Two living spaces have opened up at Plow Creek. It is possible, though not certain, that we may be able to use one of them to begin small retreats.
We've decided to return to Plow Creek in two weeks, to be part of the conversation about how the spaces are to be used. If the community agrees to our renting one and using for retreats, we'll be able to spend the winter in preparation work for the ministry. I will be very glad for this moving ahead.
God has provided some money for us to begin renting. Just before our wedding my parents dropped a bombshell: my grandparents, retired missionaries, wanted to pass on to us part of a large legacy they had once received. We'll be able to pay our rent for awhile--even before God provides broader-based financial support. He is providing for us in the way He has promised he will; whether sleeping on a mat under a picnic-shelter in the rain, or furnishing a home to be a place of hospitality and healing, we have lacked, and I trust we will lack, nothing.
Not even time. We did the math yesterday and decided the best time to go back would be in two weeks; two weeks is just enough time so I can be quite certain of finishing my first novel before we go.
Woo hoo!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Saturday, November 3, 2007
the ending God gave us
We had a long discussion, Paul and I, about whether to continue on for a week or even two (in which case we would still be on the road now!) I was for continuing. A very big focus for me on this trip (though I've not often written about it) has been my novel, which I'm on the absolute verge of finishing now. I've been on the revision process all along this walk, carrying the manuscript along on my flashdrive and taking every minute of library computer time I could get to work on it. (Incidentally, that's why I haven't been so great with the blog. It coulda been better, I know.) And it's worked wonderfully; the walking life was the perfect writing life, as long as I got enough time. I wanted just a little more of it, to finish the book.
But Paul was exhausted; and when I stopped being driven and admitted it to myself, I was too.
Although I did wonder what kind of ending we'd have to our walk. Two more days, and not a church service in them; we'd probably meet no-one. I wished it would end with meeting some wonderful people who felt inspired by us, but I knew it probably wouldn't.
We took our last night in a town of many churches; we wandered from church to church, looking for a good place to spend our last night outside. There was a revival sign outside the Civic Center; it was at 7:30, and it was now 7:27 on the dot. A woman called to us and invited us inside. We deliberated, and came. "Oh my goodness they came!" she said.
I had voted for coming in, because it seemed the right thing, a little too coincidental to be properly refused; yet I hadn't been looking forward to it. The Gospel, in its somewhat over-bullet-pointy Southern Baptist form, would be rehashed for us, and many phrases like "If there's anyone here who has never accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior" would be used, with all eyes on us because we'd be the only people there who weren't from First Baptist, and slightly dirty to boot.
Well, did I get a surprise.
It was an interracial revival with all the preaching done by two African-American women. Let me tell you; I probably couldn't have told you this before that night, but when the sisters do a revival, they do a revival. And they do not use bullet-points.
There was singing, there was preaching, there was shouting. (Well, some of the preaching was shouting, is what I mean.) It was done with passion and it was done with sincerity, and one of the preachers had some things to say I liked very much. "You look to the left," she said, "and you look to the right, and that is your brother or your sister who's been tested in the fire same as you have." I looked.
They invited people up for prayer and anointing afterwards. They invited us up specifically (if they hadn't, Paul wouldn't have gone!) We stood at the front of the church and were anointed with oil on the forehead and hands and were asked no questions, except by a concerned-looking lady who seemed kind of separate from the proceedings; "What do you know about the Lord?" she wanted to know. Well, what a question; did she want to know all of it? "I know Him," wa what I came up with. I think she was worried about vague spirituality: "Have you read the Bible?" she returned. I reassured her briefly on that point and turned back to the black women who had laid their hands on me, and were calling out to God to give me whatever I might need.
I haven't been in a lot of groups that pray as loudly and passionately as these people did. But whenever I am, a strange double reaction happens in me: I feel a little odd, a little uncomfortable, because I'm not able to muster up the level of energy they have got--and I feel totally freed to show whatever passion happens to truly there. One of the preachers grasped my hands and told me nothing was too much, she'd seen miracles happen, and I began to pray, as I have prayed all along this trip, for a friend's healing, a healing that would have to be miraculous. Then I prayed for healing itself, for the gift of healing I suppose; for God to use me as a healer, to use me in His healing of those who come to us on retreat, who will come bearing so many wounds. I prayed as hard as I have ever prayed, but I don't know if they heard me. I was whispering, maybe only mouthing; but they might have heard me. The preacher gripped my hands harder. "There's power in these hands," she said. "Don't waste it."
I'm still not sure what she meant, or what the whole thing meant. They knew nothing about us, to them we were... I don't know what. Young hippies, weary, grubby travelers, a couple down on their luck? But God knew; and God gave us something much better, for a close to the walk, than another bullet-point Gospel sermon.
There's a coda, too. The folks at the revival, when they heard our story afterwards, said their church a block down the street was a good place to sleep. We followed their directions, and came to a spot much better than any we'd seen; a big covered deck, out of sight, that kept us dry all night in the pouring rain. (OK, except when the rain bounced off the large A/C unit onto me, but I moved right quick.) We didn't know till the next morning that we'd come to the wrong church.
A woman came by with a little boy. Impulsively, I waved at her, and she said hi; after going into various parts of the building on mysterious errands she came over and asked if we needed anything. We were just finishing our celebratory last-day breakfast (croissants and honey ham) so we told her no, we were just sitting here eating our breakfast and hoped it was OK... she got nearer and said, "Hey! I saw you in Spectre!" (All right, all right, it wasn't Spectre, it was whatever that town was really called, I can't for the life of me...) We grinned, and confirmed. She rushed off to deliver her boy to his day-care and said she'd be back to let us into her office to use the bathrooms.
We waited, and waited, and were about to leave when she came back. With a friend. And let us into her office, gave us an umbrella, and they both stood there asking questions about what we were doing and listening with great fascination to everything we had to say about the walk, about the retreat ministry, about what we had learned. The church's youth pastor came in too, and joined the discussion group; three enthusiastic young people, asking every question under the sun. Acting excited, inspired. Making us feel, here at the end, like even now we weren't doing this for nothing.
And that was the ending God gave us for our walk.
But Paul was exhausted; and when I stopped being driven and admitted it to myself, I was too.
Although I did wonder what kind of ending we'd have to our walk. Two more days, and not a church service in them; we'd probably meet no-one. I wished it would end with meeting some wonderful people who felt inspired by us, but I knew it probably wouldn't.
We took our last night in a town of many churches; we wandered from church to church, looking for a good place to spend our last night outside. There was a revival sign outside the Civic Center; it was at 7:30, and it was now 7:27 on the dot. A woman called to us and invited us inside. We deliberated, and came. "Oh my goodness they came!" she said.
I had voted for coming in, because it seemed the right thing, a little too coincidental to be properly refused; yet I hadn't been looking forward to it. The Gospel, in its somewhat over-bullet-pointy Southern Baptist form, would be rehashed for us, and many phrases like "If there's anyone here who has never accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior" would be used, with all eyes on us because we'd be the only people there who weren't from First Baptist, and slightly dirty to boot.
Well, did I get a surprise.
It was an interracial revival with all the preaching done by two African-American women. Let me tell you; I probably couldn't have told you this before that night, but when the sisters do a revival, they do a revival. And they do not use bullet-points.
There was singing, there was preaching, there was shouting. (Well, some of the preaching was shouting, is what I mean.) It was done with passion and it was done with sincerity, and one of the preachers had some things to say I liked very much. "You look to the left," she said, "and you look to the right, and that is your brother or your sister who's been tested in the fire same as you have." I looked.
They invited people up for prayer and anointing afterwards. They invited us up specifically (if they hadn't, Paul wouldn't have gone!) We stood at the front of the church and were anointed with oil on the forehead and hands and were asked no questions, except by a concerned-looking lady who seemed kind of separate from the proceedings; "What do you know about the Lord?" she wanted to know. Well, what a question; did she want to know all of it? "I know Him," wa what I came up with. I think she was worried about vague spirituality: "Have you read the Bible?" she returned. I reassured her briefly on that point and turned back to the black women who had laid their hands on me, and were calling out to God to give me whatever I might need.
I haven't been in a lot of groups that pray as loudly and passionately as these people did. But whenever I am, a strange double reaction happens in me: I feel a little odd, a little uncomfortable, because I'm not able to muster up the level of energy they have got--and I feel totally freed to show whatever passion happens to truly there. One of the preachers grasped my hands and told me nothing was too much, she'd seen miracles happen, and I began to pray, as I have prayed all along this trip, for a friend's healing, a healing that would have to be miraculous. Then I prayed for healing itself, for the gift of healing I suppose; for God to use me as a healer, to use me in His healing of those who come to us on retreat, who will come bearing so many wounds. I prayed as hard as I have ever prayed, but I don't know if they heard me. I was whispering, maybe only mouthing; but they might have heard me. The preacher gripped my hands harder. "There's power in these hands," she said. "Don't waste it."
I'm still not sure what she meant, or what the whole thing meant. They knew nothing about us, to them we were... I don't know what. Young hippies, weary, grubby travelers, a couple down on their luck? But God knew; and God gave us something much better, for a close to the walk, than another bullet-point Gospel sermon.
There's a coda, too. The folks at the revival, when they heard our story afterwards, said their church a block down the street was a good place to sleep. We followed their directions, and came to a spot much better than any we'd seen; a big covered deck, out of sight, that kept us dry all night in the pouring rain. (OK, except when the rain bounced off the large A/C unit onto me, but I moved right quick.) We didn't know till the next morning that we'd come to the wrong church.
A woman came by with a little boy. Impulsively, I waved at her, and she said hi; after going into various parts of the building on mysterious errands she came over and asked if we needed anything. We were just finishing our celebratory last-day breakfast (croissants and honey ham) so we told her no, we were just sitting here eating our breakfast and hoped it was OK... she got nearer and said, "Hey! I saw you in Spectre!" (All right, all right, it wasn't Spectre, it was whatever that town was really called, I can't for the life of me...) We grinned, and confirmed. She rushed off to deliver her boy to his day-care and said she'd be back to let us into her office to use the bathrooms.
We waited, and waited, and were about to leave when she came back. With a friend. And let us into her office, gave us an umbrella, and they both stood there asking questions about what we were doing and listening with great fascination to everything we had to say about the walk, about the retreat ministry, about what we had learned. The church's youth pastor came in too, and joined the discussion group; three enthusiastic young people, asking every question under the sun. Acting excited, inspired. Making us feel, here at the end, like even now we weren't doing this for nothing.
And that was the ending God gave us for our walk.
spectre
I don't know how many of y'all have seen Big Fish, but there's a scene in which one of the characters, in a sort of half-dream world, walks through a cypress swamp and arrives in a town called Spectre, an unreal fifties utopia of lush green manicured lawns and little girls in party dresses, where everyone turns out to be, guess what, ghosts.
Four days before we ended the walk, we walked into a little town in South Georgia (I've forgotten its name by now!) Okay, let's call it Thingy. Paul had been telling me we would get to Thingy Saturday afternoon and probably go to church there, but we'd had this debate about shopping because he hadn't found any listing online for a grocery store there. Well, that gave me a pretty good idea of Thingy, Georgia. The picture in my head was an alternate version of Ty Ty, Georgia--two churches, a few clapboard houses, and a peanut processing plant.
Instead, when we passed the Thingy town line, broad sweeps of manicured lawn, old-fashioned lampposts, little girls in dresses playing in their front yards. The whole place was perfect, and so different from what we'd been seeing up till then that in my head I immediately dubbed it Spectre.
In Spectre we searched quite awhile for a good place to sleep, and finally settled on our plan B: a little play-house in a tiny gravelly playground behind a large Baptist church. We'd been planning to try the Methodists on Sunday morning, mostly because we felt turned off by the Baptists' used-car-lot-style flashing and scrolling sign out front. ("Jesus Saves," said Paul. "Hot Dogs $1.") But it's discourteous to sleep behind somebody's church and not pay them a visit, and besides, as we sat on a bench outside the church in the cold morning trying to warm up in the sun, the pastor pulled up and invited us to the service and the catered lunch afterwards.
The service was much like any Baptist service in the South, really, except that there was no sermon; it was a celebration of their new sanctuary and there were songs and brief "sharings" on their several themes for the year. In Sunday school we met people who asked us our story, and we told it, and as sometimes happens we soon heard strangers telling strangers "They walked here from Boston!" A few people were interested enough to listen to the whole tale of our retreat ministry. One man asked me if there was anything we needed. I hesitated, pondering whether to be fully frank with him, but he looked like he'd meant it. "We need to wash our clothes," I said.
He looked a little worried at that. I quickly amended it: "I mean we can do that at a Laundromat, but I don't know where there is one..." He gave me directions to the nearest one, his face clearing of worry; but mine (I think) was not. We didn't have very much money left--enough for a little while certainly, but I wasn't sure how much longer we'd be on the road, and it didn't seem like a good time to spend money on a wash. I think he must have seen that. That's my best explanation for what happened next.
We parted; but later as we stood in line for our catered lunch (smoky barbecued chicken--very good), the same man came up to us and said he'd taken a collection among our Sunday school class and pressed bills into my hand. I thanked him very much and he asked us to say a prayer for him when we left--looking like he really meant that as well. I put the bills in my pocket. A little later I looked at them and, well, it was definitely more than we needed for laundry!
I prayed for him as we walked out of Spectre that afternoon. And I never used his money at a Laundromat. It was the very next day that Paul and I suddenly began to discuss how soon to let his parents pick us up, and eventually decided to ask them to come in only two days. There was no more need for laundry.
Four days before we ended the walk, we walked into a little town in South Georgia (I've forgotten its name by now!) Okay, let's call it Thingy. Paul had been telling me we would get to Thingy Saturday afternoon and probably go to church there, but we'd had this debate about shopping because he hadn't found any listing online for a grocery store there. Well, that gave me a pretty good idea of Thingy, Georgia. The picture in my head was an alternate version of Ty Ty, Georgia--two churches, a few clapboard houses, and a peanut processing plant.
Instead, when we passed the Thingy town line, broad sweeps of manicured lawn, old-fashioned lampposts, little girls in dresses playing in their front yards. The whole place was perfect, and so different from what we'd been seeing up till then that in my head I immediately dubbed it Spectre.
In Spectre we searched quite awhile for a good place to sleep, and finally settled on our plan B: a little play-house in a tiny gravelly playground behind a large Baptist church. We'd been planning to try the Methodists on Sunday morning, mostly because we felt turned off by the Baptists' used-car-lot-style flashing and scrolling sign out front. ("Jesus Saves," said Paul. "Hot Dogs $1.") But it's discourteous to sleep behind somebody's church and not pay them a visit, and besides, as we sat on a bench outside the church in the cold morning trying to warm up in the sun, the pastor pulled up and invited us to the service and the catered lunch afterwards.
The service was much like any Baptist service in the South, really, except that there was no sermon; it was a celebration of their new sanctuary and there were songs and brief "sharings" on their several themes for the year. In Sunday school we met people who asked us our story, and we told it, and as sometimes happens we soon heard strangers telling strangers "They walked here from Boston!" A few people were interested enough to listen to the whole tale of our retreat ministry. One man asked me if there was anything we needed. I hesitated, pondering whether to be fully frank with him, but he looked like he'd meant it. "We need to wash our clothes," I said.
He looked a little worried at that. I quickly amended it: "I mean we can do that at a Laundromat, but I don't know where there is one..." He gave me directions to the nearest one, his face clearing of worry; but mine (I think) was not. We didn't have very much money left--enough for a little while certainly, but I wasn't sure how much longer we'd be on the road, and it didn't seem like a good time to spend money on a wash. I think he must have seen that. That's my best explanation for what happened next.
We parted; but later as we stood in line for our catered lunch (smoky barbecued chicken--very good), the same man came up to us and said he'd taken a collection among our Sunday school class and pressed bills into my hand. I thanked him very much and he asked us to say a prayer for him when we left--looking like he really meant that as well. I put the bills in my pocket. A little later I looked at them and, well, it was definitely more than we needed for laundry!
I prayed for him as we walked out of Spectre that afternoon. And I never used his money at a Laundromat. It was the very next day that Paul and I suddenly began to discuss how soon to let his parents pick us up, and eventually decided to ask them to come in only two days. There was no more need for laundry.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
finish line
Well...
We're crossing the Florida state line tomorrow. And Paul's parents have offered to pick us up there. And...
We said yes.
(More on everything later! Love y'all!)
We're crossing the Florida state line tomorrow. And Paul's parents have offered to pick us up there. And...
We said yes.
(More on everything later! Love y'all!)
Friday, October 19, 2007
Tropical Storm Wossname
Okay, it wasn't really a tropical storm... but it felt like one.
Here's what happened: yesterday we planned to spend the morning in the library and start walking in the early afternoon, since the town we were headed for had no library--and it was supposed to be a little rainy, so maybe we could sit out the rain in the morning. Well, Paul checked the weather and then we got out of the library pretty soon; showers in the morning, it said, and a rainstorm in the afternoon.
We walked and walked; we ate lunch by some train tracks and walked some more. We didn't worry too much about beating the rain, it didn't look too bad...
Then, as we passed a few houses by the side of the road, a tall country guy with grey hair and a beard called to us, "Y'all want a beer?"
We crossed over and explained that we drink beer but not really while we're walking because the alcohol can dehydrate you. He said he had some light beer; we shook our heads and he offered ice water. Paul took the opportunity to explain that we were hoping to make it to Lenox before the rain did, and our new friend said, "Oh, Lenox ain't but seven miles!" Well, yes, we said, and at our pace it would take us most of the day. "I'll give y'all a ride then," he said.
It started to sprinkle as he gave us a ride, chatting about Florida and Paul's parents' retirement village, where our friend had done some construction work. It had stopped when we got to Lenox and spotted a good picnic shelter back behind a church. We said goodbye and went to settle in.
Within fifteen minutes, it had started to rain. It didn't stop till almost twenty-four hours later.
Okay, I'm stretching that, but for all practical purposes it was true. When we woke up in the morning it had stopped, and we prepared to get going, and about one minute before we were going to step out on our day's walk it started again.
And I mean rain.
I'm happy for Georgia. It started out fine, drizzly, that you-don't-notice-till-you're-soaked rain; then it got a little more serious; then it poured. It was unpaved and sandy under the picnic shelter, and there were no tables, just a bench along one end and a sort of shelf along the other; when it poured, little runnels ran through it down the slope. Paul slept on the shelf; I slept part of the night on the one part of the sandy floor that was too high to have any runnels; but the wind blew spray in on me, and I switched to the shelf; then switched back again when the wind changed. I got plenty of sleep, honest.
And in the morning, there we were, our little world a picnic shelter surrounded by rain. I did all my mending: the button I'd lost on my shirt, the straggling threads on my jacket lining... We read, we had a long morning prayer time... I took a nap. We only had crackers and peanut butter--we'd planned to do our shopping in the next town... but Paul braved the first few moments of clearing-up to go to the dollar store for tuna, canned ham, chips and applesauce, and we had a pretty nice meal. And, finally, it was over. The sun began to show through.
We walked maybe two or three miles, and then got a ride to where we are now.
And that's how God got us through Tropical Storm Wossname without even getting wet. (Just very damp. Ick!)
Here's what happened: yesterday we planned to spend the morning in the library and start walking in the early afternoon, since the town we were headed for had no library--and it was supposed to be a little rainy, so maybe we could sit out the rain in the morning. Well, Paul checked the weather and then we got out of the library pretty soon; showers in the morning, it said, and a rainstorm in the afternoon.
We walked and walked; we ate lunch by some train tracks and walked some more. We didn't worry too much about beating the rain, it didn't look too bad...
Then, as we passed a few houses by the side of the road, a tall country guy with grey hair and a beard called to us, "Y'all want a beer?"
We crossed over and explained that we drink beer but not really while we're walking because the alcohol can dehydrate you. He said he had some light beer; we shook our heads and he offered ice water. Paul took the opportunity to explain that we were hoping to make it to Lenox before the rain did, and our new friend said, "Oh, Lenox ain't but seven miles!" Well, yes, we said, and at our pace it would take us most of the day. "I'll give y'all a ride then," he said.
It started to sprinkle as he gave us a ride, chatting about Florida and Paul's parents' retirement village, where our friend had done some construction work. It had stopped when we got to Lenox and spotted a good picnic shelter back behind a church. We said goodbye and went to settle in.
Within fifteen minutes, it had started to rain. It didn't stop till almost twenty-four hours later.
Okay, I'm stretching that, but for all practical purposes it was true. When we woke up in the morning it had stopped, and we prepared to get going, and about one minute before we were going to step out on our day's walk it started again.
And I mean rain.
I'm happy for Georgia. It started out fine, drizzly, that you-don't-notice-till-you're-soaked rain; then it got a little more serious; then it poured. It was unpaved and sandy under the picnic shelter, and there were no tables, just a bench along one end and a sort of shelf along the other; when it poured, little runnels ran through it down the slope. Paul slept on the shelf; I slept part of the night on the one part of the sandy floor that was too high to have any runnels; but the wind blew spray in on me, and I switched to the shelf; then switched back again when the wind changed. I got plenty of sleep, honest.
And in the morning, there we were, our little world a picnic shelter surrounded by rain. I did all my mending: the button I'd lost on my shirt, the straggling threads on my jacket lining... We read, we had a long morning prayer time... I took a nap. We only had crackers and peanut butter--we'd planned to do our shopping in the next town... but Paul braved the first few moments of clearing-up to go to the dollar store for tuna, canned ham, chips and applesauce, and we had a pretty nice meal. And, finally, it was over. The sun began to show through.
We walked maybe two or three miles, and then got a ride to where we are now.
And that's how God got us through Tropical Storm Wossname without even getting wet. (Just very damp. Ick!)
people who know what it's like
After we left the library where we'd met Van, we were offered a ride somewhere down the road. The guy drove an old Jeep and said he'd drive us a town further than where he was actually going, because he liked to drive. (I couldn't hear him real well from the back, but I thought he said "If we could spot him some gas"; seemed like a good idea anyway, but he ended up refusing when we offered.)
We rode along, chatting; we ended up telling him about the retreat ministry and he ended up telling us that he'd gotten off drugs about eight months ago.
"I support what you're doing," he said.
That night we slept outside a church near a peanut processing plant (did I mention the peanut & cotton fields around here?) and walked on into Tifton, Georgia, where we found a church called Traveler's Rest Missionary Baptist. Sounded pretty good to us! We went there earlier in the day to check out if it seemed a good place to sleep, before heading to the library for the afternoon. There were a lot of people outside on their porches, and one guy sitting on what appeared to be his air-conditioner sticking out of his front window.
When we returned after dark, the guy sitting on his air-conditioner was still there. "Y'all need a place to stay?" he called to us.
"Uh... sure," we said.
He invited us into his little efficiency apartment; after gauging the situation for a moment, we took him up on it. "My name's Gaye. I've been homeless," he said. "I know what it's like."
His two neighbors from the other apartments came over too; a guy named Bruce to offer us buns, baloney and cheese slices (in spite of our insistence that we'd eaten) and some comments about how he'd been there too; and a black lady named Popcorn to hang out and play cards. They taught us a game called Deuces. Paul, who professes not to like games, won.
He gave us crackers to pack in our packs, and as we left in the morning he tried to give us a couple cans of soup. "I know what it's like," he said.
We rode along, chatting; we ended up telling him about the retreat ministry and he ended up telling us that he'd gotten off drugs about eight months ago.
"I support what you're doing," he said.
That night we slept outside a church near a peanut processing plant (did I mention the peanut & cotton fields around here?) and walked on into Tifton, Georgia, where we found a church called Traveler's Rest Missionary Baptist. Sounded pretty good to us! We went there earlier in the day to check out if it seemed a good place to sleep, before heading to the library for the afternoon. There were a lot of people outside on their porches, and one guy sitting on what appeared to be his air-conditioner sticking out of his front window.
When we returned after dark, the guy sitting on his air-conditioner was still there. "Y'all need a place to stay?" he called to us.
"Uh... sure," we said.
He invited us into his little efficiency apartment; after gauging the situation for a moment, we took him up on it. "My name's Gaye. I've been homeless," he said. "I know what it's like."
His two neighbors from the other apartments came over too; a guy named Bruce to offer us buns, baloney and cheese slices (in spite of our insistence that we'd eaten) and some comments about how he'd been there too; and a black lady named Popcorn to hang out and play cards. They taught us a game called Deuces. Paul, who professes not to like games, won.
He gave us crackers to pack in our packs, and as we left in the morning he tried to give us a couple cans of soup. "I know what it's like," he said.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
a few thoughts
Miscellaneous thoughts...
We saw our first palm trees in Albany, in a park with a fountain and painted turtles. (Not the species... just statues of turtles, painted.) A lovely place where we ate our lunch. Gazing at the water, I commented to Paul that the best things in life are either free or horribly expensive: for the sound and sight of falling water, just wait till you happen to run across a park like this, or a waterfall, and it's free... or if you want to own it, build a fountain on the grounds of your mansion. As Mastercard says, priceless. The best things in life are free, until you try to control them.
We're only about a week from the Florida state line, now. I've also started to see Spanish moss, and today what may have been a cypress swamp. (Mostly dried up. It is not a good year down here...)
Oh, I forgot to tell y'all about Koinonia, didn't I? The summary is simple: the place is lovely, lots of pecan trees, we worked in the bakery packing chocolate and pecans, both to earn our keep and because we liked it, and we stayed for a week. I used the semi-public computer almost every night, working on my novel.
Another little tidbit: only three chapters left to revise, then tweak some passages here and there and write an epilogue and I'm done! Soon. Very soon.
And finally, a lovely line from a poem someone read for devotions at Koinonia... the poet describes hatred as a flaring fire, and love as the small, constant flame of a candle, and ends the poem with these lines:
Know this: though love is weak and hate is strong,
Yet hate is short, and love is very long.
We saw our first palm trees in Albany, in a park with a fountain and painted turtles. (Not the species... just statues of turtles, painted.) A lovely place where we ate our lunch. Gazing at the water, I commented to Paul that the best things in life are either free or horribly expensive: for the sound and sight of falling water, just wait till you happen to run across a park like this, or a waterfall, and it's free... or if you want to own it, build a fountain on the grounds of your mansion. As Mastercard says, priceless. The best things in life are free, until you try to control them.
We're only about a week from the Florida state line, now. I've also started to see Spanish moss, and today what may have been a cypress swamp. (Mostly dried up. It is not a good year down here...)
Oh, I forgot to tell y'all about Koinonia, didn't I? The summary is simple: the place is lovely, lots of pecan trees, we worked in the bakery packing chocolate and pecans, both to earn our keep and because we liked it, and we stayed for a week. I used the semi-public computer almost every night, working on my novel.
Another little tidbit: only three chapters left to revise, then tweak some passages here and there and write an epilogue and I'm done! Soon. Very soon.
And finally, a lovely line from a poem someone read for devotions at Koinonia... the poet describes hatred as a flaring fire, and love as the small, constant flame of a candle, and ends the poem with these lines:
Know this: though love is weak and hate is strong,
Yet hate is short, and love is very long.
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