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Showing posts from 2014

There is a Place By Me

Recently, I visited with my family in Mississippi before we caravan'd to Petit Jean Mountain near Little Rock, Arkansas. I was sound asleep one morning when I was pleasantly awakened by the angelic voice of my sister, Weesie. She was singing this song ... I hear thy welcome voice That calls me, Lord, to thee For cleansing in thy precious blood That flowed on Calvary. I am coming, Lord Coming now to thee; Wash me, cleanse me in the blood That flowed on Calvary. That song lingers with me, still. My sister asked me to take the devotion time at our family reunion on Saturday night before we all left to go our separate ways on Sunday morning. I used that song as a basis. It was quite appropriate, because in ages past—and we were all familiar with this exercise as performed by our Mama Smith and our Mother, Clytie, on separate agendas, of course— when we would visit, my grandmother used to wake us up in the middle of the night strumming fiercely on the old gui

In The Middle of It All

Joab ambled Star down the dark street, pulling his jacket close for warmth. It was quiet in Oxford except for the wind that whistled and blew hard through the limbs of the oak trees. He turned his horse toward The University and slumped in the saddle while Star clopped along on the hard-packed dirt street. The lamps were turned up to a high flame, standing vigil over the few students who were still out making their way to the dormitories. He rode up on the hill, the little cemetery for Confederate soldiers killed at Shiloh and Corinth. Just when Joab thought that Shiloh held the Balm in Gilead, he found the bitter gall of the tomb, the burial grounds of those who gave a full measure—then and now. He remembered the day he walked the wood planked bridge over the Tishomingo Stream at Brice's Crossroads, the ride up the ridge to Shiloh Hill. And now he was in Oxford where Whiskey Smith under the Union flag had tried to melt down the city. Joab thought Shiloh was his place of peace