Please Don't Rob, Jail or Shoot Us, Because We're. . .

"The Lord is My Shepherd," "I Can Do All Things Through Christ," "Grateful Thankful Blessed," "I'm Not Lucky, I'm Blessed," "Saved by Grace and Faith," "Worry Ends Where Faith Begins," "Corinthians 13.7," "Trust in the Lord," etc. etc. in an establishment owned by folks with Hispanic surnames who appear to be Hispanic too. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

When I was in Branson, MO for an overnight I saw similar sayings papered all over, worked into the shows, Jesus this and that, at a size and volume new to me, and I've been alive and a Missourian for quite some time and I'm an Aquarius so I analyze everything.

When you love God or Jesus and are truly sustained by faith or keep wise sayings and verses and gratitude close to your heart, you don't need to blare that all over, do you, unless 1) You want everyone to know, which is the opposite of how Jesus said to handle it; and 2) You want everyone convinced that you believe these things; 3) you want make it plain you belong to the same Jesus Club most other people around here belong to and know enough not to offend the club's ruling class by displaying graven images; and 4) you think these decorations have power beyond their decorativeness, or you think others believe that and want to keep them comfortable and pacified; 5) you wish to make the point that you speak and read English and not any of those offensive "other" languages except for the bit of Spanish everybody speaks, consisting of "Mi casa, su casa"; 6) you are somewhat concerned that other Jesus Club members will bust your door down and deport you whether you're a citizen or not, or rob you or spray your place with an AR-15 because they are bothered by your surname or skin color, and you are doing your best to establish yourself as entirely non-threatening supporters of the home team who only hope to make a living selling really good food.

Emphasis on #6. In fact you don't even have to be brown for that to happen to you.

Hope Emerald, Etc.

I prized two pendants for sentimental reasons -- one emerald, not a crown jewel, cloudy but green enough to remind me of nature, and one handsome oval smoky quartz, in superstitious terms a highly protective stone, market value five dollars. Wore them joyfully. Last January, hid them and forgot where, so for weeks and months I have torn closets apart, dumped out winter boots, stood on stepstools, searched the garage, and clawed from the cupboard boxes of Jello, thinking: "Maybe I put them here. Or here. Or here. . ." Maybe I hid them in the bottom of a trash can and they got thrown away, or in the folds of an old sweatshirt I bagged and tossed. Could I have done that? The thought gave me a pang. I'd looked everywhere. They were gone. To get a hold of myself, I recalled the Roman poet Catullus, who chided, "Cease this folly, and what you see is lost, set down as lost."

Even so, in the final week of June before leaving for Washington I sheepishly googled "patron saint of lost items," and murmured this "unfailing" prayer to St. Anthony to find the pendants -- sweetening the deal with an offer, if I found them, of a $20 donation to the nearest church:

"Blessed be God in His Angels and in His Saints. O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of Saints, your love for God and charity for His creatures made you worthy, when on earth, to possess miraculous powers. Encouraged by this thought, I implore you to obtain for me (request). O gentle and loving St. Anthony, whose heart was ever full of human sympathy, whisper my petition into the ears of the sweet Infant Jesus, who loved to be folded in your arms; and the gratitude of my heart will ever be yours, plus $20. Amen."

Son of a. . . In the pantry just a half-hour ago behind a stack of canned tomatoes I found a ziplock bag with the green pendant. I stepped back and felt my heartbeat in my throat and was so grateful I collapsed onto the futon.

I said, thank you, St. Anthony. It is half of what I wanted, so you get $10. Returning to the same pantry and shelf, I moved some cans aside and there was the quartz pendant.

Church of God, Goldman, MO

From roadside memorials to shrines built of native stone mortared with costume jewelry, Missouri's expressions of faith are the most fascinating anywhere. Name the faith and it has a history in Missouri--or invent a faith, build it a church, and how cool is that. This chastely designed house of worship is in Goldman in Jefferson County, wrongly called by the Internet a "ghost town" despite the functioning gas station/quickshop across the road. Where Goldman Spur Road meets Old Lemay Ferry Road, a classic Phillips 66 sign still stands although the station has faded from view. But you and I know it's there in spirit.

God Bless 2013

In the U.S. "prayer" has become the all-purpose substitute for actually doing anything. "Pray" for our soldiers -- don't, like, actually work at the USO or protest the war they shouldn't be fighting in the first place. "Pray" for the hungry or homeless -- but don't let them hang around here, and get those Salvation Army bell-ringers out of our face, and no, I don't want to volunteer once a week to drive for Meals on Wheels because there might be slippery roads. Prayer is powerful, and at least it doesn't kill anybody, but from looking at the Bible I think it's supposed to be a supplement for doing good, not the actual do-gooding itself.

In other news, 2013 is the first year since 1987 that a New Year has had 4 different numerals. Happy New Year!

Last Supper Re-Enactment, Pacific, MO

On Good Friday, the Pacific Christian Church put on its annual Last Supper re-enactment with samples of Passover foods. Beardless Jesus is second from left; bearded Judas sits on his left and beloved John on his right. That Supper was a Passover meal and the audience heard the Passover songs and prayers and, in little plastic containers, got tastes of unleavened bread, bitter herbs (parsley in salt water that represented the tears of the enslaved Hebrews), and roast lamb (wow), and grape juice subbing for wine. The kids asked questions as is traditional at Passover, and a woman was there because women light the candles and of course a woman must have been serving and cleaning up. Just as the Bible says, Judas was fingered as the betrayer and fled into the night; Peter was crushed to learn he would deny Jesus three times before dawn. It was a miracle that the church or their wives talked these guys into dressing up and doing this, and one of them had glasses on, but it was a respectful performance and a really good spiritual experience.

General Store, Powell, MO

"Twenty or thirty years ago" this general store in Powell, MO, closed. Along with it, at the center of town, is an abandoned Baptist church (no steeple) built of stone, and a DX station, its roadside sign now tangled in treetops. Another way to describe Powell is that the post office is open although no one works there, and there's a place that publishes gospel music and has since the composer of "I'll Fly Away," Mr. Albert E. Brumley, lived in Powell. He wrote the hymn in 1929, truly Divinely inspired, because it's been recorded by every gospel artist worth mentioning including Andy Griffith, Aretha Franklin, Crystal Gayle, Johnny Cash, and Kanye West. Brumley also wrote 600 other songs. Powell is in the far southwest corner of Missouri where there's not much but scenic Ozark beauty and farming. You'll have to drive 17 miles to buy a Snickers bar. I'll put up some more Powell pictures, but first, this fascinating and unique storefront sign made of horseshoes. That's Divine inspiration too.

Advice for Single Ladies

To all the girls who are in a rush to have a boyfriend or get married, a piece of Biblical advice: "Ruth patiently waited for her mate Boaz." While you are waiting on YOUR Boaz, don’t settle for any of his relatives: Broke-az, Po-az, Lyin-az, Cheating-az, Dumb-az, Drunk-az, Cheap-az, Lockedup-az, Goodfornothing-az, Lazy-az, and especially his cousin Beatinyo-az. Wait for your Boaz and make sure he respects Yoaz.  -attributed to Hubert Brandon

The Healing Spring

Back in the woods, off the Infirmary Road, under this little tin roof, is the Healing Spring. I have stuck my whole head into the spring and breathed the water in, and was cured of sinus infections for several days. The trees along the quarter-mile path used to be decorated with pictures of the Pope and signs saying "Silence" and "Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Wife," and there was even a wicker gate, very narrow, with a sign tacked to it that said "Strait is the gate and narrow is the way," but the path has undergone flooding and the monk who decorated the path and kept it nice died some years ago, and now there's a chain and a sign saying "Keep Out," but my business was too important. I had many choices and needed to ask God what I ought to be doing. So I went and knelt at the spring (which is behind the stone railing) and then lay down on a wooden bench looking up at the sky hoping to hear a directive. After a while I heard Him say, "Do SOMETHING. ANYTHING." Got up immediately, feeling energetic, and started for home where I began doing things, not paralyzed by fear of choice anymore, walking by faith and not by sight.

The Shrine and Brother Matthew

Down the road a piece on 100 acres is a Catholic shrine to Our Lady of Czestochowa, a place in Poland. The "chapel" part is just open-air with a tin roof over it, plus some pews and banks of eight-day candles, usually deserted except Sundays. I go there occasionally on Mondays. I listen there for messages from God. I figure He hangs out there, listening to prayers. I must say that in Missouri, messages from God seem rather more common than they did when I lived in Boston, Mass.

Not far away is a path to a healing spring. Along the path were strewn and nailed up all sorts of signs, plastic flowers, photos of Pope John Paul II, stations of the cross, warnings ("Silence"; "Straight is the Way and Narrow is the Gate," nailed above an actual narrow wooden gate; "No Dogs or Horses") and all sorts of spiritual sayings as in the photo.

The path to the spring was once well-kept by Brother Matthew, a hermit from the nearby Franciscan community; it was he who painted, decorated, pruned, rebuilt, restored. Around age 70 when we met, he invited me to his hermitage one day. Brother Matthew had been to art school sometime in the 1940s, and the hermitage was full to the ceiling with canvases. All sorts of subjects, not just religious. Used to see him around, in his brown robe, occasionally in town; he was a presence and a character. He is gone now about four or five years, and the path to the spring -- flooded, vandalized, broken-down with time -- is about ruined, with no one to keep it. Here's a photo of something of what's left. There's been ads in the local paper looking to collect Brother Matthew's paintings. I wonder where they are now.

Times of the Signs, Part 1: Allenton, Mo.

Prayer in Reverse

I practice prayer in reverse: God speaks to me. I have to go somewhere very quiet and ask if he has anything to tell me. I started this late in life and don’t do it often.

I sit still and listen. Sometimes there’s no message. Over the past 12 years I have received three messages:

“Your heart is full of hatred.” (At the time I was locked in a bitter, unspoken battle with two others. The statement was so unexpected and piercing that I burst into tears. Then I had some realizations and got the poison out of my life.)

“The mistakes are okay.” (That message was about four years ago.)

“Pleasure.” (This was last year. I had asked, “What is your will for me?” God continued, not in words, but in his other language, which circulates through the body like blood: “Look around you. Look up at the sun and trees. It’s all beautiful and green. I didn’t make all this for you people to cry and suffer in. I made it for your pleasure.”