What is it with all these signs I see in the “home decorating” department of my favorite store?  

I guess one could get confused upon returning and need a little direction .

I always try to make it clear that, although I am not a person of faith, I am a devout practitioner of my religious heritage.  Everyday, my own understanding of what that means expands and clarifies.

This morning, I will be attending the services at my own parish church, a large Episcopalian congregation with lots of music, followed by a pot-luck meal.

For the past month, I have been attending services at the Methodist Church while visiting my family in a small West Texas town.  Sometimes there were eight of us in attendance; sometimes twenty.  One week, the minister was away with the youth group on a mission trip.  On that morning, the able lay leader did an admirable job.

Last Sunday, the pastor was back in the pulpit.  Actually, he holds forth from the center aisle.

This wasn’t the crux of his sermon, but by this little story, I was deeply impressed.

It went something like this:

Little children were asked to present symbols of their faith.  Respectively, such items as a menorah, a rosary, and a bible were held up.  I probably would have held up a hymnal.

Then a little Methodist boy held up his mother’s casserole.

Yes!  Absolutely!  For me this is not a joke. This is sacred.  It represents the most valid aspect of religious practice: Community.  Hospitality.  Fellowship.  Sharing a meal.  Delivering food to a shut-in.  Taking cans to a food bank.

I may not be a person of faith in any traditional way, but I will continue to practice my lack thereof  in my church community all the days of my life.  I have been preceded by a cloud of witnesses.

Here endeth the lesson.

I’ve recently returned from a visit to the Texas town where I went to high school. It is not nearly as far west as Oregon, but, in many ways, it still embodies the spirit of the old west.

I am a seasoned traveller and always follow the admonition to take a picture of my luggage before checking it.

Someone we know and love is a photo bomb expert.

I went especially to spend time with Mother.

What wonderful visits we had over lunch and watching Jeopardy!

And, she’s a hoot!  When the optometrist asked her to read the chart on the far wall , she read, “Please silence all cell phones.”

And three adorable dogs (That would be my bed.)

so Joannie could get away for a few weeks of summer fun.

Started most days in Joannie’s courtyard with dogs, hummingbirds, mocking bird music, coffee, and the SJ online edition, during which, Gracie assumed her favorite position on guard at the front gate.

Had a lovely time in the “Home of the World’s first Rodeo,” now a born-again boom town in the petroleum industry.

In that regard, I got to meet an adorable family who moved there so their dad/husband, a welder, could capitalize on the opportunity.

I went for a walk most very-early mornings while the temps were still below 100 degrees.  During one, I noticed this sign on my old high school:

I believe about the only prohibition in the early 60’s was chewing gum.  And the only surveillance was the watchful eyes of the faculty.

Plastic bags are soon to be banned.  This is a good thing in this community. I picked up 23, by actual count, on a walk through the cemetery across from the high school.

Went to church here every Sunday:  The Methodist

I love the Common Lectionary.  It means that we share the same lessons on Sunday morning.  Usually gives us a good topic for Sunday-afternoon conversations, if only to say, “Why on earth did Paul write that?  Jesus never said anything like that!”

Too soon, it was time to leave.  Joannie said I must be very happy to be going home, since it is always good to go home. I told her my feelings about leaving were very complex.  I will miss many things — family, friends, Mexican food.

I laughed too loudly when I spotted this gift-shop item in the airport as I waited for my flight to Denver:

No, dear.  Not yet.  Bless your heart.

I love a window seat.  Flew above the Columbia River Gorge with views of Rainier, Adams, and St. Helens.

It is always good to come home.  But my feelings are complex.

This morning in the SJ, I read:
“President Barack Obama on Monday commuted the sentences of 46 federal convicts, most of whom were serving sentences for nonviolent drug offenses.

The commutations bring Obama’s total to 90, plus 64 pardons.

On his radio show Monday, Rush Limbaugh, as is his wont, was quick to attack the president’s action. For Limbaugh, this is a perfect opportunity for Republicans to take the offensive and return to an election-winning “law and order” strategy.

Like other Republican partisans still nostalgic for an idealized Ronald Reagan, Limbaugh is living in the past. For the record, Reagan issued 406 pardons and commutations as president.”

Dear old President Reagan, who has somehow morphed into the patron saint of the neo-GOP.  He was a handsome cowboy who hardly ever embarrassed us in public during the first six years of his tenure. (I do have some questions I would like to put to him regarding deregulation.)

Rush seems not to have noticed that during Reagan’s last two years in office, he was already showing tragic symptoms of the horrible disease that ultimately killed him.  By then, President Reagan was turning to his wife (whom he always creepily called “Mommie”) for advice. And she was going to her astrologer for advice.

But I digress.

I’m not sure what we should do with the bad boys.  Costs a fortune to keep them.  A king’s ransom if we keep them on death row.

But the not-really-very-bad boys who do get out eventually often come out really-bad-boys.