Category: Uncategorized (Page 4 of 24)

When Zach, my grandson, was in Cub Scouts, The Scouts from the Hightower District went to Marietta National Cemetery on Memorial Day. Scouts came in full uniform, with their pack leaders, to place flags on Veterans’ graves. Scouts were assigned their section for placing flags, and off they went. It was impressive to see Scouts scampering about, flags in hand, carefully placing a U. S. Flag on each grave. They were respectful, careful, and, well, typical little boys at work/play.

It was interesting to see how some Scouts were taken aback to discover dates the graves of Civil War soldiers; most of the dates on gravestones showed how young men were who were buried there. I mean young men.—most were under 25 years old. The Scouts probably thought, “A cemetery for militery veterans—Old Men who died!” But veterans there, mostly soldiers who died in the Civil War. And in fact, most of the graves in veteran battlefields over the world, are mostly like the ones for these young men. As Pete Seeger sang, “Where have all the young men gone/ gone to uniforms everyone….” (it is 4:30 minutes long, but worth the listen).

During the Vietnam War, the nightly news—CBS, NBC, ABC–started with a “Body Count” and pictures of flag-draped coffins. TV news footage taken at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware constantly showing masses of coffins being unloaded from U. S. Air Force cargo planes. Such scenes overwhelmed masses of Americans. It painted graphic reality of war on TV screens in living-rooms of American people. There came a point, when such scenes were banned by the Pentagon (called The Dover Ban)—not because fewer young men died, but because it painted the ugly picture of war. They were grim reminders daily, of massive deaths of young military service personnel.

We celebrate Memorial Day this weekend; it is not a time when we thank our military personnel for their service—-we do that wonderfully November 11 on Veterans’ Day. Memorial Day is a time when we morn the death of each one who took the oath, and gave the ultimate sacrifice. Neither rank nor achievement is the focus. The focus is the giving that precious life. The Normandy cemetery is a stark reminder of the sacred sacrifice by soldiers and others who died making the world safe from tyranny.

I find it offensive that Memorial Day gets bombarded with the ballyhoo of store sale advertisements. Although it is typical of our captivity by a culture of commercializing every aspect of life—and death. Although that ship has sailed, it is not too late, reverently to observe Memorial Day with proper veneration. It does not require weeping, or maudlin attribution. A proper pause of appreciation for their sacrifice, and a renewed commitment to peace that honors and builds up human kind. Backyard Barbecues would not be a bad place to start. Back to the Scouts’ placing U. S. flags on graves. Couldn’t that effort expand, opening doors to fresh breaths of hope and joyful living?

Read In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae and you will find the breath we breathe for our fallen faithful “…as poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row…”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

For healthy living it pays to be attentive to the kinds of food we choose in our daily living. This tome is not about weird, wild diets, nor funny ways of eating. Basically I am reflecting on foods that grow in the wild. The climate of Georgia welcomes a wide variety of wonderfully tasty, well, some not so tasty, but nutritious; and desirable—to one degree or another—foods that grow uncultivated.

I grew up on a farm that was plenteous with wild foods; I always looked forward to their ripening to enjoy them.. Wild plums (both yellow and red) grew throughout Grandaddy Veal’s farm. Around the time school ended for the summer, those luscious plums flourished; they were abundant along the terrace rows on the hill above his house. It was so fun to seize a handful of those colorful, delightful plums; I preferred the red ones, but also happily snapped up yellow ones I occasionally found .

Blackberry bushes grew prominently along the dirt road through grandaddy’s farm as well as in the edges of his fields. It was a hazard to pick blackberries; 1) blackberry briars are rough on human skin, clothes—and bare feet. 2) Snakes; at first I was puzzled that snakes liked blackberries. That wasn’t it. Birds like blackberries. Snakes like birds; the warning was well taken. Ilooked forward to Blackberry pie, blackberry jam, well, just eating plain blackberries off the vine—-delicious refections, all!

A large mulberry tree grew beyond the cornfield near my house. Climbing the tree turned out to be safe from the aforementioned hazards—-unless you consider a small boy climbing the mulberry tree a hazard. Well, I did it anyway. Often. I could prop myself in the embrace of a couple of tree limbs and feast to my heart’s content. I don’t ever remember eating too many mulberries, or getting sick of them. I do remember the sheer pleasure of lying high up in that tree, popping juicy mulberries into my mouth while surveying the sweep of the farm beyond. It was a magnificent view.

When I was a toddler, I learned about the May Haw tree just beyond our cow lot. Unable to go to, or climb the tree, I depended on my mother’s generosity to bring those delicious red berries to enjoy. It was several years after I was traveling across South Georgia; at one event I learned that in Southeast Georgia an industry has grown up around May Haw jams, jellies, and, of course recipes. .

As a teenager, I developed a keen taste for Wild Cherries. My Uncle T. Jeff hired me to help till his fields. At a gate on Tucker Road grew a large wild cherry tree. We stopped for water one day and he stripped off a frond of wild cherries, popped them in his mouth. I tried it. They were tart, and there is more seed than flesh in each one—but they were delicious. When Paige and I bought our house on Regal Way, I was delighted to discover a wild cherry tree on the lot; it had limbs low enough that I didn’t have to climb to get my delight of wild cherries. Paige didn’t care for them, but every spring as they produced, I got my fill of those tasty tart berries. .

A persimmon tree graced the edge of a tributary to Deepstep Creek, at the edge of the farm. After the first frost of fall, climbing the persimmon tree granted unlimited access to that wonderful fruit; the seeds were big, but the flesh was a good balance, and enough to make it worth the climb. My First-grade teacher, Mrs. Renfroe lived on the farm next to grandaddy’s; she introduced me to another wild—well, kind of wild—fruit. In the edge of her pasture was a fallen cow shed which had been taken over by currant bushes. She generously offered ot us abundant picking of those tasty berries among the rubble.

As a child, when I read that John-the-Baptist lived on locusts and wild honey, I was skeptical; how can a man live without ham, eggs, biscuits, barbecue, and corn-on-the-cob. Well. You can see that naiveté—and limited culinary scope. While his diet was not exactly wild fruit, he did find, in the wild, all the nourishment he needed to live a full and healthy life. (Anyway, it wasn’t his diet that killed him; it was the result of making a woman angry—and a greedy man.)

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

According to Medical Life Sciences News, Snake venoms have been used in traditional medicine for many thousands of years. Thousands of years ago, animal venoms were the basis of preparations meant to treat smallpox and leprosy and heal wounds. In the first century AD, theriac was developed, a mixture containing snake venom, that continued to be used until the 18^th century. When I was a kid, my cousin, Dale, had a rare illness. A medic from Florida, had success administering Cobra venom, for it. He came to Dale’s home and gave an injection, which saved Dale’s life. Snakes get a bad rap. Full disclosure: My favorite pet is NOT a snake. I do not go out looking for snakes. I avoid snakes. Nevertheless, snakes have been around since the beginning of time; and as I will confess, they have a significant role in our ecosystem.

My point; every living thing has a place in Creation. In 1848. Cecil Frances Alexander wrote All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all. Each little flow’r that opens, each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colors, He made their tiny wings. The purple-headed mountain, the river running by, the sunset and the morning that brightens up the sky. (Listen to the music)

Beginning with the Bible—everywhere from Genesis to Revelation—the snake is mentioned and is (often) reviled. Even in today’s vernacular, the term snake conjures up fear, if not disgust; as in “Watch out! a snake! You’ll get bitten!” or “He’s a snake,” or “crooked as a snake.” There is, however, a positive symbol of snakes—the Bible a snake is put on a pole as a symbol of healing—- for healing; which became the icon of medicine—the caduceus—a staff with two snakes coiled around it. The the caduceus is the official insignia of the United States Medical Corps, Navy Pharmacy Division, and the Public Health Service.

Georgia is fortunate to have among the highest biodiversity of snakes in the United States with 47 species. (Georgia Department of Natural Resources; All non-venomous snakes are protected by state law.) Among other things, snakes are valuable to our ecosystem at least because 1) they help maintain balance in the food web, and 2) they are a natural form of pest control. I find it intriguing that bee and wasp stings and dog attacks—not snake bites—account for a majority of deaths. Snakes only account for a mere 5-6 deaths each year according to the Savannah River Ecology Laboratory (SREL), a division of the University of Georgia; and yet how many lives are saved by medical use of snake venom. Snakes have a place; a vital part of our ecosystem.

We do not exactly hang on on the horns of a dilemma; we are not choosing to have or not have, well, snakes. They are here. We are here. We need them in our ecosystem, and, ahem, I’m pretty sure they need us. I think there is a significant lesson here: to live in community, it takes respect, tolerance, and appreciation in the role each one—animal, herb, rodent, reptile, human,—-each of us makes up this wonderful creation. Choices we make go far to determine our outcome.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Jennifer has always loved animals. It began with gerbils. I don’t know if a fellow kindergartner sparked her interest or seeing gerbils in a pet store. But her interest took hold. One day in the pet shop, she convinced us to buy a couple of gerbils. And Gerbil bedding. And gerbil food. And water dispensers. And gerbil toys. And a habitat. All of which required a “How To” book on gerbils. (Seems that we should have gotten the book first.) Armed with ample accoutrements, we headed home—a newly minted gerbil household.

A gerbil is a rodent. Normal people work hard to keep rodents out of their homes. Not only did we not rodent-proof our house, we also paid for and brought one (actually, two) to live in ours. A gerbil is not a hamster. They do have some similarities. A hamster is nocturnal, and has a stubby tail; compared to the gerbil’s long tail; hamsters can store a lot in their cheeks, gerbils cannot. Both are very active, but in different ways; fortunately for our family, gerbils are diurnal, so they are awake and quite active throughout daytime.

Jennifer’s great joy with the gerbils was taking them out of their habitat to play with them; not only lettng them play in her room, but also on her. She loved poking one up her sleeve and letting it run all around under her shirt, making a “habitrail” out of her clothes. We held our breath seeing that little animal run all over her, around her neck, and through her hair. She loved it. I could never tell the difference between the two little creatures, but Jennifer could spot the difference from across the room. A strong bond grew. As happens to all living creatures, the first gerbil eventually died. It was a sad day for us—especially for Jennifer; it became something of a family crisis.

I was pastor of the church across the street, so Jennifer was familiar with rituals of the church—-weddings, receptions, baptisms and—funerals. Therefore, nothing would do but for the Moore family to plan a funeral. We chose a burial spot near the back fence, close enough to be seen from the house. We prepared the grave—and planned the funeral . Our somber family gathered with the little gerbil, having lovingly placed it in a sarcophagus. We had carefully prepared it for for the little gerbil’s final resting place. It was time for the service to begin, I greeted the congregation (all 4 of us), said a few comforting words, prayed (yes, prayed over the gerbil), and had the benediction. After the interment we went back into our house. It was a fitting finish for our furry friend. A couple of cats, and numbers of Pembroke Welsh Corgis later, the memory of the little gerbil pretty much faded.

There are those who would deride a funeral for a pet. But after all, pets do become vital part of the family. I contend that the funeral served several basic human needs; turning aside for a formal ritual acknowledged both the feelings of a little girl, and the absence of a beloved pet—it affirmed the reality of emotions that we humans experience— even for a pet. On yet another level, acknowledging death is a basic human reality that needs expressing. I think of that little family back in Bethany; Jesus had much greater understanding and depth of humanity than did his family; however, as he stood at the grave of his dear friend Lazarus, this grown man, Jesus cried, expressing his grief and his humanity.

As my theology professor at Emory reminded us, “The death rate is 100%.” Many will make accomplishments, have healing, and become notable. But that 100% fact does not change. What we do know is, this moment is our certain moment; live it to the fullest; live, laugh, love—even love little gerbils. And little girls who cherish and play with them.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

The Greek word for “household” is oikos. As springtime breathed its magic on the northern hemisphere a reality emerged—our oikos; planet earth—is being wonderfully furnished with greenery, blossoms, and creatures. I really feel it—that we are a part of a larger household. Looking back, the household I grew up in was meager; but I didn’t realize it. I had all I needed; parents who provided food, shelter, clothes, and guidance. There were other players in the wider household; grandparents, cousins, neighbors, churches, a school, Deepstep creek, woods, fields, paths, and roads.

Although I didn’t think of Deepstep community as a household, in a broader sense it was. Merriam-Webster offers two definitions of household; those who dwell under the same roof and compose a family; also : a social unit composed of those living together in the same dwelling. So there you have it. In April we celebrate “Earth Day.” Reminders come from scores of sources, such as The National Geographic Society Education. They remind us to love, protect, care for, and cherish this little green ball in the Universe we call Earth. I think it is not hyperbole to say planet earth is our oikos.

Native peoples and responsible farmers learn valuable lessons about our wonderful household. However, we humans have a spotty record of earth Stewardship. One vivid reminder is the Dust Bowl of the last century. Its horror and impact are illustrated by John Steinbeck (The Grapes of Wrath), as well as Woody Guthrie (a Dust Bows refugee —“This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land” a folk song staple). A few decades later, writer Rachel Carson— Silent Spring —raised consciousness of our callus carelessness; we still have not resolved major issues of chemical damage industry continues doing to our precious planet.

You’ve heard of the Butterfly Effect; the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state. (Wikipedia). We got a glimpse—well, more than a glimpse, of such a state during the Pandemic; the spread of the deadly virus was able to be traced through wastewater testing. Microscopic germs effected dramatic change in community health. Again I posit, the “oikos” that we live in is a household—this earthly household.

How often have you heard the term, “We are all in this together!” ? Our actions, attitudes, and adaptations in one way or another affect us all. It was not Eve’s act act of eating the fruit in the Garden of Eden that brought down the human race. It was her (and Adam’s!) greed. The driving desire of humans is for more; more food, more land, more wealth, more, more, more. Our “oikos”–household—is in great need of our attentive care. In a word, stewardship. The Genesis account of creation is abundantly clear; God created this wonderful Oikos for us to live in, to enjoy, and to be attentive, responsible stewards of it all.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Aromas are powerful, and they matter. In third grade at Deepstep school, one of my classmates often brought a cluster of Sweetshrub shoots to our teacher. Although I don’t recall the student’s name, I definitely recall that pleasant aromatic scent from those blossoms. I always wished for such a plant in our yard. After leaving for college, I forgot about that delicious aroma; life, family, and time moved along.

After moving in with Jennifer, my daughter, we began customizing the landscape of our place. She had some wonderful ideas giving it a pleasing look. One day a year or so ago, I saw pictures of some beautiful flowers, posted on FaceBook by Colline, one of Jennifer’s former colleagues. Among them were Sweetshrubs. So I asked if she ever had any volunteer shoots pop up would she save one for me? She said she would be happy to.

I forgot about the Sweetshrub, but Colline had not. Last week she called and said the Sweetshrub plant is ready. She brought a potted, healthy Sweetshrub—about two feet tall. The pot also hosted two fledgling volunteer Japanese Maples. What a bonus! Jennifer and I are delighted. I am not a Botanist, so I looked up my new gift; it is an Eastern Sweetshrub, perfectly suited for our area. We picked out a place for our plant, and this weekend I hope to have it snuggly ensconced in its own special spot.

My maternal grandmother was a devoted gardener, and it was a pleasure helping her with her plants. One of the recent additions Jennifer and I made in our flower garden is ligustrum, which which I remember Grandmother had in abundance. She also had beautiful Dahlias. We won’t be adding Dahlias; they are too delicate, too needy for me. Today I am immensely grateful; for my friend Colline who carefully curated this grand Sweetshrub, for the fragrance and memory it brings me, and that we have this treasure in our garden.

A subtext of this story is that of aroma. The whiff of a flower, food, or fragrance can launch a vivid journey down memory lane. It recalls friendships, gatherings, and events of the past. I think of the time when Jesus was visiting in the home of his friends in Bethany. Mary bathed his feet with costly perfume. As John describes it, the fragrance filled the house. (emphasis mine) It was a time when fragrance became the basis for the memory of Jesus’ sacrifice. The Apostle Paul picks up on the fragrance theme; Harking back to Old Testament times, when burnt sacrifices of animals were offered to God, Paul remembers how those aromas reminded him of time in the Temple, and God’s Presence.

I resonate with Paul. As a child, growing up in the Deepstep Methodist Church, we only had Holy Communion occasionally. Our pastor served a circuit of four churches—rotating preaching in a different church each Sunday . We couldn’t have Holy CommIon on the usual first Sunday of the month. However, I could always tell when it was Communion Sunday as soon as the church door opened; the aroma of Welch’s Grape Juice filled the sanctuary. It’s aroma was a pleasant welcome.

Aromas make a powerful impression on the soul (read brain, heart, mind). The Scriptures are rife with references to the sweet smell of incense. Having a distinctive aroma, the incense was a powerful reminder of the presence of God Some churches still use incense to remind worshipers of the Presence of God. A multi-sensory experience in worship is powerful—the smell of oak pews, flowers in the chancel area, the aroma of candles being lit. And. don’t forget–Welch’s Grape juice being poured! (full disclosure–I do not own stock in Welch’s,).

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

 Squiggle; one definition is poor or lazy handwriting (speaking of no one in particular). Merriam-Webster defines a squiggle as;  a short wavy twist or line . Taking editorial liberties, for this tome’s purpose, I’m amplifying the word—to include symbolic marks—which covers a multitude of visuals.

My family—and a few non-relatives—complained for years about my handwriting; what’s worse, over the years my squiggles have tended to transmigrate, not for the better. With the advent of cyber technology, redemption can happen; lately when signing a credit card bill I’m instructed, “Use your finger and make a mark on the screen.” The electronic receiver doesn’t care if you’re using Parker Vector Standard handwriting or a squiggle–just mark the cuss-ed form!

On a related matter, the “Bar Code” is not exactly a squiggle, but close. In 1948 the bar code was invinted by two Drexel University students to expedite Super Market checkout; it is now in universal use—from osteopaths to ocean-going freighters. Its twin, the QR code , is now ubiquitous—maybe a little more like a squiggle, but it carries far more information;  there are 4,296 alphanumeric characters in a single QR code. Bar Codes, QR codes and foreign languages—in computers are all “boiled down” to communicating using only two symbols; 1 0 — Binary symbols—squiggles, if you will.

To some extent a relationship with another person is something of a squiggle—a little like the short wavy twist or line, as defined by Merriam-Webster. Unless we invest self into the relationship, it remains just, well, squiggly. In recent years, I have retrieved and curated a few relationships from over the years; Time and distance had separated us. But life’s curve balls have served to knit several of us closer—aided greatly, among other things, by cell-phones. I have “Phone appointments,” and catch up on family, mutual friends, and mutual interests. The squiggles have become straight lines of communication for me; maybe for you as well.

What matters is that the sender and receiver must understand each other. It is way more complicated than that—but not really. I liken it to, well, Psalm 46. Hearers are invited to turn aside from distractions and deeply communicate with God. In data entry, each “squiggle” must be precise for clear communication to be complete. As I type this, each electronic character is necessary for clear communication. But unlike computers, we human beings are imperfect. However our redemption is wonderfully in the forgiveness we receive (and give) toward joy in life. Autocorrect doesn’t always have that leverage—God’s autocorrect is perfect.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

He made the night a little brighter / Wherever he / would go / The old lamplighte / Of long, long ago—I heard the song, and thought, “Well, someone dug up this neat romantic song from a couple of centuries ago. How nice!” I looked it up. Nope. It was written in 1946. That was after WW II ! — sixty years after electric street lights pretty well replaced the nostalgic Lamplighter. For tourist reasons, some cities across the world still employ a lamplighter.

But I digress. Nostalgic, romantic, whatever, there are life lessons within the song. In darkening times, when trust wanes, and relationships—personal as well as regional—-become strained, we need a little light. Entangled political parties, angry nations, and even stressed neighborhoods easily become darkened by clouds of doubt and distrust.

The Cold War held dark clouds of fear and uncertainty over the US as well as the world. When President George H.W. Bush was inaugurated in 1989, In his address he called for “…a thousand points of lights...”(borrowed from Arthur C. Clarke’s short story “Rescue Party,” May 1946)—to brighten our world. In a sense it was a call for a return visit of “…The Old Lamplighter… to (make) the night a little brighter…” along our darkened way and poke holes into the darkness.

In Palm Sunday Worship the children’s choir, accompanied by “The Altar Egos” Bluegrass Band, sang “This Little Light of Mine.” It is an old standard that takes up the theme of light in the darkness. In these days of outbreaks of Antisemitism, I am reminded of the song, “Light One Candle” recorded by Peter, Paul, and Mary numerous times, and available on YouTube. It speaks of courage, hope, determination, and love for one another. In a word, it is a ‘lamplighter.”

The Old Testament frequently speaks of God’s call to the Children of Israel to be “a light to the nations.” One of my favorites is the one referred to in Isaiah 42. In the New Testament Jesus refers to the positive and redemptive roles light plays in the world and in our lives; to the point of calling his followers “The Light of the World.” The wonder of it all is how simple it is for each of us to be a “Lamplighter.” Just think of a moment when someone said, did, or encouraged you, and poked a hole in your darkness. It opened joy, hope, and gratitude for you. And, you, dear reader may not know it, but I am sure you are a Lamplighter for someone.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Easter is another of the sacred Christian celebrations hijacked by commercal enterprises. However, Christianity cannot cleanly call out commercial commandeering. Early on, Springtime has evoked symbolism of new life, beauty, and beginning again. Pagan and Christian celebrations, festivals, and rituals have been human responses to Springtime for centuries. It was a natural for Christianity for grafting new shoots of life and meaning onto existing significant celebrations—it helped involve populations at their level of understanding and introduce Christian faith; it responds to the call to “…be a light unto the nations…”.

Christianity, having deep roots in Judaism, it was a short step to Easter from the Jewish celebration of Passover, one of the earliest, most meaningful Jewish Holy observances. Jesus, a faithful Jew, was observing the Passover when the plot against his life took its final, fatal turn. His Resurrection, three days after his execution established Easter. New Life burgeoned. The fact that these developments occur simultaneously paved the way for joyful celebration. Easter Eggs are dramatic additions to the New Life metaphor. Chocolate bunnies, Peeps, and Cadbury eggs are the logical commercializations of a sacred event.

This is not to condemn or protest Easter Egg Hunts, or chocolate sales (I may have a conflict of interest in the chocolate matter—due to my proclivity for chocolate). This tome is to put things into perspective. We are careful to teach our children the safe, proper way to use fire, and we monitor it carefully. In terms of our theology (read “faith”) we tend to be lax if not ignorant. Santa Claus is not God. Easter for Christians, is not based on colored eggs, chocolate bunnies, Peeps, nor even Easter Egg Hunts—although the celebration emerged from a plethora of traditions. Holy Week, preceding Easter, helps to focus attention on the heart of the day.

Just as we teach our children life’s realities at appropriate ages, in like manner, we teach faith. Early on, we sing, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red, and, yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight…” As they grow older, we are confronted with the need to teach them to respect, not ridicule, those with disabilities, or of a different color, or those less fortunate. We teach love and caring on a higher level. It’s a little like the myth of the sunrise; almost everyone knows the sun does not rise—it is the earth rotating around the sun. But who wants to say “Oh! Look what a beautiful Earth Rotation!” We learn incrementally—and learn well if taught at appropriate levels of comprehension.

What more can be said, as we peer out of the sadness of brokenness, to discover Hope and the New Life God brings!! HE IS RISEN! Hope reigns, We thrive under the sovranties of Joy !

©Copyright 2024 Willis H. Moore

Sunday next is Palm Sunday. It launches Holy Week which ends with Easter. According to Britannica, the name Holy Week emerged, beginning in the 4th Century; The name Holy Week was used in the 4th century by St. Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria, and St. Epiphanius of Constantia. Originally, only Good Friday and Holy Saturday were observed as holy days. Later, Wednesday was added as the day on which Judas plotted to betray Jesus, and by the beginning of the 3rd century the other days of the week had been added.

Palm Sunday is a festive launch of Holy Week. Christian churches world-wide celebrate the day with children marching, waving palm branches (in Georgia—especially South of the Gnat Line they wave Palmetto branches) and singing joyfully. Some churches receive children and youth into church membership on Palm Sunday—especially those who completed Confirmation classes during Lent. Early on, Lent was a time for training novices as they converted into Christianity. The Novices were then baptized and Confirmed as Christian.

I have a friend whose church has Holy Week services each day at noon of Holy Week . Each day they meet in a different church in the community, with a minister from another church bringing the message; The event concludes with a light lunch. The event lasts one hour so that workers and business people can attend during their lunch break. An annual thing, it is well attended. My friend says those of different faith traditions enjoy getting together to experience one another’s ways of observing Holy Week

A previous article in TIME Magazine describes how a Nun launched observance of Holy Week on a Pilgrimage to the Holy Land; The earliest known record of any Holy Week observance, which includes a description of Palm Sunday, is found in the travel diaries of a woman named Egeria. Egeria, also known as Etheria, was a nun who documented her pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the late 4th century.

Growing up in Deepstep, I experienced a mere shadow of Holy Week: it was Palm Sunday, Easter Sunday, and a family Easter Egg Hunt. We gathered in a grassy glen near an old sawmill site in Grandaddy’s creek-side woodland. After the picnic, Grandaddy took the younger kids on a hunt for Wild Violets. We sought out the tiny purple blossoms among the pine straw and green grass. Meanwhile, the teenagers and adults hid Easter Eggs—so that the Hunt was ready when the little kids returned, laden with tiny purple violet blossoms—eager to hunt for the treasure of the day! It was a full, fun, day.

As an adult, I came to know and appreciate an Easter treat, Handel’s Messiah, as choirs, orchestra, and vocalists retold the difficult, terrible, glowing, and victorious of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection. As I have told some of you, my readers—for my dear Paige—the pinnacle of the story is sung victoriously in the Hallelujah Chorus. It captivates the hearts of millions!

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024