Rotting Pepper

I'm thinking http://www.RottingPepper.com should be my blog's new permanent site. Any thoughts?

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Homecoming

This was written a few years ago ... Homecoming. Sunday, Chunky Baptist Church will celebrate its homecoming. My brother is the guest speaker. Lunch will follow. For a lot of us, the word "homecoming" has certain connotations -- food, fellowship, honoring a person or group, celebration, memories, friends and family. Whether associated with church, sports or anything else, little changes. But for those of us who don't live, worship or attend that "home" anymore, it's not a coming, it's a going. We're home-going. We plan, anticipate and travel in order tk be a part of the event. We're going back home. So the emphasis of the word lies really with those who are inviting. For them it is a homecoming because others will come home to where they are waiting ... to feast, fellowship, remember and catch up. I love going home. I love visiting with my family and friends and seeing how people have grown physically and otherwise. But I think what I l...
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Pearls (and Chests of Treasure)

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One day, many years ago, while digging in a field where I had paused to rest,                                                                     I came across a treasure chest.                                      while walking on a beach watching the eddies swirl,                                                                   I came across a beautiful pearl. I was so excited, and had an incredible desire to have that treasure at any price.              So I bought the field from the owner - and the reward for me was nic...
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Today's Grace, March 21, 2016

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Hands, wrists, arms, feet, ankles - 8 digging probes before I lost count, though feet and ankles were spared the needles. Three nurses at once, each on a different limb, tourniquets on each, tapping, probing, sticking, wiping, shaving, twisting, apologizing. They were attempting to start an IV for my scheduled GI scope. Once, with a 12 penny nail being inserted into my right wrist just below the thumb, a swarm of angry bees attacked the back of my left hand. I could never survive torture. I'm not sure a tattoo is even a possibility. Then, with my hand shaking and blurry vision, I signed something similar to my name on two forms, giving the surgeon permission to attempt to insert a central line in my jugular. After 20-plus painful and frightening minutes, the surgeon patted my leg and said, "Sorry, chief". Nothing else to try. No procedure today. Other than this, of course. I now think I know what it's like to be simultaneously choked and stabbed in the throat r...
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