A writer should concern himself with whatever absorbs his fancy, stirs his heart, and unlimbers his typewriter. I feel no obligation to deal with politics. I do feel a responsibility to society. A writer has the duty to be good, not lousy; true, not false; lively, not dull; accurate, not full of error. He should tend to lift people up, not lower them down.
A writer must reflect and interpret his society, his world; he must also provide inspiration and guidance and challenge. Much writing today strikes me as deprecating, destructive, and angry. There are good reasons for anger, and I have nothing against anger. But I think some writers have lost their sense of proportion, their sense of humor, and their sense of appreciation.
I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: one role of the writer today is to sound the alarm. The environment is disintegrating, the hour is late, and not much is being done. Instead of carting rocks from the moon, we should be carting the feces out of Lake Erie. …I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they happen to strike me. ~E.B. White 1969 (on writing)
It is tiresome always feeling angry about what it is happening in the world, feeling that everything has become political.
I’m tired of reading (and writing) words of frustration, but want to rail against the meanness that surrounds us, and push back the bully to seek out a balance of kindness, perspective and insight.
When I need to feel something other than mad, I walk as far as I can go, look up, revel in the gift of rays of light and bask in their warmth and promise.
I will accept what the Sun has to offer and tell about it so that my anger drains away like so much waste flushed down a pipe, never to be seen again.
Lyrics: Even before we call on Your name To ask You, O God, When we seek for the words to glorify You, You hear our prayer; Unceasing love, O unceasing love, Surpassing all we know.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.
Even with darkness sealing us in, We breathe Your name, And through all the days that follow so fast, We trust in You; Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace, Beyond all mortal dream.
Both now and forever, And unto ages and ages, Amen.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
The Old Church leans nearby a well worn road upon a hill that has no grass or tree The winds from off the prairie now unload the dust they bring around it fitfully The path that leads up to the open door is worn and grayed by many toiling feet of us who listen to the Bible lore and once again the old time hymns repeat. And every Sabbath Morning we are still returning to the altar standing there; a hush, a prayer, a pause, and voices fill the Master’s House with a triumphant air. The old church leans awry and looks quite odd, But it is beautiful to us, and God. ~Della Vik“The Old Church” (adapted in song by Stephen Paulus, linked below
photo by Barb Hoelle
…when I experienced the warm, unpretentious reception of those who have nothing to boast about, and experienced a loving embrace from people who didn’t ask any questions, I began to discover that a true spiritual homecoming means a return to the poor in spirit to whom the kingdom of heaven belongs. ~Henri Nouwen from The Return of the Prodigal Son
Today is the 110th anniversary of Wiser Lake Chapel‘s building dedication ceremony and picnic.
Back in the early days of Whatcom County, the little church on Wiser Lake had been constructed through “contributions of the people” in a rural neighborhood only a few miles from where we now live. $600 in lumber was provided by a local farmer whose trees were cut and milled and brought by horse drawn wagon to a building site adjacent to a one room school house along a corrugated plank road. The total property was “valued at $1800, but of even more value to the community.”
The dedication ceremony was held on Sunday, August 27, 1916 followed by “a basket dinner—come with well filled baskets for a common table, under the direction of the Ladies Aid”. This was to be followed by a “Fellowship Meeting, special music and fraternal addresses” and the day ended at 8 PM with a Young People’s Meeting.
So began the long history of the “Wiser Lake Church”.
For reasons unrecorded in the history of the church, the original denomination closed the doors thirty years later, and for a while the building was empty and in need of a congregation.
By the fifties, it became a mission church of the local Christian Reformed Churches and launched a Sunday School program for migrant farm and Native American children in the surrounding rural neighborhood. No formal church services started until the 60s. By the time the building was sixty years old, so many children were arriving for Sunday School, there was not enough room so the building was hoisted up on jacks to allow a hole to be dug underneath for a basement full of classrooms. Over the course of a summer, the floor space doubled, and the church settled back into place, allowed to rest again on its foundation.
Over seventy years after its dedication ceremony, our family drove past the boxy building countless times hurrying on our way to other places, barely giving it a second glance. It had a classic design, but showed its age with peeling paint, a few missing shingles, an old fashioned square flat roofed belfry, and arched windows. The hand lettered sign spelling out “Wiser Lake Chapel” by the road constituted a humble invitation of sorts, simply by listing the time of the service.
photo by Julie Garrettphoto by Julie Garrett
On a blustery December Sunday evening, we had no place else to be for a change. Instead of driving past, we stopped, welcomed by the yellow glow pouring from the windows and an almost full parking lot. Our young family climbed the steps to the big double doors, and inside were immediately greeted by a large balding man with a huge grin and encompassing handshake. He pointed us to one of the few open spots still available in the old wooden pews.
The sanctuary was a warm and open space with a high lofted ceiling, dark wood trim accents matching the ancient pews, and a plain wooden cross above the pulpit in front. There was a pungent smell from fir bough garlands strung along high wainscoting, and a circle of candles standing lit on a small altar table. Apple pie was baking in the kitchen oven, blending with the aroma of good coffee and hot cocoa.
The service was a Sunday School Christmas program, with thirty some children of all ages and skin colors standing up front in bathrobes and white sheet angel gowns, wearing gold foil halos, tinfoil crowns and dish towels wrapped with string around their heads. They were prompted by their teachers through carols and readings of the Christmas story. The final song was Silent Night, sung by candle light, with each child and member of the congregation holding a lit candle. There was a moment of excitement when one girl’s long hair briefly caught fire, but after that was extinguished by a quick-thinking mom in the pastor’s pulpit glass of water, the evening ended in darkness, with the soft glow of candlelight illuminating faces of the young and old, some in tears streaming over their smiles.
photo by Julie Garrett
It felt like home. We had found our church.
We’ve never left, now well into our fourth decade here.
Over the past one hundred years this old building has seen a few thousand people come and go, has had peeling paint and missing shingles, a basement that floods when the rain comes down hard, toilets that don’t always flush very well, and though it smells heavenly every Sunday potluck after evening worship and teaching, there are times when it can be just a bit out of sorts and musty. It really isn’t anything to boast about.
It is humble and unpretentious yet envelops its people in its loving and imperfect embrace, with warmth, character and a uniqueness that is unforgettable.
It really is not so different from the folks who have gathered there over the years.
Like our pastors over the decades – Bruce Hemple, Stephen Tamminga, Albert Hitchcock and now Nathan Chambers – our chapel is humble and unpretentious, enveloping its people in a loving embrace of God’s Word, with warmth, character, grace and a uniqueness that is unforgettable.
We know we belong, such as we are, just as we are, blessed by God in a wonderful old building to join together.
To look into the eye of a horse is to see a reflection of yourself that you might’ve forgotten. No grief was big enough not to be washed clean in your horse’s eye. ~Gillian Mears from Foal’s Bread
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands
…whenever you mark a horse, or a dog, with a peculiarly mild, calm, deep-seated eye, be sure he is an Aristotle or a Kant, tranquilly speculating upon the mysteries in man. No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses. They see through us at a glance. But there is a touch of divinity …. and a special halo about a horse… ~Herman Melville from Redburn: His First Voyage
Two whistles, one for each, and familiar sounds draw close in darkness— cadence of hoof on hardened bottomland, twinned blowing of air through nostrils curious, flared. They come deepened and muscular movements conjured out of sleep: each small noise and scent heavy with earth, simple beyond communion…
…and in the night, their mares’ eyes shine, reflecting stars, the entire, outer light of the world here. ~Jane Hirschfield from “After Work”
There is a moment after you move your eye away when you forget where you are because you’ve been living, it seems, somewhere else, in the silence of the night sky.
You’ve stopped being here in the world. You’re in a different place, a place where human life has no meaning.
You’re not a creature in a body. You exist as the stars exist, participating in their stillness, their immensity. ~Louise Glück from “Telescope” in Averno
It’s tempting to fall headfirst into each eye’s fathomless well – These eyes rivet me as they search my own: a retinal magnet drawing me into such incalculable depths.
Yet I am merely reflected like starlight; only dancing on this shining mirrored surface when I long to dive deep to understand what they see in me: so lost I long to be found.
We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet. ~Annie Dillard from The Force That Drives the Flower
What inference might one draw about the nature of God from a study of his works? An inordinate fondness for beetles. The Creator would appear as endowed with a passion for stars, on the one hand, and for beetles on the other. ~ J.B.S. Haldane, British biologist
Indeed, we stranded folk do encounter a God who saves us by flipping us back onto our feet as we lie helplessly waving our arms and legs in the air, so stuck and pitiful.
God knows all about the helplessness of suffering and hears our cry for mercy.
Once we are righted back to our feet, we walk forth forever changed – restored to the world, ready to help anyone we encounter who finds themselves stuck upside down in their misery.
When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles and the bottle’s on a poodle and the poodle’s eating noodles… …they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle battle. ~ Dr. Seuss from Fox in Socks
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
His long teeth on her withers, her rough-coated spots will grow damp and wild. Her long teeth on his withers, his oiled-teakwood smoothness will grow damp and wild. Their shadows’ chiasmus will fleck and fill with flies, the eight marks of their fortune stamp and then cancel the earth. From ear-flick to tail-switch, they stand in one body. No luck is as boundless as theirs. ~Jane Hirshfield “The Love of Aged Horses”
Two horses lean in the field clasped against each other as if in prayer, grooming each other’s manes the way my thumb strokes the back of my thumb.
Together, tall, conductive around them, fenced lightning, above, a promise of more rain to come, the force of faith condensing, cumulative—
A wave tries to return to the river what it has been given, futile.
Two swans, only ever as far apart as palms, a wingspan, float by shore, sucking up silt, throats rippling, taking in something as vast as the sea in small sips.
If, on cold nights, before bed, I pray for something as simple as the warmth of my hands— ~Ace Chu “Dear” from The Hopper
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom. ~James Wright “A Blessing”
May we easily find one another’s itches, just as we know our own. May we greet all visitors with a gentle and humble welcome. May we bow our heads together when in need of community. May we clasp hands in prayer to God, warming each other’s hands when the world is feeling far too cold.
Lyrics: Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night. (Mark Twain left this poem on his daughter’s tombstone)
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Things said or done long years ago, Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled. ~William Butler Yeats from “Vacillation”
photo by Emily Dieleman
We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers. White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind Was too busy visiting sea after sea. We did not succeed in interesting the animals. Dogs, disappointed, expected an order, A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep. A person seemingly very close Did not care to hear of things long past. Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom. It would be humiliating to pay by the hour A man with a diploma, just for listening. Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what? That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble Yet later in our place an ugly toad Half-opens its thick eyelid And one sees clearly: “That’s me.” ~Czeslaw Milosz “At a Certain Age”
photo by Nate Gibson
I have a brief confession that I would like to make. If I don’t get it off my chest I’m sure my heart will break.
I didn’t do my reading. I watched TV instead— while munching cookies, cakes, and chips and cinnamon raisin bread.
I didn’t wash the dishes. I didn’t clean the mess. Now there are roaches eating crumbs— a million, more or less.
I didn’t turn the TV off. I didn’t shut the light. Just think of all the energy I wasted through the night.
I feel so very guilty. I did a lousy job. I hope my students don’t find out that I am such a slob. ~Bruce Lansky “Confession”
We all have confessions we could make. We all want to avoid admitting mistakes and failings. We all live under the black cloud of knowing our guilt and shame.
I have plenty of opportunity to replay the many moments I’ve regretted what I said or did, or what I could have said or did….and didn’t. Recalling remorse is far easier and stickier than replaying joy that seems so fleeting in my memory.
There are times when I feel both weighed down by memories and freed at the same time.
It almost always happens while sitting in worship in church, silently confessing how I have wronged those around me or turned my face from God.
Yet in the next moment, I feel the embrace of a Creator who never forgets but still forgives. It is an overwhelming knowledge that brings me to tears every time.
It is in that moment that my joy no longer is fleeting; it lives deeply in my cells since I, like all around me, am created in His image.
And no, we don’t look like a toad.
God saw what He made in His image, and it was, and still is, good – though flawed in our own choices. He made each of us out of love for us, not out of regret. We each open our heavy eyelids, see His Face and can say, “That’s me.”
Every child should know a hill, And the clean joy of running down its long slope With the wind in his hair. He should know a tree— The comfort of its cool lap of shade, And the supple strength of its arms Balancing him between earth and sky So he is a creature of both. He should know bits of singing water— The strange mysteries of its depths, And the long sweet grasses that border it. Every child should know some scrap Of uninterrupted sky, to shout against; And have one star, dependable and bright, For wishing on. ~Edna Casler Joll“Every Child Should Know a Hill”
photo of a windy day at Manna Farm by Danyale Tamminga
When I was younger the world was full of wonder. Forests were kingdoms. Following the wind was freedom. Children wielded branches like sharpened swords
There was no separation between dream and reality no border to defend, Blanket forts were impenetrable. The monsters in the closets could not reach us there.
We ruled from treetop towers. We danced in the rain. We needed no permission to believe in the sacred. It was simply everywhere. It was simply everything.
In those days we were of the living. ~Logan Holder“Of the Living”
How brief are our childhood days, when we can touch both earth and sky without knowing any limits, how we can fly downhill and climb impossible obstacles, how the ocean stretches to infinity as our imagination sails away.
I now watch these treasured young friends I’ve watched grow, held as babies, taught new songs and games, helped their faith grow, now getting married, ready to grow up children of their own.
This, the unending turn of the years, a stretching tether connecting one generation to another.
Everything sacred, held so close until one day it is time to let go – and once again run, climb, fly, touching the earth and sky at once.
Lyrics by Keane: I walked across an empty land I knew the pathway like the back of my hand I felt the earth beneath my feet Sat by the river and it made me complete
Chorus: Oh, simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on So, tell me when you’re gonna let me in I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin
I came across a fallen tree I felt the branches of it looking at me Is this the place we used to love? Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?
And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything So, why don’t we go somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know
And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything So, why don’t we go? So, why don’t we go?
This could be the end of everything So, why don’t we go somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know Somewhere only we know
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
A happy arrangement: many people prefer cats to other people, and many cats prefer people to other cats. ~Mason Cooley
The real objection to the great majority of cats is their insufferable air of superiority. Cats, as a class, have never completely got over the snootiness caused by the fact that in Ancient Egypt they were worshipped as gods. This makes them too prone to set themselves up as critics and censors of the frail and erring human beings whose lot they share. They stare rebukingly. They view with concern. And on a sensitive man this often has the worst effects, inducing an inferiority complex of the gravest kind. ~P.G.Wodehouse from The Story of Webster
Cat! who hast pass’d thy grand climacteric, How many mice and rats hast in thy days Destroy’d? How many tit bits stolen? Gaze With those bright languid segments green, and prick Those velvet ears — but pr’ythee do not stick Thy latent talons in me — and upraise Thy gentle mew — and tell me all thy frays, Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick. Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists– For all thy wheezy asthma — and for all Thy tail’s tip is nick’d off — and though the fists Of many a maid have given thee many a maul, Still is that fur as soft, as when the lists In youth thou enter’dest on glass bottled wall. ~John Keats “Sonnet to Mrs. Reynold’s Cat”
Our farm cats tolerate one another. Barely.
Yet they agree on one thing: no additional cats are welcome here. They are inhospitable to any wandering feral kitty who happens to pussy-foot through to check out the food dishes by the front porch and the back porch.
Those are run off with hisses and spits.
The cats have their own agreed-upon hierarchy about who approaches the food dish first and it is not negotiable.
And when it is time for an occasional necessary group therapy session to work out their differences, they practice social distancing with extreme care, so as not to offend one another.
These cats prefer a solitary life, unless forced into couples counseling by the farm owner because of a spat over shared territory. They are determined not to be dependent on anyone or anything and prefer to blend camouflaged into the background, ready to capture any rodent or bird who happens by.
Clearly, they know they are the superior species. We exist to serve them. And they tolerate us living here with them. Barely.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Lord of the pots and pans and things, since I’ve no time to be a saint by doing lovely things, or watching late with thee, or dreaming in the dawnlight, or storming heaven’s gates… make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates. Thou who didst love to give men food in room or by the sea, accept this service that I do— I do it unto thee. ~ Brother Lawrence from Practicing the Presence of God
Wash the plate not because it is dirty nor because you are told to wash it, but because you love the person who will use it next. ~St. Teresa of Calcutta
Even the mundane task of washing dishes by hand is an example of the small tasks and personal activities that once filled people’s daily lives with a sense of achievement. ~B.F. Skinner, behavioral psychologist
She rarely made us do it— we’d clear the table instead—so my sister and I teased that some day we’d train our children right and not end up like her, after every meal stuck with red knuckles, a bleached rag to wipe and wring.
The one chore she spared us: gummy plates in water greasy and swirling with sloughed peas, globs of egg and gravy. Or did she guard her place at the window? Not wanting to give up the gloss of the magnolia, the school traffic humming. Sunset, finches at the feeder. First sightings of the mail truck at the curb, just after noon, delivering a note, a card, the least bit of news. ~Susan Meyers “Mother, Washing Dishes”
My thoughts went round and round and it occurred to me that if I ever wrote a novel it would be of the ‘stream of consciousness’ type and deal with an hour in the life of a woman at the sink.
….I had to admit that nobody had compelled me to wash these dishes or to tidy this kitchen. It was the fussy spinster in me, the Martha who could not comfortably sit and make conversation when she knew that yesterday’s unwashed dishes were still in the sink. ~Barbara Pym from Excellent Women
I trace the struggling relationships and estrangements in the American family to the invention of the automatic dishwasher.
I have proof…
What happened to the necessary cooperation of a human dishwasher with two hands full of wash cloth and scrubber, having to get along with a dish dryer armed with a towel?
Where is the list on the refrigerator of whose turn is next, and the accountability if a family member somehow shirks their washing/drying responsibility and leaves the dishes to the next day?
No longer do family members have to cooperate in real time to scrub clean glasses, dishes and utensils, put them in the dish rack, dry them one by one and place them in the cupboard where they belong.
If the human dishwasher isn’t doing a proper job, the human dryer immediately takes note and recycles the dirty dish right back to the sink.
Instant accountability.
I always preferred to be the dryer. If I washed, and my sister dried, we’d never get done. She would keep recycling the dishes back for another going-over.
And so my messy nature was exposed.
Family conversations started over a meal often continue over the clean-up process while concentrating on whether a smudge is permanent or not. I learned some important facts of life while washing and drying dishes that I might not have learned otherwise. Sensitive topics tend to be easier to discuss when elbow deep in soap suds. Spelling and vocabulary and math fact drills are more effective when the penalty for a missed word or equation is a snap on the butt with a dish towel.
Our church hosts weekly Sunday evening potluck meals for 50-60 people after our evening worship service; we are committed to using real dishes, glasses and utensils rather than add to landfills with throwaways. There is no automatic dishwasher in our fellowship hall other than whoever stands up and heads to the sink first. There is no assigned duty list. Sometimes it takes a teetering stack of dishes to motivate the initiation of the wash/dry process. Sometimes there is an eager-beaver volunteer ready to wash as soon as the dirty dishes start to appear. Once the washing starts, there is always someone ready to dry, another someone ready to put things away and another someone to wipe down the tables, all having the best of conversations in the process.
It is cooperation in action, yet another example of how we all “pitch in” for the benefit and love of others.
So modern society is missing this best opportunity for daily family-together cooperation time. Forget family “game” night, or parental “date” night, or even vacations. Dish washing and drying at the sink takes care of all those times when families need to be communicating, all while coordinating efforts to clean, sort and organize.
It is time to treat the automatic dishwasher as simply another storage cupboard; instead pull out the brillo pads, the white cotton dishtowels and the plastic drainage dish rack.
Let’s start tonight.
And I think it is your turn first…
Holy as a day is spent Holy is the dish and drain The soap and sink, and the cup and plate And the warm wool socks, and the cold white tile Shower heads and good dry towels And frying eggs sound like psalms With bits of salt measured in my palm It’s all a part of a sacrament As holy as a day is spent Holy is the familiar room And quiet moments in the afternoon And folding sheets like folding hands To pray as only laundry can I’m letting go of all my fear Like autumn leaves made of earth and air For the summer came and the summer went As holy as a day is spent Holy is the place I stand To give whatever small good I can And the empty page, and the open book Redemption everywhere I look Unknowingly we slow our pace In the shade of unexpected grace And with grateful smiles and sad lament As holy as a day is spent And morning light sings ‘providence’ As holy as a day is spent ~Carrie Newcomer “Holy as a Day Is Spent “
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
What shall I say, because talk I must? That I have found a cure for the sick? I have found no cure for the sick but this crooked flower which only to look upon all men are cured. This is that flower for which all men sing secretly their hymns of praise! This is that sacred flower! ~William Carlos Williams from “The Yellow Flower”
The nail of each big toe was the horn of a goat. Thick as a thumb and curved, it projected down over the tip of the toe to the underside. With each step, the nail would scrape painfully against the ground and be pressed into his flesh. There was dried blood on each big toe.
It took an hour to do each big toe. The nails were too thick even for my nail cutters. They had to be chewed away little by little, then flattened out with the rasp, washed each toe, dried him off, and put his shoes and socks back on. He stood up and took a few steps, like someone who is testing the fit of a new pair of shoes.
“How is it?” “It don’t hurt,” he said, and gave me a smile that I shall keep in my safety deposit box at the bank until the day I die.
I never go to the library on Wednesday afternoon without my nail clippers in my briefcase. You just never know. ~Richard Selzer from “Toenails” from Letters to a Young Doctor
I know for a while again the health of self-forgetfulness, looking out at the sky through a notch in the valleyside, the black woods wintry on the hills, small clouds at sunset passing across. And I know that this is one of the thresholds between Earth and Heaven, from which even I may step forth and be free. – Wendell Berry from “Sabbath Poems”
Whenever I lose perspective about what I was trained to do and who I am meant to serve, when I wallow in the mud of self-importance rather than in the health of self-forgetfulness~
On those clinic days when I would wash out a plug of wax from a deaf ear and miraculously restore hearing or remove a painful thorn in a festering thumb or clip someone’s crippling toenails so they can step forth in freedom or I simply sit still as someone cries out their heart’s pain
I would cling to that crooked flower of healing and forgiveness I was handed over fifty years ago, sharing its sacred sweetness with another.
I was given these tools for a reason, and try to still use them.
You just never know.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
