I love the Christmas season, though my natal family did not make a big deal of it. My parents lived through The Great Depression and were conditioned to frugality, and continued to live penny-wise. We lived in Deepstep, GA and advertising was not awash there. However, we did get the Sears Roebuck Christmas Book, which hypnotized me, taking my imagination far. The first Christmas tree that I remember in our house was real, but barely a tree—meagerly decorated. That Christmas Santa Claus left a toy boat, fruit, and hard candies. It was delightful!

In time, I somehow grew into the Christmas spirit, and wanted a proper Christmas tree. One day Mother was busy with my little sister, and daddy was at work. We lived on my grandfather’s farm; it was populated plentifully by trees, and among them were some cedar trees. I took a brazen step, not asking permission I ventured out; with axe in hand, and my dog Barkley in tow, we wandered among wooded areas of the farm. We searched for a the Christmas tree. Fortunately, reality hobbled my hopes for the perfect tree—because; 1) I would have to chop it down and, 2) I would have to get it from the woods down the dirt road to my house—with no help from Barkley.

I delighted in finding and bringing home—my first self-cut Christmas tree. I fell in love with that tree, because I had done it myself. I got the box of our meager decorations and set to work. I do not remember anyone helping me. I am sure I did a sloppy job, and my baby sister was too disinterested to be a critic. It was probably late afternoon and my mother was very likely tending the wood-stove preparing supper. But that Christmas we had a proper tree.

In time, Paige, the girls, and I shopped tree lots, wearing baby-packs, pushing strollers, and finally walking together. Growing older, they had opinions about choosing a Christmas tree. On one occasion we brought a tree home to set up in our den. While stringing lights, there was a rustle in the lower branches, and a small bird fluttered out—it was not a partridge!

Paige’s natal family made a big deal about Christmas; my faith pilgrimage had given me a deeper and broader appreciation of the reason for the season. Paige gently guided me in making the celebration central to our family—preparing home decorations, delicious foods, welcoming friends joining in celebration; We loved joyous music and Christmas Eve worship which far out-shines all shiny attractions.

Reflecting on that long ago day, I see I was overly presumptuous; I launched out with axe and Barkley, in search of a Christmas tree; it was as if I was the only person in the world. I took for granted that it was OK for me forage on granddaddy’s farm—and—chop down any tree I chose. In a word, I was embraced in Grace.

©Copyright 2024 Willis H. Moore

One cold Sunday morning in December Circa 1950, Cousin Reginald Mills went into the Deepstep Methodist Church early. He did this on cold Sunday mornings to light space heaters. The sanctuary would be warm by the time worship started. I was excited about today’s service; Erma and Erica Weber would sing for worship. The Weber family was living in one of my grandfather’s rental houses, next door to my house. Their family, German refugees from WW II, included six children—only the the children spoke English—and that barely; the adults spoke none. An interpreter arrived with the family. After much too short a time of orientation, she was gone.

Erma and Erica were younger than I by a couple of years. I had heard the girls sing as they did their home chores, and knew they sang beautifully. Our church choir director also knew the girls sang well. She persuaded them to sing Silent Night at church this Sunday, just before Christmas. Their English was wobbly so they chose to sing the hymn in German.

Erma and Erica, dressed in their native clothing, stood at the chancel rail; the pianist played an intro to Silent Night. As they sang, their harmony wafted heavenly into the sacred air; the all-too-familiar tune, written by Franz Xaver Gruber, was now being sung in a language unfamiliar to us—-yet Silent Night was understood entirely: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh! —-sleep in heavenly peace!

W W II had ended nearly a decade. before. The Methodist Committee on Overseas Relief (MCOR–parent of UMCOR) had been helping in Europe for years. Healing was under way, and here—worshipping with us is a family who serve the same God (I had even noticed Mr. Weber reading his Bible—probably not the KJV!). The music we were listening to—and later joined singing in English —and German—gave us, in those moments, Peace on Earth!

Music has been called the universal language. It certainly touches the very soul of our being; I am convinced it does so on many levels. Almost any accomplished musician will tell you that music, in the midst of stress or anxiety, has renewing quality.

The youth David, playing music on his harp, became a skilled musician. As a result he was recruited to play music when King Saul had his bouts with depression. David’s harp-playing was therapeutic to Saul, so he was signed on for a regular gig.

I sympathize with store employees who have to listen to “Little Drummer Boy,” a million times, October to January. However, the best of Christmas music is here to stay—especially the core carols and chorales such as Silent Night and The Messiah. Paige Moore felt that Christmas had not fully arrived until she had heard a magnificent choir performing Handel’s Messiah.

© 2024 Copyright Willis H. Moore

Growing up on the Fall Line of Georgia, I was more familiar with pine trees. Of course cedar trees were sprinkled among the post oaks, white oaks, and assorted others—but mostly there were pine trees. While a student at Emory University, Atlanta, GA, I dated a girl at Reinhardt College, Waleska, GA . One beautiful afternoon in late October she suggested we make a leaf tour in the North Georgia mountains. I had never heard of a leaf tour. Dutifully, I agreed; it was a spectacular trip—I have never forgotten it. It’s beauty opened my eyes to the palette of Fall; not only in Georgia, but also the beauty of Fall landscapes wherever they may be found.

I often admired pictures of colorful fall foliage before. Nothing compared actually to seeing the undulating mountain ranges glowing in full fall colors. As I think about that trip now, I am sure I was a disappointment to my date. I expressed appropriate “oos and ahhs” and probably said it was a good trip. At the time, I gave it a passing grade; barely.

There are seven large hardwood trees within our circular driveway; White oak, hickory, post oak, and two smaller dogwood trees. Elsewhere in our yard there are a couple of beech, and poplar trees. As I write this, two million leaves per hour are falling onto our driveway and yard (please pardon the hyperbole). Yes. The leaves are a pain—and bothersome for a bit. But what joy they bring with their palette of color—and shade during hot sunny days.

Sometimes a twig breaks off with three or four leaves with an acorn or two. The other day I found such a cluster; I picked it up and stuck the stem with its colorful array of leaves and three acorns into a geranium pot. Jennifer at first thought I had brought some decorations. A friend of mine loves the drive to church along a strip of I-85 near our house; this time of year the median is ablaze with its own palette of fall colors—we call it “picture perfect.”

The Psalmist stood in awe of the beauty, the intricacy, the wonder of Creation. However, the beauty and majesty of Creation is beyond my ability to describe. I remember with joy how Jesus commented on the splendor and magnificence of Creation. He even said the masterpiece of human creation cannot hold a candle to the beauty of the lilies of the field (RWV. Revised Willis Version).

The leaf/twig that I found on the driveway and put in the geranium pot reminds me of how often I overlook the simple beauty in our surroundings. Too often I have brushed away a twig, leaf, or limb, being otherwise focused. It is a great reward suddenly to notice something of beauty in its natural state, unnoticed before. It can open a whole new spectrum of beauty.

© 2024 Copyright Willis H. Moore

My family made Thanksgiving the pinnacle of our family celebrations. Even when our only vehicle was dad’s truck, we got up early on Thanksgiving day, had a sturdy breakfast, avd left for the trip from Deepstep to Dacula, GA. We would spend the day with Grandaddy and Grandmother Jewel Moore. It was a treat from day one. Their farm, several miles from a paved road, was neatly manicured, and well tended, surrounded by assorted fruit trees and shrubs.

One Thanksgiving celebration we watched a portable cider mill grind apples from his trees. It was a first for me. Apple trees were plentiful on his farm, but my favorite tree was the large cherry tree near their water well. Living that far in the country, there was no water or sewerage system. Grandaddy had a deep well. I now know why the well was only about eight inches wide; being that near Stone Mountain, they had to drill through a significant piece of granite to reach underground water; so they drilled as little of the granite as necessary.

Grandmother Jewel, a public school teacher, was organized and punctual with the meal. A delicious array of food was spread on the family table; our family did not get into the turkey-and-all-its-fixings. Instead we usually feasted on roast beef, or chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, beans, cornbread, and a congealed fruit salad. She also baked an excellent coconut cake. Grandaddy was a quiet man, who when he spoke, though in gentle tones, he was heard. My seat at the table was next to him.

There was a bonus in later years; my own family began going in to Atlanta Thanksgiving night. Rich’s Department Store at the corner of Alabama and Broad Street had a four-story bridge across  Forsyth Street to its adjacent building. On Thanksgiving night, each bridge was lighted and filled with colorful Atlanta choirs that sang Christmas songs and Carols. The climax was when the huge Christmas tree atop the bridge blazed into lights at he final note of O Holy Night. The crowds on the street below erupted into cheers and applause.

On Friday morning we joined the throngs as the doors opened for shopping. Paige and I scurried along through all the toy sections letting our two little girls marvel over and wonder at what Santa might bring on Christmas Eve. Rich’s had a two-hour child care opportunity, which Paige and I used while we hurried back to purchase those “necessary” toys, which we hid in the car for the trip home.

We topped off with a trip on the “Pink Pig,” a suspended Pig-shaped-monorail on the roof of Rich’s; some winters it was a cold, but still a fun ride. I hate to say it, but the sad replacement for the Pink Pig being used today is an embarassment to its legacy. Actually, I don’t hate to say it. The original Pink Pig was classy, unique, and sheer fun for the kids!

Happy Thanksgiving, to one and all!

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

The red clay hill above the house where I grew up had been terraced for years for farming. Over time a red oak, wild plum trees, blackberry bushes, a few persimmon trees, and sassafras saplings took up residence along the terrace edges. A few Red Oak trees grew in the edge of the fields. That hill was a virtual apothecary of native herbs and fruits. Bark from the red oak, soaked in herb-treated hot water—and carefully wrapped in a red-clay poultice eased a sprained ankle; sassafras roots boiled in spring water soothed sore throats, and castor oil was a truth serum—should an attempt be made to skip school by feigning sickness—it was addressed with a dose of Castor Oil—healing was miraculous! Those wild fruits along the terrace edges were delicious calls to culinary comfort and joy.

Over time, I often enjoyed hot sassafras tea as a beverage. It smells good and tastes good—well, sweetener added to it helps. You may recognize the taste of sassafras; it is the Root Beer taste. Sassafras was used in root beers, candy, and other tasty treats until 1960, when it was banned by the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA). There was good reason to ban it, because the root contains a carcinogen;  safrole, a key component of sassafras oil.

Steven Foster—known to be one of the great luminaries of, and advocates for, herbs in our generation, said,—for public safety a ban, such as that of the FDA in 1960, is needed. Samuel Thayer, author and wild plant expert said, “Sassafras as a drink has the effect of tasting good and there is no reason to remove the safrole…The amount of safrole is very small and is mostly or wholly eliminated through boiling.”

An article in the Journal for Nurse Practitioners, states that For thousands of years, traditional indigenous medicines have been used to promote health and wellbeing for millions of Native people who once inhabited this continent. It is my unscientific observation, that modern manipulations in merchandising put so much focus on manufactured meds and “the bottom line” that attention to health risks has been sketchy—causing unintended consequences.

Until the ban, A & W Root Beer, and a few candy companies had been using enormous amounts of products containing safrole. However, according to a number of naturalists, small amounts, such as in an occasional cup of tea made by boiling sassafras roots, had hardly any measurable hazard. As was mentioned, boiling the sassafras roots in the process of making tea apparently diminishes any hazard significantly. That is the way my grandmother made sassafras tea, much to my delight.

I am reminded of the aromas of sacrifices mentioned in the Bible, which were a kind of ethereal reaching out to God. The Apostle Paul, writing to the Church at Phillipi, commented on how well he was getting along made an interesting comparison; he said the marvelous provisions the church had provided for him were like a sweet smelling sacrifice offered to God. Aromas are dramatic stimuli to the memory, and to healing. In something of a similar vein, for me, the aroma of Sassafras is a kind of aroma therapy.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Lest you forgot, today (November 8) is National Ample Time Day. It is your day; established to encourage you to take a break. Instead of trudging on in your treadmill-work-a-day, pause to reassess your priorities. You will benefit greatly as you examine your schedule(s) and put your mental health and well-being into a reasonable balance.

Balance is an excellent term for a happy and fulfilling life. I can already hear protests from the peanut gallery—“I cannot get balance in my hectic life!” Balance is complex; think about it—watch excellent skaters; they seldom seem to be in balance—they lean, swoop, twirl, dance, leap, and drift in and out on the floor (or ice, as it were). The better they skate, the less in balance they seem to be. Decades ago, I was a fair-to-middling roller skater. I remember my earliest attempts at skating; I tried hard to be in balance, but fell constantly. I began to learn that controlled imbalance was the secret to good skating.

Ample time? Everyone has the same amount of time; how we choose to use time is yet another matter. It is also true no one can choose 100% how to use one’s time. And yet. The one thing you can control—time included—is your attitude. Prisoners have little or no control over their time, days, or activities—however, they too, have control over their attitude; many have found ample time to thrive and live meaningful lives, though imprisoned.

I think of Viktor Frankl; Austrian neurologist, psychologist, philosopher, author, and Holocaust survivor. Frankl refused to let prison dictate his attitude. I would say that he found ample time to do what he loved. While in prison in a Nazi concentration camp, Frankl began noticing that some prisoners died of disease, while some with the same disease, lived—even thrived. He studied carefully, and from his observations, after his release, he wrote the ground-breaking book Man’s Search for Meaning.

I confess, there are times when I let my mental myopia manipulate my attitude—thinking I just don’t have enough time. Our culture can do that to us. In fewer days than you realize our culture will cast us into a time-is-short frenzy—-the holidays of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Years Day. My daughter calls it “ThanksChrishukkah Day. Tuck a timely reminder into your very active brain—that you have Ample Time.

While working on my doctorate, and struggling with time management issues , I visited an elderly friend, Mrs. Proudfoot. I was amazed at her calm approach to her many projects. I asked how she managed difficult projects so well. She said “When I am working on a project that is difficult, or discouraging, I give myself twenty minutes to work on it. Sometimes I finish before the twenty minutes are up. But I know that after twenty minutes I need to make a change. But stopping before I get discouraged gives me a better attitude for going back to the project later.” She chose an important “Self-care” option and put it in place. You also have the choice to enjoy “Ample Time.” It is a choice. Jesus said that when you pray, go into your private room; That way you are incharge of you own thoughts; It is your time.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

When I was in first grade, my family became friends with a quaint family that lived away off the beaten track. Their home was a large log cabin with a covered walkway from the house to the kitchen. I learned that they put the kitchen a distance from the house—in case the kitchen caught fire it was more likely the house could be saved. They had no electricity and grew all the food they needed on their farm. To me one of the strangest quirks was how they would tell time; they called it “sun time.”.” There was no clock in their house. Sun time, also known as solar time or apparent time, is a way to measure time based on the position of the sun in the sky—-the way a sundial tells time.

Time Zones became necessary over 200 years ago, because railroads needed precise schedules. Poo-bahs of time divided the earth roughly into twenty-four time zones. GMT or Greenwich Mean Time or Coordinated Universal Time. UTC. marked the international starting point (my term). In an economic move during WW I, The Standard Time Act of 1918 established DST as law in the U.S. The law also established the five time zones that are still in use today.  The United States switched back to Standard time in 1974; it was short lived, for in 1987 we were back to DST.

In the United States, Arizona and Hawaii, do not observe DST and never change their clocks. In 2021 the State of Georgia Legislature passed a law establishing a permanent Daylight Saving Time—-However, the law cannot go into effect unless and until Congress makes it law. I could be quite happy if DST became permanent—in many ways life could be made more convenient and in my humble opinion, safer.

Meanwhile, we live in a bifocal state of time. Therefore unless your electronics do it for you—this weekend you will need to move your clock back one hour at 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, November 3—The compensation is that you get one extra hour of sleep (that hour you lost last March). I am quite happy for my electronics to make that late-night change for me; but for my other time-pieces, I start around noon on Saturday setting to EST—in anticiipation of that extra upcoming hour.

This discussion is a focus on -chronous —a measure of time. There is yet another kind of time; Kairos–as in the time has come, or the fruition of time. The Gospel of Luke describes Kairos as the birth of the Christ child—or it may be said, in God’s own time. Time does not change—only our perception or use of time. Kairos is an important way Christians perceive and use time. Another way of thinking of Kairos is, “in the fullness of time.” Kairos provides a wonderful sense of readiness, being patient and ready—in God’s own time.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

Next week an age-old tradition—-with a plethora of new twists—will be celebrated—Halloween. Scary ghosts, goblins, and mechanical manipulations are already in action. I was in a local retailer recently and a big, ugly, scary creature jumped out at me. I wasn’t scared. I was in that department. I knew all the stuff was simply merchandise striving for my attention—and credit card. Fake fright merchandising has become a commercial staple; Here where I live, former malls, become staging arenas for strolls through ghastly, gruesome, grisly—quite realistic scenes—and long lines form. Some of these productions last for weeks.

Scary thrills range from roller coasters to horror houses—simplistic or spectacular—such are already cropping up to celebrate Halloween. Scary becomes Scarred—or scared to death. Medical science says a person can be scared to death, literally. Oh, you’ve probably said, “That nearly scared me to death!” But you’re still alive. This from Cleveland Clinic Health Essentials: (It is) caused by your brain’s fight-or-flight response occurring after physical or emotional stress.This is also called broken heart syndrome or Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. Stress-induced cardiomyopathy means stress has caused (most often temporary) dysfunction or failure of the heart muscle. “The symptoms are similar to those of a heart attack,” according to cardiac surgeon A. Marc Gillinov, MD

Many people enjoy being scared; they seek out—and gladly pay great sums of $$$ for horror movies, thrill rides, adventures that frighten. An article in 2924 Behavioral Health posits research that being scared can not only be fun but also good for you. Fear arises out of our flight-fight DNA. When threatened, or feeling threatened, our entire being leaps into the protection mode. That is good. It is basic survival.

Usually we are pretty sure we are safe when we put ourselves into scary situations, and those same impulses leap into action. I characterize it like the ubiquitous “Emergency Alert System” test that interrupts broadcasts. Here is one of those occasions when being scared can be a life-saving benefit. In such cases, being scarred can be—if not a benefit—well, a least is a blessing.

I see a paradox here. It is a little like the car I bought a couple of years ago; if I veered out of my lane, a signal beeped, if I failed to buckle my seatbelt, again, a beeping—and so on with safety signals. The fun of driving a car is interrupted when danger lurks. The alarm is for protection; in a word you are scared so you won’t be scarred! It harks back to the primeval flight-fight warning system that comes with your brain.

This Halloween let your fun only scare you—don’t let it scar you. We human beings are far more advanced than new vehicles that warn us of impending hazards; we can find both safety and fun in our daily encounters. The Psalmist virtually exulted over how magnificently and intricately God made us human beings.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

I have the opportunity to gaze deeply into a small window of my life a way back. Several weeks ago I received a phone call. Someone had found a box of my personal items, left in an in attic decades ago; the caller ticked off a list of some of the contents in the box—items I recognized—then he asked, “Do you want this box?” Of course I did! even a couple of the items he listed would be treasures in themselves.

The box arrived. I won’t bore you with its contents, but out popped that wondrous window into my past. As I sorted through the contents, memories flashed through my brain; some recall was clear and cherished. Other items brought only vague recollection. The surprise was that some reminders were entirely different from my current memory; “Oh! I don’t remember it that way!” But there it was, physical documentation of time, place, or event.

I was (and maybe still am) having confabulations; which happen to people often. The reality of confabulation is such that “eye witness” testimony has proved to be questionable, if not unreliable. We all have confabulations. It is quite likely that when you went to a class reunion, you discovered that you remembered a person’s name or their relationship differently—which caused a pause, if not embarrassment.

I did not pack this box as a time capsule but it turns out to be one. It accurately captures a window into my past, and offers opportunity to reminisce. An unexpected opportunity, is that it offers my children and grandchildren an accurately curated recall of “The way it was.” At any rate, these items will somewhat verify some of my tales .

I have to admit I get a profound sense of joy as I finger through the contents of this box. I have no deadline, and I don’t have to answer any test questions. This is simply an unexpected serendipity. One of the joys life has to offer is an unexpected, unearned excursion, adding new dimensions to the day. That phone call certainly was unexpected and like Mary Lennox’ s discovery of the secret garden in her uncle’s estate, it opened wonderful vistas of past times.

Looking back can be a helpful guide to moving into the future. There is just enough content in that box to help a little with that effort. One helpful point is to handle past, present, and future relationships with grace. No one is perfect. A window into the past, as minute and brief as it may be, invites opportunity for grace.

Lest you suspect that I discovered a reminder of some egregious deed, I did not. Although I do have memory of my wrong deeds, words, and unkindness—that is not my focus here. I recall what St John of Patmos wrote—that if we confess our sins, God will forgive. That is grace of which I speak.

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024

I wanted to write a memorable op-ed piece about the importance of a bridge—not any bridge in particular—Merriam-Webster gives fourteen different definitions of “bridge.” But a childhood memory prompted me to this: bridges fascinate and frighten me. One of my earliest encounters with a bridge was the one on Deepstep creek beside Mr. Pittman’s grist mill. I was sitting on the wooden curb of that bridge when a pickup truck rumbled across. As it crossed near me, a board pinched the calf of my leg making a blood blister. Not that the bridge was unsafe—-I was just sitting in the wrong place. It made that bridge memorable!

That bridge, the millpond dam, and Mr. Pittman’s grist mill are long gone—-giving way to the paved road crossing the creek. Most bridges are essential. A bridge, planned and built well in a strategic place is an immense benefit. Then there is The Bridge to Nowhere. Located in the San Gabriel Mountains of California—the bridge truly goes nowhere. That large, sturdy bridge, unlike some useless bridges, was not a boondoggle. It was part of a new important route through the mountains. However, after the bridge was completed, dramatic shifts in the mountains in other parts of the route created insurmountable costs to complete the plans.

A bridge should connect. Physical bridges connect communities, travel routes, and add beauty fo the landscape. The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco comes to mind. This bridge was built against all odds; scientific advice, natural elements, costs, loss of lives—nevertheless, it was built and stands as as an engineering marvle of the ages.

A bridge of greater value is a bridge connecting relationships. Most of us read, heard, or remembered history of the Constitutional Convention of 1787. While we praise and admire the product of that event—These United States of America—it came with great travail. After gaining independence from the King of Engalnd, these Colonies struggled dramatically, and from that struggle built a bridge—one could safely say—several bridges of consensus to create this nation.

Like the physical bridges throughout our land that need repair, renewal—if not replacement, our human bridges need constant care and feeding; understanding, trust, and effective compromise are vital to the integrity of our relationship bridges. This from an article published in Web-MD to maintain a close friendship… Be present. Make the time you spend together count. Put away your cell phone. Avoid distractions. Ask questions, and be an active listener. Engage in the conversation. Use good eye contact. If you want to “cross a chasm” it follows that you must build a bridge.

I think of an old Jewish guy who had two sons-–one was practical, the other had wanderlust—staying at home on the farm was confining. He wanted freedom. He got it; and he got a genuine life-lesson. Upon hitting bottom, he realized he was alone. The only bridge he knew was home, and his father. He thought it was a bridge too far, but had no other choice. Returning home, “with his tail tucked between his legs,” he found redeeming love. His father too, crossed a bridge that tradition deemed too far. But a Father’s love is never a bridge “to nowhere.”

©Copyright Willis H. Moore 2024