Will America Elect a President Like This Again?

   This week, like millions of other Americans I celebrated the life and accomplishments of the 41st President of the United States.

   I was impressed by what he did in his life. It seemed he was born into a life of governmental service, and he served well in a number of high positions.

   But as I listened to the eulogies over two days in two services, what I came away with were the qualities of a life, lived not for himself, but for others. Traits such as:

     Goodness

     Humility

     Integrity

     Quiet and Unassuming

   And the things he valued in his life:

     God

     Country

     Friendships

     Family

   Now, I know, you don't hear bad things about the deceased at a funeral, but all of these things just seemed to fit what I already knew about this man.

   Then as I reflected on other men who have served in this office, after  "41" and through Trump, the question I keep asking "Could a person with the qualities of "41"ever be electable again. A one-term president, with his term sandwiched between the personalities of Reagan and Clinton, how could he hope to be noticed?

   Sadly, I think we are moving farther away from a quiet and unassuming man with each one.

   And I'm not sure we could turn around...

   But God could..

An Answer..and A Blessing

   There is a page devoted to the church (Sardis P.B.) that I wrote about a few days back.

http://hrcga.org/church/sardis-primitive-baptist/

   A reader, (thanks Jen), pointed me to this and the answer to the question about the holes in the floor in one section of the building.

   Jokingly, as I wrote last time, I mentioned that these holes in the floor could be used for spittoons if the men carried funnels to be able to hit the hole.

   Seems as though that was the use for the holes, but there was probably a big mess around the area after the service.

   After I wrote that first blog on the Sardis church, as I thought about being in that building, a scene popped into my mind, that seemed to tell me our visit to that church was not just about the old ways, but God was still in business there.

   As we looked around the interior that day, my friend quietly said to me, "This place feels Holy to me".

   I have made it a habit, when visiting churches or cathedrals, to take a minute or two sitting in the pews, or benches, or chairs, in what we would now call the sanctuary, to reflect on the many people who, over the years, had sat in those same seats and worshipped.

   What were they like?

   How did the worship?

   How did God work in lives during their days?

   But I did not do that here, until prompted by that comment. I was too busy seeing what was odd or unusual there.

   We sat on the bench and prayed, and, sure enough, found out that it was Holy and that God still honored prayers offered in His Place.

   The moral for me in all this was "Don't get so caught up in your own world and plans, that you do not pause to ask and seek God for His blessing and guidance". In a great European cathedral or even in an 1840s one room sanctuary.

   The church building may be old, and way out of style, but that has no bearing on whether or not God is still there and working in that place.

   It was, and is, a Holy place...

And we were blessed to realize that.

An Inside Question

   A couple of weeks back, we were down in Charlton County, right outside the county seat of Folkston and discovered an old Primitive Baptist Church.

   As are all of the churches of this particular denomination or sect, this plain structure was built out in the woods. The building is wooden, built in the board and batten style of construction. There is no electricity, and the inside is free from any kind of ornamentation.

   I believe the building is from the 1840s and was clean as a whistle on the inside. Pews were free of dust and the floor clean. Whether someone is keeping it up or it is still being used today, I do not know.

   But that is not the reason for this post. There was something strange that I had not seen before in any of the other P.B. churches.

   There seemed to be a special section on the left side facing the pulpit where two boards were hung from the rafters with nails sticking out as if for either a curtain or to hang up clothing worn to church.

   Besides the boards above, and for information sake, no other section of that church had anything like that, there was also a row of holes drilled into the floor boards with a direct connection our the ground beneath the building.

   The rows between the hanging boards had this arrangement of round holes from one end of the bench to the other. I believe 8 holes in all. I found no other pews in the church with this feature.

   So the question begs: What were the holes for? Was this a special section for some folks?

   Unless men brought funnels from home, the round holes were too small to be used for a type of spittoon.

   Anyone know?

   Anyone have a good idea or guess?

   Whatever went through the holes ended up right on the ground.

   This is not a game changer question of some kind, just curiosity on our part.

The Glory of a Sunrise

   Not being a great meteorologist, I never know what kind of a sunrise we might have here on St. Simons. So when the light first began to appear in the east,

   But it got a little brighter with some more color

   Then we got this

   God put on quite a show to remind me that His Mercies are new every morning.

   I am awed and grateful at the same time.

   (All of these are posted straight out of the camera, not enhanced on any computer program. The final two look darker but the cloud cover darkened the sky considerably.)

Michael? Who is Michael?

   What was a disaster for the Florida Panhandle, turned out to be a non-event here in the Golden Isles.

   When a storm heads our way out of the Atlantic, we say, "Just wait it will hit the Gulf Stream 60 miles from shore and turn north".

   Or if it, like this time, comes at us out of the Gulf of Mexico, our retort is, "Just wait and see where the winds take it. Off to the west sometimes, or at least north of us to the Carolinas".

   So Michael struck north into Florida and then turned east and passed us to the north.

   Our morning, today, the day we were supposed to get rain and wind, appeared like this on the beach.

   Soft Colors at the outset.

   A family enjoying the color of the sky and the warm water of the ocean.

   The wind pushing the sand north, and sandblasting my ankles in the process.

   The roar of the waves in the inlet.

   We hate it that someone was in the path and had to suffer the effects of this big storm, but are thankful that it was not here.

Missed by Most

   People love to be on the beach. Both locals and tourists flock to the beach when the weather is nice, all for a variety of reasons. Of course there is the water to swim in, wade in or maybe even surf in.

   Then the sun beckons folks. Some for warmth, some for browning the skin, and some because of the openness of the beach and the majesty of that great ball in the sky.

   But I realize that most beach goers miss the allure of the beach in the predawn hours. The quietness of the air, but also the lapping of the water on the tidal river and the sometimes roar of the waves oceanside.

   Arriving there at Gould's Inlet this morning around 6:15, I found I was the only car in sight. The sky was showing a little light, and the moon was still high in the heavens.

   The small waves of the high tide were lapping at the shore of the tidal river.

   The shoreline afforded very little space to walk between the waves of the receding high tide and the perpetual fluffy sand, a small strip of relatively firm sand next to the water.

   But that did not matter much at this time of morning, there were few walkers out this early anyway.

   As the sky began to color some orange next to the horizon, clumps of marsh grass pointed to the high water mark of the previous incoming tide.

   As the time approached the sunrise hour, a few more brave souls awakened and stirred on the sand.

   The sky lightened, the colors deepened, the clouds gave emphasis to the whole landscape.

   And the ocean waves, albeit small, gave a deeper roar, as they rolled toward the shoreline.

   Human activity stalled and then stopped as those who had made it to the beachfront stopped to watch the sun appear over the ocean on the horizon.

   Folks gazed and loved the sight, but really did not know what they had missed in the previous hour.

   My favorite beach time of all, the quiet semi-dark hours before the world begins another new day.

   God's handiwork and His Mercies and Grace.

   New every morning even when it is hard to see.

 

Do Windmills Have Voices?

   Driving down the highway, the scenery seems to slide by at 70 mph, and my thoughts are often elsewhere, but over here in South Georgia, I have been intrigued several times by a scene on my route.

   Now, in my older years, I have shunned the Interstates of this world, and taken to the back roads. Roads that take me through smaller towns and give me glimpses of life lived away from busyness and sprawl.

   Roads such as Highway 341, which I often take on my way north from St. Simons. Traffic is lighter, big semis fewer, and scenes more bucolic.

   A road that takes me through Jesup, Odom, Baxley, McCrea and Hazelhurst.

   A road that lets me unwind before I have to go back to the hurry of Interstates 16 and 75,  roads that will take me to Macon, and Atlanta, and on to Chattanooga.

   I have driven this road several times in the last few months, and I can tell you, without looking it up, which of its towns have courthouses and good places to eat.

   It is familiar to me.

   Several times lately, I have noticed a scene that I wondered about.

   Somewhere between McCrea and Baxley, I spotted, rising above the surrounding trees, the remnants of a homestead (I think). Maybe the correct term is "farmstead"

   What is left of a house, with its water tower and tank, and windmill.

   So, driving that route the other day, I stopped. Getting out of the car, noticing the "No Trespassing" signs on the fence, seeing the lock on the gate, but slipping around it into the yard (?), I walked up to the structures. The grass was tall and a misty rain had made an appearance.

   It was also quiet. Even though 314 is a four lane highway, there was no traffic. The only noises were insects.

   Then a whirring sound above me. Looking up I noticed a slight breeze had come up, and the windmill blades were moving.

   It was then I wondered about the folks who had once lived in this place.

   What kind of life did they have?

   What loves did they share?

   There were a lot of memories stored in this site. Memories of men, women and children. Memories of games and love and work.

   The windmill moved around catching the wind from wherever it came. The sounds seemed to want to tell me something, but what?

   Real people lived here once. Real lives were brought into the world and departed thence. Life was sustained and nurtured.

   Whose, What kind, and How were all questions that had answers, but the windmill just whirred and I had to leave still wondering.

   A trip back into someones past, with the human voices stilled, but the windmill speaking on regardless,

   And I understood not it's language.