A Halloween Post, 2026

As I share for this year’s Halloween, I cannot do better than share this true story from my cousin Eve Williams of Manor, Texas.

I have been shepherding parishioners while she has been shepherding Myotonic goats (what I always called Tennessee fainting goats.)

May you always find the dear ones you have lost.

Dear Reader (writes Eve)

This is an ancient Halloween Tale. Some of this story may be true. Some of this story tells you how truly special goats are. But most of all, this story is to wish you and your loved ones a Happy Halloween.

In a Texas pasture, a long time ago there lived Missy, the Herd Queen. Missy had her hands (or more accurately, hooves) full. She had given birth to a rambunctious buckling and had an owner, who was new to being a myotonic breeder. Yes, I will admit upfront that it was I. But the Herd Queen was wise and she knew that it was just a matter of time with good instruction to teach her new baby and employee how to behave. Yes, that was the way of it. In the Herd Queen’s eyes, I was responsible for food, water and keeping everything tidy. I was, at best, her and the herd’s servant.

It was the last day of October when Missy led her sisters, cousins, aunts and other members of her family into the forest. She listened to the birds and sniffed the air. It was time to browse. The body guards, big, white Great Pyrs, accompanied the herd as Missy led them deeper and deeper into the woods. When little babies tired, they were put down to sleep with warnings not to move or make a sound until they heard mother’s call.

In late afternoon, Missy noticed that the wind had changed and the birds were silent. Worried of an approaching storm, she decided to return to the barnyard. Calls went out to everyone, “Come, follow, hurry”.

When the herd arrived at the barn, Missy checked to see if all was well. She called for her buckling, but he didn’t come. She called again and then, again. Missy ran down the path and anxiously bellowed, “BAAAAAAAHHHH!”. Silence. She quietly stood looking out into the gloom. It was then that she made her decision. She chose to do the unthinkable, leave the herd and go out alone to find her missing child.

But she wasn’t totally alone. Earlier, I noticed the approaching storm and had come to assist. I stepped up. Next to me was Belle, a Great Pyr that took care of all babies. She, too, decided to help. We were a fellowship, a goat, a dog and a human. Our rescue mission seemed hopeless. Black clouds rolled in, the sky turned green, trees shook from the wind, bushes grabbed at clothes and fur and thunder drowned out mother’s cries. However, true to heart, all of us remained on the path, determined to locate the little buckling. We trudged deeper and deeper into the woods.

It was when everything seemed bleak that Missy stopped. In front of us, a white, ghostly apparition loomed out of the woods. Belle, the Great Pyr who had been trailing behind came forward. For a minute, we stood still. It was Missy, the wise old Herd Queen that knew that it was safe. It was Sycamore, a friend. Hadn’t she quietly munched leaves under its canopy listening to its tales when she was a doeling? Missy’s mother had told her that Sycamore was a protector, a tree that tells the weather and turns its green leaves upside down displaying its white undersides during approaching storms. Missy had used this knowledge when she had placed her buckling down for his nap. There, at its base, was her buckling curled up in sleep. The tree had kept silent vigil and protected the tiny buckling still waiting to hear its mother’s call. I scooped the baby up and held him in my arms. We turned towards the barn and began our journey home light in heart and thankful. Since then, I have thought about that day when we headed out into the woods. It held important lessons for this humble goat servant. First, take heart and do not be afraid for Nature has no quarrel with humans. Be more like Missy and willing to make difficult choices that go against our boundaries because the rewards can be great. Finally, listen to your elders whether they are humans or goats, or dogs or trees. For everyone and everything are special. Each willing to share their knowledge if you are willing to learn. Happy Halloween to my fellow goat servants.

Prayer for the Train Crash in Spain

God of all travelers, we pray in sorrow
for the loss of sixty-four people
in the train wreck outside of Toledo.
As you gather them into your love,
hold tenderly all who grieve,
those on the train with them
and those who will receive the news.

We pray for those with injuries,
and those caring for them in hospital
or in their homes,
for unharmed travelers whose minds
will always carry the fear and shock,
and those who were working
on the trains, especially engineers,
and those part of the carrier companies,
still grieving the losses of January.

We pray for those fearful
who will take a train or work on one
later this month or in the future
both in Spain and beyond.

Help us to feel that you are with us
in every journey we take. amen

My Mother Asks You to Vote

She’s a ghost, of course, so she sees
Israel this Tuesday, the US next week,

She was born in Crookston, Minnesota,
before the Armistice,
before women’s suffrage.
She remembered the Charleston
and too may wars,
the Great Depression, New Deal,
assassination of JFK, stealing of elections.

She went in a wheelchair that last time
eyesight gone, hands shaking, head high,
ninety-three years old,

At the polls the ballot was read to her,
in a booth, line by line,
and she responded
voice tremulous but clear so
the circles of her choices were marked.

She died in an October
before a midterm election,
and dictated to me what she wanted
for her obituary.
One of the things was a request
that, instead of flowers, donations or cards,
those who would miss her
would honor her memory by voting
in the weeks to come.

I was glad she never knew the newspaper
charged us three hundred dollars
for a “political message” … really, guys?

I did promise her she’d make a difference
in her family and others,
in a few weeks and many years
from those dying days
by reminding people to cast a ballot.

I was thinking about you.

Taking down the power tower

They are taking down the tower,
piece by piece
that carries the power lines,
and working carefully for weeks.

The lines run next door to my home
on the border between Maine towns,
Kittery and Eliot,
and we watch them carefully
doing this hard work,
without even one blackout.

I hope the people of my country
can learn from these workers
how to take down our nation’s
great power tower
piece by piece, vote by vote.

For we are all next door
to a structure badly broken,
and this is our job

to secure the power needed by all,
and keep our light from going out.

The importance of holding on … or ‘consider the walker’ parable

I’m on that life-interfering
knee-replacement journey
and still at home for physical therapy
before the month of outpatient visits begin,
and the physical therapist, sees me
let go of the walker
to grab my phone and silence it,

and she says this …
“You’re strong enough to walk, you know.
Don’t worry — you won’t fall now,
but, even so, don’t let go the walker,
because your mind will teach
such a fear of wobbling,
that you will continue stiff legged,
knee-lock walking,
using stiff-strength to get you there.

It’s the walker that helps you learn
bent-knee walking,
the stronger, life-long gait,
while your wounded knee heals.”

How true it is that letting go
the embarrassing need for a ‘walker’
tempts me to be satisfied
with clumping-through life,
rather than holding on to help offered
on the way to
my own beautiful stride,

Of course, a walker is often constructed
of much more than metal, wheels,
and a bag to carry things –
(really important ones … but probably not)

and comes with many different names –
counselor, AA meeting, pastor, book, drop-in center,
psychiatrist, mentor, teacher, friends,

to help us trust walking forward
letting the stiff leg go, bending the knee.

(with thanks to Taylor)

Photo by Rollz International on Pexels.com

A shared post from Mark Saline

Mark’s reflection on his friend’s action and hope that it is the model for so many others!

WHEN MEN CRADLE A man of power and prestige began a quiet revolution by dropping pulpit and preaching to cradle a baby… Then I.C.E. dropped masks to cradle immigrants… Soldiers dropped guns to cradle enemies… Politicians dropped lies to cradle truth… The rich dropped wealth to cradle the poor… Racists dropped hate to cradle neighbors… The strong dropped power to cradle the weak… The tribe dropped fear to cradle strangers…The erudite dropped ideas to cradle flesh… Developers dropped expansion to cradle enviroment… Capitalists dropped profit to cradle creatures… Tech Bros dropped A.I. to cradle Emotional Inteligence… Religion dropped other worlds to cradle this world… The world healed one man at a time until all men dropped everything and cradled babies, and women lifted everything and cradled it as a child… The cradle of civilization forms when men, rather than take up arms against different others, takes them into their arms… ‘He’s got the whole wide world in his hands.’

(Rev. Kevin Bates, dad & friend)

Prayer for Pope Leo Recovering from Surgery

Gentle Healer, we pray your easing, tender presence
with the man known to all the world as Pope Leo,
to family and friends as Robert Francis,
and to you as Beloved Child.

Ease his pain and anxiety,
guide medical and personal staff
to be observant and gentle and pushy,
wrap his lungs in healing.

Bless this time for him
to let go great responsibilities
so that his body mends,
to ask for more time as needed,
expecting that request to be treated
as wisdom, not an alarm-bell,
and help him make an offering to you
of the anxiety the word “cancer”
brings to everyone,
once and then several more times,
as needed.

Surround him with the wings of angels,
the guidance of saints,
and caregivers who insist on his rest,
and shut the door on a nosy world.
amen

Gratitude from the United States on Canadian Thanksgiving

God, we are grateful to our neighbors,
for maple syrup … that is equally delicious as ours
for poutine which helps us try new things,
but mostly for still being kind and welcoming
when we visit as tourists
in spite of our leadership behaving
with a complete absence of neighborliness.

We are humorously grateful to Canada
for helping us feel better
about our own winter weather.

We are deeply grateful to Canada
for the welcoming of immigrants
rather than hunting them,
for efforts to be a bilingual country,
and repent the terrible history
of the treatment of indigenous people,
when our leadership lets go
of all of these initiatives.

We are grateful for Gander,
we are always grateful for Gander.

Amen

Who is My Neighbor?

It must be either a joke or a threat
when the President of the United States
calls out two cities for destruction …

and there’s so much to love in San Diego,
two hundred sixty-six days of sunshine,
trolleys and the Embarcadero,
Zoo and Natural History Museum,
my favorite making sandcastles
with kids at Coranado Beach
then eating California Burritos
with French fries on the inside,

and so much sweetness in Los Angeles
Dodgers games and the Observatory,
silly tourist-gawking
at the sidewalk of the stars,
and the Great Wall Mural’s art,
and most of all the Cathedral,
Our Lady of the Angels
where the Tilma of St. Juan Diego
always makes me believe again
that there are miracles.

There are so many children
and teenagers, wise and foolish adults,
elders with stories to tell,
in every city, not to speak of
homes and schools and, well, traffic jams,
dreams and hopes, and the jostling
of the heritage of many places.

The words are never funny;
the political threats are always a crime.

The second knee replacement (Improv on Philippians 2)

It’s been a while since the right limb
could bend at the name of Jesus,
or anyone else –
meet the challenge to clamber
over rocks on a hillside
hike with teenagers,
come level with the sharp cry
of a small child’s skinned knee
or discovery of an ant,

satisfy the longing to gather
a handful of sand at the beach
and let it run through my fingers,
remembering someone
whose life just slid like grains
into the sweet saltiness of the ocean.

I remember the first replacement
and what a novice I was at pain,
a million times resisting
the common sense of asking for help.

But what kind of mind does Paul suggest
I am supposed to bring to this?
Perhaps one that slips into arthroplasty
as part of a pilgrimage to confessing
the truest Name of all –

and then bends willingly … simply
to a hill walk,
a child’s call of fear and joy,
the gathering of handfuls of love for people,
both those I know well
and those I may never meet,

mixed with many
necessarily unexpected holy kneelings.

The Road to the Hill Along the River, Aotearoa