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While sweeping the floor of our farm shop one October morning, I was fondly reminded of the late Julius Bembry. Enough dirt had accumulated under my watch to start a small garden. That never happened when Julius was around. Sweeping up was part of his weekly routine.

His parents moved to my grandfather Jim Joiner’s farm when Julius was six months old. As a young man he worked with my Uncle Ray for a while, then spent over 50 years helping Daddy. He was a fine Christian gentleman and a dear friend to multiple generations of our family.

There were times of the year that sweeping the shop was put on hold. Planting season  came with long hours, and the days of harvesting often extended past sundown. Usually, however, farm work ended at noon on Saturday. About 11:30 Julius would grab a broom and sweep the concrete floor.

Julius liked a clean and orderly workspace. He’d make sure the hand tools were in the right place, knowing he’d need them again Monday morning. If they were greasy he’d wash them in gasoline. Then he’d sweep the floor and lock the door.

Joiner’s Store also came to mind that morning. My sweeping experiences there were courtesy of one of Daddy’s brothers. Uncle Emmett hired me to help him while he was recovering from a car accident. I was 11 when I started and 12 when I quit. We got along fine, but he tended to have grouchy spells. I figured I could get by without the dollar a day for Saturday pay which he held until month’s end.

Store work was, however, good training. I’d stock the shelves, fill orders, work the mechanical cash register, pump gas, wash his car, and do the weekly sweeping. He kept red sawdust which I’d sprinkle on the wooden floor in the mornings. It came moistened with oil to help attract grime. After a few hours of foot traffic the sawdust was ready to be collected.

A third sweeping-related memory surfaced of my friend Larry Abbott. He died in 2018 at age 70 from ongoing health issues. Larry walked with a pronounced limp, and one of his arms was severely undeveloped and almost useless. Despite those limitations, he kept the floors at the hospital in Vienna spotless for 21 years.

Larry was constantly going up and down those tiled hallways. It was a common site to see him pushing a wide dust mop with an arm made strong from double duty. I never saw him when he wasn’t smiling and pleasantly taking pride in his work. 

His exemplary attitude is one reason I sometimes think about Larry. The other is his simple approach to faith, a perspective he memorably conveyed one day at the bank.

I was sitting at my desk when Larry came into my office. He invited me to speak at a Brotherhood meeting at Mt. Vernon Baptist Church. I told him I would then jestfully added, “Maybe I can think of something to talk about.” 

With a big grin, Larry said he was sure that I could. He headed toward the door, but paused and turned around. He stepped back to my desk and innocently shared some advice which I still cherish. He said, “You could talk about something out of the Bible.” 

That little moment has long been a source of inspiration. Religion can be complicated if we let it. So can church. Larry understood that faith at its best is simple.

Matthew 18:2-3 addresses that matter. “And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them. And said, ‘Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”  

Sweeping the shop floor that October morning gave me a lot to think about. Julius, Uncle Emmett, and Larry are all gone, but each of them impacted my life in positive ways. Pleasant memories with meaningful lessons are a good combination. Reflecting on them was an unexpected reward for my long-delayed efforts in rounding up the dirt.  

And as the stirred dust resettled to the floor, I decided it best to sweep a little bit more.

My little John Deere kept throwing hints I should get two detachable forks for its front-end loader. Pursuing that grand idea led us to Rusty’s Welding. Rusty called later to ask if the engine had been shutting off unexpectedly. It hadn’t, so the tractor deserves accolades for breaking down in a good spot.

Rusty discovered the cause was a clogged fuel filter. The resin-like coating he found prompted him to inquire if the tractor had been sitting idle for a while. That wasn’t the case, but I knew what had happened. The diesel in the tractor had come from our farm tank and was several years past its expiration date. The root of the problem was contamination.  

I had recently changed the filter on the tank’s electric pump. The flow was slow so I figured it needed replacing. When that didn’t resolve the matter, I removed a metal screen from inside the pump’s housing. Hundreds of tiny holes, designed to trap particles as fuel passed through, were almost impenetrable. But after cleaning the screen with a wire brush, the flow was not much better.

Unsure of what else to check, I removed the pump from the tank. The bottom of the four-foot intake pipe was covered in heavy black grime that had hardened. There was no way for adequate fuel to be drawn through the opening. The stopped-up pipe, however, was only a symptom of the real culprit, contamination. 

Besides clean fuel, engines need fresh air too. I learned that during my childhood on the farm. One day Julius Bembry, who worked with my father, was blowing compressed air through a breathing element he had taken off a tractor. We had been picking peanuts, a dusty job, so filters needed frequent cleanings.   

While blowing the dust away, Julius saw a teachable moment for the kid helping. He explained that air filters are like the hairs in our noses. They help prevent dust from going where it might cause more harm. The bandana he kept in his back pocket offered another layer of protection when needed. 

Clogged filters of any sort can prevent equipment from operating optimally. And if we’re using fuel that’s past its prime or working in dusty conditions, the filters need more frequent attention. Ignoring the basics can lead to severe problems. The same is true of life.

Television is a good example. During my childhood the Federal Communications Commission provided an effective filter for viewing options. The three major networks, CBS, NBC, and ABC, rarely offered anything that wasn’t suitable for the entire family. That was partly due to regulations, but also because traditional Judeo-Christian values were generally embraced by the media, advertisers, and viewers. 

The Andy Griffith Show was a staple in many households. Father Knows Best, My Three Sons, I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver, and My Favorite Martian were also popular. Gilligan’s Island,  Green Acres, and The Beverly Hillbillies are just a few more of the dozens which were regularly watched. Clean entertainment was the norm. Now it’s the exception.

 In a documentary I recently watched on Netflix, a man was asked to comment about a settled legal case involving Pepsi and a Harrier Jet. He laughed and said he would have to temper his language for television. The person interviewing him responded, “You can say anything you want.” Filters for vulgar language, licentious behavior, and graphic violence are practically gone.        

The entertainment industry has few boundaries, except those dictated by profit goals. Filters are now mostly self-imposed. That’s not easily done, but a positive example was offered some time ago in our men’s Sunday School class. A member shared his conviction that if a show was inappropriate for his teenage daughter, it wasn’t suitable for him either. 

Even the best filters, however, can fail. That’s why it’s important to carefully choose the fuel that nurtures our souls. I have no control over what others may consume, so my focus needs to be on what I’m taking in.

Filters can help to some extent, but a better option is to keep our spiritual tanks filled to the rim with the cleanest fuel possible. The root of the problem is contamination.  

Last week’s column was about a recent visit to an assisted living facility. I played piano as Ramona Giles led the residents in singing. She picked old hymns, beginning with “Victory in Jesus” followed by “Because He Lives.”

I was surprised to learn that neither song is in the 1940 Broadman Hymnal. “Victory in Jesus” was published in 1939, probably too late for the deadline. E. M. Barlett, who wrote the lyrics and music, died in 1941, perhaps unaware how well the song would be received.

“Because He Lives” is so familiar I was sure we sang it during childhood, but it’s younger than me. The 1971 effort of Bill and Gloria Gaither is one of many songs written and recorded by the talented couple.

The next eight selections came from the storied green Broadman, the one I’m most sentimentally attached to. I’m not opposed to new material, but the hymns I grew up with are infused with sweet memories.

Harmony Baptist Church didn’t have a choir, just a volunteer songleader. Several men filled that role capably over the years, but I won’t try to name them. I’d surely leave someone out.

Mr. Lee Willaims was Harmony’s most gifted bass singer. His smooth voice could be clearly heard, especially when phrases were echoed through short repetitions. Miss Leola Wilson, a sweet soul who never married, added flavor with superb alto. A small lady with a strong voice, she needed no help. That was fortunate as the rest of us mostly sang also. 

Congregational singing played a prominent role in worship services. Everyone assembled in the sanctuary before Sunday School for a hymn, announcements, and a prayer. Later during church we’d sing four or more songs before the preacher took his turn.

Several verses of the invitation would pause the music until that evening. Baptist Training Union, known as B.T.U., was followed by more singing, preaching, and another invitation. “Oh Why Not Tonight” gave us plenty to think about.  

There were probably a hundred hymns in our regular rotation. Ramona’s selections were in that group, songs like “The Unclouded Day.” Willie Nelson’s theology seems sketchy, but he sounds confident about reaching that “home far beyond the skies.” I hope he gets there and has a guitar instead of a harp.       

“Are You Washed in the Blood?” was a good question in 1878 and still is. Alan Jackson made a splendid recording of that and other old hymns a number of years back. He sang some of his mother’s favorites, a fine gesture by a son who valued where he came from.

“At the Cross” reminded me of standing next to my lifelong friend William Cross in the sanctuary. When “cross” was mentioned in the lyrics, I’d emphasize it with enough volume he would notice but the preacher wouldn’t.  

“Blessed Assurance” is one of more than 8000 songs written by Fanny J. Crosby. She was blind from infancy, yet considered her condition a blessing which kept her from being distracted. Her daunting challenges led to inspiration rather than exasperation.

“When the Morning Comes” has a recurring line that I need to reflect on more often. In a world of alarming disarray it’s a blessing to know, “We will understand it better by and by.” I sure don’t understand it now, but I believe I will someday.

“Sweet Hour of Prayer” offers a comforting reminder. “In seasons of distress and grief my soul has often found relief. And oft escaped the tempter’s snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer.” Amen.

“When We All Get to Heaven” is easy to sing and fun too. It’s not in the current Baptist Hymnal. A theologian probably suggested “all” was misleading, but that’s just a guess. With an 1898 copyright it had a good run. I hope it won’t be forgotten.  

“Sweet By and By” ended the program, but only for a minute. Mary Joyce requested  “The Old Rugged Cross.” It was sung a lot at Harmony, enough so that I remembered it was number 71.

I love those old hymns, but I’m not opposed to new material. Ramona introduced me to “Our Best,” a beautiful melody with a poignant message. “Every work for Jesus will be blest, But He asks from everyone His best. Our talents may be few, These may be small, But unto Him is due Our best, our all.”

It’s number 343 in the green Broadman Hymnal.

Decades ago at the Sunbelt Expo someone was handing out coin-sized mementos that were similar to lunchroom tokens. It took a moment to digest the clever imprint – TUIT.    

Today I am sorely in need of a round TUIT. My to-do list always gravitates toward the hinterlands. It’s like the forgotten folder I found under my desk marked URGENT. 

Thankfully, most items aren’t actually urgent. A window sill needs work and a hole needs dirt. The bucket in the attic was put there before we got a new roof and is unnecessary, I hope. Tasks occasionally get completed. Others are resolved by time, not always optimally. Many, however, are perpetual.

My tendency to put things off came to mind following a September visit to an assisted living facility. I’ve known two of the ladies living there since early childhood, but rarely see them. My to-do list includes checking on friends, kin, classmates, and shut ins, but good intentions don’t really count. 

Mary Joyce Dunaway called and invited me to come play the piano for the residents. When I said okay, she didn’t delay. “How about two o’clock tomorrow?”

I contacted my longtime buddy, Don Giles. His wife Ramona has a lovely voice and agreed to lead the group in singing hymns. She picked out some beloved standards, mostly from the green Broadman Hymnal of 1940. The singing was followed by lighthearted reminiscing.

Based on assurances she would be leaving when I did, my mother went with me. Mama and Mary Joyce married first cousins and lived a few miles apart. Our families worshiped together at Harmony Baptist Church. Seasoned memories abound, such as their views on making tea.

Mama’s tea is mildly sweetened. Mary Joyce, on the other hand, is generous with sugar. When ladies of their generation would bring pitchers of tea to church dinners, Mary Joyce would say, “Pour Margaret’s in with the unsweet.” She maintains Mama’s tea is not fit to drink. Mama refers to Mary Joyce’s tea as glucose. 

After the hymns were sung, Mary Joyce asked me to tell the group about Larry, her oldest child, falling asleep during a sermon. I recounted how David, his younger brother, opened a hymnal to “Just As I Am” then handed it to Larry with an urgent whisper. “Get up! We’re singing the invitation.”   

The three of us were sitting near the back. Larry popped up from the pew, then realized he was the only one standing. He gave David a look that clearly said, “Wait until we get home.”

Sharing that story reminded me of a Sunday afternoon the three of us were playing cowboys with cap pistols. Little rolls of gunpowder made popping sounds when the triggers were pulled, adding authenticity to unscripted play.  

David was Billy the Kid and I was Jesse James. Larry was Sheriff Wyatt Earp. Jesse got shot in the heart and tumbled to the ground. The Kid, however, was a tough hombre. He rolled in the dirt while dodging bullets, then jumped up and scampered out of range. 

Wyatt Earp wasn’t happy. He wanted me to settle their dispute by verifying Billy had been riddled with bullets. I didn’t want to rile the high sheriff, but even outlaws have a code of conduct. Thankfully, it suddenly came to me that dead men can’t talk.

Miss Susie Giles and I also enjoyed revisiting some long-ago moments. When I was in the third grade, I gave her husband, Mr. Frank, some citrons under the pretense they were watermelons. I didn’t know their children at the time. It never crossed my mind that three boys would be sorely disappointed when the citrons were cut open.

Mr. Frank instigated our next laugh. He offered to show me a mongoose, provided I could keep it a secret. He said mongooses are so vicious they are illegal in America. That’s why he kept the mysterious critter in a small cage out of sight. When he slyly released a spring-loaded door, a furry tail slapped me in the face. The mongoose prank was eventually retired after a man’s heartbeat jumped out of rhythm. 

Visiting with those ladies reminded me it’s a blessing to have friends who share common memories. Hopefully I’ll do better about keeping in touch with such folks, plus taking care of other neglected items on my to-do list. If, however, that doesn’t work out, there’s one thing for certain. I’ll just do it when I get a round TUIT.  

It’s probably an operator error but somehow I posted a single letter “A” for the column. The full column “A State of Disrepair” is on the website but WordPress doesn’t have an option to resend it. Thanks for your patience. I need a technologist. 🙂

Julius Bembry worked with my father for over 50 years. He excelled at operating farm equipment, always listening and watching for anything that needed attention. He was also talented at keeping things running, both through regular maintenance and ongoing repairs.

Our shop was nothing spectacular, just a cement floor in a corner of a tin shelter. A John Deere 4020 tractor would fit inside, but that was approaching the limit. The main luxury was a round, propane heater. Standing close to it would thaw one side as the other remained frozen.    

The tools Julius used were not fancy either, but were adequate for most jobs. When he retired in 2004 they were in good shape because he kept them ready for the next use. Thanks to my negligence, however, many are now in a state of disrepair.

A drill press was a handy piece of equipment that held up well for several decades. The drill still spins but the platform is no longer adjustable. For some tasks that’s okay, but usually it’s too inconvenient to bother with. 

There’s no telling how many pieces of metal the bandsaw has cut through. The saw worked fine until the blade lost its teeth. It chewed through hard fare for ages without complaining, then gradually began taking longer to finish the entrees. Today it would hardly slice a green apple.

A shop press is out of service too. It looks fine but the hydraulic jack won’t hold oil. A new seal would probably stop the leak, or acquiring a new jack wouldn’t be expensive. The press, though, is seldom needed, so it’s easy to procrastinate on making repairs.

Smaller tools are in similar condition. An electric motor that turns an emery wheel and a steel brush needs a switch. Fortunately the switch stopped working while in the on position. Now I just plug and unplug the cord. Three dollars and ten minutes would resolve the problem, so I don’t have a good excuse.    

Those tools were once important on our family farm. Without them a lot of repairs could not have been made on site. Others would have required considerably more time and effort. Today I rarely need them, so uselessness is not a great concern.

Their condition, however, reminds me that disrepair is not limited to inanimate objects. It affects people too. Sometimes we bring it on ourselves by making poor choices. In other instances it’s unavoidable. Accidents, illnesses, and assorted calamities can take physical and emotional tolls that are challenging or impossible to overcome. And given enough time, even well-maintained parts wear out.  

The most serious aspect of mankind’s disrepair, however, is spiritual. It’s more critical than anything else because it has eternal consequences. Thankfully, the matter can be perfectly addressed if we’re willing. We have a Creator who’s ready to mend what’s broken within, but he leaves it up to us to seek his help. 

 It won’t make much difference if our shop tools are never put back in good working order. But it’s critical that we don’t ignore a state of spiritual disrepair. Excuses are plentiful, but we won’t get to present our case to a jury of peers. Delay is an especially subtle temptation that can lead to disaster. Tomorrow, however, is not guaranteed. Nor is the rest of today.    

Amazing grace offers us what’s better than deserved. No matter how far we’ve strayed, or how adamantly we’ve rejected the tenets of a saving faith, or how many terrible decisions our past includes, there’s a remedy that’s ours for the asking.

An old farm shop with tools that don’t work is just a temporary inconvenience. A soul left in disrepair, however, can become a permanent condition.

Julius kept the tools in the shop ready for the next job. Perhaps that approach is worth considering on a spiritual level. Two questions seem fitting to ponder and pray over. Am I ready for God to use me? Or am I in a state of disrepair?

There’s a cure that’s sure and available to all. It’s up to us to make the call.

Ellen, my wife’s sister, was left some personal effects by a cousin, Suzy Smith. Suzy’s father, Frank Smith, graduated from Thomasville High in 1930. His annual was given to THS, but some letters from a class reunion need a home.

Graduates from 1929, 30, and 31 celebrated jointly in June of 1990. Copied letters and a class roster are from the 1931 group. Of 72 classmates 30 were deceased. Five had unknown addresses. 

Their “Senior Class Poem” offers tender reflection. “Tis June once more, the high school door swings wide as we pass through. And down the halls, our last footfalls echo in sad adieu.” 

June Bailey McDaniel, the author, was looking forward to the reunion. “Some years ago I went with my husband to one of his in Bainbridge, Georgia, where I met several of his old girlfriends and heard how nice, smart and handsome he was and is.”

Ruth Booker moved to Ocilla in 1941 to work as a Public Health Nurse and met Claude Nelson Gray. “We had a wonderful life together for 43 years. He passed away in 1984. We had three children, twins, Jack and Jill, and another daughter Jean.”

Nora Pearson Cason had lost her spouse after 36 happy years. “As we approach the reunion of the 1931 class after 59 years, it brings to mind how precious the time given to us was and still is.” 

Amarinthia “Ama” Tanner married in 1935 and spent most of her life in Florida. After her husband retired in 1974 they moved to a Thomas County farm. He died in 1979. 

Kurt Clements confessed, “delusions of making a living playing baseball.” He held various jobs until 1938 when he settled at Forshalle Plantation. “Didn’t even know, till the end of the first month, how much I was going to be paid. Back then, if you asked what a job paid you didn’t get the job.” 

He stayed 40 years and raised four daughters. After his wife’s death he married two more times. “I must be the only man around who has had three good wives.”

Elizabeth Dekle Harris wrote hurriedly when sending her check for $60. Her husband’s health was, “not too good,” but children and grandchildren were, “beautiful, handsome, successful, and happy.”

Sara Goldstein Blumberg had a 50th wedding anniversary coming up. “About two years ago, I got run over by a car when out walking for my health! …I wasn’t supposed to live, but I fooled them.”

Helen Grovenstein Kitchens had three children but only one living. “My husband Bill died four years ago. We were married for 52 years. I now live alone and am trying to adjust. We’ve had some tough times, but had a lot of fun too. Life is mostly what you make of it, I’ve found.”          

Rosalie “Rodie” Mason White had been married and divorced twice. “You can call me a Gay divorcee,” she wrote, back when gay meant cheerful. Classmate Kurt Clements was husband number two. Apparently they parted on good terms.

Earl T. “Gussy” Mayo married a young lady from Boston, Georgia, then moved there and opened a hardware store. “I am 76 years old and holding…Good luck and may God bless each of you.”

Dr. Emory N. Milton served in the military during WWII. His first wife died in 1987. He married again in 1989. Ten grandchildren and one great-grandchild had been added to his tribe.

Elizabeth Sims Stenson recounted a moment from History Class. “The teacher (probably Miss Woodruff) asked Florence Dobbins what Napoleon’s Coup D’etat was, and Florence said, “Was it what he rode in?” 

Thomas Heyward Vann was a Captain in the Army Air Corps during WWII. He practiced law in Thomasville for 52 years before retiring. He and his wife, Mildred, had traveled to almost every state and several foreign countries.

Margery Wheeler Brown was married for 43 years to a Georgia Tech Professor before he died in 1981. “I stay busy with family, friends, and church activities.”

Estelle Johnson Joiner’s poetic expression began, “Memories, Memories, How I love to recall. Senior days of long ago, Best memories of all.”

Verse two of June Bailey’s poem seems a fitting close. “The plans we laid, the friendships made, Will linger for many a year. Though each of us may go a separate way, The memory will ever be dear.”

Not everything can be kept, but I hope those letters from a class reunion find a good home.

Donna Kinard, Sandra Wiley, and I met in PInehurst to visit their 101-year-old friend Lucille Welch. Her spryness greatly exceeded my expectations.

She reminded me we had met during her brief stay at High Cotton Homes, an assisted living facility. Miss Lucille was 97 then and recovering from two broken legs. She had tripped on her way to the kitchen. “I like sweets,” she confessed with a mischievous grin. 

Doctors in Macon said surgery wasn’t an option. She suggested Atlanta’s physicians might see it differently. After four days of debate they fixed the breaks.

Miss Lucille told the staff at High Cotton Homes her stay would be temporary. They were politely unconvinced until two months later. She was rolled out the door but transitioned to a walker at home.  

Our local paper has covered one noteworthy part of her storied past. She and her late husband, Frank Welch, were at Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked on December 7, 1941. She’s now among the oldest with first-hand accounts. 

The couple’s courtship began when she was 16. For their first date Frank took her to Vienna to see a Roy Rogers movie. He left Dooly County, however, when his father insisted the peas needed picking one Saturday afternoon. He had other plans.

Pick peas or leave were the choices, so he hitchhiked to Atlanta. He lived in a four-story boarding house his aunt owned, a place which catered to Georgia Tech boys. 

Frank was at Pearl Harbor as a federal employee, a maintenance supervisor assisting the Navy. Lucille was an operator for the telephone company. She mentioned proxy weddings, something new to me, and said a lot of couples got married over the phone. Operators were privy to interesting calls.   

February 5, 1941, is when the young couple married. She stayed in Pinehurst until April 1, then left on a Greyhound bus headed to San Francisco en route to join her husband. California was the first place she encountered people of Asian descent, quite an experience for a Georgia farm girl who had never been anywhere. 

Admiring the huge ship that would take her to Hawaii was also a memorable moment. She recounted holding her big hat while wondering how she’d get aboard. It was her first of many walks on a gangplank.

Sandy Mount, a small rural school, is where Lucille Arflin completed the first seven grades. She transferred to Pinehurst and was in my father’s class for two years. Her dad then sent her to Vienna High, to her dismay, for the 10th and final 11th year.  She graduated with the Class of 1940. 

For his second career, Frank owned an auto parts store in Jacksonville, Florida. He retired in 1962 and deeded the business to their two sons so he and his adventurous wife could travel. They moved to Pinehurst, but spent a lot of time seeing the world.

Switzerland was her favorite of the 52 countries they visited. Italy was also special. A trip to Australia and New Zealand would, unknown to them, be their last. Frank died from cancer in 1993, 30 years ago.

Lucille worked with the welfare department in Jacksonville for 20 years and earned a partial retirement. “It’s not much,” she said with a laugh, “but I know when they send the checks they wonder when I’m going to die!”

Her brother, G. L. Arflin, is ten years her junior. He calls to check on her and asks, “Are you still here?” Miss Lucille is living proof that laughter is good medicine.

“I’m not a fancy eater,” she said. She favors old-fashioned cooking – black eyed peas, cornbread, okra, and such. She loves biscuits and has sweet potatoes every two or three days. 

Friends, family, and wonderful neighbors often stop by or call. “How fortunate can you be?” she asked cheerfully. “I enjoy life. I’m not a person to be sad, or let things bother me that I can’t do anything about. I wouldn’t change my life for nothing.” To feel that way at any age is remarkable. At 101 it’s miraculous.

Determination, simple foods, lots of laughter, and a grateful attitude only partially describe Mrs. Lucille Welch, but that’s plenty for us young folks to work on. 

Her spryness greatly exceeded my expectations. And so did everything else.       

An older gentleman recently asked if I’d had any experience with signs, not those on roadsides but ones from above. His wife died last spring. Sometimes he wonders if she’s touching base.

In 2005 the couple planted a bed of miniature roses. For undetermined reasons the plants didn’t flourish. They grew less than 18 inches tall and never bloomed. Eventually all of them died except for one scraggly bush.

A single struggling plant didn’t seem to him worth keeping, but his wife assured him multiple times it would someday bloom. Now in his first summer without her, the loneliest summer in 60 plus years, it came to pass. That’s why he’s thinking about signs. 

After noticing the lone bud he listened to an old song, “Roses Will Bloom Again,” and he shed a few tears. One line mentions the Rose of Sharon. On the day of his email I was working on a column that referenced that same flower. I don’t know if that peculiar timing is a sign, but it got my attention.

We know from scripture God has used signs in notable ways. Moses saw a burning bush that wasn’t consumed. Pharaoh had more experience with signs than he could handle. 

Gideon’s story of leaving a fleece on the ground is well known. He first asked God to moisten it, then pled that it be kept dry. God honored both requests.      

If we skip over to the New Testament, Paul’s sudden blindness on the Damascus Road is a sign of divine intervention. Stephen’s prayer not to hold his accusers responsible for his stoning is a sign of a remarkably forgiving faith. 

But what about today? Does God still give signs and perhaps even allow our loved ones to play a role? Hebrews 12:1 notes we are surrounded by a “cloud of witnesses.” Some interpret that to mean the saints, such as those mentioned in Chapter 11, are aware and possibly involved in our lives. Others consider it a figurative encouragement to conduct ourselves as if witnesses are cheering us on. My position is that I don’t know. 

What I do know is God has a long history of using signs. One of my favorites is the rainbow Noah saw after the flood. Jane and I saw a double rainbow soon after my brother’s death last year. We were taking our first walk in a long time on the dirt road beside our home. Was the rare, double rainbow a sign? I can’t say, but it felt like one. It was comforting to be reminded Jimmy has a better view than I do.

Signs are not always manifested in physical ways. Perhaps they come through reading a familiar scripture that seems more vibrant than before. Or maybe it’s the quiet nudge of the Holy Spirit leading us to do something out of the ordinary. 

The South Central Baptists Association held a men’s fish fry at First Baptist Vienna in late August. I sat by a young man who didn’t look familiar. He said he was a traveling preacher walking from Nashville to Florida.

David had completed some Bible studies while in prison. He worked as a cook after getting out, then God told him to start walking. He said he goes where the Holy Spirit leads and hasn’t been hungry on his journey. There wasn’t time to ask about signs that brought him our way. I hope he’s traveling the straight and narrow road.   

I’m not sure how to respond to my reader’s query. The older I get the more I realize how limited my understanding is. There’s no doubt God still uses signs. They may, however, be shrouded with a degree of mystery. Otherwise we might test his patience by continually asking for more.

Whether the man’s wife was personally involved in that surprise flowering I can only speculate. It’s possible she was privileged to play an active part. It seems likely she was at least allowed to bear witness with warm pleasure. In a heaven overflowing with rewards that would fit nicely. 

It could, though, have been God working alone without anyone watching, offering the blessing of a tender reminder to a loving husband who needed some cheer. However it’s viewed, the source is the same. The best response I can offer is not an answer, just an observation. If the sign points upward, follow it. Roses will surely bloom again.  

“Oh no Brother Ben. Shot at a rooster and killed a hen.” Bettye Sangster Herrington remembers someone in her Dooly County family making a hefty sigh when something went awry then reciting that little rhyme. It caught my attention as my shots are often wayward.  

I found some sketchy history about that quip online. One young lady said her family closed their mealtime blessings with, “Amen, Brother Ben. Shoot the rooster. Kill the Hen.” Apparently they prayed before the chicken was slayed.

Variations of that poem have reportedly been used in humorous expressions of gratitude for table fare. Kids were likely enthusiastic practitioners. I suppose it was reserved for when chicken was served, which was quite frequent during my father’s childhood. 

Daddy didn’t care much for chicken as an adult. He ate so much growing up that he lost his taste for fowl meat. He would eat a single wing, but that was about it. Cured ham and side meat, on the other hand, were lifelong staples he never tired of.

Something Daddy told me years ago demonstrated his mother’s selfless love for her children. He was grown before realizing the neckbone wasn’t Mama Joiner’s favorite piece. It’s amazing how mothers personify sacrificial love without expecting applause. 

Pulley bones were my first choice during childhood. I favored the flavor of white meat and also loved the wish that came with each lucky break. For those born too late to participate here’s how it worked.

My brother and I would each hold one side of the y-shaped bone beneath the table, then pull until it broke. The person with the longest section was entitled to a wish, which is why it’s also called the wishbone. The wish was kept secret, an inviolable rule for potential success.  

I don’t remember any of the things I wished for. Home-churned ice cream and warm pound cake would be good guesses. I’m certain I never wished for a neckbone. If I ever do, the economy has tanked. But everyone has different tastes I’ve learned, sometimes for reasons not readily discerned.

Several decades ago Rev. Harris Whitman and his wife Betty owned and operated a Carterbugers franchise in downtown Vienna. They did a superb job of managing a popular eating establishment. 

One day a long, black limousine pulled up to the drive-in window. Brother Harris noted it was an amusing site for a fast-food restaurant in a small town. The chauffeur ordered for the snazzily dressed young woman in the back seat. She had a hankering for chicken livers. 

That’s enough about chickens for today. Suzanne Harper sent an email in March, when I asked readers to submit favorite sayings. Her grandmother, Mama Cassie Stephens Johnson, had plenty of them. Suzanne shared a few of her wry comments.

“It always rains after a good man dies to wash away his tracks.” Suzanne said it still causes her concern when there’s not a drop of rain after funerals. The weather may be bone dry after my service, but maybe it will at least be humid.

“Don’t wash on New Year’s Day or you’ll be washing for a corpse before the year ends.” If Jane is doing laundry next January 1st, I’ll be suspicious of her motives, especially if the clothes are all mine. 

“If troubles were strung up outside on the clothesline, you’d go gather in your own.” It’s tempting to worry about troubles, even those we know are unlikely. “Prepare for the worst but expect the best,” seems a reasonable approach. 

“Flowers blooming out of season, trouble’s the reason.” Suzanne heard Mama Cassie make that remark not long before she died. Her grandmother was peering out the kitchen window over the sink when Suzanne’s Aunt Leona told her the Rose of Sharon was blooming out of season. Perhaps the timing was coincidental, or maybe she sensed things were changing.    

I’ll close with a saying from Suzanne’s father. “Always tell the truth, so you don’t have to remember what you said.” The truth is I’m not sure how to conclude today’s rambling column. 

Perhaps my uncertainty is akin to the off-target shot described in Brother Ben’s poem. Sometimes I aim at a rooster and wind up hitting a hen, but Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next week I’ll try it again. Amen.