Author: willishmoore (Page 8 of 24)

I grew up on a farm and we grew our own vegetables; what we lacked we got at my grandfather’s country store nearby—-he kept fresh fruits and vegetables in stock. Living in the city, getting fresh fruits and vegetables is a whole nother matter. Some farmer’s markets are located near where I live–some are only seasonal. One of my favorites is a small one near me on the lawn of a Presbyterian Church shaded by huge hardwood trees; it opens seasonally—on Thursday afternoons.

In my childhood, I sometimes went with my grandfather to the Macon Farmer’s Market; it was large. Each Thursday, Grandaddy bought produce for his country store for weekend sale. The sights, smells, and sounds of a farmer’s market are circus-like—though something of a community atmosphere —among a disparate assortment of sight-seers strolling along and serious shoppers mingling. It reminds me of a line in an old Christmas song, “…as the shoppers rush home with their treasures.”

Treasures they are! What can compare with slicing a tomato, fresh-off-the-vine, slapping it onto bread slathered with mayonnaise! Or slicing open a chilled watermelon and eating it— juice running down your chin! Fresh summer squash, corn-on-the-cob, and butter beans take a summer meal to supernal culinary heights. Even recounting these reflections of farmer’s markets, food, and fun, make my taste-buds giggle with happy anticipation.

A farmer’s market not only effuses flavors flourishing into the air, but also the air flutters with unexpected discoveries. You may discover new fruits, flavors, and—if you tarry, perhaps new friends. Authentic farmer’s marketers virtually ripple with a wealth of stories; (I admit, some marketers are pushy). However, if the vendor in the booth actually grew the fresh produce, rich stories may percolate up and are usually quite interesting.

When God created all things, we human beings were placed in an expansive, verdant, vibrant garden. Our charge was to manage it as good stewards, and use its produce for our benefit, enjoying it forever. We have not quite lived up to that assignment. When Jesus was teaching lessons of life to his followers, he pointed to the fig tree as a means to pay attention. He always found ways to turn their focus to living as God’s people.

Farmers markets underscore for us legitimate lessons in immediacy. Moments do not last; that whiff of fresh fruits is but a breath. That taste of a jucy, red tomato is gone in a swallow. Even though they are only moments they make life vibrant. Sights, sounds, and smells can quickly revive some important chapters in life, adding fragrance and joy to your day. Farmers markets have a way of doing that.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

Sixty years ago—August 20, 1963—there culminated a dramatic transformation in my life. Five years of convoluted coincidences—I call them “God Moments”—happened. You cannot make up this stuff. Flashback; college was my next step in preparation for entering seminary. Planning to go back to college for my junior year, I needed a summer job. I packed up, heading to North Georgia to take a job busing tables and washing dishes in my uncle’s restaurant, I would live with his family at no charge.

As I was heading out the door to leave, I got a phone call; it was another uncle, a minister. He wanted me to come to South Georgia and help him. He would be away for the summer taking classes. I would live with his family, and help in his church. I would make hospital visits, lead mid-week services, while saving money for college. He secured a job for me—Little  Ocmulgee State Park— hauling garbage, cutting bushes, weeds, and raking pine straw. I leaped at the chance; it was a job after all! Helping in his church was an apprenticeship of sorts—a bonus for me as I looked toward studies at Candler School of Theology.

That summer I met some local girls who planned to enter college in the fall. Once on campus, we all spent time together at meals and campus activities—being an upper classman, I relished the opportunity to give them in-person orientation. They were Baptists but we attended daily interfaith vespers on campus together. They introduced me to their roommates, one of whom was Paige Dampier.

I also had a campus job. Being a speech minor, I worked in the Speech Department and conducted Speech Lab. One day my professor sent a student to lab for some help on an upcoming speech. Paige Dampier showed up. We had a productive session. As she was leaving I said, “You’ve got this. Put the speech away. Go back to the dorm. You and friends go out for coffee and free your mind. You will do great tomorrow.” The next morning, I visited her class to check on her speech . She never missed a beat; got an “A.” One other connection: Paige and I were in the college band and our paths crossed a number of times.

I graduated and went to Emory University. Two years later, while registering for classes, I spied Paige. I walked over and spoke to her. My “pick-up line”? I blurted out, “What are you doing here?” She said, “I registered at Theology School.” Putting my foot further in my mouth, I said, “I didn’t know you were interested in religion! I didn’t even know you are Methodist!” She politely let my faux pas slide without comment, and we had a pleasant visit .For the rest of that school year, our paths crossed often.

Before next fall classes started at Emory, each of us was conducting a Youth Week—on opposite sides of Macon, GA. At the close of the first night, my Leadership team cohort and I decided to visit our friends on the Leadership team at Paige’s church; we all went out to Shoney’s. As it turned out, tables at did not accommodate all of us together. Paige and I took a table nearby and afterwards, took her to her car at the church parking lot. I took Paige out for coffee and strawberry pie every night that week. Turns out, Paige and her boyfriend had broken up and—conveniently, my girlfriend had returned to Kentucky.

On August 20, 1963—one year to the day of that date—we were married, merging our five year friendship. This next Sunday, August 20, 2023 Paige and I would have been married for sixty sublime years. We often told each other, “One lifetime will not be enough.” It was not. (By the way, she often enjoyed reminding me me that I missed a great opportunity; to take her out, back in the Speech Lab those years ago.—- “You could have said, ‘Let’s go out for coffee now that we’ve finished on your speech!'”

Somehow, we never chose a song to be, “Our song;” however, in her last year we adopted one that captures the sense of our love story; Anne Murray’s— “Could I Have This Dance for the Rest of My Life?” Paige made a better person of me. She gave far more than I, to our relationship. I did not deserve Paige.

Our two daughters continue Paige’s legacy of love, self-less giving, humor, and joy. When Paige’s Neurologist gave her diagnosis, he said, “There is no cure for this. It will degenerate your body. What do you feel about that?” Without skipping a beat Paige said, “I know Whose I am. I know where I’m going. I am not afraid.” Rev Lee Fullerton said it well in her eulogy; “… it takes a special kind of person to commit to anyone or anything to that extent. It takes a person of faith and Paige was that to her core. ”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

Traffic (mainly vehicles on roadways) is sometimes good, sometime frustrating, and always a topic of conversation; usually negative. It occurs to me that traffic negativity oozes from selfishness; My trip is delayed. My time is wasted; My day is disturbed. My. My. My. Of course other kinds of traffic have similar issues; airlines, trains, etc. In 1969 the Rolling Stones came out with the hit song, You can’t always get what you want. by songwriters, Keith Richards and Mick Jagger.

You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime you’ll find
You get what you need…

I like the final words of that verse! “…sometime you’ll you get what you need!“ (emphasis mine). I often notice people in traffic, “getting what they need:” Not always, but as the song says—sometime—and often enough to give me hope for humanity. I live very close to an access into a busy–two lane—traffic corridor. Making a turn into it—especially a left turn—is quite difficult. That’s when I see bright rays of joy; a driver is signaling to make a left turn into traffic—and another driver pauses, signals “come on in,” and each usually sends a polite thanks, Once in a while, when both lanes are heavy, drivers from both directions will pause and open the way.

It is true that too many drivers act as if they own the roadway. But if you look, you will find polite, friendly drivers every day. I find in this matter of traffic, a lesson of kindness. It is a matter of perspective. During the heaviest hits of COVID-19, a frequently quoted phrase emerged—“We are all in this together.” I guess it is traffic that most often pumps up our sense of urgency.

I think of the late Art Linkletter (host of “Kids Say The Darnedest Things”); I read that while talking to kids, he asked what they would do if while in an airplane it lost an engine. One little boy said, “I would jump out the window….” The audience burst into laughter. But Linkletter was paying attention. He saw the little boy’s reaction to their laughter; tears began welling up in his eyes. Linkletter asked “Why would you go out the window?” The little boy said, “I was going out to get help!” Despite the time crunch of the TV program, or the the pressure go pursue laughter, the life blood of the program, Linkletter paused and listened. It made all the difference that day. He validated the kid’s earnest answer.

There is a wonderfully funny story in the Gospel of Luke abut a man stuck in traffic—well, it was foot traffic. True to his penchant for human interest the writer of the Gospel gives two sides of that traffic scenario. First there is the frustration for the little guy blocked by the heavy crowd (read “traffic”); the next is that of Jesus, who, although under heavy demands and great needs of the crowd, took the time to pause, look, listen, and get involved—making a life-changing difference for that little man.

Life gets crowded—sometimes more than others. It is easy to get entangled in life’s traffic; it Then it becomes easy to miss the more savory moments of life; Most of those turn out to be simply snapshots—here a moment and then a memory. Those moments, like cells of the body, make up the salve of life—-salve, by the way, is the root word of salvation.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

Don’t blame it on The Barbie Movie. Well. OK blame it on the Barbie Movie, but that’s not what started it. “It” is toy promotion that used to start right after Halloween—then in October—then, well, earlier than we can recall. Now, mid-summer walk into almost any store, and you’ll find Christmas toy promotions popping up.Shopping season is now almost nonexistent—it is virtually ubiquitous.

This tome is not a treatise trashing early Christmas promotions, nor against toys. I simply call to mind a focus on play. Toys are things. By any meaningful definition, they are for play. Toys are available that do almost any human activity; a truck? a self-driving truck. A playhouse: a three-story mansion complete with hot tube that actually works. Toys have become, not a stimulus for imagination, but actual tiny life replicas. Play excites imagination which, especially, a child, needs—the self-created hum of a motor, feel the texture of hand-made crude toys—-it is the joy of imaginary toys.

If you are thinking these are simply cynical comments from a crusty old curmudgeon. they are not. Well not entirely. There is a growing gathering of concerned children’s cognoscenti speaking out about how controlled (manufactured?) play has become. The list is long; —maybe beginning with the lack of or time for school recess, the full calendar of sports, arts, and other tightly curated activities. Nearly all driven by too many helicopter parents hoping their offspring will be “The Best”— the highest achiever in their realm.

The landscape is sprinkled with human disappointment derived from children being pushed into a role or dream their parents had. I am not a scholar. Maybe our current milieu is a byproduct of the Beat Generation of decades ago. For whatever the cause, the opportunity arises now for letting in some sunshine and fresh air. I think I see that happening.

It seems to me that the rising generation sees opportunity for building a better world; a more hopeful world. For many, it comes from having lived through some difficult, if not mean passageways in their growing years. I stand in awe of the insight that many have. They see a place for work, a place for play, a place for caring for each other. Their toys are not manufactured plastic, self-animated toys. My daughter, Melanie’s friends back home asked her, when she was home from college, what they did for fun, in that isolated, small, collage? She replied, “We make our own fun,”

There is a magnificent piece of art work in the United Methodist Children’s curriculum. It has endured for a long time. It’s endurance, I am convinced, is due to the simple truth if portrays; It portrays a young-adult-Jesus, dressed casually (for his day) running, laughing, through a meadow, a child on his back and followed by laughing children. Joy exudes from the faces of the children. You can almost hear their musical laughter.

The Gospel of Mark has a marvelous verbal description of what I consider Jesus playing with children; He took them in his arms and blessed them. In my mind’s eye I see him chatting with them, asking about their pets at home—maybe even joyfully teasing them. No toys are mentioned, but play is present.

I have a friend who has a very focused interest; one could say he makes life interesting—both for himself and for others. As a geologist, he can turn an idle stroll into an earth science laboratory. A casual, fun hike with him is a virtual geology field trip—in the fun, exciting sense. I lived two decades in one area of Georgia; I learned more about my home area from him in one afternoon than all of those years living there.

I have lived in assorted places in Georgia. My friend makes Georgia stones, sluices, and sinkholes come alive with worlds of meaning. He is uncanny. And yet, not. Think of a teacher you had, or a mentor—even a transitory encounter you had with an interesting person. You see immediately that there is something special about that person’s engaging interest.

I think of Mr. Owen, who piqued my interest in guitar. He was basically a self-educated man, and something of a homespun musician. He loved guitar, and being self-taught—well before YouTube—played pretty good. His joy and interest inspired me. My own practice—and interest were less focused at the time. However, I never lost my love of the guitar and its sound. In recent years, I began to fiddle with guitar again (apologies for the wonky metaphor!) The more I became interested, the more fun I began having.

Recently I realized it was it was those years ago with Mr. Owen that held my interest in guitar; an interest that lay fallow for years. It occurred to me that it is easy to overlook early-life influence that becomes a seed of prolific growth; hobbies, careers, friendships, even romances.

Back in my young and foolish years, my disinterest caused me to miss a golden opportunity (Merriam-Webster defines disinterest as  not having the mind or feelings engaged: not interested.) I was at a youth conference where one popuar session featured a speaker, who someone said is a farmer from South Georgia. “I grew up on a farm in South, Georgia,” I sniffed, “What do I need to I learn about South Georgia farming from that guy in overalls? I’ll attend a different lecture!” My disinterest caused me to miss the unique opportunity to meet, and learn at the feet of the great Clarence Jordan—the brain behind Habitat for Humanity, and the author of significant books, such as The Cotton Patch Gospels.

There is a story in the Book of Genesis, where a man, sold into slavery, chose to become interested in his new environs. He paid attention. He learned. He grew favor among his captors; all of which laid the foundation for his becoming a national leader—even though he was an immigrant. The story is in dramatic contrast to the lack of interest by Pharaoh and the focused interest Joseph had; it changed the direction of world history.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

GOAT has taken on dramatically different meaning in recent times. Acronyms have a way of doing that. Greatest Of All Time (GOAT) is used to describe above-all-else athletes. On the other hand, goat(s) that first entered my life were domestic goats (Capra hircus)—in my hometown, “Goat Town,” GA.—well one could hardly call Goat Town a town. There was our extended family—a few dozen in all, and a couple of families who were not our relatives. Population 189—including adult goats .

Family lore had it that the name came decades ago from the boss at the sawmill nearby. The sawmill ran on steam power. The boiler that produced the steam had to be fired early in the mornings so the mill could start. The guy who got up early to light the fire lived in the neighborhood. One day he overslept and didn’t light the fire until after daylight—-making mill operation quite late for the day. When asked why he overslept the offending fireman said, “Goats were bumbing around under my house all night, and I didn’t get much sleep.” From that day forward, the name “Goat Town” stuck.

My grandfather, ever the entrepreneur, curated the moniker into an attention getter for his general store, the center of the community. After WW II, when he built his new store, emblazoned across the full front of his store he put–T JEFF VEAL AND SONS, GOAT TOWN, GA. The Macon Telegraph sent a photographer down to take a picture. A writer, who accompanied him, wrote up the story for all of middle Georgia to see—-it embarrassed my grandmother. “Pshaw!” she cursed. “Now everybody knows!” The name Goat Town also embarrassed granddaddy’s youngest daughter, but he would not be moved. He had struck on a name that was to become a trademark, if not an Icon.

I recall the name of another small town—no, small village—that people scorned. One report of Jesus calling his disciples is found in the Gospel of John. When a prospective disciple learned that Jesus was from the village of Nazareth, he scoffed; “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” You simply have to show convincing proof to some people! Turns out this future disciple, Nathaniel, was not as closed minded as it first appeared; he became known as “Honest Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel found Jesus to be quite adept at lifting up the downtrodden, shining respect on the disrespected, and infusing the weak with new strength. His was not “The Power of Positive Thinking,” his was the Holy Spirit empowering the weak or enervated—like a spiritual watering can pouring cool water on a wilted tomato plant.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

The year was1968. We lived on Marvin Avenue in Statesboro, across GA 67 from Georgia Southern campus. Melanie age 4, had found a friend, Randy who lived across the street, and was as adventurous as she. The dynamics of our two households usually ran quite smoothly. Each day at lunch, Randy’s mom, Sherry drove downtown—a mile and a half—to get Randall, her husband. I, on the other hand simply walked home for lunch from my campus office across the street .

One day, Sherry called Paige to confirm that both Randy and Melanie were playing at our house. They were not. Neither was at our house. Seized by panic, both moms went into hyper-mom-mode. Searching in our small neighborhood for the two transgressors became top priority. They fanned out searching but—to no avail.

Sherry had to leave to go downtown and get Randall for lunch. She left Paige still searching the neighborhood. About 45 minutes later, Sherry drove up—with two sheepish preschoolers in the rear seat—looking like two whipped puppies. Paige then heard the back story; the two culprits had walked nearly a mile along GA 67 highway to the city recreation center. As Sherry drove to pick up Randall, she had noticed two excited kids playing on the playground slide. Shocked, pleased, angry, she stopped and crammed them into her car.

How are parents to follow through, dealing with such a frightful—albeit thankful ending of such an experience!? It stirs turbulent emotional upheaval.You want to kill them for their intractable deed, while at the same time you want to hug them too tightly to breathe.(Yes, those two opposing emotions can live in your brain at the same time)!

When they got home Paige explained to Melanie how dangerous and frightening their escapade had been. Melanie defended their deed saying, “But Mommy, we held hands all the way down the highway!” I do not remember the consequences we all agreed upon. I do know we did not kill them. I do know they both grew up into wonderful adults. Oh, and no parent served prison time.

There is a wonderful lost-and-found story in the Gospel of Luke. that lends itself to to use and abuse of meaning. Yet, there is one segment that never ceases to inspire assurance and hope in me. You know the story. A young badass extorts money from his father and then disappears. He was not heard from for what seems like decades. Nevertheless, his aging daddy trudges down the lane to the gate and stands staring into the horizon. We don’t know how many sandals he wore out keeping vigil. Then—-one day—in the distance there appears a straggling image lumbering shakily in the trail. Only a daddy would recognize that gait. The father hikes up his galluses and (I’ll bet he had the same turbulent emotional upheaval I mentioned earlier) and yet he runs, yes, runs! to embrace his long lost son. Love makes that possible.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

Recently I pondered the word door. It could have been prompted by a recent incident—I had locked myself out of our house. Someone in the household forgot to return the emergency key to its lockbox. But I digress. For now, I will consider —a door. A door may be open. A door may be closed. Sometimes it depends on your perspective.

In the loft of my tool shed, I have a door stored . It is a sturdy, attractive door. My daughter found it in an online site—free. We had planned to use it in renovating our basement. It didn’t work out. It could be a useful door; not for us, not at this time. As doors go, it is neither an open door, nor a closed door. It is a stored door.

A door can be a metaphor. When you wake up in the morning, your bedroom door may be closed but a door of opportunity stands ready; it awaits your choice to open and walk (or leap) through and enjoy its largess.. How—or whether—you enter that door depends largely on you—and your attitude. When some people wake up they joyfully proclaim, “Good morning, Lord!” Some wake up muttering, “Good Lord! It’s morning.” The one thing over which you have total control is your attitude.

From time to time I reflect on metaphorical doors I have faced in my life. While some of those doors didn’t seem to fling wide into opportunities, by world standards yet they were pregnant with possibilities; some of which I seized or was seized by—fun, friends, fortune, or other visions. When I reflect on doors in my life, I find that doors that closed before I could enter, often became as important as those that opened. Too often I am glib about finding an open door—thinking I am the one who opened that door, or successfully made it through; not acknowledging the contribution of others who made it possible.

In the Book of Exodus, Israelites were instructed to go, at a specific time, to their door. Over the doorpost, they were to place a specified symbol to signal that within that door were protected people. After generations of slavery, the promise of liberation would lie at their door. This door was to be a door of protection. This door was a metaphor of community, of safety and freedom.

In the theologically developmental stages of the Children of Israel, the Deuteronomic Code required that a passage from The Torah be encased at the doorway of each family home. It was to remind and encourage the household that God is God, and the only God to serve. This sine qua non was nether a hint nor a request; it was a command, and each member of the household must read it upon each pass through the door.

This Scripture-in-a-case on the door is a pretty good idea for us all. It matters not if it is elaborately crafted, or eye-catching. What matters is that you become immersed in the spirit of it. It can be a good thing if practiced, not as a shackle, but a reminder to say “Good Morning Lord! Let’s get our day going!”

© Copyright Willis H. Moore July 8, 2023

Summer slipped in rather softly last week; soft breezes, gentle rain, and lighter schedules. Temperatures were nowhere near record-breaking as summer slipped in. It was almost as if summer didn’t want to shove spring out too abruptly. Summertime is viewed in many ways; Two popular summer songs take almost opposite views of summer: Louis Armstrong takes a leisurely, lilting, enticing view—something of the iconic unhurried pace of Southern society; as in, whatever we missed on this tide, we’ll catch on the next.

Summertime
And the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’
And the cotton is high—By Louis Armstrong

On the other hand, the Lovin’ Spoonfuls jump right into the sweltering, steamy, summer; the rushed pace of civilization, hurried travelers, traffic sounds, heat, hurry, and hints of hope of companionship—they all are there;

Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn’t it a pity?
Doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city
All around, people looking half dead
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head–by the Lovin’ Spoonfuls

We human beings are created as social beings. From the beginning, companionship was the design in humanity. Summer is the season exemplar of being together.

James Weldon Johnson, over a hundred years ago poetically penned the essence of a longing and essential design in human hearts. God contemplating Creation, Johnson wrote—And God looked around and said, “I’ll make me a world…” After that, God said, “I’m lonely still…” and he stooped down and got some clay in his hands, and shaped it into a man…and then created a woman, and said, “That is good..” (The RWV—Revised Willis Version—with apologies to Reverend Johnson.)

This summer, 2023, is the first summer since 2019, that is anywhere close to a “normal” summer. Families are gathering for vacations at home and away. Swimming pools, rivers, travel plans, and lakes are crowded, and suntan lotion is lathered lavishly on sun-soaked skin. So in a measure, both Armstrong’s and the Lovin’ Spoonfuls’ songs echo the spirit of summer.

The thoughts of families being drawn together reminds me of one of my favorite love stories in the Bible. Essentially it lays the foundation for the birth of Jesus. More about that later. The loving sacrifice of two women, Ruth and Naomi detail family and blended family relationships growing into remarkably rich survival and visionary results.

Then, comes that other wonderfully strange and unique love story we all love; Joseph and Mary. Against all odds this lowly couple from an obscure village, not only survived all adversity, but also gave the world a transforming turning point.

The New Testament is skinny on how Jesus and his twelve disciples spent their summers, nor any other leisure time. Nevertheless, on a number of occasions, Jesus admonished the twelve to come away and rest; no indication of summertime in the picture. Nevertheless, Jesus recognized the value in what his father did.(you remember him, don’t you?); On the last day of creating the earth, God rested. Go thou and do likewise. Summer offers that opportunity. I’m just sayin’.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

There they sit in their beautiful Sunday dresses, bonnets on, and purses dangling, poised (more accurately, posed) for church. Their dazzling cobalt-blue eyes, exact facsimiles of their mother’s. They are, as one might say, picture perfect. But they aren’t perfect. Take my word for it. They grew up in my purview for over fifty something years. So I know. I love them dearly. They are daughters any parent would beg, borrow, or, well—maybe not steal for, but awfully close. You guessed it. My two daughters are dear to me..

No matter how much we may gussy up any human being, making one picture perfect—none of us is. We are flawed human beings. Unfortunately, preachers, poets, philosophers, and prognosticators go overboard pointing out our flaws. And too often, our human history validates what hymn-writer Charles Wesley called ...our bent to sinning.

Much of our culture puts powerful premium on perfection; fashion, television, wedding photographers, and well, parents, insist that optics focus on picture perfection. There is also overmuch discussion on what is dubbed designer babies expected to be the picture perfect result of their parents dreams.

And yet. And yet, much of the good and vital nexus of who we are, and what we came out of is the eternal chorus of humanity’s travail. Do I need to catalogue the magnificent musicians, artists, leaders, and laborers that populate our heritage? Joseph, sold into slavery by his brothers, only later to hold the key to a nation’s survival. Or the Apostle Paul, first an enemy of Christians, then endured intense suffering and obstacles, only to provide the impetus for growth of the faith.

In our own era, The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, suffered physically and ultimately assassination making great strides for the Civil Rights Movement. Then there is the late Daniel Ellsberg, who leaked the Pentagon Papers—-opening the eyes of America to draconian shenanigans crafted by a few sinister insiders, entwining us into the wrongheaded slaughter of the Vietnam war.

No. None of us is picture perfect. As James Truslow Adams wrote, There is so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it ill behooves any of us to find fault with the rest of us. I recently saw a sign writ in large letters; ; BE KIND.There is no possible accounting of how many tempestuous relationships could find smooth sailing rather quickly—with a generous portion of kindness. Maybe not picture perfect relationships, but certainly more joy-filled—even more enduring ones.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023