Faith, Folklore, and Friends

Here we are on the last day of 2010. Time flies when you are having fun. It seems such a little while since we were anticipating Y2K. In the grand scheme of things, it is just another turn of the blue planet, another cycle of light and dark. To us, it is a chance to try to get it right one more time. Our culture dictates that we have starting and stopping points, clean slates, new leaves turned over before anything can change. The unstained 2011 calendar on my desk is relatively clean, not yet fattened with meetings and doctors' appointments and deadlines. How it gets filled up will depend on decisions I make. Based on prior experience, they may not all be good, but some will be incredible! Leave the irreparable past in His hands, and step out into the irresistible future with Him. Oswald Chambers

People living in places that recorded more than 30 inches of snow during Christmas would scoff at the inch or so that covered us. We do live in Alabama, where the summers are brutal and snow is seldom seen. But this year, it was a white Christmas for us. And just for a little while, it was a Wonderland. It was clean. It was beautiful. It was silent. Be still, and know that I am God. Psalm46:10

"Where Love Is, God Is" A Short Story by Leo Tolstoy In a certain town there lived a cobbler, Martin Avdéitch by name. He had a tiny room in a basement, the one window of which looked out on to the street. Through it one could only see the feet of those who passed by, but Martin recognized the people by their boots. He had lived long in the place and had many acquaintances. There was hardly a pair of boots in the neighborhood that had not been once or twice through his hands, so he often saw his own handiwork through the window. Some he had re-soled, some patched, some stitched up, and to some he had even put fresh uppers. He had plenty to do, for he worked well, used good material, did not charge too much, and could be relied on. If he could do a job by the day required, he undertook it; if not, he told the truth and gave no false promises; so he was well known and never short of work. Martin had always been a good man; but in his old age he began to think more about his sou

Is there anyone who hasn't stood in the dark, looking up to the expanse above, and wondered? How I wonder what you are.... The Christmas season reminds us of the star of Bethlehem. The bright, incomparable star that was a map for Magi. The star that led the way for traveling wise men in search of a king. Wise men who had studied the heavens, astronomers, who had seen changes and knew something extraordinary was happening. Intelligent men who plotted the paths of stars when my Anglo ancestors were still nomadic because they had not learned how to store food. Men looking for answers. There has been rampant speculation for hundreds of years about the source of the star. Some believe an alignment of planets. Others think it was a comet or supernova. Why is it so hard for some to believe that the star was created specifically for the glorious birth of the Savior? Could the King of glory become human and live among us without 'stirring up' all creation? And God said, &

We never forget where we came from. There is within every living thing an instinct to go home, the place where they began, the place where they belong. We hear stories of lost dogs returning home, worse for wear, after traveling for miles and miles, across rivers and busy interstates, after weeks of being lost. Banding hummingbirds has proven that some return to the same feeders in the spring, after they have wintered in South America, hundreds of miles from the plastic red feeder that feels like home to them. Each year, the swallows return to Capistrano. Pacific salmon return to the stream where their life began. The circle of life sometimes ends where it began, and somehow, we find comfort in that. Some terminal patients, knowing that their days on this earth are few, beg to leave their hospital beds and go home, to their place, to spend their final hours. Wounded soldiers on blood-drenched battlefields write of their desire to just make it home, to be surrounded by family, to be bur

It is an ancient profession. Someone had to tend the sheep. Someone had to keep the flock together; to chase away the predators. They had to keep the little lambs from wandering off and getting lost. They had to keep moving sheep to different pastures, searching for fresh grass. The job sometimes fell on single men who had no family responsibilities, who could stay with the sheep day and night. They moved about with the sheep, living in tents or wagons. Being a shepherd was a cold, lonely job with little to eat and none of the comforts of home. Throughout time, God has used shepherds for his purpose. Before he became the Father of Nations, Abraham tended sheep. Jacob and Isaac were shepherds. Moses spent his time in exile tending sheep. David, who had God's heart, was with his flock when he was called to service. Then the day came. The day God had known about since the beginning, the day that would change us forever. Heaven trembled with excitement. The angels might have gone to th

It was approximately eighty miles, a week's journey, from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Joseph may have looked with concern at Mary, her womb extended, and wondered how insane it was to start on a trip now. A trip that would be long and hard for anyone, but for a pregnant woman, it would be almost unbearable. Joseph was a law-abiding citizen. His family, all the way back to David, had been honorable. Joseph knew that he and Mary and the King inside her must travel to Bethlehem to register and pay taxes. Several nights on the cold ground. Walking or riding a donkey for hours on end. Eating whatever could be packed in a bag thrown over the donkey's back. It was no vacation. I imagine Joseph covering her with blankets at night, tucking them close to keep out the cold. Bringing her water, rubbing her tired feet. Whispering encouragement among the night sounds that it wouldn't be much longer, surely there would be a warm room and a comfortable bed for them in Bethlehem. Mary, her back

The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving. -H.U. Westermayer The most detailed description of the "First Thanksgiving" comes from Edward Winslow from A Journal of the Pilgrims at Plymouth, in 1621: "Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed upon our governor, and upon the captain, and others. And although it be not alway

Today's blog is in memory of Roy Robertson and all veterans who did what they could. I Knew You’d Come: A Veterans Day Recollection ~Author Unknown He was very old now, but could still hold himself stiffly at attention before the monument. His war, the one to end all wars, now just a fading part of history. Very few could remember, first-hand, the savageness of the ordeal that had sent millions of young men to their deaths. Cannon fodder, they’d called them, sent before the guns to be mown down — blown apart by chunks of metal which had decimated their frail bodies. The cream of a generation; almost wiped out. He was haunted by the faces of the boys he’d had to order into battle, the ones who’d never come back. Yet one nameless ghost was able to bring a measure of comfort to his tormented mind. At the sound of the gun signaling the eleventh hour he was mentally transported back to the fields of Flanders. :: The battle had raged for over two hours, with neither side gaining any adva

It's a good year for hickory nuts. Hickory trees are a hardwood that has been used for fences, furniture, and switches. Someone cooking 'way back yonder' discovered food had a different taste when it was cooked over hickory sticks or coals. Once used as food by native Americans and settlers, the nuts are most highly valued by squirrels now. When I went squirrel-hunting with my daddy as a child, we would look for hickory trees, knowing that would be where we would find the most squirrels. Daddy liked to go real early, when most animals and little girls were still sleeping, so my trips with him were few and sporadic. Our house has a huge scalybark hickory tree just off the deck in the back. This majestic tree provides shade for the house and yard. It is home to countless birds and insects. This time of year, when the mature nuts are falling, the hickory tree and the ground under it teems with squirrels gathering for winter. If my daddy was still living and wanted to

Come to me, all of you who are tired and have heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Accept my teachings and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit, and you will find rest for your lives. The teaching that I ask you to accept is easy; the load I give you to carry is light. . . .Jesus speaking in Matthew ll, v28, 29, 30, New Century Version

Violet Beatrice Gean Stricklin October 26, 1917-November 11, 2007 It's my mama's birthday. The Earth revolved and seasons changed ninety times while she was here. Uneducated, but wise. Beautiful, work-roughened hands never still. Her life was taking care of her family, and that she did well, even when the road was hard. She did massive amounts of laundry on a wringer washer; her clothes lines full every sunny day expect Sunday. She could coax nutritious vegetables out of tired clay soil, rising with the sun to do battle with weeds. Her quilts still warm our beds and our hearts. Known for her incomparable biscuits, she made enough in her lifetime to completely fill a Cracker Barrel. More familiar with pain than joy, she endured. She lived to see adult children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. We are educated, talented, well-traveled, scattered. She lives in all of us. In heaven, we are promised a mansion, blissful rest. I'll bet my mama's has a clothesline, white rob

I was about ten years old when we first heard of a cotton picker---a big red machine that would pick cotton for you. We laughed at the idea. We could not imagine a time when we would not pick cotton. We didn't know how big the world was. It was only a few years later that the machines completely replaced hand labor, which we viewed as a blessing too good to be true; surely something would go wrong and we would have to pick cotton again. Because this cotton picking era ended before I was an adult, I didn't really understand the hardships of cotton farming that my parents and their parents endured. They worked from spring to late fall to produce a crop that might or might not be sold for enough to pay the bills and have a little extra. I would like to say that the good years were enough to keep them going, but it wasn't that at all. Cotton farming was all they knew; what they kept doing because there was nothing else to do. Good years just made their lives better for a while.