Category: Uncategorized (Page 9 of 26)

When someone is said to have a predilection toward something, it could imply bias—that can become a character trait. I recently discovered a French term that is a bit softer, and, I think better articulates it. The word is parti pris. It means a preconceived opinion. Upon learning the term, I discovered parti pris lurking in an uncomfortable niche in the fabric of my social DNA. I was raised at Deepstep; looking back, I saw a plenty of that animating principle of parti pris . Ostensibly, I was taught to have (a kind of) respect for the Black folk in our community and farm—treat them humanely; the atmosphere was chock-full of parti pris.

My relatives instilled in us that we “are not like” certain folks—black or white—in our church, school, or customers at grandaddy’s store. When things are steeped into your stew, you tend to not notice such fade-resistant opinions until you confront them head-on.

I remembered an occasion on one warm spring night in the Spring. I was driving home from band practice in my dad’s pickup truck “fat, dumb and happy.” For this lively teen-age boy it was way too early to go home. (Remember it was at Deepstep—no sidewalks to roll up at night!) I saw a light on at one of the pumping stations at the Kaolin mine, and recognized a pickup parked at the door. Our neighbor, Mr Hornbuckle, was working the night shift.

Lacking any compelling reason not to, I stopped and knocked on the door. Mr. Hornbuckle invited me inside. He worked with my dad, I knew his son from school. I also knew they were one of those families-white-but- “not like us”—and likely poor, ignorant laborers. He invited me to sit down, Lying in his lap was a Bible and some literature and note paper. My first shock!—He’s reading the Bible!? My second shock; He said, “I am working on my Sunday School lesson. I am teaching this Sunday. My third shock; A Sunday School Teacher!? This man not only reads—the Bible—and in his spare time! He is also smart enough to teach Sunday School!? I was astonished!

I don’t remember how long I stayed, but Mr. Hornbuckle dazzled me with his interest, enthusiasm, and knowledge of what he was doing. It shattered my Parti pris. My little well-contrived, comfortable world at Deepstep, now developed a small fissure. It would not be the last; on to college, more fissures; on to Emory University’s Candler School of Theology—on to life—fissures continued. They happen so that growth can happen Fortunately, more parti pris pop up like Whack-a-Moles. It is another part of the human condition that needs constant monitoring to digest the good. Our preconceived opinions form faster than ants at a picnic, as persistent, and as difficult to redirect.

Jesus was confronted by preconceived opinions; many thought he had come to replace the Roman government. The moment he was on trial, is the culmination of what was a parti pris. But we get the clearest, if not the earliest parti pris about Jesus from Nathaniel; having heard that Jesus was from Nazareth, he scoffed, Can anything from Nazareth be good? Nathaniel, due to his parti pris, was wrong about Jesus! It is a human tendency. Which is why we need Grace. In abundance.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

This month there were two searches in the news—daily—simultaneously; one a search for an elusive, escaped prisoner, the other for a spelunker. The location for each was pretty well known. The elusive escapee was known to be—and remained— within a specific circumference for over two weeks; remarkably he was captured without gun-fire or violence. The location of the spelunker’s location was known precisely from the beginning; he had become desperately ill while on a research mission in a cave more than a mile deep in Turkey. (the search—was focused on how safely to rescue him through deep, narrow, labyrinthine passages). To the relief to most of the world, both searches were successful.

As the world watched, extensive scientific, practical effort, and sheer human skill yielded success–in both cases. Beyond other advantages there is the vast knowledge and skill to be put to use in future similar endeavors. Universities, explorers, and organizations, over the years, will put their learnings to life-saving use.

Unfortunately, the Human Condition, will hinder the most profitable denouement from these experiences. Humanity, down through the centuries, has had opportunities galore to do better. Usually we don’t. We live daily with that . Violence, hatred, instant spewing misinformation, are in every community—not all of it, nor all at once, but it is there. The adage, “We learn from history,” really means we could learn from history. We cave (no pun intended). We too often miss the teachable moment.

A positive peek into history shows that little things can have potential for prodigious results—as in the legend of the young Dutch boy who put his finger in a hole in the dike, thus saving the entire community from flooding. A flood of wrong can feel overwhelming. However, taking the high road can become a multiplier of good for many. One such decision could be answering the call to become a teacher. Think about how tedious it can be to teach reading to a little kid–or a private music lesson! (They don’t call it drilling for nil). Such moments figure prominently into marvelous success for the pupil, and deep satisfaction for the teacher.

Authorities say a letter or word must be repeated seventeen (17) times to be remembered. From U. S. News & World Report ...”experts say first graders should be able to read at least 150 high-frequency words by the end of the year. Think about how may drills (repetitions) it means. That is letter, number, and sentence implementation. A teacher also contends with a child’s background, peers, parents, and competing interests to accomplish this—it multiplies beyond first grade.

Searching for improvement of life, liberty, and happiness is no easy journey; and that can be a good thing. Too often we search with more greed and gore than compassion—or common sense. Jesus taught his followers that there is a better way—a way that is a win-win for us all. Andre Crouch captures the sense of this persistent search in his song; Through it all Oh, I’ve learned to trust in Jesus, I’ve learned to trust in God, Oh let me tell you, Through it all Oh, through it all, Oh, I’ve learned to depend upon His word.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

One sunny afternoon my friend, John Will Voss and I were roaming around Deepstep creek. John Will was not only a few years older than I, but also more adventuresome. As we trudged through ruins of the millpond dam, he spotted a pool near a cleft in the dam. Blue-gill Bream were tooling around in there. He said, “Look! those are good sized Bream!” Almost instinctively he said, “Let’s see if we can catch one.” I said, “We don’t have any fish bait.” Nearby was an abandoned Tupelo limb on which someone had tied a fishline and hook. John Will said, “We’ll create some fish bait. On your jeans is a stray cotton string in that tear on your pocket. We’ll use that!” I didn’t say anything, but I was as skeptical as horse regarding a new rider.

John Will snagged the white cotton string, rubbed it around in his palms creating a fluffy puff; satisfied, he fastened it to the fish hook. As he dangled it into the water, a couple of fish examined it—-not carefully enough—-it hung there for a bit, then suddenly one nabbed it! John Will set the hook and pulled the fish out of the water. Since we hadn’t come to fish, and weren’t prepared to keep fish, that nice Bream became “catch and release.

My doubting that we could catch a fish with inspired bait was eclipsed by John Will’s inspiration. Our need for fish bait was fulfilled by his on-the-spot ingenuity. The world is filled with useful devices that make our lives happy, healthy, and helpful—because of inspiration. I think of the ubiquitous “Post It Notes.” A church choir member’s Inspiration is behind its creation. He wanted to avoid “dog-ears” on his hymnal marking selected hymns for the day. He remembered that his lab crew at work was trying to create adhesive that would allow quick release. He took some of the trial paper to choir practice; It worked his idea caught on. Post-it notes was born.

You could easily make an impressive list of things we depend on daily that somewhere, sometime, someone said, “It cannot be done!” In the 1959 film, “Hole in the Head,” Frank Sinatra sang the now famous lines “…You’ve got High Hopes,” A key line in the song reiterates the value of inspiration; When troubles call, and your back’s to the wall— There a lot to be learned, that wall could fall. Inspiration produces myriad possibilities.

Sometimes we seem to be at our wits end, like Elijah, the prophet. He had offended Queen Jezebel—who vowed to kill him—he came to the conclusion that “I am the only one left” In that low moment, he found inspirationn. Inspiration puts imagination to work. Jesus taught his followers that if they believe, there is “Nothing you can’t do!” John Wesley’s Siren call was “The world is my Parish” —an awesome inspiration—now untold millions bear the name “Methodist.” Wesley had endless confidence that not only did everyone need God’s grace, but also it could be made available throughout humanity. His was not simple imagination, it was imagination powered by confidence. Inspiration is a derivative, theologically, of Spirit filled.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

I keep two or more hard-copy roadmaps in my car; at least one is an Official Georgia Roadmap. Sometimes passengers think I’m a Hutterite. I am not. I simply like to see the context and texture paper roadmaps give. Don’t judge me. I do use my car’s GPS—usually if I am uncertain of a precise address (full disclosure—I mostly use WYZE for navigation—thus I don’t buy the annual GPS CD update).

For fresh roadmaps, I rely on Georgia Department Of Transportaion (GDOT); Each year around January 15, an updated hard-copy Georgia roadmap is published. It is large (Georgia is the largest State East of the Mississippi River!) That map is a goldmine of information about Georgia.

Yes. I know. There’s the Internet. At most it’s the size of the screen on your iPhone or computer—and yes, it offers information at your finger tips. But there is no context—try looking up “Roberta, Georgia” on the Internet. You find a photo—and maybe three sentences? Take a hardcopy Georgia roadmap, and you get contextual, geographical, topographic, and visual information—not just a penurious post; which is why I keep roadmaps in my car.

An ancillary advantage of a hardcopy map is that you can learn more than simple driving directions. The physical roadmap, can easily offer diversion to your journey into interesting side trips. I have a friend who. when traveling often takes side trips when not in a big hurry to arrive at a specific destination. Often interesting people, places, and possibilities pop up on these side trips. It simply adds flavor to a journey.

The Bible says for forty years the Children of Israel wandered in the wilderness between Egypt and the Promised Land. The distance was about 130 miles. It took 40 years—not because they had neither GPS or Roadmap—but they had a better Guide; God. There was to be more to the journey than simply getting there. Joy for the journey would not exactly describe it, but it produced profound depth and meaning—into which joy was woven.

When a professor of mine at Emory retired, we asked him his plans. He said, “My wife and I plan to get into the car and follow the radiator. ” He was planning on joy-filled journeys. His plan glowed with excitement and pleasure. I think finding joy is a gift of God.

Jesus had joy in his life; I kinda think Jesus’ first miracle—turning water into wine —was partly to add joy to his people. I think he knew that doing a miracle publicly could be too dramatic for some people. By tossing some joy into a family wedding, he could grease the skids for reluctant ones; he chose a genesis point where seeing the signs and wonders of God could open up.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

(On a side note, just so you’ll know, you can pick up a free, current Georgia Roadmap at any GDOT office, Georgia State Patrol Station, or Georgia Welcome Center.)

There is an old family story about my great-grandfather, W. H. Veal, working around the farm with his older siblings. The family gave him a nickname–H’chee Bill (my phonetic attempt at the name—I never saw written.) As the story goes, when any sibling failed to do a chore, or did a poor job of one, H’chee Bill was blamed for the blunder. No one would take the blame—their answer always was, “H’chee Bill did it!” It didn’t take Grandpa Nathan, long to catch on. One day upon hearing again, “H’chee Bill did it!” —-Grandpa defended little H’chee Bill. “Well!” he said, “It sounds to me like H’chee Bill is the only one around here that ever does anything!”A solid affirmation of H’chee Bill!

There is actually a psychological term for behavior, such as H’chee Bill’s siblings; it is called Diffusion of responsibility^[” —unwilling, or refusing to take responsibility. There may be a molecule of that in everyone—I know there have been times when I wish I could have said, “H’chee Bill did it!” Claiming your error, or misjudgment takes courage; it takes even more courage, the larger the blunder.

I stand in awe of someone who, when faced with an embarrassing debacle—especially if it is ruinous to people and/or property—owns responsibility. News media thrive on mistakes, blunders, and, well, anything bad. “If it bleeds, it leads.!” is often attributed to Adolph Ochs, a leading American newspaper publisher of a bygone era. The blinding light of scrutiny—especially public scrutiny, tends to chill open admission of error.

A friend of mine told me of an impressive transaction he witnessed. My friend owned a convenince store. One day a man came in with his young son who looked like an egg-sucking dog. The man said, “Mr. K, my son has someting to tell you!” In a pained, squeaky voice, the boy said, “Mr. K, I took this comic book from your store yesterday.” As painful as that deed was—for both the son and the father— it was a character building moment.

Accountability is a vital part not only of building trust, but also in maintaining trust. When God placed the man and woman in Paradise–the “Garden of Eden-–They both broke God’s trust; then a blame-game began to develop. The idea of “scape-goat” is derived from a practice where Jewish people cast their sins onto a goat, in a cleansing preparation for Yom Kippur. For Christians, Jesus is understood to be “…the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world…” A vision seen by St. John of Patmos is the cherished graphic for Christians. It is a kind of catarthic twist on “H’chee Bill did it!” —we confess our sins and trust Jesus to hold us up—as we hear his voice saying, “Go, your sins are forgiven.!”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2023