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You know you’re in the country if a road scraper pulls into the bank parking lot. This past November I was at South Georgia Banking Company in Vienna when the big rig’s driver made a quick trip inside. In less than a minute he headed south on U.S. 41, looking again for a dirt road to mend.

I was amused, and delighted to have an original idea for a column. Then I realized it was a variation of Jeff Foxworthy’s comedy routine “You Might Be A Redneck.” With apologies to Mr. Foxworthy, here are some signs of rural living.

You know you’re in the country if tires are used for landscaping. During my childhood a dwindling number of homes had tires lining driveways or as borders for flower beds. The last tirescaping I saw was several decades ago near Mauk, Georgia.

The Pastor Search Committee for our church was traveling through unfamiliar territory. I don’t recall where we were going, but we passed a house with an impressive tire motif. Proper protocol had been observed by burying the bottom halves.  

Super-wide whitewalls made me think those folks must be rich or wanted to be. The extra cost of such tires once indicated status. Some clever folks bought solid black tires for their vehicles but acquired used whitewalls for yard art. They were, as Waylon Jennings sang, “trying too hard to keep up with the Jones.” 

You know you’re in the country when a sign says: “Please Do Not Expectorate (Spit) On Floor.” That hand-written notice was on the wall at our local A.S.C.S. office when I was a kid. It was probably put there before the market for chewing tobacco went up in smoke. The Marlborough Man was so cool people were dying to be cowboys.         

What intrigued me wasn’t the spitting prohibition as much as the word “expectorate.” It was new to me and I’ve never had an occasion to use it in conversation. Maybe someday the time will come.  

You know you’re in the country when many of your neighbors are kin to you. I had a lot of cousins nearby during childhood, which came with special traditions. We prefaced the first names of adult relatives with “Cousin,” as in “Cousin Elizabeth, Cousin Mary Joyce, Cousin Ruby, and Cousin Buddy.” Kinfolks were everywhere – church, school, and Mock Springs.     

Having cousins by the dozens was a blessing I took for granted. I didn’t realize that was becoming a rarity, even for country folks.

You know you’re in the country if people give directions based on landmarks, sometimes those which are long gone. GPS systems have diminished the need for such guidance, but landmarks were once the standard in rural areas, landmarks like a tree.

Lonesome Pine Road intersects with the Pinehurst-Hawkinsville Highway at what was the Spradley Farm for several generations. Long before our county roads were given official names, a solitary pine tree was frequently used as a reference. I’d be lost without GPS, but I miss the nostalgic charm of navigating by landmarks. 

I’m glad that road scraper pulled into the bank parking lot. It warmly reminded me I’m still living in the country. It’s not as easy to tell where the country begins or ends as it once was. The lines are blurring, faster in some places than others. Whatever changes the future may bring, one thing I trust will always remain. If the time ever comes when I’m not living in the country, I hope the country is still living in me. 

 A column from 2023 mentioned my having “A Round Tuit” years ago. I also confessed a present-day need for that long-lost token. Procrastination often sidetracks my good intentions. 

Jim Hamrick, son of the late columnist Harry Hamrick, has encouraged me in my writing many times. After reading that column Jim sent me a round Tuit, plus its lesser-known cousin, the stick Tuit.  

Both novelty items are on my desk to remind me of what needs attention. That doesn’t always translate into action, but at least it prods my awareness. When our family was on a June vacation, the stick Tuit came to mind as I noticed some good examples.

St. George Island is a lovely and uncrowded Florida beach. Dolphins passed by close to shore almost every day. That’s much better than having them do tricks in small pools, but that’s a topic for later, maybe.

What reminded me of the Tuits were the various seabirds. Sandpipers busily trot along the shore, constantly pecking for small crabs and such. Others, like seagulls, are mostly in the air, searching and diving, looking for fish in the shallows. A red-billed tern passed by a few times gliding just above the water, making quick dips and slight gulps while barely slowing its pace. 

We had a special treat on two consecutive days. A bald eagle swooped down and both times retrieved a nice-size fish with its talons. The big bird circled a bit, perhaps tightening his grip or checking his GPS, then flew toward the bay side of the island to its nest.

Pelicans are among the most amazing fishers. From high above the water, often far from shore, they fold their wings and make diving plunges straight down. It’s hard to tell when they succeed, but I’ve read that it’s much of the time. Over and over they flap their wings to rise from the ocean, search for fish, then dive again.       

 On that same stretch of beach I watched an eleven-year-old boy who fished as relentlessly as the seabirds. He was surf fishing in conditions much windier than normal. The weather was challenging and the fish scarce, but the young boy was undeterred. He would wade out chest deep to cast his baits then work three reels in holders he’d driven into the sand.

Each morning the boy pulled his loaded fishing cart to the water’s edge. Through fifty yards of sand he tugged the heavy load. He’d fish most of the day, except for swimming and food breaks, then pack up his gear just before nightfall and pull the cart back to the house.

Two dog sharks, about three feet long, were his most exciting catches. An occasional crab would ride the bait in. He caught a few catfish, along with a flounder, ladyfish, whiting, and American croaker. For a week of fishing it wasn’t much to show, but every day he optimistically followed that routine.

I’m proud of that kid. He never complained or quit trying, not even as his grandfather lazily dozed in a hammock on the porch. Whatever worthwhile he undertakes in life, I trust he’ll keep that same attitude. Someone much wiser than me said, “Cast your bread on the water and it won’t return void.” That’s good advice for a lot of things. 

And if that young fellow ever needs a reminder, he can have the wooden Tuits on his grandfather’s desk. 

A recent lesson in determination caused me to notice some other good examples not far from home. We’ll get to those, but first let’s consider a decades-old memory that continues to inspire me. 

It was probably 40 or more years ago when I was watching a hummingbird in our back yard. I paused to admire it busily feeding on the honeysuckle covering our fence. Admiration turned to alarm when our cat knocked the bird to the ground then engulfed it in its mouth.

Chances of escape were zero, until our cat chose frivolity over food. She’d release the bird then swat it with a paw, playing a cruel game with her minute captive. But the cat and I had underestimated the tiny creature’s determination. As the cat raised her paw again, the hummingbird darted away.  

In the latter part of May, I pulled into my mother’s driveway a little before noon. My phone rang and I talked for a few minutes, unaware Mama was in the yard. I didn’t see her until she ambled past my truck. On top of her walker, she had balanced a long pecan limb and was taking it to the burn pile.

A 98-year-old woman carrying a limb on her walker would have made a great photo, but that thought came too late. Picking up limbs might be a tad risky at this point, but determination is a big part of what has gotten her this far.

The next day, as I drove by a neighbor’s farm, I saw Thomas “Bud” Sangster near the road. Bud, who is well into his senior years, keeps up several acres of yard and pecan trees. He was riding on a small scooter with a cart in tow, picking up limbs with a reacher.

I continued on toward Unadilla and passed by Mrs. Ruth Cross’ house. I won’t speculate on age, but she taught me typing in high school and her daughter Cathy was my classmate. Miss Ruth still works in her yard and maintains a substantial pecan orchard. It’s so neat I think she sometimes catches limbs before they hit the ground. 

A few minutes later I stopped at Mr. Charles Speight’s home. He had just gotten off his John Deere tractor with which he mows a small field. He uses a Husqvarna in his yard. The list of 103 year olds with two mowers will probably fit on a postage stamp.

I’ll close with a mention of my longtime friend John David “Bud” Law. He just turned 92 and would be busy laying bricks if not for a collision with a log truck. His badly broken ankle was repaired first. Hip replacement followed in early June. Whether he’ll return to laying bricks, I don’t know. But if he doesn’t, it won’t be for a lack of effort nor a shortage of prayers.

Factors such as health play a role in how active anyone can be, but there are always opportunities. Making phone calls to check on others, mailing notes to shut-ins, or knitting items to give away are among the many ways to stay engaged. And if such things are not possible, there are plenty of long prayer lists. Sometimes it takes effort to find what works.

I didn’t think that little hummingbird in our back yard had a chance, but while I was looking down the bird was looking up. And looking up, I’ve learned, pairs well with determination. That’s more than just an opinion. A lot of good examples are close to home.        

An earlier column mentioned my growing stack of scribbled notes. The tidbits of information were kept to remind me of topics I might later revisit. Most were added to the pile because I wasn’t sure how to fit them into a column. A few are on hold until the statute of limitations expires. Lately I’ve begun trying to shorten the stack before it topples over.  

First though, I’m not sure if “topples” should be followed by “over.” It seems over would be understood unless needed to clarify direction. Something might topple forward, backward, or sideward I suppose. If you choose to keep reading, be forewarned that useless ponderings of this nature are scattered throughout my scribbled notes. 

The late Harry Hamrick was a master at finding little jewels among everyday events. He wrote a weekly column for decades in The Unadilla Observer and its successor The News Observer. I wish I could stop by Hamrick’s Furniture Store and visit for a spell. He could offer sound advice on how to separate the grain from the chaff. 

Mr. Harry’s long-running feature was called “Whatcha Callit.” I’ve seen other columns and publications with good names for catch-all writing. Bits and Pieces is one that comes to mind. I debated what to call today’s musings, eventually deciding that “Rambling Thoughts” was preferable to acknowledging “A Rambling Mind.” 

“Jabberwocky” might be a more appropriate heading, but it’s a new word for me and probably not familiar to either of my regular readers. Merriam-Webster emails a “Word of the Day” and that one came as I was considering titles. The timing seemed uncanny as I read the definition – “meaningless speech or writing.” Perhaps it was a sign.

I don’t know if “Rambling Thoughts” will be a one-time feature or become an intermittent series. I’m already realizing how easy it is to get sidetracked before ever getting to my stack of notes. The jabberwocky of a rambling mind is unpredictable.

Let’s start with a note I made regarding a TV ad. The clip features David, a Georgia pharmacist and real Prevagen user. His gray hair, warm smile, and friendly demeanor convey a beloved, grandfatherly figure. David is probably a wonderful man and excellent pharmacist, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea for someone who needs Prevagen to be filling prescriptions.     

Another ad, this one from the February 20th edition of our local paper, set off my scam alarms. For legal reasons this is an opinion not an accusation. The small ad featured several items for sale, including  “Limited Collection Trump 1oz Silver Coins – Very Rare, from Trump’s first Presidency – $5000.00 per coin.” I looked online and found what appears to be an identical coin for $50. I’m guessing the Howard Miller Floor Clock offered for $7000 might be a bit overpriced also.

That same ad probably appeared in multiple publications, which would suggest those “very rare” coins may be quite plentiful. If you run enough deceptive ads, a small percentage of trusting people will get scammed in a big way. But that’s just an opinion.

There was something else I planned to mention today, but it slipped my mind. Maybe I need Prevagen. The Joiner’s Corner Research Department says Prevagen is highly recommended by the folks who make it and many of those who sell it.  

That’s enough rambling thoughts for one column. I didn’t make much headway on reducing my stack of scribbled notes, but that’s okay. The stack hasn’t toppled over, and I had an epiphany while writing. Jabberwocky is best dispensed in small doses.

Few things I’ve ever found more pleasing

Than a hammock swayed by ocean breezes

Gently pushed by friendly winds

Cradled rocking without end

Within the porch’s welcome shade

A medley plays of lapping waves

My soul is soothed as slumber calls

Waves arise and softly fall

A seagull circles in the sky

Offers up its plaintive cry

Dreams and prayers on clouds ascend

Cradled rocking without end 

Stan Gambrell, longtime City Manager of Vienna, Georgia, was a creative genius with a keen sense of humor. Although he died in 2010, Stan often comes to mind as I notice various road signs. He inspired me to consider their hidden lessons.  

My good friend had a splendid idea for a country music album to be titled “The Road Signs of Life.” He wrote a song for it that would have played well at the Opry. I’ve forgotten the lyrics except for its humorous hook. “Sharp curves and soft shoulders made a wreck out of me.”

Seeing a SHARP CURVE or SOFT SHOULDER warning still reminds me of Stan’s clever spin on those two cautions. Other signage frequently leads to ponderings.

“SLOW CHURCH ZONE” is a message I frequently drive past. It’s amusing but sobering too. I’m not sure what the situation is at Big Poplar Baptist Church these days, but business is slow for many congregations. Fire sales at July revivals used to help fill pews, but the market for brimstone burned out.  

“CONGESTED AREA” greets me each week on my way to get allergy shots in Cordele. It always brings a smile but sometimes prompts me to consider the hazards of spiritual congestion. Although highly contagious, a sure cure is free for the asking.  

“NARROW BRIDGE” is a warning that’s easily ignored. If you’re meeting a big rig I suggest the brake and pray maneuver. That tactic is useful in many situations. 

“SLIPPERY WHEN WET” is also tempting to disregard. It amazes me that even in a storm, vehicles on I 75 will fly past those of us who embrace sanity. Maybe they are misinterpreting the term “driving rain.”  

“RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP” can be a welcome sight. Vehicle brakes are better now than when those ramps were first built, but steep slopes can still send you “rolling downhill like a snowball headed for hell.” Merle Haggard said a lot with that song. 

During my childhood Daddy told me a story about a close call he had due to a brake failure. He was driving an old farm truck with tandem rear axles in the 1950s when he pressed the brake pedal and nothing happened. Seems like he was in Fort Valley but I’m not sure. By gearing it down and using the emergency brake, he managed to creep home at a snail’s pace. Daddy recounted that experience multiple times, hoping I was paying attention.

That brings to mind a somewhat related caution, “BE PREPARED TO STOP.” Decades ago I was pulling a wagon load of peanuts to Giles and Hodge Farm Center in Unadilla. I was driving Daddy’s pickup and making better time than I should have been. I knew Mr Frank Giles would have a cold Coca Cola waiting for me.

When I reached the crossroads a mile north of our house, that light-duty truck was no match for several tons of peanuts pushing it forward. I lurched through the crossing without incident, very aware it could have ended much differently. 

“BE PREPARED TO STOP” has life applications also. Practical matters are tempting to put off, thinking we’ll take care of them later. That can be problematic, but what’s far more serious are unattended spiritual matters. Second chances are always subject to expiration dates.    

Pondering signs is a habit of mine, first inspired by a friend’s clever line. It’s easy to picture Stan as he stopped by my office one day. With a wry smile he stood at my desk and softly sang, “Sharp curves and soft shoulders made a wreck out of me.” We shared a good laugh but it turned out to be more than just an amusing moment. The road signs of life are filled with hidden lessons. Trying to find them I consider a blessing.         

I don’t know when Willie Nelson will sing his final song. One that I just heard makes me think it won’t be long.

Willie was born April 29, 1933. He’s had a remarkable career and at 92 is still touring the country in his bus. He shuffles slowly across stages now then takes a seat to perform. The strong, clear voice of earlier days has lost its luster. That’s all to be expected, I suppose, but a song I heard in early March left me wondering if he was saying goodbye.

The red-headed stranger has brought us some melancholy classics, like “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” and “Ain’t it Funny How Time Slips Away.” But it seemed a personal plea as I listened to him singing “Keep Me In Your Heart.” 

Willie’s wrinkled whisper caused me to question why he would release this late-in-life recording. I figured maybe he wanted to let folks know he’s getting close to leaving the stage.    

Thousands of songs have been written by Willie, so I thought this was probably another one. I found out later it was by Warren Devon, a rock singer and songwriter who died in 2003. Devon wrote and recorded it after being told he was dying. That helps explain its most touching line, “Keep me in your heart for a while.” 

Death has been called the great equalizer, an acknowledgment that whatever we accumulate can’t be taken with us. It’s been aptly stated, “You never see a U-Haul behind a hearse.” The point is valid, although I can testify to an exception.

It was probably ten or more years ago. I was going through Pinehurst and stopped where Fullington Avenue intersects with US Highway 41. A hearse passed by going south and right behind it was a U-Haul Truck. The timing may have been an amusing coincidence, but my guess was they were moving furniture, family heirlooms perhaps. That scene came to mind as I pondered Devon’s compelling line.

A few days after I first heard “Keep Me in Your Heart” some men from our church cleaned up an abandoned cemetery. It had been out of view for ages and only has four graves with markers. In the 1800s it was the site of Mt. Bezor, a Baptist congregation that was later renamed Providence and relocated to Vienna as First Baptist Church.

James Stallings Beale was a member of that early congregation. Mr. Beale donated land for First Baptist as well as for our Methodist neighbors. He also gave $150 towards the new church building and collected funds from others. Most contributed small amounts. One of my ancestors, Rev. Larkin Joiner, gave a single dollar and had lots of company.

Mr. Beale’s granite monument is 15 feet tall. I’d love to know what it cost, where it came from, and how they managed to transport it to the cemetery in 1858. It’s very impressive, yet for decades was hidden by the bushes, trees, and vines that claim untended places. It reminded me of how easily people, even prominent ones, can be forgotten. And it caused me to once again reflect on that lovely, somber line.

I don’t know if Willie Nelson was saying goodbye or not. It could be that he felt others needed to hear that tender appeal. Warren Devon expressed what most of us hope for but rarely put into words. Sometimes we don’t know how. Or we wait too long and time slips away.

Here’s what I do know. It’s not monuments that really matter or how full the U-Haul may be. What we hope for, I believe, is to be warmly remembered after our final song. So I’ll close with a borrowed plea that says it rather perfectly. “Keep me in your heart for a while.” 

Man cave is a relatively new expression. A 1992 edition of The Toronto Star has been credited with its first published use. Generally it refers to an enclosed space where a man’s routines are not unduly influenced by his wife’s input. The previous word for that was grave.

The nuances of cave life are many, so I’m not claiming to have found the perfect man cave for everyone. From a country boy’s view, however, I’ve seen a place that comes real close.  

Al Willis, a friend for many years, transformed an old storage shed into a side-yard haven. It’s a place to work, visit with a neighbor, or just do some pondering.

My purpose in going to see Al had nothing to do with man caves. I didn’t know he had one. What I went to see was a shallow well he dug unconventionally. Our family enjoys going to a picnic area in the woods near my mother’s childhood home. A working hand pump would be a splendid addition. Unlike some of my projects, I sought advice before beginning. 

YouTube videos show various ways of digging shallow wells. One man added extensions to a hand-turned auger to drill through the earth. If I start tomorrow we might hit water during my lifetime. Another fellow drove a pointed pipe into the ground with a sledge hammer. That could work, depending on how big a hammer Jane can swing.   

Another method placed a water hose in a pipe and let the faucet wallow out a hole. That was okay in Florida’s sandy soil but I’m dealing with limerock. Al’s technique was similar but more forceful. He used an air compressor along with a pressure washer to boil the dirt up. But wells are a deep subject and incidental for today’s column. What impressed me more than the well was his man cave.

It was my first time drinking coffee made on a wood-burning stove. I figured Al was boiling water for instant fare, but he brews old-style with a cobalt blue percolator. The dual-purpose stove also warms the room on wintry days.

His man cave is big enough for a work space and a couple of chairs. The walls are filled with things he likes to collect. Nothing is fancy. Decor is based on an earlier era. The antique irons are the kind that were heated in fireplaces, heavy black irons which outlived the women who used them. They blend nicely with cast iron skillets and pans, one of which his grandmother made cornbread in. Tender memories, seasoned with love, still simmer in the sturdy cookware.  

He has utensils, sausage grinders, wooden bowls, and such. An old item which was new to me was a round emery rock with a hand-crank, designed for sharpening blades of farm implements. The portable sharpener can be clamped to a flat surface for field use. 

Not far from the building is a 1946 Farmall tractor used for mowing grass plus tilling his garden. It doesn’t have a three-point hitch so he customized a plow. Just behind his hideaway is a red hand pump that’s mounted atop his self-dug well.  

Al and I had a great visit and he invited me to come again. I hope to do that before long. The coffee was smooth, the atmosphere welcoming, and the conversation easy. I suppose there’s no such thing as the perfect man cave for everyone, but from a country boy’s view I’d say Al Willis has a place that comes real close.

Other men might change it a tad. That’s not necessarily good or bad. But all would concede that a simple man cave is far more appealing than the finest of graves. Most wives, I believe, would surely agree, but with a smile some would say, “May he rest in peace.”

My last column focused on wayward spiritual steps. Today we’ll consider more down to earth matters. These are just three of many possibilities. Steps to nowhere are all around us.

Let’s begin with the wasted steps of going in circles. Mable, a brown mare from early childhood, is a good example. The aged horse had retired from the circus but not her circular routines.

Mable treated the pasture like a show ring. Riding her was like being on a merry-go-round. The only exception was when she had company. When Bryce Bledsoe rode his horse over to our place one day, Mable pleasantly surprised me by running beside Red. As soon as Red left, however, Mable corralled my dreams of becoming a cowboy. 

Albert Einstein reportedly said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.” That seems akin to going in circles. Mable and I could have enjoyed countryside romps, but she refused to change. Sometimes it’s easier to do the same thing rather than the sane thing.  

Laziness is another set of wasted steps. Once again, a horse from childhood helped teach me a lesson. Chief was a fine-looking Appaloosa, but noticeably pudgy when he came to our farm. His sagging belly should have tipped us off that he wasn’t a fan of running. Chief was slower than an old opossum on a midnight stroll.

After weeks of trying to coax him to hasten his pace, I braided orange baler twine into a homemade riding whip. I was determined to establish who was in charge and that’s sort of what happened. Thankfully I jumped off as he dropped to his knees, just before he rolled on to his side. That followed an attempt to crush my leg against a tree. He was not intimidated by soft twine.

Years ago Daddy told me a story about laziness that dates back to the early days of farming, the era of mules and hand tools. A local fellow, whose name I’ve long forgotten, was relaxing on his front porch in a rocking chair, unconcerned about the abundant weeds competing with his young cotton. 

A well-intentioned neighbor stopped by, hoping to encourage some much-needed effort. “I believe that nutgrass is going to eat you up,” he said to his friend. “It may,” replied the man, “but it’ll have to come up here on the porch and get me.” The level steps of laziness require little effort and offer commensurate rewards.           

We’ll close with indecision as a third step to nowhere. I heard a story at a bank convention years ago that illustrates the point.

When a car ran out of gas on a busy California freeway the driver coasted to the roadside. He saw a nearby station but there were 16 lanes of traffic to navigate. The fellow nervously tried to cross the busy highway several times, but kept retreating as vehicles approached. 

A long, black Cadillac pulled over to the side of the road. Its heavily-tinted driver’s window was slowly lowered. Much to the man’s surprise a giant squirrel was behind the steering wheel. The squirrel peered over the top of his sunglasses and looked the man in the eyes. “It’s not as easy as it looks is it?” The steps of indecision mostly go back and forth, keeping us right where we are.

I’m out of space and unsure how to end this column. Maybe that’s evidence of indecision. Or perhaps my inclination to close without more effort suggests a lazy approach to writing. Whatever the case may be, I feel like I’m going in circles. 

As a former pastor, Al Cadenhead, often said as he concluded his sermons, “That brings us back to where we started.” Whether the matters are spiritual or more down to earth, one thing is for certain. Steps to nowhere are all around us.  

For several years I’ve been driving down US Highway 41 to Cordele on Friday mornings. Since the purpose of my trips is to get allergy shots, there’s a road sign just north of town I find amusing – CONGESTED AREA. 

Another scene on those short outings inspires more serious ponderings. A small lot on 5th Street North has enough paving for five vehicles, plus cement bumpers to mark the spaces. What draws my attention, however, is a set of concrete steps with a handrail beside them. I call them the steps to nowhere.   

An office was once there, I assume, then moved or torn down. The steps no longer serve their intended purpose, but I find them useful. They remind me of the importance of choosing our steps wisely.

Multiple lessons could be considered, but today’s musings are about taking spiritual steps in the wrong direction. Let’s focus on envy, a wayward step which gets little attention. That thought surfaced as our men’s Sunday School class was studying Genesis. It had never occurred to me that envy is a repetitive storyline in the first book of the Bible.

Envy was an initial step toward the original sin, or maybe it is the original sin. Satan convinced Eve that eating the forbidden fruit would make her like God. Being envious of God led to the next errant step, disobedience. And disobedience caused the first couple to be cast out of the Garden of Eden into the land of gnats, rats, and pigweed. Envy can be costly.        

In mankind’s second generation, Cain was envious of his brother Abel. Cain was angry that his sibling’s offering found favor with God while his was unacceptable. Envy led to anger, which led to murder, which led to foolishly trying to deceive God. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked, pretending he didn’t know Abel’s whereabouts.   

Joseph is notable as a target of envy in early scripture. His ten brothers were so resentful of Joseph’s favorite-son status most of them wanted to kill him. He was sold into slavery by his brothers, then taken to Egypt where God miraculously elevated him to a place of power. Joseph’s position allowed him to later rescue his family, including his once conniving brothers, from famine. If not for divine intervention, however, Joseph would have been a tragic casualty of envy.   

Genesis has multiple accounts of envious behavior, but one of the best-known biblical examples is found in Psalms. King David’s affair with Bathsheba shows the common occurrence of envy leading to additional sinful steps. David coveted another man’s wife, so he sent for Bathsheba and slept with her. When David learned she was pregnant, he tried to hide his sin by having her husband, Uriah, killed on the battlefield. Envy led to adultery then to murder.

Envy is just one example of the dangers of taking a wayward step on our spiritual journeys. One sinful step often leads to another. The longer we stay on the broad path of disobedience, the less likely we are to seek the narrow path of redemption.

Temptation comes in many forms. Envy just seemed a good thought starter to prompt some individual reflection. The steps we take reflect the choices we make.      

Wayward steps don’t seem all that risky at first. The handrail beside them is deceptively assuring. But they all lead toward a CONGESTED AREA, a place where nothing is amusing.