, local recreation and entertainment—all converge as the tail lights of the moving truck disappear jn the distance. Usually the sadness of such endings is replaced by discovering joy in new opportunities.

When the end is not the end: The poet Alexander Pope gave a wonderful salve for human hearts in his poem, An Essay on Man, in 1732 —-Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Baseball legend, Yogi Berri put a quaint twist on the quote in his famous paraphrase…It ain’t over till it’s over! Another Baseball figure, Dan Cook, gave the quote another boost when he used it in 1978 after a basketball game between the San Antonio Spurs and the Washington Bullets.

In a weird turn of emphasis, Good Friday is from an ending on a not-so-good Friday. On that day the followers of Jesus experienced the lowest point of their lives. Jesus had been crucified, pronounced dead, and buried. It was The End! Writ large! All Their hopes were crushed, dashed into the ground–nay—underground in a tomb. Many fled, a few gave up, some cowered in wonderment. One of his most devoted disciples —formerly a professional fisherman—was so distraught he said, “I’m going fishing.” It was The End.

Endings also have beginnings. This is exciting joy as we lean toward EASTER. Black Saturday is a metaphor for “No Christ.” That is how all Jesus’ followers felt all twenty four hours of that day. If you have ever tarried at the open grave of a loved one, you can sense the dispair those disciples felt. As you walk away, you face a proverbial “Groundhog Day” or Black Saturday. The End.

But …it ain’t over… Even Yogi Berri’s words, are inadequate for this moment—for God is not through. Endings are also beginnings. The Apostle Paul told the church at Philippi that he leaves the past behind and presses on to the goal that lies before him.

Such is the nature of endings. Each one is a gateway to the new. Crisis counselors will tell you that when you become overwhelmed by tragedy or disaster, do something—do the next thing. I wrote a sermon, The Healing in the Ordinary, how when ordinary things—simply taking out the trash, or washing dishes, cutting the grass—such ordinary things, that come without having to think, can become healing connections back to the pulse of life.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

My experience in fourth grade science as I recall, was minimal—maybe a lesson or so on basics like Sunrise and phases of the Moon. But my first-hand experience— was beyond the classroom and more; it was down the road from the schoolhouse at Thiele Kaolin Mine. My dad and some other workers were checking chunks of clay from the Kaolin mine; they found imbedded within the Kaolin, teeth—sharks’ teeth. I overheard discussions about the source of the teeth. Millions of years ago, this area—this land where I attended church, school, swam, and played in open-pit Kaolin mines—was once covered by the Atlantic Ocean. My young sheltered mind began to stretch!

A young child in the early 20th century might hear such as fantasy—maybe, comic book grist. Only well-to-do families owned television sets. Fast forward through decades, beyond to a Moon Walk, an inhabited Space Station, and now the James Webb Space Telescope in the 21st Century (launched when my grandchildren were finishing college!!). The thought of shark teeth found this far inland, left so many millions of years ago, not only becomes more plausible, but also quite descriptive.

The JWST not only opens windows to our Universe of its past , but also reveals many other intricacies of the universe, including formation of new stars as they are happening; Shimmering ejections emitted by two actively forming stars make up Lynds 483 (L483). High-resolution near-infrared light captured by NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope shows incredible new detail and structure within these lobes. (Credits: NASA, ESA, CSA, STScI).

The Psalmist didn’t have the JWST when he gazed at the heavens. Wow! He didn’t even have Galileo’s telescope. The Psalmist looked up into that clear, starry night and proclaimed…O Lord, our Lord, How excellent is Your name in all the earth,…When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers,/ The moon and the stars, which You have ordained, / What is man that You are mindful of him, / And the son of man that You visit him? For You have made him a little lower than the angels, / And You have crowned him with glory and honor. You have made him to have dominion over the works of Your hands; / You have put all things under his feet,…O Lord, our Lord, / How excellent is Your name in all the earth!

Recently I moved my antique bookcase. While re-shelving the books, I skimmed through one I cherish; Your God is too Small! by J. B. Phillips— a reminder that God is not limited by frail human concept. So, when I see that JWST discovered yet another galaxy, I cannot say, “Oh. That’s speculation.” It causes my thinking not only to expand, but also to consider who we are and Whose we are. We can never have too big a conception of God and the more scientific knowledge (in whatever field) advances the greater becomes our idea of his best and complicated wisdom. (J.B.Phillips p. 120)

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

In the 1960’s, Jackie DeShannon and her brother Randy were noodling on songs for an album they were working on. They remembered their mother saying “Put A Little Love In Your Heart” Jackie—impacted by all the stuff going on in the sixties, felt that love is a word we all need to hear. After recording, she called her mom and said, “I think I have just recorded the best song I ever wrote!” It reached number 4 on the Hot 100 in August 1969—and continued to rack up awards.

These lyrics salve our distresses; Think of your fellow man / Lend him a helping hand / Put a little love in your heart…You see it’s getting late / Oh, please don’t hesitate / … And the world will be a better place… / For you and me / You just wait and see / Another day goes by / Still the children cry … If you want the world to know / We won’t let hatred grow / Put a little love in your heart…

In June 2024 Randy, Jackie’s brother, told The Nashville Tennessean, I wish everyone would wake up with ‘Put A Little Love in Your Heart.’ … (And) just just a moment or two to be kind. A moment or two to … be a little more open to people because we all need to pull together because this country is not just segregated with this group and that. America is everybody and we need to reaffirm that within ourselves and … try to understand what it’s like to be in someone else’s shoes. Isn’t that the path to us being the best again for individuals and as a nation right here?

When this song hit the charts I was Wesley Foundation campus minister at Georgia Southern. It planted a renewing seed by it’s recurring theme …put a little love in your heart… My students, yea, students on Campuses across the nation, were in turbulent unrest—a loving spirit seemed absent. About the only group showing love in the tumult was The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). Under the tutelage of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. , every morning after fasting and prayer, they faced angry, violent crowds; they showed love by not responding violently; by absorbing physical blows and virulent cursing, they taught the world that violence is not overcome by violence in return.

Since those days, United Methodist Student campus ministries in Georgia have grown dramatically in love, and strength. Their enormous outreach to others —in comparison to those of the 1960’s boggles my mind. Zach, my grandson—who spent 4 years in UGA Wesley Foundation, and a number of my close friends testify to its love, and outreach. …love in your heart… is not a magic potion. It does not transform as quickly as does a fire, nor as dramatically. Jackie’s brother Randy, said, Isn’t …(a little love in your heart) the path to us being the best again for individuals and as a nation right here?
© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

You may have noticed—there are signs that Spring is here; trees and plants are greening, blossoms are popping out daily, and as I write this, pollen—that cuss-ed and bless-ed yellow breath of spring—is descending unmercifully. As Ray Stevens sang, “…everything is beautiful it it’s own way…” ; it is also true of Spring. Despite any downsides, we wouldn’t have it any other way. Spring brings renewal to the earth and a welcome renewal to human spirits; —and gardening comes to mind.

I am chagrined to confess the error of my attempt at gardening—therefore I share advice of experts instead my own. My disaster started with a half acre plot—planned for a building sometime in the future. I bought a hoe and a rake, and I hired a farmer to prepare the soil and lay out rows for my garden; there I planted peas, okra, butterbeans, squash, corn, eggplants, and beans.

Little green shoots peeking through rich soil thrilled me! Early each morning before going to the office, and every afternoon after work, I took my hoe and chopped weeds. Volunteer Nutgrass started taking hold—faster than I could hoe a row. I joked that before I reached the end of a row, Nutgrass was already popping up at the other end. That was almost true. Time and events colluded, exhausting me; by Fall, I had no garden, a reverse return on investment, and no interest in starting again.

As the promise of Spring draws near many people turn (or return) to gardening . Mayo Health Systems says there are numerous health benefits in gardening—among them—Increased exercise, Improved diet, Time in nature, Reduced stress levels, and Social connection. These five benefits stand tall in the face of health issues currently wreaking havoc in the land. A healthy gardening journey, though enticing, is not easy; sticking with a rigorous exercise program for improving health isn’t easy either. Results from gardening can be rewarding—in many ways.

For neophyte gardeners, Mayo Clinic recommends —Don’t take on more than you can handle (as I did) because that could cause more stress (it did). The larger the garden, the more work it is. It can quickly overwhelm you (ditto) if you don’t have enough resources or time to care for it (yep!). You can always increase the size of your garden in the future. Also, Build a network—find other people who are interested in gardening. Learn from each other’s successes and failures. —Unfortunately, I didn’t follow that advice with my garden, which is why I never dipped deeply into gardening.

Gardening, as Mayo Clinic research shows, provides a robust network of lasting health connections. There were things wrong with my dream on so many levels; the key is what Jesus made clear to his followers; count the costs. He was not speaking only of financial costs. Dreams immersed in serious thought and planning can foil a fantasy’s fatal blow.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

I admit it—my handwriting is terrible; always has been fairly poor. But after retiring—I suppose due to less discipline—it has gotten worse. Sometimes I have been unable to read a reminder note I made to myself. Paige and I were married for fifty-seven years, and having been a first-grade teacher, she often said, “I wish I had been your teacher—your handwriting would at least be legible.”

The decline in teaching cursive handwriting in some schools is sad to me. Recently, I heard of an elementary school child who said, “Mom, here is a note my teacher sent for you. She wrote it in code.” (actually a neatly handwritten note). My dad had distinctive handwriting; having flourishes and personal quirks. He had been taught Palmer’s Guide to Business Writing (1894), still popular into the the mid 20th Century, circa 1950. Dad had a writing box—an old neatly crafted box. In that box he kept a fountain pen—that must be filled with ink from time to time. The box had a bottle of blue “Skrip Ink,” writing paper, envelopes, and stamps. Every Sunday afternoon he wrote letters to his parents, who lived in different states.

As a kid, I was interested in his swirls and swags as he wrote those letters—but I was especially impressed with his signature. It rivaled that of John Hancock. When I was in the eight grade, my class received new English books. Over time that year, I practiced developing my own distinctive signature—in the middle margin of every page in the new book. I would be smarter today if I had had studied every page as carefully as I had crafted my signature. (as an adult, I realized I had damaged that new book). Years later, a bank teller, looking at my signature said, “We won’t have to worry about anyone forging that signature!” I took that as a compliment. It wasn’t.

Computers and other technologies have all but voided cursive writing. That is sad. In May, 2024 NPR published the following report: …giving up (Handwriting) this slower, more tactile way of expressing ourselves may come at a significant cost, according to a growing body of research that’s uncovering the surprising cognitive benefits of taking pen to paper, or even stylus to iPad — for both children and adults.

As a writer, I know this cost from experience; when I find an article I want to remember, and only highlight, copy, and paste it into a document, I barely remember it later or its main idea. For a number of years, I kept a hand written journal. Then I decided to start this Blog. The handwriting method was great for my mind—but to proof-read, I had to, well, read it; which my handwriting of late made that extremely difficult. So I compensate, by re-reading maybe as many as twenty times or more editing, proofing, and mulling over. It is not the same as the process of handwriting. But it does help give my cognition something of a workout.

Maybe you, as do I, appreciate, and even occasionally keep a handwritten note from a friend, or family member. We do so because we know that person spent time, attention and care by writing this note. Unlike a message texted, or in another electronic medium, we know this time, we received a part of that person’s time, attention, and most of all—their care. 

©Copyright 2025 Willis H. Moore

There are eighty million Methodists in the world associated with 80 member denominations (according to the World Methodist Council). They range all the way from Wesleyan Methodist, Independent Methodist, and in between, to United Methodist. Begun in the 18th century unintentionally by Father John Wesley, they grew exponentially in the New World. The Methodist denominations continue to grow today. In the late 1900’s a massive merger developed with The Methodist and The Evangelical United Brethren to form The United Methodist Church (sometimes humorously referred to as The Untied Methodist Church).

Methodists have always taken with good humor jokes and jabs; sometimes jokingly called “Sober Episcopalians,” because of John Wesley’s prohibition of alcohol at Holy Communion. Or “Dry Methodists,” because they baptize by sprinkling, rather than immersion (actually, they recognize any one of three forms of baptism). One Wag said a drought once got so bad Baptists were sprinkling and Methodists were using a damp rag.

My favorite Ribbing at Methodists comes from dear ole Garrison Keillor; (Full disclosure, I am Methodist born, Methodist bred, and when I die, I will be Methodist dead). Keillor said, “I do believe this: People, these Methodists, who love to sing in four-part harmony are the sort of people you could call up when you’re in deep distress. If you are dying, they will comfort you. If you are lonely, they will talk to you. And if you are hungry, they will give you (a chicken) salad!” …and another entry …Methodists believe in prayer, but would practically die if asked to pray out loud.” “Methodists will usually follow the official liturgy, and will feel it is their way of suffering for their sins….You know you are a Methodist if when you watch Star Wars and they say ‘May the Force be with you,’ you instinctively respond ‘And also with you.‘ Methodists think that the Bible forbids them from crossing the aisle while passing the peace. “

Differences do occur among human beings which is why we have so many Methodist denominations—and so many kinds of Baptists, and so many—well of any religious groups; we are made up of human beings; we human beings are flawed. The good news is that as we gather at the Lord’s Table, we acknowledge our “flawedness,” and seek reconciliation. A friend of mine who ran the print shop in my building had a placard in her office: POBODY IS NERFECT. Says it all.

Methodists, as do all the rest, have had their squabbles; some more public than others. Back in the late 1800’s Methodist Bishop Milton Wright (father of the first aviators, Orville and Wilbur Wright) was engrained in a number of squabbles in the denomination. Nevertheless, I remember words from Charlotte Elliott’s hymn: Just as I am, though tossed about/ with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without,/ O Lamb of God, I come.

Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me is a popular Public Radio Program. The title plays off the familiar mental intellectual interlude, as in when you are asked a question—to which you know the answer—-problem is that the answer is “on the tip of your tongue” —and you want to speak it, but your voice refuses roll it out . You’ve been there; the correct word resonates with you.

Waiting is not a favorite thing for most people—honking horns on the street readily tell you that. Waiting has many facets; there is anxious waiting, as in a medical waiting room; excited waiting for the Cap and Gown; joyful waiting in the maternity ward; —to name a few. I have experienced all of the above, plus some. I learned early on as my family grew, that waiting does not have to be a negative or a waste. For decades, I made it a practice to keep a book in the car, as well as other reading choices; there is almost always waiting time.

I avoid talk radio entirely, and I limit TV. I try to plan carefully what I read—something that inspires, is wholesome, good information. It makes waiting refreshing. Usually it’s a book I’m working through, and something fun (a favorite fun book is a collection of Charlie Brown cartoons—Snoopy and The Red Barron).

Farmers know the value of waiting; waiting until the right season for a crop, waiting for seeds to germinate, the harvest to be ready for gathering; waiting that cannot be rushed, lest a crop be ruined. Musicians know the value of waiting—until the right time to sound their note; in some orchestral compositions Timpani players may have to wait mosst of the entire composition before playing any notes—sometimes only then to strike on queue. Such waiting adds delightful tonality to the experience.

Waiting-with-purpose is my favorite kind of waiting; for a delightful meal, for a visit with a dear friend, or finally to curl up with a good book. You, very likely, have your favorite kind of waiting-with-purpose. Sometimes that waiting may be simply taking a nap—which is a way of waiting for your spirit to catch up with your body. According to The American Heart Association, A good nap can get you out of that afternoon slump, recharge your energy, and leave you more alert and in a better mood.

The Prophet Isaiah said to those who were about to give up, that waiting on the Lord gives new strength, a strength that endures. The Psalmist made a great case for waiting: I would have lost heart, unless I had believed That I would see the goodness of the Lord In the land of the living. Wait on the Lord; Be of good courage, And He shall strengthen your heart; Wait, I say, on the Lord!

Copyright© Willis H. Moore 2025

I first heard of a Crocus years ago, while reading an article in The Saturday Review by Ace Goodman. The article was about facing difficulties, or dreary times and hope feeling faint. It seems that this tends to happen more often in Winter. There is actually a disease named for such winter woes; Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). SAD is a type of depression characterized by a recurrent seasonal pattern, with symptoms lasting about 4−5 months out of the year. (National Institute of Mental Health).

In the “dead of winter,” though not necessarily diagnosed with SAD, many folks do get in the doldrums —finding it hard to function with their usual joy and enthusiasm. Leaves are gone from deciduous trees, their bare limbs reaching to the sky as if pleading for cover and life. To go outside your warm house takes pretty strong motivation. And heavier than usual ice and snow can add to a melancholy feeling.

No wonder seed and plant catalogues arrive in the mail in the dead of Winter. The bright colorful pictures of flowers and shrubs bring hope that soon we can enjoy the beauty of outdoors. I often think of of Goodman’s description of the crocus, a harbinger of spring. To him, it was the sure promise of Spring to come . His wife had died during the previous year, a journey he had shared with his readers. The early blooming crocus awakened within him refreshing joy and hope—it does so for me as well.

When we moved to Atlanta, the house we bought had been owned by a nature-loving woman. We kept most of the shrubbery and landscaping—we wanted to see what plant surprises might surface over the next year—we had moved in early December. Our first night in Atlanta we were blessed with a few inches of snow. The ground already frozen, held on to the snow pack for days. It was beautiful, but troublesome. A few months later, as I walked along the driveway among the dead landscape, a glint of color caught my eye. It was a beautiful, tiny, purple (I learned later) Crocus. As it turned out it was the only one in our yard.

This beautiful, delicate Crocus was nestled within the pine bark, residual leaves, pine straw, and bare limbs of rosebushes. I paused to admire it; I found stakes to mark its spot—-to avoid overlooking it, small and close to the ground. In it’s own unique way this little Crocus was calling out to me, and the rest of the world; “take in this beauty.” There it was, a powerful splash of elegance, and a promise of spring.

Too easily, we pass by, overlooking significant beauty, miracles, and attendant joy in our journey. Jesus called attention to significant signals often along his journey—this time he called his disciples’ attention to a particular tree along the pathway. He paid attention.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Today is St. Valentine’s Day. It is not a national holiday. U. S. Mail service continues. Banks and businesses are open. Flags fly at full staff. Most of the world will live through the day as usual. (Oh, if you forgot to get candy, flowers or another favorite treat for your sweetie—there is still time to do so). I learned early on how important red roses were to Paige; I got red roses to her classroom every St. Valentine’s day—but one. That was when I learned how important RED roses were to her.

Exchanging Valentines at elementary school was a big deal when I was a kid. My dad put a lot of time and effort on valentine cards for us. He always saw to it that we had enough for every one of our classmates on Valentine’s Day. Also, I do not remember any meanness among my classmates at school—we simply had a fun day giving and receiving Valentines.

I was much older when I learned background of St. Valentine’s Day. St. Valentine was martyred circa the 3rd Century, but the romantic aura was not connected to the Day for about ten more Centuries. The connections between St. Valentine and romantic love are more like a net than a cord; there are many. It is thought the Courtly love themes around the Era of the Enlightenment initiated the idea.

There is something of a connection to love that reaches back to the third century. A persistent legend is that St. Valentine offended the Pope by ignoring the ban on his marrying young couples. He was arrested and martyred on February 14, hence the date established as St. Valentine’s day. Although the legends about St. Valentine vary in time, place, and detail, most of them carry a central thread; He lived, he married young couples, he defied the Pope, he was martyred. That is enough to give us this enduring celebration.

There are some branches of Christianity where St. Valentine’s Day is celebrated as a significant religious day—a Feast Day. For ghe Anglican Communion and the Lutheran Church the day is an official Feast Day. Also, in the Eastern Orthodox Church St. Valentines Day is also a Feast Day.

A “feast day” is a day in the Christian liturgical calendar dedicated to celebrating the life of a particular saint or significant event in the Church’s history, essentially a day of remembrance and celebration within the faith, where the word “feast” signifies a time of joy and commemoration rather than a large meal; (AI assisted).

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025