Category Archives: Seasons

Showers of Blessing? September 1998

15 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by in Church, Faith, Growing up, Nature, Prayer, rafting, Seasons, Travel

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Milford 2  The church youth group was on its way from Burlington, Iowa, to Colorado for some camping, rafting, horseback riding, and other mountain-loving activities cherished by flatlanders. We stopped to camp on our first night at Milford State Park in central Kansas and set up on a gentle slope overlooking the lake. During the night a five-inch deluge left our campground looking like stacks of cast-off clothing after a flood. One of our teenage campers was heard saying, “If I had a bus ticket I’d be on my way home now.” Old hands at camping, of which we had only a few, said, “There, there, now, in a day or two, when we’ve had a chance to dry out, everything will look brighter.”
We had rain every day except one. Mostly we got used to it and adapted, using coin-operated laundries when necessary, and learning how to set up tents so the contents would stay dry…mostly. Every major activity that we planned, including the rafting, we got to enjoy without the rain’s interference. When rafting, the first thing we learn anyway is that we get wet. We read Psalms each morning and evening, and several passages claimed that God was in charge of the clouds and the rain. That made us wonder a bit about the messages we were getting.
We also read Ezekiel 34:26 about the “showers of blessing” God brings. The Gospel song of course came to mind. The trip proceeded as smoothly as any we had planned, either for service or for fellowship. No vehicles broke down. Everyone cooperated with few moments of tension. We kept the schedule of reservations and plans for each day. We covered 2500 miles in nine days. The showers kept us on our toes, depending on God to provide, which God did, as far as we were concerned. Getting wet unintentionally and getting wet purposely didn’t make much difference after a while.
When we got home to Iowa we found that Iowa was dry as a bone. Until the end of August it remained so. Somehow the field crops continued to grow, with just enough moisture to keep going. One of the congregation’s farmers, Don Thie, came dripping wet into the first fall choir rehearsal, and he said, “Since I prayed for rain, I guess I should learn to carry an umbrella.”
We also found that, while we were on the road, one of the church members, Chuck Murray, had installed a shower in our basement restroom, so that our overnighters, drop-in-travelers, service project workers, runners, and any other sweaty folks would have a convenient place to clean up.
So we began the fall season that year with dozens of plans that we hoped would recharge and enhance the life of our community, and we sang the old song with renewed hope, “Showers of blessing; showers of blessings we need; mercy drops ‘round us are falling, but for the showers we plead.”

Attractive Nuisances, January 2002

12 Sunday Nov 2017

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cropped-bell-route.jpgThermostats are attractive nuisances. They are dangerous instruments and touching one can put you in serious jeopardy. Therefore we have tried in public institutions, like churches, to surround them with fences in the form of plastic lockable boxes, so that people will leave them alone. To no avail. We misplaced the keys long ago, and it’s easier just to take that silly lid off and reset the dial where we want it. Now that we have thermostats that can be preset for both summer and winter, the feud between the hot-blooded and the cold-blooded can go on in all seasons. (I will not admit to being cold-blooded.)
Whoever is first to set the thermostat never has the final word. In a building that is big and complicated, like Zion Church, there is no available science that can indicate a comfort zone that fits everyone. One must also consider the delay factor. Since it takes about thirty minutes to reach the indicated temperature, those who are chilly may reset the thermostat a dozen times while waiting for it to reach their goal, not knowing that they may have passed their own target temperature several times. When the temperature finally reaches the last setting, and the room fills with people and the body heat they bring into it, those who enjoy the climate a little cool have baked to a crisp.
The problem in these days is aggravated by the need to save energy and not add more carbon to the atmosphere. One side pretends to be more righteous when they want to turn the heat down. The other responds with “Insulate! Insulate! Insulate!” as they turn the heat up.
It is not an easy compromise in a building as small as my house, where two people do not agree on a satisfactory setting. One likes the stat set at 62, the other 72. Guess who? “Put on more clothing.” “Wrap up in a blanket.” And that’s for mid-summer. “It’s easier to put clothing on than to take it off.” “Who says so?” This is conversation?
Do you snowbirds in the Sunbelt have this problem? I reckon you do.
How many other opinionated preference issues are like this? Don’t even get started trying to make a list.
Who knew that the thermostat would be the most divisive issue that a couple would face in their long and enjoyable marriage? Who knew that a church, of all places, would find that a temperature setting would be the best indicator of their spiritual capacity for mutual love and understanding?
“Turn up the heat” faces off with “Let’s be cool!” Lord Jesus, will you help us figure out what energy setting keeps us from being lukewarm in our faith?

Autumn Kaleidoscope, November 1, 2001, Bella Vista

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by in Forest, Nature, Seasons

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IMG_2081.JPG   Here in the last days of autumn I look at the variety of leaves remaining on the trees and marvel at the multiple colors. Hidden within the leaves under vibrant greens thoughout the spring and summer were all of these shades of yellow, orange, red, and brown.
This is a bright sunny day for redheads. First to arrive were the little Downy woodpecker and its mate, with their black and white barred coats. Then the large outrageous Pileated woodpecker came, appearing to be the remnant of an ancient lineage. Next came the regulation Northern woodpecker, its mate wearing a rather plain tan coat except for that fierce black triangular breastplate. All of them work with amazing determination and skill, flying straight down, straight up, perching upside down, beating their heads against the grain, finding all of those tiny moving morsels, ugly to me but appetizing to them. The redheads of course include the cardinals and the tanager, whose mate still wears a luminous green coat, which I thought she would have shed for a less noticeable coat in these woods that are revealing all of her hiding places as the leaves fall.
I wonder what the insect-eaters would do with that red and yellow centipede I found yesterday? A mean-looking creature, five inches long, scurrying with uncountable legs, with biting pinchers and stingers that intimidated me. A too close encounter would send any sensible person to the Emergency Room. Would the birds have digested it, enough for several meals, or would they have left it well enough alone? More friendly encounters occur with the preying mantis and the humble walking sticks, affixed to anything stable, enjoying the last warm autumn hours. They appear to be dead until you tease them, then they will slowly respond. At six to nine inches long, the walking sticks do resemble branches, large enough for the birds to perch.
With all of these decorated creatures hanging around, I am transported to the scene last night, when the curtains of clouds suddenly revealed themselves as no clouds at all in the northern sky. They were lights, Northern Lights, shimmering in that rare dance of sunspot rays that fills the northern sky, first with the white light, that I had mistaken for clouds, then gradually revealing all the colors of the rainbow. They danced in splendor.
In a few weeks we will decorate for Christmas, but with all that we do, and as pretty as we can -make it, how can what we do compare with the extraordinary display that is already in place for all to see? Glory to God! Glory in the Highest! And the lowest.

The Hidden Springs of Hidden Springs Trail

23 Thursday Feb 2017

Posted by in Forest, Gullibility, Health, Hiking, Nature, Running, Seasons

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With many record-setting warm days in a row, I’ve had an opportunity to try some of the many new trails in Northwest Arkansas. On cold days I hesitate to go where I might get lost or take a long time to return to where I can rejoin Jan. On warm days I can wander. There are more than forty miles of trails and 700 miles of roads in Bella Vista, not counting the golf course paths, and there are even more miles of trails in the contiguous cities to the south, so there are plenty of places to explore.

A new favorite is the Hidden Springs Trail that navigates a narrow steep-sided valley known as the Slaughter Pen, presumably because it was easy to drive herds of cattle from the broad plain at the top of the valley into an ever-narrowing channel until a herd would be compressed into a fenced neck before the valley broadened again. A fast, full current of water pours down the creek in the center of the valley, and the developed concrete and asphalt trail runs beside the stream for more than two miles. The stream looks and acts like one of the cold cave spring-fed streams along the Current River three hours east of here, where millions of gallons pour out of the ground every day, so it is an invitation to follow the stream until one comes to the “hidden springs” that give the trail its name.

The stream joins a couple of others below this valley where I have run for years, around Bella Vista Lake and along Little Sugar Creek. Amazingly in a couple of spots all of that water disappears below shelves of limestone, and then reappears a few hundred yards farther. Along the Hidden Springs Trail the water flows on the surface all the way and pours down some three and four feet tall falls in a few places, made even more lovely by the woods and shrubbery around them. Along the base of the rocky outcrops that line both sides of the valley, bare dirt bicycle paths run, and in several places the bicycle paths run half-way up the fifty to hundred foot cliffs or even along their top edges, providing a challenge to the experienced rider. It would be challenging enough for me to walk them, when I knew no bicycles were coming down those narrow paths, but I am content to keep walking the center until I find the source of all that water.

As I explored every day I ran a little farther up the developed trail, reaching the point where the busy stream was joined to a lazy, slower stream, and following the active one in my search for the hidden springs. Since the entry to the trail lies a half-mile beyond the parking lot, and the point where the streams converge is already a mile and a half upstream from that trail entrance, my three mile daily goal was easily surpassed in the quest. The early spring flowers, birds, and critters made it interesting, so I kept going. After two more days I could see that I was finally nearing the goal, three miles from where I started, where water poured into the creek bed.

A great blue heron stalked the small turbulent pool that fed the stream, and there was little bubbling or frothing of the water, so it must have been clear of most of the chemicals that saturate the groundwater these days, which was surprising. The source of the stream, instead of being the hidden springs I sought, was a series of large concrete vessels that served the Bentonville Sewage Treatment Plant.

Heat Pump Heaven

27 Wednesday Jan 2016

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We appreciate our heat pumps. The theory behind them is irreproachable—reverse refrigeration—taking heat from the outside and putting it inside in winter, and taking heat from the inside and putting it outside in summer. A local company installed our main floor unit fifteen years ago and the lower level unit fourteen years ago and then promptly went bankrupt. We found a good serviceman to keep the units in repair, after lightning did some damage to the upper unit’s electronic components. Although the manufacturer was a reputable company, he reported that it contained several outdated parts. He kept it going for us nonetheless. The lower unit, on the hand, has never given us a bit of trouble. It keeps plugging along, passing every inspection.  Finally, a year ago in the fall, when the upper unit fan and compressor warned that they did not want to survive another winter, we decided to find a replacement.

We examined several alternatives and finally narrowed the search to another major manufacturer. A Trane would replace a Carrier. It sounded like a very good system, but when it was installed it did indeed sound like a train. The blower, starting out as barely a whisper, built up the wind pressure of a gale in a Midwestern thunderstorm, pillowing the vinyl flooring in the bathroom and kitchen. A few days later we recalled the installer, who adjusted it to a moderate wind, saying that it had been set for Florida, instead of an Arkansas setting. Florida homes require such a tempest because of their high humidity. I accepted the explanation. The Arkansas setting provided a tolerable breeze, and the flooring stayed where it belonged.

We finally got the missing panel delivered for the air handler, which somehow had gotten lost in New Orleans, and the programmable thermostat that had been promised finally replaced the temporary manual adjustment model. By that time, our winter stay concluded, and the need for neither heat nor cool was evident in the mild spring, summer, and early fall visits that followed.

Our November stay provided the first serious test of our new system since February as the outside temperature fell to freezing, and we let the thermostat kick into action. Very little happened. The blower provided markedly less sound than it had, and the heat, drifting out of the vents, was warm enough, but lacked motivation. When I checked the crawl space where the air handler is located, I found the problem. The return air vent, stressed by the new fan pressure, had collapsed, flatter than a proverbial pancake. Not much air was going to get through that vent, which had severed its connection to the rest of the house.

We called back to the installer who was very quick to come and replace the return air vent with a solid metal vent wrapped with thick insulation. They took no responsibility for the collapse of the earlier system, which probably would not have held up in either Arkansas or Florida, so another investment was needed on my part, making this the equal to earlier estimates for a geothermal replacement, much to my chagrin, although who knows what unforeseen costs would have come with that installation?

Now, comfortably ensconced in our Ozark home with a balmy 72 degrees inside while the wind blows at 25 mph in the 25 degree temperature outside, all is right with the world.

A Christmas Letter

26 Saturday Dec 2015

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We have been receiving Christmas and holiday letters from friends and family, and we appreciate every single one and the memories and hopes that go with them of treasured experiences together that the letters and cards represent. Often they bring tears of joy for the special times we have shared. Sometimes they bring tears of sadness, for we have reached the years when the frequent departure of friends and loved ones places them out of reach of everything but our prayers of gratitude for having known them. We want you to know that we send not only our greetings but our thanks and prayers for your lives, and our continuing praise to God for all of you wonderful people we have known and for the saving grace of Jesus Christ, who assures us that there is always more in store for our lives than what we have yet seen.

While this holiday time carries so much meaning in so many ways, for us it is still at its core an incarnation of the love of God in the Messiah who came, is yet to come, and is coming soon. In awe and mystery we see that loving person in the humblest of places, akin to the places where we have found ourselves and met you. Humbly we bow to adore Jesus, through whom we find that the ineffable Ruler of this universe (and all possible universes) does care for each of us.

Most of what we might report to you about our events and thoughts during this year has been on the “Gary Chapman” Facebook page or on chaplinesblog.com.  We have lived in Burlington, Iowa, for twenty seven years, and part-time in Bella Vista, Arkansas, for fifteen years. Au and Alicia just celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Brandi and Nathan recently celebrated their eighteenth, all continuing in their jobs and locales, with the addition of Alicia going to work as a receptionist at an O’Fallon assisted living center and  nursing home, in addition to her contracts as a theatrical costumer. Grandchildren Willow graduated from the University of Illinois and began graduate studies in paleontology at the University of Nebraska- Lincoln, where she is deep into the Barstovian Era (into  whose isotopes few researchers have gone before); Meadow just played seven characters in Sweet Charity as well as a lead in her first movie while a junior at Indiana University; and sweet Symphony turned purple as Ursula the Sea Witch in Little Mermaid, after being white as an Addams Family ancestor (and being green as Oz’s wicked witch two years ago)—she will graduate from O’Fallon High School with her Associate of Arts and Associate of Science degrees from Southwestern Illinois College, at the same time, in the coming May, then on to either Purdue University or Indiana University. Why do we feel that the pace of time is accelerating?

Jan’s mother fell and broke her neck C2 vertebra in August. She survived the fall, but now she contends with a brace that holds her head in place and protects her spinal cord. She had to leave her home and take up residence at the local nursing home, where our step-father of eighteen years, Glenn Edwards, visits daily. In order to identify with her mother (not intentionally!) Jan fell at the end of September, not breaking anything, but injuring herself severely anyway—we are thankful it wasn’t worse and she has been recovering well.

Gary enjoyed the responses of many people to the publishing of Out of My Hands and The River Flows Both Ways, and he is still editing Our Land! Our People!, a much longer narrative about the child John Bell on the Trail of Tears and his interesting life afterwards. During the year Jan and five distant cousins descended from her Great-great Grandfather John Bell had DNA testing to support or disprove his Native American ancestry, since the documentary evidence to corroborate the family tradition about John Bell was thin. Jan learned that she and her cousins have ancient Far East Asian and Yakutian (Siberian) DNA, common to Native Americans in the DNA records, which is as much supporting evidence as we can gain at the present time. It was nice to learn that we had Asians in our family before our beloved Au joined us, and that she had ancestors in America before her Puritan New England and seafaring ancestors arrived (or the Germans, Irish, or English Quakers who came later to the Middle Colonies and Illinois). DNA can only give us a little glimpse into the recesses of our past. Eventually it must show that we are all related anyway—one family in one world, all deeply in need of reconciliation.

It has not been an easy year, but we have enjoyed it anyway. More heart issues developed for Gary, but he runs regularly anyway. He has also continued teaching philosophy and ethics at Southeastern Community College, but this year it was all online, making travel easier during the courses. We made the usual travel circuit of Burlington, Bella Vista, O’Fallon, Champaign, Paxton, Mt. Sterling; Lincoln, Nebraska; and Bloomington, Indiana, adding another trip to the Black Hills and Mammoth Site, and a journey with Gary’s two brothers and sisters-in-law to Sevierville, Tennessee, at the height of the marvelous fall color, to celebrate all of our milestone birthdays—seventy, seventy-five, and eighty (a few months ahead of time for some of us).

We have plenty of cause for thanksgiving, and our prayers for the coming year include you and our hopes to be with you. May the peace of God bless you abundantly.

The Tale of the Peddlin’ Parson

21 Monday Dec 2015

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It’s not much of a tale, but it’s about one Christmas that stood out for this preacher. I had lived in Tilton only a few months, serving my first “called’’ and full-time pastorate at the United Church of Tilton. The start of work was not auspicious. The new church building had been completed the year before, with a lot of volunteer work from the congregation. There were only thirty-some members, and the Sunday School participation continued to be much larger than the worship attendance, as it had been for years, for worship began at 8 A.M., when families wanted to sleep in, and the people were accustomed to having a part-time pastor who served a larger church somewhere else, so the early hour was the only time that their pastor had been available. The new parsonage had finally been finished so my family—my wife and two small children—could move in. Our second car, “Sam,” had burned up with an engine fire, so we were back to having one car to share between my wife and myself. The youth group, built around the sports enthusiasms of the previous part-time youth worker, had fallen apart.

The leaders of the congregation were eager to encourage me, and they somehow had faith that we could make this new organization self-sustaining with a truly community-serving and Christ-centered purpose. There were few traditions, although we built on some that had begun in each of the fore-runner congregations that merged and began anew with their thirty combined members. We observed Advent with the lighting of Advent candles, collected gifts for the Delmo Community Organization, went caroling at nursing facilities and the homes of shut-ins, and prepared a children’s musical program for the Sunday School. In worship, the Sunday before Christmas, when all the singing, preaching, and praying was over, the congregation presented me with a gift.

Don Dunavan was one of the sturdy deacons, chief at the fire department, busy creating equipment at one of the local machine shops, raising four children, caring for his elderly mother, always available at church for  jobs that needed doing. He came riding down the aisle on a bright red Schwinn bicycle. “We understood that you needed some transportation to do your visiting around town, so we bought you this bicycle. From now on, you will be known in Tilton as the peddlin’ parson.”

Visiting with people in the town, finding needs and filling them, had become my primary occupation. The bicycle became my main mode of transportation. I did a lot of cold calling, getting to know people and what they were interested in, talking about the church’s new start and hopes to serve the needs of the community. For the most part people were receptive. When I heard of someone wanting to talk, or a problem that had arisen for anyone, I made a contact and arranged a visit.

One man, Albert Cox, lived by himself, had no family, and had never had a relationship with any church. He didn’t have any interest in taking part in any group either, but he did like the idea of a church that would respond to people’s needs and try to serve the town. He hadn’t known any preachers before, he said, but he welcomed me into his home, and we talked about ways things could be improved for people’s lives. He was concerned about the town cemetery, which had fallen into disuse and decay, without a supervisory board to take care of it, and about the youth not having Scouting or recreational organizations to channel their energies. He had a lot of good ideas, though he wasn’t ever comfortable joining with other people in trying to implement them. Still we were able to find ways to work on them.

Years later, when Albert died and I was long gone from the community, his will designated his estate (a half-million dollars) in equal parts to a historical museum for the town and to the United Church of Tilton to be used for a community fellowship hall and gym. When I returned to the church thirty-five years later, I learned that I was remembered for three things—being a peddlin’ parson who visited people in the community, running a school-outside -the-walls activity program for youth, and visiting Albert Cox.

Sneaking into the Christmas Gifts

16 Wednesday Dec 2015

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Happy Holidays.

My brother and I never had a reason to be in my parents’ bedroom when they were not there. The room was upstairs in a ‘newer’ wing of the hundred-some year-old farmhouse where we grew up. We gained access to the bedroom by going through the bathroom that replaced one of the three tiny bedrooms of the original story-and-a-half cabin. (You might say that it became the ‘Master Suite’ except that there was only one ‘inside’ bathroom in that house, and everyone used it when it worked, which was only part of the time.) Obviously my parents were not at home when we went into their bedroom. My older brother, David, must have been about thirteen, and me, eight, when this event occurred. We felt safe in sneaking in.

David thought he knew where the Christmas gifts must be kept—in the little closet at the far end of the bedroom. He opened the door and rummaged through the clothing and shoes to get to the hidden part of the closet, and he said that—sure enough—there were packages back there. Did I want to see what I was getting?

Of course, I wanted to see. What was I doing in that room with him if I didn’t want to see what I was getting for Christmas? What eight year old boy wouldn’t want to know ahead of time? At that moment something told me not to look and not to ask and not to let him tell me. I shrank from knowing ahead of the time how my parents wanted to surprise me.

My brother became a generous man. Perhaps it was an early manifestation of his generosity that he was sharing with me this escapade into sneakerdom. He certainly didn’t have to include his bothersome little brother in this opportunity. He didn’t need me as an accomplice either. It is not clear in my memory that my mother discovered this intrusion into the back corners of her closet, but she was observant and she probably did, and my brother probably paid for the infraction of unwritten Christmas rules with the humiliating insight that he could not be trusted in that day’s responsibility.

Among the many gifts coming from my parents that I do remember from those childhood years, I do not remember what I received on that particular Christmas, except the knowledge that I could be tempted, and that finally I could resist the temptation of knowing what I wasn’t supposed to know ahead of time. I could wait and be patient and learn in due time. That, and what my brother learned, were the most important and memorable gifts from that Christmas.

Persistent Welcomers

19 Wednesday Aug 2015

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Burlington house in fall

They welcomed us in great numbers when we arrived in August, 1988. Throughout the fall they kept coming, sometimes pestering us to the point that we wondered whether we would ever be rid of their nuisance. Even in January they kept moving, popping up at odd times and places, such as on my collar during a children’s sermon at a Sunday morning service. If I had been quick-witted, I would have turned that moment into an object lesson on persistence. When winter came in its fullness of ice and snow, they still persisted, although I saw only one every day or so. Boxelder bugs.

As a child I became acquainted with them. They were more numerous and lasted longer than lightning bugs, so when it was no longer possible to collect the more illuminating lightning bugs, I turned my acquisitive attention to boxelders, seemingly harmless, and only slightly stinky, but certainly persistent and ubiquitous. The worst weather in heat and dryness brought out the best in them, but they made themselves known even in cold and icy times in the warm comfort of the house. In Burlington the bugs had occupied the soft maple trees that grew along the berm immediately north of our house. On the farm they had occupied the namesake boxelder trees that grew along the river bank not far from the house. In both cases they moved inside when they decided the conditions were better there. For whatever reason the bugs left our Burlington house the next spring and have never returned.

I want such long-lasting determination, such unexpected perseverance, for my faith. When I am caught in mundane, day-to-day tasks that seem to drag on endlessly, I need the unexpected reappearances of joy and surprise that persist in spite of all I do to suppress them or tame them or forget about them. When I am overcome by the scale of problems that seem insurmountable, I need the confident will to see a victory that gives meaning to my feeble and uncertain movements. Sometimes such faith does appear in solitary heroic figures battling all odds. Sometimes such faith comes in masses of individuals filling every corner and space with their relentless march of life conquering death. Even such lowly creatures as the boxelder bug encourage us by the nuisance of their example.

The Miracle of the Broken-down Weed Chopper

25 Thursday Jun 2015

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redwood treesI was ready to start the weed chopper and mow the strip at the sides of the Shepherd’s Gate house and driveway. Two or three mowings a season is enough to keep new trees and plants from encroaching “my” space, which is fifteen to twenty feet around the perimeter of the house. The rest of the surrounding acres remain wild woodland and take care of themselves. The engine started well, but the mounted mower whiplines did not engage. Turning off the engine I found the belt had slipped off its pulley. If I had not already been thinking about my father, this could easily have reminded me of the many times some piece of equipment broke down and delayed the work of planting or harvest or general farm maintenance.

When it came to tools my father was not the most organized. Keeping the right tool in the right location was a challenge, and as a result there were usually a dozen places where that tool might be. The tool house was well-organized, thanks to the my older brother’s intervention, but tools tended to migrate from there to every tractor, barn, crib and shed which had its own specialized tool collection. It was always frustrating to run into a task that required the tool that was somewhere on the other side of the farm. In my case on this day, the small tool box I had with me held only  pliers, inadequate to the task of removing the cover to reinstall the belt. The plumbing kit, ready for the bathroom fixture installation tasks that I had planned for this trip,  had wrenches that were much too large to reach the bolts I had to loosen.

Then I thought of the small toolbox Dad gave me to use at Shepherd’s Gate. It had a few well-worn basic tools. Did I remember that it had a driver and socket set? I looked and it had only two sockets, but what were the chances that these were the ones that would fit? I took them out to the chopper, and one fit the larger bolts, and the other one fit the smaller bolts perfectly! Thereafter the job was a snap. Thanks, Dad.

This is hardly evidence convincing to anyone of a surrounding cloud of witnesses or an angelic host. Plenty of times I have had to learn from my oversights, go out and buy or borrow the necessary tool, or take that extraordinary amount of time to complete the simplest task. But this time Dad was definitely present, patiently gazing over my shoulder, and chuckling, so I add it to the list of revealing moments when I speak my grateful dues and recognize the continuing influence of the unseen. Thank you, Abba!