which is a generous description, as it's not more than a stoop. We are the wild and woolly yard - the neighbors make us look bad with their aggressive mowing schedule. But, I'm the one who sees critters in the early mornings and that makes it worth it. The Pollening is mostly over. We're in the 80s this week and it'll be 90 by May Day, I predict. Not much in dandelions this year and I have yet to see the rabbit. But the redbirds - my daddy and his new wife, who are much better suited - are out and about. The moss in the windows survived the winter. No earth-shattering revelations here today. Just a green world and sunshine and glad to be here with y'all.

You ever notice how every household has its own theology, but none more sacred than Q‑tip etiquette.I grew up thinking I was a decent human being — kind, polite, paid my taxes, returned my shopping cart — only to discover, in adulthood, that I have apparently been using Q‑tips like a feral raccoon. Nobody tells you the rules. They just wait until you’re married, or visiting someone’s house, or staying in a guest bathroom, and suddenly you’re confronted with a jar of Q‑tips arranged like they’re auditioning for the Rockettes. And you think, “Oh no. I’m about to embarrass my entire lineage.” Bathrooms are where we pretend we’re better people than we are. We put out the fancy towels nobody’s allowed to touch. We light a candle that smells like “Crisp Alpine Morning,” even though we live in Indiana and the closest thing to an alpine morning is when the Kroger freezer section malfunctions. But the Q‑tip jar — that’s the real test.Because the moment you reach in, you realize: There is a correct number of Q‑tips you’re supposed to take, and you don’t know what that number is. Take one? You look like you’re rationing cotton in the Great Depression. Take two? You look like you’re about to perform a delicate surgical procedure on a hummingbird. Take three? Now you’re just showing off. Every box of Q‑tips has that warning: “Do not insert into ear canal.”Which is adorable, because that is the ONLY reason any of us buy them. That’s like selling donuts with a label that says, “Do not enjoy emotionally.” Or selling a recliner that says, “Do not fall asleep during the third quarter.” We all know the truth: The ear canal is the forbidden fruit.The Garden of Eden was not about apples — it was about a man, a woman, and a cotton swab, and God saying, “Don’t put that in there,” and Adam saying, “But it feels so good.” Everybody has their own Q‑tip technique, and nobody teaches it. It’s like a martial art passed down through awkward observation. There’s the Gentle Painter, who treats the ear like a fragile antique vase.There’s the Coal Miner, who goes in like he’s trying to strike oil.There’s the Windshield Wiper, who rotates like he’s buffing a classic car.And then there’s the Philosopher, who pauses mid‑swab to reflect on life choices.

I was reading in the book of Exodus last week and I had one of those moments. You know, where you go, wait… what? It was a detail that surprised me to the point that I just sat for a little bit with my mouth hanging open. And now, I can’t get it out of my head. It’s like an ear worm. You know what an ear worm is right? It’s when a song or phrase gets stuck in your head and won’t let go. Exodus 31:1–5 Now the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “See, I have called by name Bezalel, the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. And I have filled him with the Spirit of God in wisdom, in understanding, in knowledge, and in all kinds of craftsmanship, to create artistic designs for work in gold, in silver, and in bronze, and in the cutting of stones for settings, and in the carving of wood, so that he may work in all kinds of craftsmanship. I have read through the Bible a few times and I know I have read this part, but why did I never see this little detail? As it turns out, this is the first instance that mentions God filling anyone with his Spirit. It wasn’t a king, a prophet, or even a warrior. It was a craftsman, and his name was Bezalel. So, my first question was, “For what? Why was he the first one to be filled with God’s Spirit? It wasn’t to preach, lead an army, or call down fire.He got filled to make things. The story says he was given wisdom, understanding, and skill. Hands‑on know‑how for shaping wood, cutting stone, hammering gold, and sewing curtains straight enough that the corners didn’t fight him. The place he was building (the tabernacle) was where heaven and earth were going to meet. (Exodus 37–38) That sticks with me. Based on what we know about the day of Pentecost in the New Testament, I think the expectation is that spiritual power is supposed to look like thunder, lightning, or at the very least, tongues of fire. But the first Spirit‑filled moment in scripture happens in a workshop. Sawdust in the air. Purple thread on the table. A lamp burning low while somebody tries to get the angles just right.

When the world feels loud enough to rattle the porch boards, I step outside with my coffee and let the quiet do the talking first. Out here, the sky doesn’t care who’s shouting on the news. The sparrows aren’t taking sides. And the old Japanese Maple in the yard—well, she’s seen more American history than any of us, and she’s still standing… even if she leans a little. Lately, folks have been asking me what I think about these “No Kings” protests. Asking me if I think the protest is necessary, or if I think we’re drifting toward something dangerous, or even if the country is coming apart at the seams. And I get it. When the headlines read like a fever dream and the neighbors are whispering words like “authoritarian” and “overreach,” it’s natural to wonder whether we’ve wandered off the map. Mostly, I shrug my shoulders. And here’s why. I don’t watch broadcast news. I don’t listen to it on the radio and if someone mentions ‘current events,’ I defer to others around me because I cannot and will not form an opinion based on news items that have been cherry-picked and given out in little sound bites that usually only tell half-truths. So, as is my custom, I decided to follow the rabbit down the hole. America has been off the map before. More than once. And every time, ordinary people—porch‑sitting, hymn‑singing, casserole‑carrying people—have had to decide what kind of country they wanted to hand to their children. So let me tell you what I see from my front porch. I see echoes of three old American moments: the 1850s, the 1930s, and the 1960s, and I am struck by the similarities. Not carbon copies, but the same chord pattern played in a different key. From the 1850s, We’ve Borrowed the Tension The 1850s weren’t about policy. They were about the soul. Back then, Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, a law that didn’t just regulate slavery — it reached into free states and demanded that ordinary citizens help capture escaped enslaved people. You can read the text yourself in the U.S. Statutes at Large, but the heart of it is simple: it forced Americans to decide whether they believed a human being could be owned. Frederick Douglass answered that question with fire in his 1852 speech, “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?” He didn’t mince words. He called the law “cruel,” “infamous,” and “a shameless hypocrisy.” That wasn’t a policy disagreement. That was a moral indictment.

Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A snack? A story? A joke? Have a seat — any place is fine. Take a breath. Let the day ease up a little. I keep this porch for steady light, honest stories, and a bit of rest for whoever needs it. I’m not here to fix anything or anybody. I’m here to sit with you, to listen, to laugh when it sneaks up on us, and to let hope rise slow and warm between us. I tend to move at the speed of real life. Some days that’s quick, most days it’s not. However you arrived — tired, curious, carrying something old or something new — I’m glad you’re here. When you’re ready, and there’s no hurry, tell me what brought you to the porch today.