Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 25)

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

I never considered myself a cat-lover. I never hated cats. I didn’t even dislike cats. Cats were just ever present fixtures on earth like chairs at a table, or leaves on a tree—you know they are there, and you assume they belong. To be forth coming, I have always been a dog lover—and for the past several decades a Pembroke Welsh Corgi fanatic. The first Corgi Paige and I had actually slept on my pillow, lying against the top of my head. Every dog since Brittany became family, until my last Corgi. Last, because I did’t want to face another “The Rainbow Bridge” crossing.

Then came Millie, a beautiful Siamese Snowshoe — cat.

Millie is a rescue, through a Veterinary clinic. Millie readily made herself at home with me—in her own way. Seasoned cat-lovers will understand this. She is a wonderful pet, and an interesting companion—when she wants to be; but unlike a dog. You can call a dog, and grinning, happily the dog will come bouncing to you, licking you at every chance. You can call a cat—. You can lead a dog with or without a leash. You can lead a cat—(in a crate) and take it with you. But first, you must get the cat INTO the crate—It’s a myth.

I am learning that Millie is a companion, in her own way at her own initiative. She is not the only pet in our household. Jennifer has a rescue Corgi, Claire. The interaction between the two pets reached, shall I say, détente—though never hostile; more like curiosity. Last week, Millie figured out how their relationship should go, and set her sights on it. I think Millie, now feeling a lot safer around Claire has decided to have fun with her—yesterday she pawed Claire as she passed by! She comes to the door of the room, chooses the right time, and dashes in, leaping into my lap. It annoys Claire, and I think I see a smug success look on Millie’s face.

These two house pets, different in almost every way have not only learned to create “a peaceable kingdom” but also a way to have fun. One is a dog. the other is a cat. Claire has a gimpy leg from an injury, Millie has a repaired eye. Management of and care for each requires different kinds of attention and help. Thankfully, they get along very well together—well, together is a bit of a stretch; it is more like, yes, détente.

Claire moved in, Millie was tolerant; not overjoyed, just stoic. Once the two established that they weren’t going to kill each other, they established consummate communication. Don’t get the idea they were overmuch excited being in the same house; they have accepted what it means to share, to be tolerant, and to enjoy their niche in this household. We human beings could learn a great deal from Millie.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

Mention fruit cake and everyone within earshot will have an opinion about it—and is likely to express said opinion, usually unfavorably. But I love the fruitcake—the one of which I speak is what Paige made each year. Actually we would make it together. I helped prepare ingredients— spending hours chopping pecans and candied cherries—Paige had definite opinions the size of nut chips (it required one quart of fresh pecans–that’s P-cans). Thankfully, our daughters eventually mastered the art of making that cake! The legend lives on.

The Claxton Fruitcake, darker than Paige’s, is known internationally. It was founded in 1910, and is still a product of Claxton, GA, in Southeast Georgia. I knew Mr. Albert Parker, and his family; he was the “daddy rabbit” of the company. He bought the company in 1945 and took the Claxton Fruitcake worldwide. I won’t compare the Claxton fruitcake to Paige’s. It is unfair to compare almost any factory-made food with home-kitchen-made food, good, home-kitchen, Southern comfort food.

Paige always started planning in late October and gathering ingredients for her annual fruitcake; it had to be ready for baking by Christmas. Last fall, Jennifer started as her mother would have. By Thanksgiving she was almost ready to start the assembly process. Then tragedy struck. Wade, Zach and Katie’s father, fell causing a Spinal Cord injury. It changed everything. Zach—with a full-time job. and Katie—in Law School— had to jump into new roles they could never have imagined. Jennifer took part helping them as much as she could. The fruitcake ingredients we had prepared were put on hold.

After Christmas, as Wade’s treatments were settling into routines, Jennifer set about to make The Fruitcake;—maybe a little out of stress relief, a little desire for diversion, and I think a lot honoring her mother. Jennifer was not entirely happy about how it turned out, but it is delicious. By the time you read this only crumbs will be left—-if that. Jennifer planned to cut it in half and use one half and freeze the other for later. So much for that idea!

Family customs and traditions are passed down through the years; tweaks, updates, and replacements often happen. The significant cherished traditions tend to help define a family. I don’t remember how The Fruitcake became a standard Christmas tradition for our family; The plethora of pictures of Paige, Katie, and Zach in our kitchen, scraping, stiring mixing bowls while assembling this masterpiece (and the famous Sour Cream Pound Cake) kinda tell a significant story.

In the Gospel of Luke there is a passage that gives insight into tradition in the early life of Jesus. He went to church as was his custom. In his his life story, we see that he did continue keeping that custom, but for me is it significant that Luke says so. Traditions and customs play an important role in how we define ourselves.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

“Betcha can’t eat just one!”–teased ads from Lay’s Potato Chip Company Circa 1960—the ads popped up everywhere! We all tried it, some were successful. I don’t know if an official contest was ever launched, but go ahead and admit it–you ate two …or more. I did, and still do. The once-lowly potato is not lowly now, not only because of the potato chip, though that helps a heap—maybe the catchy “Betcha can’t eat just one!”—jingle also helped.

The infamous Potato Famine hit Ireland circa 1845; a fungal disease infected the main crop staple, potatoes, killing over a million Irish people and creating a devastating famine. Many Irish natives immigrated to other countries, including the United States. Earlier Irish immigrants had brought the potato to the USA, and Thomas Jefferson had supported the potato. When the Potato Famine hit in Ireland, the potato, as food, grew in popularity.

Jeremie Pavelski is a fifth-generation farmer in Wisconsin’s Central Sands region, produces 1.2 billion chipping potatoes. with most of his potatoes going to Lays. While Pavelski does not call himself an environmentalist, he does talk the talk and walk the walk. He looks to long term cultivation, unlike corporations that always focus on the quarterly bottom line.

What is a church dinner without potato salad, or a fast-food restaurant without French Fries (they aren’t really French), and of course, a picnic without, well, potato chips!? My mother at certain times used to ladle a serving of mashed potatoes onto my plate, making a nest in the middle; she filled it with snow peas. Maybe it was to entice me to eat my vegetables—I simply loved that dish.

I have always enjoyed potatoes; in salads, mashed potatoes, in soups, baked, potato-skin appetizers, fries, whatever. However, I did not enjoy de-bugging potato vines. When I was growing up, my dad would give me a can with about two inches of kerosene in it. I had to go down each row of potato plants—hand picking each potato bug dropping it into the kerosene, killing the bug. I didn’t mind the bugs so much but the kerosene was stifling.

One interesting aspect of growing our own potatoes was the “sets;” our own source of a new crop next year. A set is a slice of a potato that includes the eye, the little skin-dimple where—if a potato is left out in the air, a sprout develops. We would take each set, and space them in a row in the garden, cover them well, and in time add fertilizer to each plant. When harvested, a plant could have several potatoes on it to be dug, used, or stored.

Our world is a marvelous creation! When we are good stewards of our planet, we can be joyfully filled with the fruits of its abundance . God placing us in this garden of earth made it The potato is a generous part of that creation, and for our sustenance. .

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2025

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