Category: Uncategorized (Page 5 of 26)

The month of June has been “transition” time for Methodist for decades; I do not know the precise time this practice began, but for most Methodists, following the 1938 merger—the Methodist Protestant denomination, the Methodist Episcopal Church, and the Methodist Episcopal Church South became “The Methodist Church,” the practice was in place. Annual Conferences throughout the denomination announced appointments of pastors—and later gravitated to the month of June. Pastors receive their annual assignments at Annual Conference; Some remain the same as last year, some go to a new assignment.

As I write this the North Georgia United Methodist pastors have arrived at—or returned to—their Appointments for the 2024-2025 Conference year. Although a pastoral appointment is for only one year, most pastors are reassigned; United Methodists call this the itinerant system. In the early days of Methodism pastors “rode the circuit” traveling from one church to another—-mostly on horseback. Times, transportation, technology, and—temperaments (one way to say it) have changed. But pastors and their families moving from one place to another—-in different patterns—remain. And in Georgia, June is the month of moves.

As July finds all United Methodist pastors in place, there is a sense of settling into something like—normal. Normal is not an accurate description; having moved to nine (9) different assignments over fifty years of service, I can say with a certain degree of authority, every day is new. They flesh out Yin-yang, Encyclopedia Britannica explains-–in Eastern thought, the two complementary forces that make up all aspects and phenomena of life. Or in a less elegant turn of phrase, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly—it is my contention that we tend to make it what we want it to be.

The toughest assignment I had was early on and projected to me to be “A great opportunity.” It took a couple of decades of maturity and experience for me to discover it was just that, a great opportunity—and would have been even better if I had “put on my big boy britches,” and viewed it differently. As Norman Vincent Peale said, look for fine sunsets instead of puddles (the basis of a sermon he preached—and I came to lean upon heavily).

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Summer arrived here yesterday (06/20/24) at 4:01 p. m. (per NWS). I’ve already been seeing vehicles—large and small—heading out of town with all sorts of camping gear towed, or stowed on top, as they whiz by. I identify with them. I grew up on a farm (basically out in the woods) away out in the country but never went camping; there was no Boy Scout Troop available. However, I enjoyed the outdoors on the farm and often read, in the school library Boys Life, the Scouting magazine. Camping out (bivouac) in the Army National Guard in the swamps of Ft. Stewart, GA should have dissuaded me from camping fever. Even Paige’ s initial negative response to my camping suggestion did not divert me. She said, “I do not intend to sleep in the woods, on the ground, with snakes crawling around!”

But when Paige discovered pop-up campers that we could tow behind our vehicle, she warmed to the idea. A lot. In our third year of marriage we rented—not bought—a pop-up camper for a trip to Stone Mountain Campground. Awkward, but a success. Each succeeding year brought more joy, innovations, successes, (and bloopers)–as we became a camping family. Over time—we camped from Orlando, Florida to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and in between. Memories of the smell of bacon frying in the morning mountain air still mesmerize me. Blue smoke from an evening campfire, and cool breezes among the night sounds are siren calls to my soul.

Paige’s mother got into camping spirit before her too-early death. Early on, Mama D bought a “zip-on” room for our camper; it was one where our toddlers would have more room to play during rainy weather. We thrilled at the opportunity to hitch up our camper and head off to a state or national park for a weekend—or a couple of weeks. I especially remember early one Fall—Paige, a teacher, our girls were toddlers, and school had not started; we were in a private campground in the Cherokee National Forest—no one else was there for the whole week. It was exhilarating!

Living in Atlanta—such a large city—I am grateful for the parks, trails, and playgrounds in the area. The “The Path” under development now passes near our neighborhood. It connects more and more networks of Metro-area nature trails —ultimately connecting trail networks—from Stone Mountain to Alabama. Although there is no camping on the paths, they do connect to parks and campgrounds. Myriad campgrounds populate the area, and are being well used, creating wonderful opportunities for outdoor adventures.

A Post Script for today; when Zach, my grandson was working his way in Scouting to Eagle rank—I as chaplain of his troop—I joined them on one segment of the famous Appalachian Trail for a few days. Although I will never trek that nearly 2,200-mile AT, I do marvel at what it offers in scenic and other adventures. In Georgia, it starts at Springer Mountain, and ends at Liberty Springs, New Hampshire. The hiking the AT makes me think of Psalm 121, I will lift up my eyes to the hills…

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Today is Flag Day. On this day June 14, 1777, the Continental Congress adopted the Stars and Stripes as the official flag for the United States of America. According to Military.com it is believed that the first annual recognition of the flag’s birthday dates to 1885 when schoolteacher BJ Cigrand organized a group of Wisconsin students to observe June 14, the 108th anniversary of the official adoption of The Stars and Stripes as the Flag’s Birthday. Cigrand, now known as the Father of Flag Day, continued to publicly advocate the observance of June 14 as the flag’s birthday, or “Flag Day,” for years. The spirited song It’s a Grand Old Flag, by George M. Cohen inspires expansive appreciation of the Flag. (The sung version has a lot fewer verses than the printed lyrics.)

Although strong tradition holds that Betsy Ross made the first American flag, there are stories that question it as fact. Nevertheless, the The Stars and Stripes flag is established, and has a strong and storied tradition. U. S. Military Band leader, John Phillip Sousa implanted it in our hearts with his lively march The Stars and Stripes Forever.

There is the U. S. Flag Code and official etiquette for display and use of the flag. The flag is precious as a symbol and reminder of the United States as a nation. I am not a flag fanatic, but I am one with deep appreciation for what it has meant and does mean. I was quite pleased that The National Defense Authorization Act of 2008, was signed into law by President Bush on January 28, 2008. Because of this Act, as a military veteran , who no longer wears the uniform, I stand at attention and salute the flag when it goes by. I am saddened that many citizens fail to place their hand over their heart, or men fail to take off their hats to show respect when the Flag goes by.

I do not have room here to include the full text of Henry Holcomb Bennett’s poem, Hats Off! The Flag Goes By, but this stanza catches its essence; Hats off! /Along the street there comes /A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, /A flash of color beneath the sky: /Hats off!The flag is passing by! Proper respect and care should be given to the U.S. Flag. According to military.com the U.S. Flag Code though it is not legally enforceable, adherence to it is considered a sign of patriotism and respect. The code formalizes and unifies the traditional ways in which we give respect to the U.S. flag, and also gives specific instructions on how the U.S. flag is not to be used.

People who have never taken The Oath and served in a branch of the US Military may not have the deep appreciation for the flag, and therefore not adhere to the code (I give the benefit of doubt, usually because of their being uninformed). But The Oath, and military service puts a whole “nuther” complexion on the matter—A bond of unity—-somewhat akin to siblings of survival. A few days ago, the world recognized D-Day, and very likely you saw news clips with the extent to which one trooper after another laid down his life (or risked it) to help a fellow trooper! To these brave men and women the significance of the Flag is burned in their psyche.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

A sabbatical is a break, a renewal apart from ones’ normal routine. The sabbatical is not new. Sabbatical leave is common in academia; Centuries ago, sabbaticals were a year long; they became more common, with various lengths over time. Nearly 200 years ago, Harvard University started giving sabbatical leaves . As I write this, our pastor is on a six-week sabbatical-renewal leave. For decades, the sabbatical has been available for United Methodist pastors. Only in recent times has appropriate attention is been given to its importance. Increasing numbers of organizations are noticing that mental health must be nurtured, and are taking steps to that end.

Almost everyone in a leadership position knows the encroaching vocational demands in daily work. The old “9 to 5” work-day has rapidly become the “24-7” life. Even worse, cell phones and other electronic devices have virtually eradicated boundaries that once protected us all. As a result, whether one’s life is greatly stressed or not, unlimited interruptions into personal and home life take certain toll on a human being.

A pastor’s vocation, much like that of a medical doctor, belongs to those served. Only well staffed, well funded medical facilities or churches can afford always to have backup staff on hand as primary care providers. As a United Methodist Clergyman, with several decades of service, I can attest to having experienced mealtimes interrupted, sleep cut short, and vacations upended, as emergency calls cut into our family life. I remember a clergy friend who took responsibility for his personal space, early in his ministry. A committee in his ministry assignment was planning a meeting. The date they chose would not work for him. Without apology he said, “I won’t be there. I will be with my son at his ballgame.”

Boundaries are essential. Lines on roadways help keep traffic safe and moving. Time limits keep sports interesting and fair. Doors and walls help maintain security and privacy. And—Life boundaries help us humans thrive. Even God took a day, of rest after six days of creating the earth. When Moses brought down from the mountain, the tablets of Stone, the seventh day of the week was carved in stone as a day of rest. The sabbath is based on that tenet. Some Jewish scholars see something of the Code of Hammurabi (circa 1750 BC —the oldest known written code of laws) reflected in the Mosaic laws.

The Mosaic law is concise and specific; do your work all week, and on the seventh day, rest! The Jewish Talmud, however—in my humble opinion—does a good bit more elaboration on that basic tenet. It needed none—then or now. Your body, your mind, and your health need rest. Society is getting a pretty clear picture of that need; American Gold Medal Gymnast, Simone Biles is the “Poster Girl” for sports mental health. If an Olympian can take a public break at the peak of her career, for mental health—-well, that’s a significant message to the rest of us. 2024 yields increasing numbers of famous icons who, for good mental health reasons, are following suit. I commend the leadership of our church for its caring foresight to provide this six week verdure for our pastor.

© Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Maybe it is the farmers’ markets that pop up this time of year; maybe now that “Spring has fully Sprung,” gardening fever infected many minds. Seed catalogs, garden centers, flowerbeds—all have sung their siren songs—bewitching even the most unlikely gardeners to dig in the dirt. Now, these greenhorn gardeners come face-to-face with fearless foes—Weeds! But take heart. Do not make haste to condemn weeds; according to The Kansas City Star—The definition of a weed is a plant out of place. This frames the weed in a different view.

Legions of folk follow the path to “Edible Weeds.” Of course, a few of these pathfinders list dandelion, purslane, berries, and mushrooms among their menu of edible weeds. I admit, some other weeds are more esoteric, and I’m not so sure I’m inclined to tempt my tastebuds with those. For example, one culinary temptress wrote; We love sumac in marinades and rubs, in spice mixes for seasoning roasted and grilled meats. Try sprinkling a pinch of sumac over hummus and creamy dips, salads, side dishes, and fish.

What creeps me out is the word “sumac:” There is sumac—and there is poison sumac. The difference is dramatic and —I think a little concerning. If you dive into a search to find edible weeds for your diet—like a ravenous eclectic seeker—do so from a reliable source. The effort will help prevent putting your health at risk.

New tastes and exciting ventures can come from finding delights among the most common but unexpected sources. Everywhere I have lived—and that is limited to Georgia—I lost the battle to dandelions. However, when reading a 2024 post by none other than Martha Stewart, I found her citing Carrie Spoonemore, co-creator of Park Seed’s From Seed to Spoon app praising the dandelion; Every part of this weed can be eaten, from the roots to the yellow flowers. The leaves are commonly used in soups and can also be eaten raw in fresh salads. The flowers are often battered and fried.

Then there is Honeysuckle (yes it is classed among the weeds), listed by Lisa M. Rose, author of Urban Foraging: Find, Gather, and Cook 50 Wild Plants . She writes of various varieties, Lonicera japonica is the most fragrant of these—a vining plant with opposite, oblong, glossy leaves…The flowers can be used to make teas, oils, and more. To use it in tea, pick the flowers before they open when pale green and white, says Wong. You can also use honeysuckle flowers to infuse raw honey by placing un-wilted blossoms into a jar and covering them with raw honey

I have always loved seeing acres of red clover in pastures in Georgia. I never knew Red Clover could be a tasty food. Lisa M Rose cites red clover as yet another edible weed; “The fresh blossoms do work well in a fritter, egg dish, or in soups and have a flavor similar to the sweet pea,” says Rose. “They can also be steamed and used as a garnish or side dish with a light white fish or chicken.” You can also extract red clover’s flavor to use in tea, smoothies, and more by boiling the fresh or dry plant material for 20 minutes.

These are just a few of the twenty-one “edible weeds” suggested by Martha Stewart. One major caveat; before you harvest any weed to eat, make sure it has not been exposed to any hazardous chemical. “First, Do No Harm!” is the mantra of medics, as well as the founder of Methodism, John Wesley. I think the opening words of Frances Ridley Havergal’s hymn “Every Little Flower That Grows” is a fitting finish: Every flower that grows/ every brook that flows /tells of beauty God has given for me; throughout my life may beauty be.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

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