put a fork in it!

“Unless you have been very, very lucky, you have undoubtedly experienced
events in your life that have made you cry.
So unless you have been very, very lucky, you know that a good,
long session of weeping can often make you feel better,
even if your circumstances have not changed one bit.”

Lemony Snicket, Horseradish


(a festive butter turkey / Julie Cook / 2020)

I trust everyone had a nice Thanksgiving yesterday…
no matter what it may have looked like.

Ours was odd and quiet.

Over the past two weeks, my husband and I have had our fair share of tests that were
both positive and negative.
And since we really didn’t know which way was really up or down, we opted to forego the
annual family adventure to Savannah with both the Mayor and Sherrif.

And so I mourned for a good full day…
stewing in my self-indulgence of pity for not being able to be a family together…

And then, just like that, I picked myself up from wallowing and rolled up my sleeves and started cooking.

I must remember that there are so many who have lost loved ones this year, who have
lost jobs, who have lost a sense of peace and well-being… pandemic or not…
emptiness seems to be spreading itself far and wide.

So when in doubt, cook.

Cooking Thanksgiving for two is comprised of all the same components, just on a
somewhat smaller scale.
Being busy in the kitchen is cathartic…it always has been.

As for picking up this peculiar virus despite all attempts of being careful, has us baffled.
But such is the life for us all during a time of pandemic.
My husband was never really “sick”.
I had a sinus infection, but I can have those with or without a pandemic…
so go figure.

Either way, I knew/know that the Mayor and Sherrif were /are where I want to be…
because anywhere they are, I definitely want to be.

In fact, I bought that butter turkey for the Mayor.
She’s like her grandmother in that she can pick up a ball of butter and
be quite content.

I was looking forward to wandering those Spanish moss-lined streets holding
a little hand or two.
I had actually done some research and had located my great, great, great
grandfather’s house in Savannah.

It still stands and, like many houses in this most historic city, it has been
refurbished and is currently a private residence.
I had wanted us to all go find it together.

Instead, we are here in the midst of an arduous process of packing up house.
Seems there will be a move in our future come mid-January.

Ever since my husband retired, for the past two years, we’ve talked about moving.
“Downsizing” we brilliantly announced to no one but the cats.
We have no family here but the two of us, four if you count the cats, so it seemed
to make sense.

And so I blame our son.
He laid these seeds a few months back when he had us go look at houses.
They want to eventually move…of which I hope they can get out of Atlanta…
I just don’t think he figured we’d go on first…
but what we explained is that time is not so much on our side as it is on his.
So we’d blaze the trail and they could follow suit.

And yet here it is during a pandemic as I now find myself waking up each morning
wondering what in the heck was I thinking!?

Let me just cut my arm open and pour in the salt —as that seems to be pretty much
on par with this self-induced burden.

Aren’t we all seeking security and comfort during these trying times and yet
I’m packing up my world and taking it on the road?

Oh well.

Time to be rolling up my sleeves, again.

Many of us are ready to say good-bye and good ridence to this year of 2020…
but one thing I’ve learned in life…do not be so quick to wish your life away.
Do not assume that 2021 will be better.
We hope it will, we pray it will, but we simply don’t know.

So we must learn to be content with each day as it comes.
We are not guaranteed tomorrow and yesterday has come and gone.
It is simply the here and now that is ours.
And it is up to us how we deal with it.

May we deal well.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow,
for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Matthew 6:34

A wealth of thanks

“When it comes to life the critical thing is whether you take things for granted
or take them with gratitude.”

Gilbert K. Chesterton

“Thanksgiving is a spiritual exercise,
necessary to the building of a healthy soul.
It takes us out of the stuffiness of ourselves into the fresh breeze
and sunlight of the will of God.”

Elisabeth Elliot

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
his love endures forever.

Psalm 107:1

the year of the bull….crap

“What’s broken is broken—and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best
than mend it and see the broken places as long as I live…
I’m too old to believe in such sentimentalities as clean slates and starting all over.”

Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind


(the running of the bulls in Spain)

I have just about reached my breaking point with this year.
For all sorts of reasons…
And my heart is heavy and is now slightly broken if not totally broken.

But a story has come to my heart…
and I know it is from God…

Long ago there was a young boy who lived in a small Spanish village.
This young boy had come to live with his grandparents when he was but an infant.
This was due to the fact that his parents had both been killed during the civil war.
He’s known no other family but his grandparents.

His grandfather, who was a man larger than life—was a man who this young boy adored.
Each year this grandfather would participate in the local running of the bulls.
It was a long-standing tradition in his village.
It was a rite of passage and a rite of position within the hierarchy of the village.
The grandfather was legendary for his exploits.

Tourists have since begun flocking to participate, but it has been to the local men
who this tradition has truly mattered.

The young boy looked to his grandfather, the only man he’d known in his life
as a father, was the closest thing to a superhero.

Each year in the spring, the grandfather would join the other men of the village
in the annual running of the bulls.
The young boy’s grandmother would simply roll her eyes and dismiss her husband’s foolishness.
She would fuss and cuss her husband’s folly.
But to the man, it spoke of his position in his village.
And yet to the boy, it was not foolishness, it was pure exhilaration and wonderment.
He longed for the day that he could join his grandfather.

The grandfather would tell his grandson of the single strategy for staying one
step ahead of the massive wild animal…
“The bull, the toro,” he would tell his grandson, “runs with fear…
you, you must run with confidence and vision.”

After many more years, the day joyously arrived, the boy would finally be allowed to
join his grandfather and the elders of the village.
He was joining the man he loved, the man who had known many years of wear and tear.
The years of both life and living had taken their toll on the old man…
however, as with every year, he was undeterred, he would run.
And the boy, now a young man, would finally run with his grandfather.

The old man coached his grandson…
“if you hear the pounding hooves, listen for the vibrating sound…
listen with your heart…listen with your ears.
If you hear and feel the sound upon either your left or your right.
If you hear or feel the pounding in your left ear, lean right…if you hear or feel it
from the right, lean toward the left.
If you feel the hot breath on your back, you must run faster, then jump either left or right
because by this time, it matters not, it could be too late.”

When the day finally arrived and the old men and young men were all assembled,
the nervous bulls were brought toward the crowd.
The bulls were always local bulls–well known by the local villagers.
Many were tended by the local farmers.

This year, however, there was a new and different bull brought into the fold of the local animals.
He was unfamiliar and even the local bulls were cautious.
He had a different look in his eye.
There was no familiarity.
He was massive for his size.
His muscles involuntarily reflexed across his back.
He was pure black, almost blue in the light of day but the magic
within this bull was not pure…he was very nervous.

There was an empty coldness found in his eyes.
He had not been nurtured by this village.
He had not been tended to by the local farmers…

He was what was known as a rouge bull.

The city’s bell tower sounded, the signal for the participants to start running
as the animals were released.

In the teeming melee of hundreds of participants, the boy lost track of his grandfather.
The throng of runners moved in a unified mass until the bulls began to penetrate the
mass one by one.
The mass began to diverge.

Bodies peeled to the left while other bodies peeled to the right…
many bodies simply fell upon one another…falling into a heap upon the ancient cobblestone pavers
as tons of massive sinew, muscle and hooves rumbled mercifulness over the mass of lost humanity.

Yet the boy ran.
He was listening, hard.
He sensed.
Bodies would suddenly fall by his side with a sickening thud.
Yet he couldn’t stop to assess the damage, his grandfather had taught him to run.

Suddenly, the boy heard the hooves but he couldn’t determine…
were they left or were they right?

He was running as the sweat poured from his brow.
The salt stung his eyes.
He blinked and inadvertently wiped his face.
He dared not turn his head lest he trip.

Suddenly, there was the sensation of a strange hot steam wafting into his nostrils.
It was both suffocating as well as acridly putrid.

And that is when he felt the jolt.

A searing sharp pain pierced his left flank.
In what seemed to be a moment of slow motion, his chest seemed to simply deflate
as his body was lifted almost magically into the sky.

He was floating, effortlessly.
It seemed like a lifetime…floating, flying, no effort.

And yet the crash was heavy.
There was a shattering thump.
Searing pain flooded his consciousness.
A broken torso.
Disrespected by hundreds of thousands of pounds of hooves…
hooves disregarding what lay underfoot.

The boy lay upon the dirty but cool ancient pavers.
His body now a twisted and contorted mass–unnatural in position.
A dark black liquid pooled against his cheek.

At some point, he remembers not when, he was lifted upon a litter and carried
to the local hospital.

His grandfather, what of his grandfather, he implores with barely an
audible breath.

“Your grandfather is gone.” the medic replied stoicaly.
The toro pierced his heart, in one fell blow…
but it was not before the locals shot the bull to stop his rampage.
It is why you are still here, your grandfather diverted the bull at the
the very moment he attempted to gore you.

The moral of the tale…

Remember, the enemy runs with fear.
We, on the other hand, must run with confidence and vision.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses,
let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles.
And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us,
fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.
For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame,
and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.
Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners,
so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

Hebrews 12:1-3

(Repeat)The brine, the rugs, getting lost and a grateful heart

*****Since it’s going to be such a crazy week, I thought I’d pull out a memory from
Thanksgivings past…November 2013.
It was the first Thanksgiving I had the bright idea of brining a turkey.
Dad was still with us, our son wasn’t yet married so there was no Mayor or Sheriff.
It seems so long ago…and yet the tie that binds…a grateful thankful heart!

“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.”
― Oscar Wilde

DSCN2663
(the blasted turkey sitting in it’s brining bag in the basement refrigerator)

Last Sunday afternoon I accompanied my husband to Lowes as he was in need of some bolts and caulking.
I love going to Home Depot and/ or Lowes as there is always something that catches my eye…
a new plant, some birdseed, new rugs…and that’s exactly what I had in mind—
some new throw rugs.

New rugs for the kitchen as the existing rugs are in a word–nasty.
They were cheap and have not withstood life in the kitchen of a cookie.

As my husband headed off to the nuts and bolts aisle, I casually mention that I’d be
heading over to look at the rugs, catching up to him in a minute.
“What?” he irritatingly asks / states—
as in ‘oh no, we don’t need rugs, we’re not here to spend a bunch of money, no, no, no…’
Of which I reply “don’t get bent out of shape, I’m just looking”
(please note the inflection that is used by a wife who says she’s “just-looking”)

I cruise the carpet aisle spying the giant rugs hanging vertically
from the massive warehouse ceiling.
Hummm….
I pull a couple of the throw rugs and runners out of their cubbies,
laying them out on the slick concrete floor…
Hummmm…
I read a couple of descriptions, pull my phone out for a picture or two.
I roll everything back up, putting the little rugs back in their appropriate bins
before heading off to nuts and blots where I find my husband studying
the various sizes of cement bolts.

As he finds what he came for and we begin heading back the direction of which we had
actually entered this massive warehouse store, making our way to where the check out counters
are located, I casually state that I need to run back and check the prices of those throw rugs again.
This is when I can actually feel his eyes rolling back in his head as I cut off for the rug section—
again.

We meet up at the checkout.
As we are leaving, pushing out his buggy that now has a 2 x 4 dangling precariously
out the front, I causally throw out that I just may come back tomorrow and get those
little rugs for the kitchen.
Note the use of the word “little” strategically placed in the sentence.
Silence in the resignation of new rugs.

Monday afternoon I happily return home from Lowes with 3 new throw rugs and one runner
as I’m more than ready to move out the stained existing rugs.
I sweep, mop, and sweep some more before laying out the new rug pads.
Next, I gingerly roll out the new runner, smoothing it into place.
I then lay out the 3 smaller rugs… strategically placing each in its distinct place–
one by the cooktop, then one in front of the refrigerator and finally one in front of the dishwasher…
the three places I spend the majority of my life.

I step back admiring the colors.
“Oh, dear! Are they too busy?” I muse.
I ask the cats.
Percy immediately goes over to the runner and lays down.
I take that as a sign of approval.
Once my husband gets home from work I clock him to see how long it takes
him to notice, that is, if he notices at all.
2 minutes.
Not bad.
And even better, he’s complimentary, he actually likes them.
Relief.

Fast forward to Tuesday.

I think I’m going to be really smart, I’m going to spread out this Thanksgiving
cooking business over the course of two days verses making myself crazy by doing
it all on Wednesday.
Piece of cake, I’ve got this!
Dad and Gloria have agreed to come for lunch with our son and his fiancé coming in that evening—
I’ll be cooking and serving in shifts, but at least, everyone will be here, albeit in intervals.

Last year I thought I’d mix things up a little by attempting to brine my next turkey.
I’ve never had a problem with my turkeys being too dry, I just thought I’d do something
a little different, as brining does seem to be the vogue thing to do.
Impart a little flavor and try my hand at something new and different.

I prepared the solution–a couple of gallons of water, ice, salt, spices, salt,
apple cider, and did I mention salt?
I get the 5-gallon brining bag in the sink, place my 20lb bird in the bag, and then gingerly
pour the giant black kettle of solution into the bag.
I seal the bag, heaving the now massively heavy bag into a roasting pan to help balance it as I prepare to carry it to the refrigerator in the basement.

I take maybe 5 steps from the sink when suddenly there’s a snap then a sickeningly slurping sound erupts.
This is followed by the glug, glug, glug of 3 gallons of liquid cascading out all over
my wooden kitchen floor, the new runner, and 2 of the smaller new rugs.
“NOOOOOOO!!!!!!”
I scream for no one but me and the cats to hear, sending them running.
I am paralyzed… because if I move, more liquid will flow. “NOOOOOOOOOO”
“AGGGGHHHHHHHH”
Surprisingly I don’t cry.
I’m in a panic!!

The wooden floors!!!
The rugs!!
AAAGGGHHHHH!!!
Towels, I need towels!
I run to get every bath towel we own.
I proceed to sop up all the liquid before it destroys the floor.
I pick up my new, now saturated rugs” – — did I mention that it was 34 degrees
outside and pouring down rain.
I run outside in the cold rain, throw the rugs down on the oh so wet driveway,
pulling out the garden hose to wash off the salty solution now soaking into my new rugs.
Anyone driving by most likely thought I’d totally lost any brain I had.

DSCN2667
(waiting for the runner to dry out)

I lay the remaining towels, including beach towels, in the garage,
dragging my now heavy soaked rugs in from the rain, laying them on the towels,
layering other towels on top. I proceed jumping up and down attempting to “blot”
them dry as best as I can on a pouring down rainy day.
Did I mention it was 34 degrees?

Back inside I continue sopping up the salty solution,
mopping the kitchen floor, more towels.
Not to mention how many times I now had to run the washing machine.
The damn turkey (please forgive my language, it just seems appropriate at this moment in time)
is still sitting in the brining bag waiting for transport to the basement sans the brine.
I pull out another jug of apple cider, pouring it over the turkey,
reseal the bag and drag it to the basement.
I eventually bring the rugs inside to the laundry room where I drape them over the dryer and
washing machine and the heat vent hoping they will dry out by Thursday.

Fast Forward to today, Thanksgiving.
The rugs are back in place, a little wavy and a bit shimmery,
even after vacuuming, as the salt seems to now be ingrained.
The oven is full of delightful dishes offering up heavenly aromas.
The stove has simmering and bubbly pots of savory goodness.
The table is set,
Round I may begin.

The phone rings.
“JULIE?”
Hey, dad are y’all almost here?
Dad yells into his cell phone as if I’m on another continent and the connection is poor.
“NO, WE’RE LOST AGAIN”
Ugh…are you freaking kidding me?

They got lost last time.

They’ve only been coming here to this house for the past 14 years several
times a year.
Gloria is not one for the interstate–an hour’s drive takes her 3 hours as she likes
to go by way of Tennessee to get to our house.
“Where are you, Dad?”
“THE SAME BAKERY WE STOPPED AT LAST TIME”

“Tell Gloria to stay were y’all are and I’ll be there in just a bit”

I cut off the oven and everything on the stove, grab my keys, and off I go.
I find them sitting in the parking lot of an empty bakery and just like the commercial,
I roll down my window and holler, “FOLLOW ME”

We won’t talk about Dad sneaking a drink of his favorite libation,
of which he’s not supposed to have, and then of him practically falling asleep
in his plate, but at 86 I can’t scold him too badly.
Or of him biting into a chocolate turkey and breaking his partial.
Or of the hour drive here which takes them 3 hours and yet they refuse
for us to come pick them up.

We won’t talk about round 2 when our son and his fiancé came for dinner and of
how he and his dad got into a fuss over money and school at the table.
We won’t talk about my husband dreading opening his business tomorrow as the madness
known as “black Friday” brings him such discontent.
Or of how hard it is to run a business and not conform to being open on holidays
and on Sundays, as nothing remains sacred in this country.
We won’t talk about the things that worry us as parents for our children
or as grown children for our aging parents or of how we will manage to make ends meet
for them as well as for us and of what the new year will bring to the business.

There’s so much not to talk about and yet there is so much that needs talking about…
as in my being so so grateful…grateful for the fact that I still have my dad,
that he and Gloria still manage to visit despite getting lost;
that my husband who has worked so very hard to make his business survive given our
country’s economy keeps tirelessly working to make it a go;
that I was able to retire after 31 years of teaching to “tend” to this family of mine;
grateful that our son can attend college and that he will be taking the LSAT next weekend;
grateful that I can have food on the table which is lovingly prepared to share despite
brining disasters;
grateful that there could be new rugs; grateful that I have a family,
for good or bad, who loves and supports one another the best way it knows how.

So on this day of reflection and of Thanksgiving,
with the clear knowledge that God has blessed me and that He has blessed
all of us beyond measure, it is with a grateful heart,
I say AMEN!!

a needed day in the woods–following the traces–the lowest, not the highest

“I ask you to consider that our Lord Jesus Christ is your true head and that
you are a member of his body.
He belongs to you as the head belongs to the body.
All that is his is yours: breath, heart, body, soul and all his faculties.
All of these you must use as if they belonged to you,
so that in serving him you may give him praise, love and glory.”

St. John Eudes


(fungi continue to sprout /Julie Cook / 2020)

“Since Jesus has gone to Heaven now,
I can only follow the traces He has left behind.
But how bright these traces are! How fragrant and divine!
I have only to glance at the Gospels;
at once this fragrance from the life of Jesus reaches me,
and I know which way to run:
to the lowest, not the highest place!”

St. Therese of Lisieux, p. 153-4
An Excerpt From
Story of a Soul

When in the woods, especially this time of year with falling leaves and treasures hidden underfoot,
I have learned to look for the lowest secrets rather than those of the highest and most soaring wonders.
I give thanks for being able to spend time in God’s creation!

Let all the earth fear the Lord;
let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him!

Psalm 33:8

glimpses

“Can there be a more fitting pursuit in youth or a more valuable possession in
old age than a knowledge of Holy Scripture?
In the midst of storms it will preserve you from the dangers of shipwreck
and guide you to the shore of an enchanting paradise and the ever-lasting
bliss of the angels.”

St. Boniface


(the Gulf of Mexico / Julie Cook / 2020)

“Know that our faith is strengthened by the resurrection of Christ.
The passion of Christ represents the misery of our present life,
while the resurrection of Christ gives us a brilliant glimpse of the
happiness of the future life.
Let us apply ourselves energetically in the present life, and hope in the future.
Now is the time for painful struggle; then will come the recompense.
Those who are lazy about carrying out their work will be brazenly impudent
if they expect the recompense.”

St. Augustine, p. 61
An Excerpt From
Augustine Day by Day

it’s never too late, but it might be getting close….

It doesn’t matter what you’ve done in your life, or how bad you’ve sinned.
I rejected God, but he still knew that I was redeemable.
I was worth saving.
There is no soul anywhere on this earth that is beyond the reach of God.
It’s never too late.

Deborah Lipsky
from Confessions of an Ex-Satanist: A Message of Hope


(mushroom in the woods / Julie Cook / 2020)

“The story of Christ’s life and ministry cannot be told without giving due space to Satan’s activity.
The Gospel writers carefully distinguish between cases of mere physical ailments and cases
of a demonic character (both of which Jesus cures).
Jesus frequently refers to the devil in his parables and other teachings,
and the devil himself tempts Jesus in the desert and returns again later to engineer Judas’ betrayal
(cf. Jn 13:2).
This Gospel motif teaches us an undeniable, if uncomfortable lesson: the devil is real,
and he is interested in counteracting the work of grace.
In one sense, accepting this fundamental truth, and keeping it always in the back of our minds,
can comfort us tremendously:
it helps us make sense of all the unpleasant influences at work in and around us.
We are not crazy; we are not failures; we are simply engaged in a spiritual battle.
If we believe in Jesus Christ, we must also believe in the devil—-doomed as he is,
he would love to take as many souls as he can along with him.”

Fr. John Bartunek, p. 350
An Excerpt From
The Better Part

time keeps on slipping into the future…

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’
Into the future

Lyrics by Steven Haworth Miller


(Fire in Rome by Hubert Robert, 1778 / MuMa – Musée d’art moderne André Malraux, Le Havre, France)

In 64 AD, Rome burned.
And supposedly the Emporer Nero fiddled with abandoned glee.

Now whether or not there was any fiddling on a fiddle taking place, there was no doubt
some fiddling of the facts taking place.

Once the fire had been contained and finally extinguished,
over two-thirds of the city lay in ruins.

The Emperor blamed the Christians.
That subversive religious “cult.”

However, historians actually believe that Nero himself had the fires set because he wanted
to create a grandiose “golden house” that would be a massive endeavor, a tribute
to his reign, and cover an expansive portion of Rome…
so long story short, Nero needed the space.

As the ever gracious Emperor, he immediately began offering food and aid to the
masses of his people whose lives were now decimated.

How kind.

Fast forward to Berlin, 1933.

The German Chancellory, The Reichstag…the home to the German Parliament, burns.
Hitler blames a known Communist sympathizer, however historians are in agreement,
Hitler had the Reichstag burned.


(Burning of the Reichstag 1933, Berlin, Germany)

The burning was the excuse Hitler needed in order to round up all the Communists,
allowing his Nazi party to finally fill in the gap;
the party could take the majority of seats in parliament, and in turn,
take control of the Nation.

How convenient.

Fast forward to 2020.

There is a pandemic along with a quarentine lockdown.

The Speaker of the House brags, while standing in front of her expensive subzero
refidgerators / freezers, that she is ‘enduring’ the lockdown with top shelf ice cream…
all the while small businesses are told they must shutter their livlihood or else.
Houses of worship are closed.

Civil unrest breaks out.

Cities are burned.

Businesses are destroyed.

Lives and livihoods are left in shambles.

Throw in a contentious election with a deeply divided Nation.

The conservative republicans, in particular those “MAGA” supporters,
those who support the President, are the ones who the progressive left
blame for all the woe…

Is there some sort of pattern here, or am I just imagining things…

Ode to the power of the power hungry…

“Therefore their way will be like slippery paths to them,
They will be driven away into the gloom and fall down in it;
For I will bring calamity upon them,
The year of their punishment,” declares the Lord.

Jeremiah 23:12

the sweet and the bitter…

“God be praised for His mercy! I have seen a little sunshine–
I have had a happy time.”

Wilkie Collins

For home is where the heart is
And my heart is anywhere you are
Anywhere you are is home

Songwriters: Hal David / Sherman Edwards


(Sometimes referred to as the “kudzu of the north”, oriental bittersweet
(Celastrus orbiculatus)
is a non-native species that continues to grow and spread in Ohio.
The vine is popping up in our woods, fence rows, landscapes, and places in between.

Ohio State University)

This is not a post about invasive vines or that of taste…the bitter and the sweet…
this, on the other hand, is just a brief post about the bittersweet of the heart.

This is a long story, of which I will elaborate upon when time allows,
but in a nutshell, we put our house of 21 years on the market about 3 weeks ago.
The house we built and nurtured all these years.

Out of the blue, we received a quick and sudden offer late last week.
Too good not to accept.

In what appears to be a sudden, somewhat rash decision, we have actually
been ruminating over such for a couple of years…

It is…
our ages
the acreage
the maintenance
the upkeep
the desire for a closer proximity to grandkids…

So…now…
there is nowhere to go— yet.
And there is a lot of work to start doing, NOW.

And so my time here in cookieland will become a hit and miss…
a coming and a going…that is until things are purged, packed, boxed
and eventually found and settled.

A new journey…but…

I don’t like upheaval or uncertainty.
I prefer consistency.
I am a homebody, who is soon to be without a home.
But God’s hand has been way too evident in this latest chapter.

I’ll keep you posted while I ask that you keep us in your prayers!!!

don’t walk around with a bucket on your head

“By slow, thoughtful watching, you can gain much,
as against working up a wild, panicky condition.”

Ernest Vincent Wright, Gadsby

The Mayor thought that putting her toy bucket on her head and walking through the house
was a good idea.

It was fine for a while…

It was all fine and good until she ran into the Sherrif and knocked him over.

So there is indeed a moral to the tale of the Mayor’s haphazard choice…
actually, there are probably several morals.

But the one thing I’m finding as somewhat reflective of the times in which we now live…
is that The Mayor is not the only person walking around with some sort of
a bucket on her head.

The difference is that we just can’t see the buckets on the heads of those
caring little for those they tend to be running into or over whereas we
can clearly see the Mayors.

The Mayor, we hope, would not intentionally plow over her younger brother
when seeing him clear as day.
However, there are so many of our fellow human beings who are not wearing buckets
on their heads, blocking their vision, but who are none the less plowing into
and over their fellow members of humankind…and the thing is they don’t care.

Now granted the Mayor may not have cared too much about running over her
younger brother…that is until she was scolded…then she really cared.

Sadly today our fellow man, or woman, scolded or not, cares not.

We’ve witnessed this plowing into and over one another,
pretty much daily for the past four years, all because we are a deeply divided country.

Our fellow countrymen, and women, show very little care
or concern for those who are on the opposing side of not just politics but
on opposing sides of pretty much everything in life in general.

For example, Mr. Biden has spoken of a mandate given to him by the people…
what with his win of the White House.
Now since that win has not been officially verified by the powers that be, that
kind of talk is slightly premature.
This has been a razor-thin election, once again.

Mandates are not found in near 50 50 votings.
50 50 is a near-perfect split…mandates tend to come
from landslide results.
The masses demanding their will.

We have a split of the masses on two varying sides with each vying for their
own mandate…and they, we, you, me will continue plowing into one another until
that mandate of choice is met.

Something has got to give…

I believe a Divine scolding is in order…

Get ready, because that scolding is coming.

What will you do on the day of reckoning,
when disaster comes from afar?
To whom will you run for help?
Where will you leave your riches?

Isaiah 10:3