Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 27)

School’s out! “Freedom!”!—we thought as the doors of Deepstep Elementary School flung open into the great beyond. Nine months of classes, and now, nothing to do—Summer awaited (in those days, we had three months off!) I cannot recollect those feelings of liberation, openness and sheer joy! It was a point in time. The Present mattered.

What lay in the years ahead? We did not then ponder weighty thoughts. We were focused entirely on exploring plums ripening along the farm fence rows, blackberrys among prickly bushes, fishing in Deepstep Creek, and swiming at the Flowing Well. Life’s wonders and trials were not on our minds. We were too young to consider that life would also hold hurts, heartaches, and heavy loads on the road ahead.

How does one comprehend the future? Paige, my late wife, had a plaque on her computer table; The past is history. The future is a mystery. Today is a gift. That is why we call it the Present. That day at Deepstep Elementary School, I was in no hurry for the future—just the right-now-of-Summertime. No clock. No calendar. No thought of September-next.

On that day, if I could have seen my future, I would have been—1) too frightened by the formidable to step into the future, and/or 2) so excitedly anticipating my future, I would have missed the joys of the present. You, my dear reader, may face such conflictions. Another profound guide Jesus gave was; …stop worrying about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

His key word—“worry.” Worry debilitates, distracts, and degrades your mental, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. It is like donning a full backpack of hiking gear for running a marathon. The following statement offen attributed to the apostle Paul,, (likely because he was always so plainspoken)  Let’s throw off any extra baggage…that trips us up, Worrying—especially about the future –is as futile as it is fruitless.

A college buddy of mine found joy in teaching and singing. A retired Marine officer, he did not sit around worrying about the future. Classrooms, music practice rooms, tutoring, and volunteering in the public library—were how he found vitality. After I moved here, we began meeting for breakfast on Friday mornings. His eyes would light up as he spoke about students, music gigs, and all things present. He did not live in past regrets, nor in air castles of the future; today, the present, was his focus. I was delighted to be a part of his present in his final years

There is an old song, I know who holds tomorrow that includes these reassuring words—they speak about the future but they also call us to focus on the present: Many things about tomorrow / I don’t seem to understand / But I know who holds tomorrow / And I know who holds my hand. Music and Lyrics by Ira Stanphill (1950)

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Over two dozen cities in the USA are sinking into the earth, according to Space.com. Residents in those cities need not pack up in haste, and move higher because of this. Space.com describes this phenomenon as “dripping into the earth”—not that reassuring. The rate of sink, or drip—is between two and 10 millimeters (0.08 and 0.4 inches) per year. Satellites show 28 US cities are sinking, including NYC and Chicago: “Infrastructure” can be silently compromised’ according to this report.

So, fear not, at least not for millions of years—if Georgia is any indicator. According to The Geologic History of Georgia, the Coastal Plain of Georgia emerged from the ocean after an approximately 100 million years of erosion occurred before the Late Cretaceous rocks of the Coastal Plain were deposited. So, your relatives in those twenty-eight sinking cities in the USA are safe from losing their property in their lifetime, at least.

The Media industry has not created a sinking cities panic so far! They alarm us enough as it is. Too many times headlines are designed to sell news more than to inform. I remember the European folk tale,  Henny Penny; while she was outside happily strolling in the barnyard, an acorn fell her on her head. Convinced that the sky was falling, Henny Penny ran screaming to all the animals, “The Sky Is Falling! we have to stop it!” The sly fox, sensing opportunity, took the lead, promising to lead them to safety. He assembled all the courtyard animals into a legion, to take their case to the King. Instead of taking them safety, the fox led them into his den to—disaster.

This is not a “Henny-Penny” story. It is an earth stewardship story. Recently we celebrated Earth Day—giving much attention to stewardship of the Earth. Astronauts published pictures of Planet Earth, taken from Space, showing a beautiful tiny blue ball in space. That view gives glorious perspective to us creatures on planet Earth. That tiny blue ball—yes tiny.—compared with views of the Universe. The lens of the James Webb Space Telescope—gives proper perspective.

The Psalmist in Psalm 8 gives clear, precise perspective for us.. The expectation of human stewardship, through the changing of seasons, is both an opportunity and a responsibility. Not only do the seasons change, the very shape of the earth changes—volcanoes, floods, winds, and earthquakes reshape the earth. The news gives regular reports of such events; we usually call them disasters. Just last week a mild earthquake (I think 2.4 )was reported, rattling shelves not far from my house.

Knowing the science of events past and how events reshaped mountains, and redirected rivers, Space.com’s projection gives us scientific verification. Years ago, a famous TV detective, Jack Webb (no connection to the James Webb Space Telescope) had a standard caveat; when inspecting a crime, he always said, “The Facts! Just the facts, mam!” The facts can help shield us from panic.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore

https://www.space.com/space-exploration/satellites/satellites-show-28-us-cities-are-sinking-including-nyc–chicago-infrastructure-can-be-silently-compromised

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My dad had a Sunday afternoon ritual; after a nap, he got out his writing box, containing a Parker fountain pen (for the benighted, that’s a writing instrument requiring refilling from an inkwell), a bottle of Skrip Blue-black ink (the bottle had a built-in inkwell), writing paper, stamps, and envelopes. His mother and stepfather lived in Tampa, Florida, and his father and stepmother lived in Dacula, Georgia. He wrote a newsy letter to each, stamped each envelope, and put them in the mailbox by the dirt-road. Every. Week.

By mid-week, we received a newsy, neatly penned letter from Grandmother Jewel Moore, a teacher, in Dacula, GA. Later in the week, a postcard came from Montie Howard—my maternal grandmother in Tampa, FL—hundreds of words written tiny, crowded onto that postcard—sometimes spilling to the other side of the card; not neatly written—but newsy. Each parent was distinctly different—but made regular, real family connections.

Writing letters, sent through the US Postal Service is now as near to extinction as the tiny Vaquita porpoise. A survey done by CBS, virtually sounds the death knell for letter writing. A large number of respondents to the survey (37%) reported not having written a personal letter in over five years. Next group below that only thirty-one percent had not written a personal letter in over one year. Fifteen percent of responders said they had never written a personal letter.

Nearly all civilizations have needed reliable message carriers. The earliest known postal system was begun by Darius The Great, more than five thousand years ago; it was known as The Royal Road. Couriers on horseback delivered messages and certain items efficiently across the vast Achaemenid Empire. The Pony Express functioned a lot like that.

Electronic devices moved communication galaxies beyond pen and paper communication. It makes most tasks quicker, more efficient, and less expensive. Here’s my caveat; nothing electronic can completely take the place of a timely, hand-written, personal message, sent through the mail, from a dear one. A physical envelope, bearing a carefully crafted message, that took time to write and to send—for you. The impact is palpable. You tend to keep some of these mailed messages in a drawer, a book, or another safe place. I have a few of those. You take it out, look it over, and read the message and cherish all over again that joyful connection.

During my first graduate program, I had a required three-month CPE residency at Central State Hospital. Although I had recently married, I still had to spend five days a week on the hospital campus—three hours from home. Commuting was out of the question. I wrote and mailed a letter to my bride every day. She died after our marriage of 57 years, and I found those letters; she had kept them all those years. That meant the letters were significant to her. A handwritten letter, stamped, and mailed speaks volumes to the recipient.

©Copyght 2025 Willis H. Moore

Uncle Jule, my grandmother’s brother, had a large neat pile of river stones in his front yard. I never knew why. I guessed they were for Aunt Eula’s flower garden. The stones were marble-size, just right for slingshot use. I didn’t have a Slingshot—butI had a dramatic imagination. Uncle Jule’s house was not fun—I learned that on this, my first visit to his house.

Upon arriving at their house in Oconee, GA, I went to Aunt Eula for her mandatory hug—reeking of Max Factor Primitif,—then I ran down the steps from the front porch—to that enticing pile of shiny stones! This pile of stones towered almost as high as the white picket fence surrounding their front yard, I stepped onto the rock-pile. Through a cloud of Prince Albert pipe tobacco smoke, Uncle Jule yelled at me—Boy! get off them rocks! You’re gonna scatter ’em all over the yard!” Chagrined, disappointed, and scared, I slunk back to the front porch. Until years later, when his house burned to the ground (that’s another story) those stones remained untouched in his front yard.

A pile of stones is heavy. Some heavier than others. Some piles of stone have heavier meaning. I never knew the meaning of Uncle Jule’s pile of stones. I’ve often wondered what vision bound him to that never-to-be-touched-pile of stones, Those stones did not just suddenly appear. They were chosen, placed in a pile, and curated for years; they were as precious to Uncle Jule as that Civil War Enfield, single-shot, muzzle-loading rifle hanging over the fireplace in their living room.

I remember another pile of stones. Traveling through Estonian countryside a few years ago, I saw a pile of stones at the edge of a freshly plowed field. Farther down the field, I saw similar piles of stones. I asked my guide why those stones were there? She explained. “This land is very stony. They move aside as many of the larger stones as possible so they can cultivate the land.” What a difference in a pile of stones—Uncle Jule’s and Estonian farmers’—preference versus purpose.

There is another pile of stones I must mention. After the Children of Israel crossed over the Jordan River into the Promised Land, Joshua made a dramatic assignment. One man from each of the twelve tribes was chosen. Each man had to go into the river and bring a stone from the center of the riverbed. Those twelve stones were set as a memorial. They would be an eternal reminder of God delivering them from slavery in Egypt. Joshua told them that, down through the ages, their children would ask, “What do these stones mean?”—they, and all following generations would retell the story of God’s great deliverance from Egyptian slavery. The pile of stones was both a permanent, visible reminder of the story, and an opportunity to tell the story.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Peter W. Marty, Editor/Publisher of The Christian Century responded, In this current issue, to a reader who was looking for someone to write, the right words in this time of difficulty. Reflecting on that, I posit that at one time or another—maybe most of us—long for the right words. Especially in times of grief, or great sorrow, very likely you have that special person who can give you the right words you seek.

It has unexpectedly happened to me. In a conversation with my doctor. As we were ending the session, my doctor was paying attention; we had covered the matters I came for. As I was about to leave, she said, “You are grieving.” I thought, “Hey! You are right!” Those are the right words. That statement brought the right words to what I had been feeling for some time—I thought I had dealt directly with this, before. But her words were the right words—enlightening, understanding words.

We live in a multi-sensory bubble. Words, images, and influences buzz around us like hungry Northwoods mosquitoes—sometimes biting as painfully. Then, out of the blue, the right words open a spectrum of insight. Such an occasion happened last Sunday during Youth Day. The context matters, so without diminishing its signifcance, I will only say, one youth speaker concluded with the right words. Her words gave dramatic meaning to the entire worship service.

The right words may not be fancy, lofty words. They are words spoken with insight, heart, compassion, or all of the above. They are spoken by one who hears—in the best sense of the word. Sometimes the most eloquent right words—are no words at all. I think of Old Testament-Job’s friends. They came and sat silently with him in his grief—for days, giving the right words, —silent words—of care, a witness of presence.

I have heard that the greeting, “What’s the good word?” was a response to a pattern of preaching by mainline Protestant preachers in US cities generations ago. For a period of time those preachers’ sermons could be remembered well by a word, central to the sermon. After church, and during the week, people would greet each other with, “What is the good word?” I cannot verify this, but it makes a good story—and parts of that story are verifiable.

Words matter. Words can intimidate or inspire. Use words wisely; with care, kindness, and truthfully. All my life I have been something of a wordsmith—sometimes successfully. I have made some spectacular blunders. Back to Peter W. Marty; we live in a time when the right word is needed—the good, word. I think of words in the hymn, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God; in the third stanza Martin Luther wrote this: The Prince of Darkness grim, We tremble not for him; His rage we can endure, For lo! his doom is sure, One little word shall fell him.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

 The term “Seize the day” originated in Roman Poet Horace’s Odes—specifically book 1—for more context, Horace said Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow; How about a more positive way— “live today, it is the day you have!” The ancient Greek philosopher, Heraclitus put it in a similar sense; “You cannot put your foot in the same river twice.”

I like how Mirriam Webster defines “seize;” “to vest ownership of a freehold estate in. Last fall my daughters, Jennifer and Melanie, took on a gigantic project of preserving the extraordinarily huge collection of photographs our families accumulated over generations—photographs —-and their containers—- do take up space. Melanie scanned all the photos and slides into digital archives. In a word, she seized days, preserving these memories. In this age of digital preservation, saving the pictures digitally also yielded extra closet space. Otherwise, pictures would molder into a sad destiny. Now, we can quickly click thorugh, ponder, reflect, copy, or whatever, as we reclaim something of a peek into our past.

In a manner of speaking, photos seize a visual instant of the past. Memory does not do that very well. Some of the pictures revealed how my memory either left out something—-or embellished something. For example, I “remember” the first car my dad had. Last week I saw Melanie’s digitized picture of that car. I remembered a larger, blue, car; wrong! The picture revealed a smaller, green, car. I did remember correctly, it was a 1949 Buick. My confirmation that this was the car our family had, was that my little sister and I are sitting on its front bumper; also this car was parked in our front yard.

Seeing a plethora of pictures of my children and Jennifer’s children growing up was yet another wake-up-call for how quickly each moment passes. So far, I have viewed a few pages of those digitized pictures. In some snapshots of my grandchildren, and some of my two daughters, are views where I did seize the moment—-that is, I recall that I did indeed seize the day! I can see how I invested myself in that moment.

I don’t know about you, but I had let some important moments slip—by distraction, losing focus. It is too easy to do that; we look toward the next thing, allowing less important things steal our focus on the moment. We hurry past the present into, well, something else. When you take your dog on a walk, he sniffs here and then over there. We let him do that without rushing him. Do we have that same patience with our little child who wants to turn aside to pick a weed—well, it was a beautiful flower to the child! Do you allow that child to linger, fingering a small stone? Hurry gets in our way—we press on—–Today is the only day you are sure of. Seize it.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

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