I am a recovering Bigot. It took a while to name it—a long while. Its roots go away back. And there are no BA meetings (Bigots Anonymous) available to attend for recovery. So I’m relegated to self-recovery. I first recognized the symptoms before I knew its reality.    

Football season was over, and my SHS Dance Band practice ended early that Thursday night. With my freshly minted drivers license safely stashed, a full tank of gas in the truck, I wanted to hit the road. In the distance, I saw the lights of the pumping station at the Kaolin mine: Mr Landers’ truck was parked out front. Ten miles from anywhere,  I was not ready to go home yet. At least I could stop and talk with him. He lived in a rented house up the road from my home. His son was couple of grades below me in high school; and not an impressive student.

I knocked on the door and Mr. Landers invited me in. “I’m just sittin’ here workin’ on the Sunday School lesson I’m teachin’ Sunday” he drawled. “The pumps are purrin’, ” he said, “so I’ve got some time,” .  He’s working on teaching a Sunday School lesson!? The idea was incongruous: I thought, “Here I am a senior in high school, and holding a Methodist Local Preachers’ License! (It was possible back then). What could this man, sitting in overalls covered in chalk dust, know about Bible teaching!?’ Well. My astonishment flew back in my face. Mr. Landers began connecting the power of God’s Creation and the wonders of God’s love as recounted first in the Old Testament; Then from the New Testament he joyfully opened the warmth and strength of life in Jesus. I sat in awe. I hope my bigotry didn’t emerge.      

 In the Fall, I went away to college, my next step toward seminary and ordination. That scene in the pumping station stuck in my mind like the earworm of a bad country song. Later, in Seminary at Emory University, I sat in the halls of academe hearing lectures by world renowned theologians, and yet, Mr. Landers quietly and confidently had opened biblical truths to me; how could this be? I hope my bigotry didn’t emerge.      

After seminary graduation and ordination, I served in Campus Ministry, country, and town churches. In one, twenty miles from anywhere, I met an elderly widow. Often we sat cracking crab-shells, digging out the luscious meat. She, in gentle ways, cracked hardened ideas of mine; she opened vistas of learning and service still opaque to me. She, I observed, hadn’t been to seminary: yet she offered insights not found in the ivy halls of learning.  I hope my bigotry didn’t emerge.      

Then, while working on my doctoral studies, I went on a field trip with our professor: it was a tiny shack of a church: propped precariously on the side of a North Georgia Mountain.  Not a hymn book in sight, but joyous songs filled the rafters, sung lustily. The preacher, in his overalls, sweating , preaching with dynamism, couldn’t read: his son lined out each passage from the Bible as his father requested it. An expository Bible teaching was fully given, And yet. And yet, again I say: How could this be?  I hope my bigotry didn’t emerge.    

My doctoral study group was multiracial, and had not a single United Methodist in it: everyone was from a different faith tradition. Over time, as we studied, struggled, laughed, and prayed together, I found my answer! I discovered my bigotry. I am, have been, and always will be, a recovering bigot. I am not a practicing bigot: there is not yet a BA meeting to attend. However, I have found solace, and meet regularly, with Jesus. When I don’t, the old self rises up.

So. Now I’m coming out: I am a recovering bigot. It is frustrating. I just cannot shed every iota of it. But there is hope. There is forgiveness. There is The Way.  As Charles Wesley prayed (in song) “…take away our bent to sinning, Alpha and Omega thou art. End of Faith as its beginning Set our hearts at liberty.” Henri Nouwen said, when an evil spirit (and bigotry is one) challenges, focus on Jesus; the evil spirit will fade away. I am learning that I have to re-focus. Constantly .

( FYI; In case you missed it: The Merriam  Webster Definition of bigot: a person who is obstinately or intolerantly devoted to his or her own opinions and prejudices

 Jared, an early elementary school boy, lived on our street. Our families were friends; members of the same church, went camping together, and his mother taught at the same elementary school with Paige. Jared admired our high-school-age daughters and was with our family a lot. It was fun having him around. Friends of our daughters thought Jared was their little brother—an “oops” in our  childbearing years .(He was as blond-headed as they, adding to such speculation.)

From time to time, our doorbell would ring. Jared, standing there, would ask,”Can Mrs. Moore come out and play?” Paige always cheerfully went out for a game. Sometimes Jared and I would have the following conversation:

Jared: “Mr. Moore. I have a great idea!” 

Me:  “Jared, what is your great idea?”

Jared: “Why don’t I stay and have dinner with y’all?”

Me: “Jared, that is a great Idea. I’ll call your mom and tell her.”

Jared: “Don’t call her. She will say ‘No.’”

Paige or I would call Diane and announce (over her protests) “Jared is having dinner with us tonight.”

We took Jared on one of our camping trips . During our stay at the campground, we went out for our usual, non-camping-splurge-dinner; this time to a Chinese Restaurant. Jared said he had never eaten Moo goo gai pan, so he ordered it. When his serving came, his eyes were like deer-in-headlights; but he dug in courageously. He had barely made a dent in the generous serving, when he asked if he could take the rest with him to the campground, “For tomorrow?” 

Every night we built a campfire. The highlight at the campfire was roasting marshmallows; putting them on a slab of Hershey’s chocolate between two graham crackers. I told him they are S’mores. When he got home he told his family about them; he said we had named this new desert “The Moores.” 

Hospitality is a salve that can conciliate all kinds of relationships; it tends to make living in community more joyful. And. it soothes all sorts of rough spots. Jesus was scolded for allowing a woman of the streets to pour costly ointment on his feet.
Jesus pointed out to his host that not even he had provided the customary hospitality of providing water for washing the dust from his guest’s feet. The Scripture has not only ample examples of hospitality, but also admonitions generously to provide it—- especially to strangers. Jesus taught that hospitality should be provided; even to difficult or hostile people. (Yep! they had those back then too.) Hebrew traditions are heavy with displays of offering hospitality.

A hospitality template for the treatment of others may be found in Odysseus’s treatment of others. It is said that modern hospitality finds it roots in The Odyssey. “The most important value at the core of Homer’s The Odyssey is hospitality,” according to Sparknotes editors. Our recovery of vibrant civility could find fountains of resources for hospitality in The New Testament as well as The Odyssey.

As Jared’s presence with our family demonstrates, the gift of hospitality keeps on giving. We didn’t think of what we were doing as hospitality, yet those experiences likely blessed us far more than they blessed Jared.

When Melanie and Jennifer were toddlers, I often carried one or the other on my shoulders; usually the one who was tired, or walked too slowly. The view was better up there, and having fun with my hair or cap provided amusement. I don’t know who enjoyed it more. The first Thanksgiving Eve we could do so, we took them to the Annual Christmas Concert at Atlanta Rich’s department store on the Forsyth Street bridge.  Paige and I, each, had a backpack child carrier. It was near genius;. not only could the girls see the choirs in the windows of every level, but also they were safely kept close to us.

I’ve thought about that experience many times. Those shoulders are a metaphor; for, well, actually for all of us. John Donne said, “‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.” Even when we feel isolated, forgotten, or worthless (as COVID-19 Pandemic easily causes), we are not alone. We are held on the shoulders, especially these days, of Frontline Workers, behind-the-scenes truckers, pilots, delivery people, and multitudes of unseen, unheralded resource people.

Nothing you can see or touch is yours alone—untouched by another; even the dirt you stand on is touched by God.   In, Ulysses, by  Alfred Lord Tennyson says, in a connecting sentence (no pun intended), “I am a part of all that I have met”; It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes, as the saying goes, to discover our connection; John Guare  wrote a play –“Six Degrees of Separation”( the 1990 movie by that name, was based on the play). The point,—all relationships are connected. There is substantial linkage to the degree of dependance each of us has to shoulders on which we stand.

Reminders are all around these days, in the media and landscape, that we are not alone; I’m not preaching, or lecturing, only describing; —- A woman dropping a bundle of supplies at the front door of a large, stressed family; a teacher delivering a school packet to the door of a new student’s home; Firefighters leaping off the truck—donning masks, gloves, and a Go-Pack to lift a man who fell and cannot get up.  True, many of these get paid, (often-wretchedly) yet they trot out extra care. Each is a human being caring about another human being —whoever it is.

Deeper and more profoundly significant are shoulders of those long gone who helped place us here. My friend, Rev. Tom Mills said, “ If you see a turtle on a post, you know it did not get there by itself.” It is a recall I practice; not often enough. I cannot recount the people on whose shoulders I stand. Even yours, dear reader, are shoulders upon which I stand.

I think Paul was trying to give such a message to Timothy, his “son-in-the-ministry.” Paul reminded the young man of the support and influence of Lois, his grandmother. He pointed to Timothy’s mother, Eunice as well; a stalwart in the Faith. Apparently, Timothy was having  a crisis of faith or confidence. And who hasn’t been there?

The late Ralph McGill, Editor of the Atlanta Constitution used to say of complicated connections, “The fleas come with the dog.” Paul was attempting to tell Timothy, “Life’s work is never easy, but look! You stand on substantial shoulders. They will not let you down!” Timothy was, as is each of us, “A turtle on a post.”

 I was being trained as Church Consultant in Metro Atlanta; Melanie, my daughter was a reporter for a suburban daily newspaper in an adjacent city . My office was six hours away, therefore I stayed nights at her apartment during the training. I knew she didn’t make much money—beginning reporters typically don’t—I did help with groceries. My training event was to end near dinner time on the last day. I promised to take Melanie to a nice restaurant for dinner. She and I agreed to meet at the mall;  she would be off from work by then.

My training event ended about five hours early; I took a book to read and wait at the food court. Melanie arrived as scheduled. She, a pretty, blond, young woman, looked sharp in her business suit; I, a middle-aged man, was dressed in a coat and tie. I stood up, hugged her, and said, “You look great! I love you!” (pause) “Wouldn’t you know it! my training event finished hours ago. If I had not left my clothes at your apartment, I would have driven home tonight.” Just as the words left my mouth, we both realized what this scene could could suggest; two little old ladies sitting at the next table sat with eyebrows raised, seeming to confirm it . Melanie and I kept straight faces until we got further down the mall—-then we erupted into hilarity; we relished those ladies’ assumption, thinking they had seen a juicy tryst.

People make assumptions abundantly; often wrong ones; some leave lasting, troublesome, results. It is likely that a wrong assumption started one of the most pernicious, enduring, feuds of all time. Genesis 27 tells about Isaac promising a blessing to Esau, his son; Isaac sent Esau on a hunting trip to bring back meat for making his favorite stew. Isaac promised to bless Esau before God. Jacob, Esau’s twin brother, pulled a clever switcheroo. With the help of his mother, Jacob camouflaged his skin and clothes to trick Isaac, his blind father. It worked; Old Isaac assumed he was blessing Esau, but it was Jacob who received the blessing. The descendants of the two brothers have been hostile at best and belligerent at worst for thousands of years since. 

Most assumptions do not have such a paroxysm, social, or otherwise. Nevertheless, one treads on thin ice putting to much stock in an assumption. Jesus framed assumptions as judging; Matthew 7 “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged.  For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get.”  An old farm wife put it in a down-to-earth construct: “Wash your own windows first; don’t assume it’s your neighbor’s windows that are dirty.

I think the old Gospel hymn frames it poignantly, in a positive direction;
“Many have burdens too heavy to bear, Help somebody today! Grief is the portion of some everywhere, Help somebody today!” Wouldn’t our world be a much better place if we put these words into our daily actions!? Instead of looking for, or assuming the worst, be a helper instead.

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I do not remember when Gerald joined the Moore Clan. I know only that he is a permanent fixture with us. Allow me to speculate; sometime during my granddaughter, Katie’s preschool days, Gerald showed up. I think Katie may have dug up this small concretion from a flower bed, having found him buried. Maybe the former owner left him; she was into growing flowers, shrubs and such. Gerald was covered in Georgia red clay and dirt; not an obvious treasure. But Katie loved him (I don’t know is gender, but a female would never stay this dirty!); she named him Gerald.

Although an inanimate object, Gerald disappeared from time to time.  Maybe I should say, Gerald reappeared from time to time—found in unlikely places; on the slide; on the deck; in the swing set; in a flowerpot; in Nana’s favorite outdoor swing; on the deck table at grilling time. Turns out, Katie was not the only one who resurrected Gerald. No one ever asked where Gerald was. We just knew he would show up.

We sold our house to move into a senior living facility. When Paige had to move into a skilled care facility, I moved in with Jennifer, our daughter. Somehow Gerald showed up there. When building codes did not permit our building my apartment onto her house, we moved again. Gerald showed up there, too. Over the years, Gerald remains a steadfast fixture at the Moore household.

In a world constantly changing, there is comfort in finding something constant. I have a few constant close friends; some from high school, some from college, and some from churches we served. Over the years our lives crisscrossed the world. Yet each time any of us reconnects, it is like a fun family reunion. Friends stick together. Many a time we have hugged each others’ babies, stood together by open graves, and, in times past, hugged each other for comfort or joy.

  A most remarkable friendship is that of David and Jonathan; he was son of King Saul; read about this friendship in the book of 1 Samuel. Jonathan and David were devoted friends.“And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul” (1 Samuel 18:1  KJV) However,  when David received more praise than Saul, he became a hunted man—by Jonathan’s father; yet David and Jonathan remained steadfast friends.

Steadfast friends are worth more than great wealth. They rank at the top in a hierarchy of relationships, close to something like your relationship with God. God will never leave you. God is steadfast, faithful; “… he is still faithful today to the covenant that he made with your ancestors .” Somewhat like Gerald, the mysterious frog, God just keeps showing up; sometimes when we least expect Him. Though we may not always feel God’s presence, or see God’s handiwork, God is faithful and will never leave us. “Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be satisfied with what you have. For God has said, “I will never leave you; I will never abandon you.”

Yep! You guessed it, as does God,—and faithful friends, Gerald showed up again.  He is  here; he sits outside our kitchen on a window ledge, watching over butterflies, birds, and wildlife near our deck.

Dear Reader, permit me to digress today; one stage of grief is Anger. I want to speak of my anger; later, I will return apace to the raison d’être of this Blog, “Finding Joy in the Journey.”

I am angry. My anger is directed at the horrid disease that took Paige from me. Yesterday, August 20, we would have celebrated our 57th Wedding Anniversary. But Cortico Ganglionic Basal Degeneration flung open a door that took her from me on March 26, 2020. I am angry. My anger is at the disease that cruelly chiseled away Paige’s control of her body. (I thank God her mind continued vibrant). In slow, steady cadence she lost physical usefulness of her body; her beautifully crafted first-grade-teacher-handwriting waned, her gait control lessened; on it continued, at the end, someone else was doing everything but think for her. Now Paige is gone forever and I am angry; at the disease.    

My anger is not at the  helpers, human and otherwise;  I am immensely thankful  for all the medical personnel, research, skill, and facilities that were at our service (and good insurance). I am grateful that Paige, in her final days, did not have to live through this harsh isolation demanded by COVID-19. As our anniversary approached, I began to recognize and confront my anger. The disease is invisible.  I cannot punch it in the nose!, ” It cannot hear, so I cannot shout it away or, as my dad used to say, “Cuss it out!

Anger must be expressed, healed thoroughly, or it will bust out in unsavory, unwelcome ways. The Prophet Jeremiah recognized the need do deal with wounds; anger or otherwise. “They have healed also the hurt of the daughter of my people slightly, saying, Peace, peace; when there is no peace.“(Jeremiah 6:14)

As a clergyman, I have read books on grief; I’ve done grief counseling for over sixty years. I know  the stages of grief; but the stages of grief are not self-evident, nor neatly paced; I am not holding a textbook in hand. What enlightened me was a comment from a Hospice; counselor, “You have been grieving for over four years; you had Anticipatory Grief.” This was an epiphany for me; I can see why I had not felt/displayed familiar grief behavior following the death of my beloved. My grief has been like an underground leaky pipe; gradually revealing its random, silent, seepage. Grief must be acknowledged in a healthy manner. It is real. I am angry.     

I am angry. I chose to sublimate my anger. Writing tends to provide a more therapeutic if not refined, emotional outlet. For some it is a diary, or expressing feelings through writing; others write letters (sent or unsent). Psychologist, James Pennebaker, encourages “emotionally expressive writing”. Choose whatever healthy medium that appropriately expresses your anger; writing or otherwise; it will tend to heal your hurt, and help you, and give you hope. (firidayswithwillis.com will not become a vent for my grief; I’ve found healthy means of dealing with it without spewing onto others.)

When Adam Walsh was kidnapped and murdered, his father, Television Host, John Walsh, dealt with his anger in a healthy, helpful manner; he chose to help others. He is primarily responsible for the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act enacted by Congress, July 27. 2006. Not only did it help his anger, it is helping millions of people. John Walsh found a magnificent way to express his anger and hurt. Anger is a natural, even necessary emotion. Its expression, however must be healthy, channeled constructively and non-hurtful to its host and others. Jesus got angry; angry at the abuses, the desecration, the unfairness being dealt out in the Temple. He took a rope and cleared house, expressing his anger visibly.

This COVID-19 Pandemic generates a spectrum of genuine anger; you, my dear reader, are angry, unless I’m wrong. Please find ways for help, hope, and humor. Find help; find reasons to hope; find ways to laugh. Thankfully, many are finding healthy, helpful, and sometimes humorous means of expressing their anger. It is the right thing to do. In this Pandemic catastrophe, “…look,” as Mr. Rogers said, “for the helpers.” We will get through it. “Find Joy in the Journey.”

 

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In typically-turbulent-adolescent years, my go-to-music experience was radio. On Monday nights my family gathered around the radio and listened to “Cities Service Band of America; it was entirely brass band music (my dad was a trumpet player). We also had a radio in our kitchen; one day my dad’s foot caught the extension cord, snatching the radio to the floor.  The bakelite casing shattered, leaving only a bare radio chassis; it was unsightly. The station selector and radio still worked, so I was happy to receive the remains of that radio.

That skeleton-of-a-radio was my conduit to a love of Dixieland Jazz; on Saturday nights, after “bedtime” I tuned to Radio station, WWL New Orleans. There, Pinky’s Alley played Dixieland Jazz in “The Blue Room” of the Rosevelt Hotel; WWL, a “Clear Channel” station broadcasted throughout the nation, without interference from other radio stations; that is why I could receive WWL in Deepstep, GA!

“On December 31, 1935, the Blue Room opened and was, for decades, the premiere music venue in the city. The performers in the earlier years of the Blue Room included Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Sammy Kaye, and Guy Lombardo.” (Thanks to my little NOLA Crazy Cajun buddy’s father—she said I could call her that—, Carlos Mladenoff, for this information!)

 What a musical windfall! There I first heard what became my favorite Dixieland Jazz number, “Basin Street Blues;” ”Muskrat Ramble”also joined my choices, then many others; Pinky’s Alley became my own private “Play List,” on Saturday nights. I did not know until years later thatI was”audience” among the underworld underbelly in the Rosevelt Hotel, and the infamous, late governor Huey Long’s illicit machinations.

Those were my adolescent years; while I was not as troubled, as King Saul, music soothed my soul also; it was Dixieland music from Pinky’s Alley . Music plays an important role in human life; It not only has healing qualities, but also  heraldic bearings, When the Ark of the Covenant was returned to Jerusalem, King David called forth a virtual orchestra in musical celebration! A plethora of different kinds of musical instruments added to that grand celebration.

Neil Diamond puts the spirit of the matter into modern phrasing;

Song sung blue, everybody knows one
Song sung blue, every garden grows one
Me and you are subject to
The blues now and then
But when you take the blues
And make a song
You sing ’em out again

Today, reflecting on my eclectic musical tastes, it seems here I composed an Ode to Pinky’s Alley; now a long lost entity . As Neil Diamond said, “…everybody knows (a song)…“So, today I leave you, with the words of Rogers and Hart;

“… I always knew
I would live life through
With a song in my heart…”

As I sat on our deck in a cool breeze of the early morning, the sound of birdsong was dwarfed by another sound of nature; the buzzing, clicking of Cicadas dominated the usual early morning nature sounds. Although not yet over powering all morning sounds, the Cicadas definitely led the way. Rather than being grouchy that I couldn’t hear song birds, I thought, “Here it is August already, and you July Flies are still around.”

On the farm in Deepstep, where I grew up, every summer we would hear that loud, hollow, buzzing in the trees; typically, it would begin in July. My grandparents called them “July Flies;” actually they are “Cicadas.”  When Zach, my grandson, began his pilgrimage in Boy Scouts, I went with the troop on most of their camping, hiking, and canoeing excursions. On one camping trip we were deep in the woods when an adult leader said, “Do you hear that?” It was a cacophonous racket; an overpowering hum, sounding something like a massive gas-powered model airplane airshow! He said, “It is the sound of Cicadas. They return every seventeen years.” Deep in the woods, unencumbered by civilization, this population Cicadas was impressive; their sound  was unmistakable. He was mostly correct about the seventeen year cycle.

Actually, there are some species that do have a seventeen year life span. Some seem to like to disappear for years, reappearing in masses at regular intervals. The life span of some species is two to five years. Some live much longer. According to one reliable source;  “Even periodical cicadas occur most years in different geographic regions as they are split among 15 brood cycles, each lasting 13 or 17 years.”

Some cultures find life-rebirth symbolism in Cicadas; others see in them symbolism of purity. Cicadas are virtually harmless. They do provide some defense against certain invasive vegetation. Cicadas typically do not invade like the Locusts of biblical proportions. Much of their value is providing a link in the food chain.

Mostly, what I remember of “July Flies”happened during Vacation Bible School outdoor activities; boys found abandoned shells of July Flies. An impressive sight, looking like the live insect, they were ideal tor frightening girls. Even more exciting, was saving the shell of a Cicada and slipping it into a girl’s purse; a set-up for a delayed surprise. For some reason, I knew about such tricks.

Implicitly, Scripture puts Cicadas in perspective;

Then God commanded, “Let the earth produce all kinds of animal life: domestic and wild, large and small”—and it was done. So God made them all, and he was pleased with what he saw. (Genesis 1:24)

I like the way Cecil F. Alexander illuminates that Genesis passage:

All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all.

The first time I saw lily pads was in the Everett pond on Deepstep Creek. They were in something of a cove in the pond; a little basin of lily pads. My next encounter with lily pads was one summer at Little Ocmulgee State Park . My job at the Park was hauling garbage, groundskeeping; and– tending the lakefront— which usually meant uprooting and removing Prickly Pears. Also, that summer I did odd jobs to supplement my earnings so I could return to college in the fall; one job was babysitting. That’s where I earned admiration from Sadie, the eight-year-old next door. Her parents often hired me to baby-sit She knew about my work at the park and wanted to go on a boat ride.

One afternoon, Sadie’s dad brought her to the park as I as getting off work. He said wearily, “She’s yours till dinner time!” Sadie and I got into a john-boat and paddled up near a growth of Cypress trees. I spotted a cluster of lily pads with their beautiful blossoms. Sadie insisted that we pick a few, to bring home and plant in their back-yard Koi pond. I reached over the boat hull and managed to reel in, by its very long stem, one lily pad . Caked on the root was an awful chunk of black, smelly, sticky, mud. Sadie ignored the mud and gushed over the beauty of the lily pad’s blossom. She put the whole mess into a bucket in the boat; satisfied with her haul, and that we had preserved enough nourishment for it to survive, she was ready to go home.

That lily pad became something of a a parable for me; the contrast! This beautiful pristine, white, blossom arose from dark, dank, disgusting lake mud. Two comparable images came to mind; 1) There are people born in, and/or brought up in, squalid, horrid environs; They weathered and rose above those conditions, blossoming into magnificent human beings . And the other image, 2) The redemptive transformative power of God; God can use even the most unpleasant, disgusting elements to perform His magnificent creations. The Psalmist puts it this way;

“He also brought me up out of a horrible pit,
Out of the miry clay,
And set my feet upon a rock,
And established my steps”. (Psalm 40:2)

Water Lilies, Lily Pads, Lotus blossoms, are sought after the world over; Maybe you’ve encountered a body of water populated with lily pads; most likely you’ve been amazed at how these unusual aquatic plants float on top of the water. They actually have built-in flotation support. Although these plants appear to be floating placidly, there is actually a lot going on beneath the calm surface for important reasons. Lily pads are an important part of the ecosystem. Lily pads are just one part of a larger pond-plant species that thrives in shallow lakes and ponds. There are about 70 different species of this aquatic flowering plant, found in both temperate and tropical zones.     

Lily Pads floating on the water provide something of an oxygenator for their roots, buried in the mud. They also provide place for frogs to rest in the sun, protected from underwater predators; their round leaf, looks like a little green Kiosk table. Underneath the frogs floating on the surface of a pad, fish rest in their shade; shielded from waterbirds and other predators. Before you rush out to bring home lily pads, do a little research; some are invasive to certain environments. Enjoy their beauty–at a distance—where they safely grow, displaying their exquisite beauty. Lily pads remind me of the hymn, For the Beauty of the Earth.

“For the beauty of the earth, Of the day and of the night, Hill and vale and tree and flower, Sun and moon and stars of light. Lord of all we raise, This our song of grateful praise!”