Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Jane and I enjoy looking for driftwood, especially the seasoned pieces we occasionally find in the shallows of a spring fed stream.  The searches of many years have only resulted in a few items I consider exceptional.  Each of them was intricately honed and well preserved by the constant flow of clear water.

My favorite piece is just over a foot long and sits on a shelf above my desk.  It’s open on one end, gently hollowed over a long period of time.  The opening is about four inches wide and gradually narrows into a small solid point, a perfect vase for the three hawk feathers it holds.

That driftwood is in good company.  Squeezed between family photos on three shelves are a couple dozen assorted bottles.  None of them have significant value.  I doubt a collector would pay fifty dollars for the whole bunch, but it doesn’t matter because they’re not for sale.

Some came from our family farm, rescued mostly by my mother.  Others were found during my walks with Jane while exploring in the woods.  In the days before county landfills were established, bottles and cans were left beside forested trails.  Maybe that wasn’t the best choice, but none of the options were ideal.

Most of the bottles we find now are broken, common, or generally unremarkable.  Once in a blue moon, however, there’s something that rewards us enough we are inspired to keep looking.

I found a small ceramic vase last year when my brother, Jimmy, and I were cleaning up an old trash pile in the woods.  We hauled out a pickup load of discarded jars and cans.  Hidden in layers of mostly useless junk was a small ceramic vase my wife was delighted for me to bring home.

It’s not spectacular by any means, and a tiny chip renders it imperfect.   But what it lacks in perfection it makes up for in character.  I don’t understand why it was thrown away.  I only know that once it was lost but now it’s found.

The shelves above my desk hold a dozen brown jars of various shapes.  Some were originally bought empty, then repeatedly filled during long ago summers with vegetables from country gardens.  Others came with snuff, vanilla extract, or assorted medicines.

One bottle, I believe, contained Merthiolate.  That dreaded orange liquid, widely scorned by children, was liberally applied by mothers of old to burn away infections from serious wounds.  Smaller lesions were treated with Mercurochrome, which had the same orange color without the scorching pain.

If a cut was too deep to hide, the only sane solution was to slip into the house and coat the wound heavily with Mercurochrome, while leaving the Merthiolate bottle by the sink.  That plan works best if you blow on the wound and make grimacing sounds as you beg, “Please let me wash it off!  It’s burning me up!”

I have some clear bottles of various description, plus three tiny green ones I heavily favor.  They came from Joiner’s Store, a small country store that my grandfather opened in 1902.  One has a label showing it’s “GENUINE HAARLEM OIL.”  They each hold two fluid ounces of a turpentine-linseed oil mixture.  A little bit apparently goes a long way, but I’ll never know for sure.  Some bottles are best left unopened.

My plan was to write about collecting driftwood, but I got sidetracked while looking on my shelves.  Finding mantle-worthy pieces of tree remnants brings me great satisfaction.  I find comfort in knowing such artful beauty is created simply by man not interfering with nature.  But old bottles can also be quite charming.  While driftwood is slowly caressed and shaped, bottles are formed by the intentional melting of sand.  One process is subtle while the other is overt.

It’s not so different with people, I suppose.  Sometimes we’re gently polished by the cool flow of a stream.  At other times we’re abruptly refined by a blistering furnace.  One way is far more pleasant, but there’s purpose and value in both.

Hunting for driftwood on leisurely strolls with my wife is delightful, but it’s also rewarding to search for uncommon bottles and small lovely vases by digging through piles of rubbish.  The walks are more pleasant than the digging, but there’s purpose and value in both.     

My neighbor and longtime friend, Dewel Lawrence, sent me an email in early May about hummingbirds.  He had been watching a backyard feeder which his wife, Becky, had filled with sugar water.  The earlier spring menu included nectar filled blooms of red and white azaleas on the banks of a lovely pond.  Their big yard is like a buffet line in hummingbird heaven.     

During this troubling coronavirus pandemic, Dewel found inspiration through the hardiness of those tiny birds.  He said hummingbirds spend the winter in Mexico and Central America, then travel 500 miles north as they return to their hatching sites.  I don’t understand how a thumb-sized bird as light as a penny can do that.  Miraculous is a word that seems appropriate.    

Seeing those hummingbirds reminded Dewel of what Jesus said in Matthew 6:25-34.  Jesus assured his followers there’s no need to worry.  In verses 26-27 (NIV) he said, “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not much more valuable than they?  Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

It’s funny how the mention of something can uncover almost buried memories.  As I read Dewel’s email it took me back to childhood, to the home where my mother’s parents lived in Pulaski County.  Grandmama Hill loved to host big family dinners and we all loved being there.  We often visited in the gray wooden rocking chairs on their screened porch which had azaleas on three sides.

Grandmama had a lot of azaleas, several crepe myrtles, and a grancy greybeard, the only one I knew of at the time.  Nothing but a dirt driveway separated her porch from an enchanting head of woods with a spring-fed stream.  It was a popular venue for hummingbirds’ summer vacations.

As I would watch those birds from her porch it amazed me how fast they beat their wings, how they darted, hovered, and even flew backwards.  Billions of dollars have been spent developing today’s magnificent assortment of flying machines.  Yet man’s technology is no match for the hummingbird.  Creation in all its glory can never equal the Creator.

As I reflected on the marvels of hummingbirds, another occasion from long ago came to mind.  Jane and I, plus our three children, were living on DeLiesseline Drive in Vienna.  Our backyard swimming pool was enclosed by a fence which was covered in red honeysuckle and Carolina Jasmine.  We were rewarded each spring for planting those flowering vines by the visits of countless hummingbirds.

One family member, however, treated those little birds rather poorly.  Our solid white cat, Sugar, spent hours patiently stalking her prey.  We’d distract her or squirt her with the water hose when possible.  She had minimal success in her hunts for which we were glad.

But there was one memorable day when a hummingbird hovered too low for too long.  When I tried to approach, Sugar scampered away with the bird held firmly in her mouth.  I felt sorry for the helpless creature, but I knew not to blame Sugar.  She was just doing what cats are born to do.  I gave her a light scolding and suggested she might find blue jays more filling.

Cats don’t usually kill their prey humanely.  It’s more about the game than the meal.  They wound their victims enough to slow them down, then release the poor things so they can enjoy capturing them again.  That’s what Sugar did with that hummingbird.  I watched helplessly as she held that bird in her mouth, then dropped its motionless body on the ground between her paws.  She poked it lightly, hoping it would try to escape, but the bird showed no sign of life.  Then in a moment which surprised Sugar as much as me, that tiny hummingbird flitted its wings and soared to safety.

I don’t know if God intervenes in matters of that sort.  I used to think that wasn’t the case, but now I’m not so sure.  What I do know is that a friend’s email reminded me of a hummingbird that survived what seemed a hopeless situation.  The timing of his reminder is a blessing which I consider divine.

Jesus said there’s no need to worry, that our heavenly Father who provides for the birds will surely take care of His children.  I can’t truthfully claim I never worry, but I can say with gratitude that my worries are tempered by faith.  For my faith is in a loving Creator, because I know I am His child.        

The most beautiful place in the world is in the edge of Pulaski County, just across the Dooly-Pulaski line.  I’ll admit I’m highly prejudiced.  My fondness of those mystical woods is greatly enhanced by time’s perpetual sweetening of childhood memories.

A small stream has been continuously flowing since long before I was born. The springhead which feeds it is just beyond the backyard of the house my mother grew up in.

That little spring only yields a few gallons of water per minute, but faithfully stays on the job.  What it lacks in power it makes up for in reliability.  When my mother was a child, a ram pump provided a constant trickle of cool water from the spring to their house. 

Positioned downhill from the springhead, the ram was powered by the slight force of gravity and running water.  A tiny amount of the spring’s flow was captured by the ram’s propeller and piped to the kitchen sink where it slowly collected in pots, pans, and jugs.  The overflow drained back outside into a vat, saving water which could be used for livestock, laundry, and other needs.  That ram provided a rare convenience in the 1930s when most country folks drew tin pails from open wells with ropes.

The ram hasn’t worked in ages, but we still have its cast iron housing.  It’s always intrigued me that my grandparents had running water before they had electricity.  Maybe someday I’ll get the ram repaired and pump water from the spring again.  If not, it’s okay if someone takes it to a place that buys scrap iron.  That’s probably where its destined to go, but I’m not inclined to be the chauffeur.     

Woods below the spring were my favorite venue for childhood excursions.  Smooth white bark on giant sycamore trees held romantic tidbits of family history.  The one I remember best is “JH + KH,” written in the usual fashion with one letter in each quadrant of the plus sign.

Jack and Emmett Holland were my mother’s older siblings.  Uncle Jack married Katherine Holder, so there wasn’t any mystery as to whose initials those were.  I guess Aunt Katherine knew about that tree.  Perhaps she was with Uncle Jack when he penned their short love story with his knife.  I was too young to think about asking things I’d now like to know. 

I carved my initials on another sycamore when I was a kid.  There was no need for a plus sign.  It was just me at the time.  Not too many years ago I found my youthful inscription.  And I could still read, though barely, the one left much earlier by Uncle Jack.  The well-defined letters of long ago are almost gone, faded and stretched by a slowly expanding canvas of bark.

Those woods were a perfect place for boyhood adventures with my friend, Carl Shurley, who lived near my grandparents.  There were always minnows and water bugs to chase, plus an occasional perch darting for cover in the clear shallow water.    

We’d jump across the narrow stream, not caring if we fell in unless it was time for dinner.  And whether we were thirsty or not we’d crouch for a sip of water while watching for moccasins or ruthless two-legged critters like Tarzan did in the 1950s. 

Jane and I took a walk in those woods in March and discovered that several big hardwoods, including a massive hickory, had been toppled by a storm.  The once stately trees had been quite healthy until they were overwhelmed by wind and rain.  Open holes from displaced root systems told us why.  The soil beneath those trees was heavily punctuated with large rocks.  The roots of those trees had grown deep enough for fair weather, but they were too shallow for a storm.

It was troubling to see once towering trees lying flat on the ground, but it reminded me of what Jesus said about the importance of planting seed in good soil. (Matthew 13:1-23) He told that story much better than I can, so I won’t repeat it.  I’ll just invite you to read it if you will.   

We’re living in challenging times.  A virus we’d never heard of until recently has wreaked havoc around the globe and there’s no end in sight.  I don’t know the solution to COVID-19 or other horrendous pandemics, but I do know a truth that’s of lasting value.  Good soil is vital, because shallow roots won’t hold up in a storm.

I recently visited with someone I had not seen in almost 50 years.  We met at Valdosta State College in the early 1970s, but she was only there a short time.  That was the last contact I had with her, yet our friendship was memorable enough to easily pick up where we left off.

Please understand this is not a story about romance.  We did once go on a date together, but not with each other.  She went with Jim, and I was with her friend Latrelle.  And we danced until almost midnight even though three of us were Baptists.

The element of romance probably doesn’t matter to either of my regular readers, but I felt compelled to address it.  The Vice-President of the Proof Department at Joiner’s Corner has made two old-fashioned chocolate pies lately at my request.  I don’t want to jeopardize prospects of having more of that spectacular pudding topped with meringue so light it defies gravity.

My friend, Becky, and I filled in some blanks while sipping hot tea on a rainy afternoon at Lake Blackshear.  After covering the present, we took a nice stroll down memory lane.  Virtual tours of the past are not a bad option at this point in life.  Memories often grow sweeter with the passing of time.  Then she posed a question which I’ve never spent much time thinking about.

“What’s on your bucket list?” she asked, her query taking me by surprise.

“I don’t really have a bucket list,” I answered.  “I’m not even sure how many buckets we have.  My guess is seven or maybe eight, but it’s never crossed my mind that I should make a list of them.”

Her disarming smile was unchanged from decades earlier, a sign I interpreted as an indication I should continue.

“Our buckets are mostly white or yellow.  We had a brown one, but it finally got so many cracks in it we threw it away.  Most of our buckets originally contained hydraulic fluid or chemicals used on our farm.  There’s only one I know of that had waited emptily on a store shelf until we purchased it.

“The bucket we bought came from Survivors Bait & Tackle on St. George Island.  When our family was there on vacation last summer, I bought some shrimp for our grandchildren to fish with.  I didn’t have a container to carry them in, so I weighed the options of a small Styrofoam minnow bucket or a five-gallon plastic one.  I figured the bigger bucket would be more useful at home.

“Jane uses that bucket when she picks up pinecones.  We’ve gotten our money’s worth already and it could easily last another ten years.  Plastic buckets are quite durable if they’re taken care of.  Jane loves working in the yard and I try to make sure she has good equipment.

“We also have a couple of small metal buckets that probably hold two gallons or so, but that’s just a guess.  One of them came as a door-prize at an annual meeting of Middle Georgia Electric Membership Corporation.  It’s a nice bucket that certainly deserves to be included on a list.  I don’t remember where the other one came from unless it was a beach trip, but that’s highly speculative.”

Before wrapping up this column, I need to disclose I have taken considerable liberties with the truth.  As I began writing it seemed potentially amusing to answer Becky’s question in a different manner than expected.  I hope you agree, but either way, here’s a condensed version of what really happened.

When Becky asked what was on my bucket list, I told her the first thing that came to mind.  “I’d like to write something that makes a difference,” I said.  “It doesn’t matter if I’m famous for it, or if I make any money with it, but I’d love to know I’ve written something worthwhile.”

“You’re already doing that,” she responded with warm affirmation.  I know my friend is sincere, and I hope she’s right, at least some of the time.  Her question led me to do some soul searching, and I’m offering you that same opportunity: What’s on your bucket list?  Is it worthwhile?

I hope today’s column was worth your time.  I’ll try again next week if you’ll let me.  If I stop writing these stories my daily routine will no doubt take a troublesome turn.  Pinecones are steadily falling like gentle spring rains, and I’ve said far too much to hide the other buckets.

The story of a young man named Eutychus is found in Acts 20:7-12.  He was seated in the opening of an upstairs window as he listened to the Apostle Paul.  Paul was planning to leave town the next day, so he kept preaching until midnight.

I’m not sure at what point Eutychus drifted off to sleep, but I’ll bet his pals were amused as they watched his eyes grow heavy.  Eutychus wouldn’t have attracted much attention, except he fell backwards from a three-story room and died when he hit the ground.  Thankfully, Paul was used by God to intervene and Eutychus’ life was restored in a miraculous way.

It’s a given that everyone present was alarmed by Eutychus’ fall, shocked by his death, and amazed by his second chance at life.  After things settled down Paul broke bread then continued talking until daylight.  Scripture doesn’t say, but I’m certain Eutychus stayed awake the rest of the time.

There’s a smiley face in my Bible by those verses that I drew at some point when I made a notation: “Sleeping in church is a longtime problem.”  I imagine Eutychus still gets some good-natured teasing about that episode.  I don’t know exactly what heaven will be like, but I have no doubt that laughter will be common.

Eutychus’ story reminds me of a Sunday night service at Harmony Baptist Church during my childhood.  I was sitting with my cousin, David Dunaway, and his older brother, Larry.

Larry must have stayed up late the night before.  David and I were tickled as we watched Larry’s predictable path toward slumber.  We were hoping for some free entertainment, maybe a head jerk or a forward slump noticeable enough the preacher might call his name.  Much to our chagrin Larry remained upright although his eyes were fully sealed.  That’s when David had a moment of inspiration.

David opened a green Broadman Hymnal to number 162, “Just As I Am.”  He put the hymn book in front of Larry and whispered with urgency, “Stand up!  We’re singing!”  Larry popped up from that pew like sliced bread being sprung from a toaster, but he quickly noticed he was standing alone.  That’s when he gave David a “you just wait until we get home” kind of look that I still vividly remember.

At Vienna First Baptist, where I’ve been a member since 1976, Mr. Emmett Stephens was our champion pew sleeper for decades.  In today’s congregation Frank Hulsey would give him some competition, but back in the 1970s Mr. Emmett was without peer in competitive dozing.  Like my cousin, Larry, and my friend, Frank, Mr. Emmett had a gift for napping without drawing attention.

JW Wallis was the pastor at Vienna First when Jane and I became members.  He didn’t fret over his much older friend Emmett nodding off during the service, and Mr. Emmett was very appreciative of his young pastor.  He told JW that he had slept through the sermons of other preachers, but assured him, “I’ve never slept as soundly as when you preach.”

One late night at home Mr. Emmett listened in frustration to the ticking of the clock by his bed.  He was quietly miserable for a while, then finally spoke softly to his wife.  “Christine, are you awake?”

“I am now,” she answered.  “What is it Emmett?”

“I’m having trouble going to sleep,” he told her.  “How about calling JW and see if he’ll read me a little bit of one of his sermons.”

JW and others of us from that era still enjoy revisiting that memory.  It’s a funny account of a man who sometimes slept better in church than he did at home.  But within that humorous framework is a reminder that pastors need more than members.  They also need friends.  JW didn’t worry about Mr. Emmett sleeping on Sunday mornings.  He knew he could count on him the rest of the week.

I’m sure Mr. Emmett and Eutychus have swapped stories by now, and he’s no doubt looking forward to introducing Eutychus to JW somewhere down the road.  I can almost hear him saying, “Eutychus, this is the fella’ I’ve been telling you about that used to put me under.”

When Eutychus stops chuckling Mr. Emmett will likely be serious for a moment and share how much JW means to him.  “But Eutychus,” he’ll probably add, “if you’re ever in a service when JW is preaching, I’d suggest you keep a good distance away from any open windows.”

I’m old enough to know better but I did it anyway.  I spent most of the last Saturday in March trying to burn a pile of wet leaves.  They looked dry on top, but sometimes I forget that what we see is not always what we get.  Beneath the surface is what’s most important.

My long day of spreading layers of leaves to keep the fire going reminded me of an old television ad.  It ran on Macon’s WMAZ Channel 13 during my 1950s childhood.  I couldn’t find the advertisement using a Google search, so I may not be telling this exactly right.  I’m not giving my usual guarantee of at least 50 percent accuracy.

Two middle aged local men were featured touting a brand of bacon, which I’m guessing was packaged in Central Georgia.  According to one of the fellows this exceptional bacon wouldn’t burn.  The other man, however, kept forgetting that unique characteristic.  The first gentleman feigned frustration towards his rather hapless friend.  “He’ll never learn!” he said, while shaking his head.  Just afterward, or maybe it was just before, he’d add with excitement, “Southern Maid No-burn Bacon – It will not burn.”

We have a big yard with a lot of trees.  Jane normally mows over the leaves with mulching blades, but her mower was in Russ Bowden’s Infirmary this past leaf season.  It needed some major work, so I came up with a brilliant idea of blowing the leaves into piles.  To make loading easier, I made a leaf sled.  There’s no patent pending.  You are welcome to follow the detailed instructions below and build your own.

I took a 12 by 16 blue polyethylene tarpaulin and ran a small cord through the grommets all the way around.  We raked the leaves onto the tarp, draped the cord over the bumper hitch on my truck, then drug it 100 yards to our brush pile.  I flipped it over to unload, then returned to our yard and repeated that process until the truck ran low on gas.

If I can pause here for a moment on a sidebar to the story, I’d like to say I’m not totally convinced tarpaulin is spelled correctly.  I’ve always pronounced it tar-po-le-on, four syllables with an accent on po.  I’m relying on Spell Check but hoping it’s wrong.  Tarpoleon may not be a real word, but in my opinion it should be.  Say it aloud a few times and I think you’ll agree it sounds better.

Those leaves covered an area bigger than downtown Findley and were several feet deep.  They had been soaked by winter rains which set a record on Coley Crossing.  The top three inches of that pile burned like wildfire.  It went, “faster than a Seville second,” as Marian Bowen would say.  But the bottom three feet or so wouldn’t cooperate.

I should have looked beneath the surface before I struck the match, but the dry top and delightful weather was too tempting.  It was a beautiful spring day with a perfect breeze, enough wind to scatter the smoke without floating tiny cinders to parts unknown.

It was around nine a.m. when I called for my burn permit.  I expected to be through before lunch, or at least well before sundown as required by regulation.  The flames died out before the deadline, but the leaves were still smoldering Sunday morning.

Our former next-door neighbor, the late Mrs. Lorena Morgan, worked in her yard almost daily.  She piled leaves and limbs into a wheelbarrow and burned them every few days.  The smoke finally got to her though.  She walked to the ambulance that took her to the hospital where she soon died at 102.

While burning those leaves, I was reminded of Miss Lorena.  She was a sweet, soft-spoken lady who loved taking care of her flowers and grounds.  If heaven offers a neighborhood channel, I hope she was watching me.  I know what she’d be thinking but would be too kind to state.  “He’ll never learn.”

I say that because I believe this is the second time I’ve made the same mistake.  The slow burning of wet leaves seemed oddly familiar.  As the great Yogi Berra would have said, “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

Hopefully I won’t soon forget a lesson I sometimes ignore.  The top layer of anything seldom tells the whole story.  But if we look beneath the surface, we’ll find what’s most important.

During my early childhood at Harmony Baptist Church, Mrs. Ilene Mashburn was my Sunday School teacher.  She used a felt board to help tell Bible stories, pressing on figures to go with the scenes she compellingly described.

I saw Noah standing at the entrance of the ark while the animals peacefully boarded, guided by an unseen Shepherd.  I watched Moses lead the children of Israel as they walked on dry ground between towering walls of water in the Red Sea.  And I was amazed at Daniel who showed no fear as he sat on a large stone in a den of lions.

It was hard to imagine having the courage of those Biblical heroes, yet I believed it was possible by choosing faith over fear.  My belief is unchanged, yet making that choice remains a challenge.

Another vivid memory from those early days in Sunday School is from a few years later.  Mrs. Betty Calhoun was our teacher by then.  A recollection that still causes me to smile is from our time of reciting verses.

Memorization has never been my strong suit.  I could learn something well enough to usually make a good grade on tests at school, but the information dissipated as soon as the bell rang.  It was the same with memorizing Bible verses.  A few have stayed with me, but I generally look them up for accuracy.  I’ve found that my paraphrasing is too heavily influenced by my opinion.

My go-to scripture during recitation time was, “Jesus wept,” from John 11:35.  It was also, however, the highly preferred option of my cousin, David Dunaway.  We sat beside each other and would scuffle over who went first in the rotation.

As soon as Miss Betty said it was time to recite verses, we quickly raised our hands.  From the front edges of our seats David and I waved aggressively while trying to restrain one another.  We competed with feigned desperation for the privilege of quoting the shortest verse in the Bible.

I didn’t understand much about that brief scripture at the time.  It’s likely I had heard a sermon on it at some point, but I don’t remember one.  To me it was simply a ticket to go to the front of the line.  Lately, however, I’ve been thinking more about Jesus’ weeping.

Covie Langford called me in early April to tell me his first cousin, Jimmy, had died.  Jimmy Langford and I grew up about two miles from each other.  We started first grade together at Pinehurst Elementary.  As adults we worshipped in the same church.  For the past ten years we lived just a few hundred yards apart.

Jimmy was one of the most kind-hearted and humble people I’ve ever known.  He had a Christ-like demeanor that I aspire to emulate but fall dreadfully short.  He didn’t make speeches or do other things that garner attention or yield applause, but his servant’s heart was a wonderful example for all who knew him.  Jimmy preached a daily sermon in how he lived.

I didn’t know Jimmy had been sick for a week or so before he died.  Maybe that’s why Covie’s phone call brought tears to my eyes.  The tears only lasted a moment, but as I’m writing this story on Easter Sunday my eyes have turned red.  I’m sad because a gentle man with an easy smile is now among the COVID-19 losses.   Statistics are more troubling when they wear a familiar face.

An unexpected death of a lifelong friend seems more tragic than usual during this pandemic.  Virtual embraces aren’t the same as real ones, yet that’s the world we must live in for a while.

Perhaps it would have been better if I had written something humorous this week.  Melancholy topics are already far too common.  But I wanted Jimmy’s wife, Kay, and their son, Kyle, to know what was in my heart.  Writing a column is not like giving them a hug, but it’s all I can do for now.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit I’ve been crying, but I think it’s helped me understand something better than I did before.  I’ve heard several explanations as to why Jesus wept, yet I’m still unsure of all the implications.  I’m confidant, however, that he shed those tears to tenderly teach us a lesson.  By Jesus’ example we can know one thing with certainty.  Sometimes it’s okay to cry.

In 1950 Holy Oak Baptist Church was approaching the 100^th anniversary of its founding.  Its white clapboard walls and faithful congregants were typical of rural South Georgia.  There were a dozen children of various ages, and 50 or so adults who ranged from barely grown to almost gone.

No one was more faithful than Deacon Homer Smith, a silver haired gentleman who had once been a baby at Holy Oak.  He’d always done more than his part for the church, mostly because he wanted to, sometimes because no one else was willing.

When the ancient oak tree which Holy Oak was named for toppled over in a storm, Deacon Smith made a beautifully finished pulpit from its massive base.  Then he carved an old rugged cross to be hung behind the preacher on the baptistry wall.

Deacon Smith’s wise counsel was valued by the congregation.  As he grew older, however, he began keeping his opinions to himself.  It was, he believed, time for the mantle of leadership to transition to a younger generation.  In January of 1950 he made a private resolution to keep silent in the conferences held each month on the second Sunday.

He made it through several meetings without expressing his views on any matters of business.  In the April conference, however, his fortitude was severely tested when Sister Betty Lou Watkins, President of the Women’s Missionary Union, proposed a substantial acquisition.

When the pastor asked if anyone had any new business to bring up, Sister Betty Lou raised her hand.  She moved that Holy Oak spend $500 to buy a chandelier.  It was the first time Deacon Smith had heard a woman present a motion in conference.  He stayed quiet but his heart was racing and his stomach was churning.  He knew the Apostle Paul said women should keep silent in church, but he was unsure if that applied to conferences or maybe just preaching.

Multiple opinions were offered by church members during a lively discussion.  Some thought a chandelier was a wonderful idea and wanted to get it before the 100-year Homecoming celebration in October.  Others thought it was a complete waste of money.  Two men with opposite views each said they were certain of God’s will in the matter.  The chandelier became a divisive issue in a place where unity had long been the norm.  That’s when Deacon Smith stood up to speak.

“For the past few months, I’ve kept my opinions to myself,” he said, “because I feel like it’s time for me to step aside on items of church business.  But I can’t sit quietly in the pew today.”

With the kind spirit he was known for Deacon Smith continued.  “I’ve listened carefully to every comment, and I have no doubt they’ve been said with good intentions.  But I honestly don’t believe our church needs a chandelier.  We don’t need to spend that kind of money to buy a chandelier.  We don’t have a good place to put a chandelier.  And we don’t have a single member in our congregation who knows how to play a chandelier.”

He looked around the sanctuary as he paused to gather his thoughts.  His heart was warmed by pleasant expressions.  Scowls of contention had given way to radiant smiles.  “This church doesn’t need a chandelier,” he added with confidence and conviction.  “What this church needs is some better lighting!”

Sister Betty Lou Watkins withdrew her motion and offered to help investigate the lighting issue. Deacon Homer Smith moved to authorize the W.M.U. to spend up to $500 for whatever kind of fixtures they could agree on.  And the smiling congregation of Holy Oak Baptist Church knew one thing with absolute certainty. Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Footnote: “The Chandelier” was one of many humorous stories told by the late comedian Jerry Clower.  He was a master of clean comedy and a fine Christian gentleman.  I don’t think he would mind my sharing a new version of his old story, but someday I’ll ask him.  I expect to see Jerry in a place where there’s no need for chandeliers.  The light from the Son is more than enough.    

It’s amazing how much debris can accumulate in a gutter over fifteen years.  Until the first Saturday in April, I don’t think we had cleaned out our gutters since they were installed.  The coronavirus pandemic has necessitated most of us spend more time at home, so I’m catching up on some overdue maintenance.

Confinement of any type is seldom viewed as a blessing, but we’re fortunate if we have that option.  There are masses of people who would love to stay home but can’t.

First-responders are working long hours in conditions more hazardous than anyone could have imagined.  Healthcare providers are worn to a frazzle as they risk their own lives to help save others.

Grocery store workers are wiping down carts and stocking shelves.  They were rarely thought of as heroes in the past.  Today, however, I’d like to hug every one of them.

Druggists are still dispensing medicine.  Restaurant employees are cooking take-out orders.  Truckers are delivering goods to warehouses which people in vans bring to our porches.  And the folks at the post office know the mail must go through.

People in factories are wearing masks while making things we need.  Many are nervous about going in, yet thankful to be on payroll.  Coronavirus is fatal to jobs but not bills.  Payments come due every month and essentials are quickly depleted.

I’ve only touched the surface of professions which are severely affected by COVID-19.  My point is that those of us who can stay home in relative comfort and safety have a lot to be thankful for.  I’m sure you already know that, but it takes a lot of reminding for me.

Jane was pruning shrubbery in our back yard when she noticed a weed with a yellow flower growing in our gutter.  Despite its colorful bloom, I knew it shouldn’t be there.  So, I got a ladder and pulled it out.

I was surprised to find that weed had a lot of company.  A row of green unwanted guests was thriving in a mixture of leaves and sand-like particles that had washed down from our shingles.

The debris was several inches deep and tightly packed by time and moisture.  I had to loosen it with a trowel before using a big shop vacuum to suck it out.  And I did something foolish.  I ignored some advice that I had included in a small book titled Lessons From The Ladder.

There’s a sticker on many ladders which warns, “DO NOT STAND ABOVE THIS STEP,” but I climbed a rung higher.  It turned out okay, but it was a poor choice.  All I had to do was borrow a longer ladder from my neighbor, Ken, or get one from the farm on Monday.  But the gutter needed cleaning and I didn’t want to wait, for I had already waited too long.

I hope by the time this is published COVID-19 will be on the downslope.  Meanwhile I’ll spend some time taking care of a few things I’ve neglected, like cleaning out the gutters.

It’s also a good opportunity to clean out my spiritual gutters.  They tend to fill gradually with bits of sediment.  They look about the same from ground level, revealing nothing that demands urgent attention.  At some point, however, the weeds take hold and the roots grow deeper.  And we venture precariously near the top of the ladder trying to treat the symptoms rather than the cause.

Spiritual gutters need thorough cleansings.  “Nothing but the Blood,” a hymn written in the 1800s, succinctly tells us how.  “What can wash away my sin?  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.  What can make me whole again?  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

When a rain gutter is filled with debris, it doesn’t function like it’s supposed to.  And when a spiritual gutter is cluttered with sin, it doesn’t work like God intended.  There’s a cost that comes with neglect, and a joy that comes with a clean fresh start.  There will never be a better time for a new beginning than right now.

As hymnist Robert Lowry so aptly put it, “Oh, precious is the flow, that makes me white as snow.  No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

By the time I was born in the fall of 1952, I had been attending Harmony Baptist Church for nine months.  During my early childhood there were only a few steps separating Harmony’s sanctuary and that of Smyrna United Methodist.  The distance between those white frame buildings was probably no more than 50 feet.  The congregations shared an unpaved parking area, an ancient cemetery, and a long row of concrete picnic tables located beneath towering virgin pines.

I’m not sure who built the impressive, though unpainted, cement block outhouse.  I think it was on Harmony’s property, but the open-door policy welcomed members of either denomination, as well as those who only came for special occasions like revivals, funerals, and Decoration Day.

The oversized outhouse was divided into two sections, one for ladies and the other for men.  Each side had a long wooden plank that could accommodate two people, or maybe it was three.  In my young mind it seemed that a cement block privy for a rural clapboard church reflected an uncommon degree of prosperity.  I can honestly say, however, that I never heard anyone boast about it.

There was a hand pump near the outdoor concrete baptismal pool.  After a few strokes of the rusty metal lever, cool water would trickle from its iron spout.  I don’t remember girls drinking from it, but young boys found immeasurable pleasure pulling that handle and leaning over to take a sip, knowing a little mud might splatter on our shoes.  That sure was good water, especially in the middle of summer.

I don’t think Harmony’s baptismal pool was ever filled from that old pump, but I’m not sure.  When I was baptized in the summer of 1962 the church had a deep well and a water hose.  Right after our July revivals someone, usually the nearby Deloach family, would remove the winter leaves and summer frogs from the uncovered baptistry and fill it with clean water.           Reverend Earl Troglin was the young pastor who immersed me.  I told Brother Earl a few years ago that some people think he didn’t hold me under long enough.  He said he’d rather be accused of going too short than too long when he lowers someone beneath the surface.

In the days before air conditioning Harmony had big ceiling fans that stirred the air almost imperceptibly.  The windows of both churches, Harmony and Smyrna, were raised for services during hot weather.  It was an enchanting view looking through those open windows.  A downside, however, was that wasps would occasionally join us.  Their unpredictable flight patterns provided welcome amusement at times.  On other occasions young boys fought bravely to conceal unadmitted fears.

Those menacing wasps were especially unsettling during prayers.  The decision whether to keep our eyes fully closed or discreetly monitor for potential attacks was never easy.  I was thankful when I discovered there’s a code of silence among peeking sinners of all ages.

Boys could feel a wasp landing on our flattops, and men could tell if one skidded down a Vitalis coated runway.  But ladies, especially those with fresh permanents, had no idea when an invader lightly meandered across a stiff hairdo in search of a nesting site.  It was a delicate matter whether to ignore the wasp, sound the alarm, or swat it with a funeral home fan and hope it didn’t land in some place even worse.

Although wasps could be troublesome, there was one thing I especially enjoyed which came through those open windows.  I loved hearing familiar hymns sung by our Methodist friends, and I tried to make sure they heard us too.  Daddy told me about a memorable Sunday morning of long ago.  While the Harmony folks were singing “Will You Meet Me Over Yonder?” the Smyrna congregation was answering “No Not One, No Not One.”

I think that’s just an amusing tale my father heard and passed along.  But remembering those open church windows reminds me of moments long ago that still matter.  There were times at Harmony when I listened to the preacher and times when I listened to the songs.  And there were times, thankfully, when I listened to the Lord.  That’s the part that still matters.