Author: anneethompson

Meg’s Diary: Introducing a Cat

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11/1/2026

Mandy has moved into the house. I have some cats, which originally came from a farm and they have always lived outside. When I have needed to bring them inside (because one is injured) they have been very unhappy, constantly seeking ways to escape. They live in the workshop, and I feed them, take them to the vet for vaccines—just as if they were pets in my home, but they live outside. They do not like Meg, because she chases them. I have tried to stop this, but other than using one of those zappy collars (which seem cruel to me) I can’t think how to train her not to chase them. Luckily they are much faster than her, and can climb trees, so she has never managed to bounce one.

However, several months ago, Mandy left home. I did not see her throughout the whole summer, and I assumed she had either been run over, or had moved home. But then, just before Christmas when the weather turned very cold, I began to see her, in the fields near the house. She wouldn’t come near enough for me to catch her, but she has very distinctive markings, so I was sure it was her. Then one morning, a woman knocked on the door, saying she had found a cat wandering in the lane and planned to take it to the vet (not sure why, as it could have been a feral cat—there are several on the farm)—unless it was mine? It was Mandy. I managed to catch her, and brought her inside.

Now, just before a busy Christmas is not the best time to sort out an animal who wants to live rough. Therefore, after a quick check-over by the vet, I gave her a heated bed and food and water, and left her in the garage. This was fine over Christmas, but she could not live there for ever. I suspect she moved out because she doesn’t like Meg. But it’s not safe for her to live rough, especially in the winter. I am now trying to persuade her to live inside. If I cannot train Meg to not bounce her, and I can’t persuade the cat to be happy inside, then I will have to rehome her. (The cat, not Meg. Although sometimes it’s tempting.) I shall give it my best attempt.

Currently, the cat has her food, water and litter tray in a dog crate, next to the one where Meg sleeps. Whenever Meg is outside, or in the rest of the house with me, the cat is free to wander the kitchen. When Meg is in the kitchen, the cat is shut into her crate. At first there was a lot of hissing, but things have started to settle down.

I had the cat from birth, and she had lots of interaction with Kia, my previous (wonderful) GSD, so she is not scared of dogs per se, just wary of bouncy Meg. Therefore, now she realises Meg cannot reach her in the crate, she simply ignores Meg.

In contrast, Meg is fascinated by the cat. She now chooses to lie, right next to the cat’s crate, poking her nose against the bars. Sometimes the cat slaps her, sometimes they sniff noses. Whenever the cat eats, Meg goes to her own bowl and eats her food. The only times she barks at the cat is if she sees us stroking the cat, so now I am careful not to do that. I am trying to encourage Meg to see the cat as hers, something she needs to protect. I tell her to lie down when she gets bouncy, and I stroke Meg until she is calm.

My plan is to gradually decrease the barriers between them, keeping Meg busy with something so the cat becomes ‘background,’ something normal. Not something exciting to be chased. I don’t think this will transpose to outside, when I am pretty sure Meg will continue to chase anything that moves, but I am hopeful this will be different inside. I will next start with a psychological barrier (the vacuum cleaner—Meg will never step over it, she hates it). Not sure how this will go.


17/1/2026

The cat/Meg combo continues to improve. I am aware that a single mistake, whereby Meg decides to chase the cat, will end the possibility of them both living freely in the house together. But so far, we are making tiny steps in the right direction. They continue to have crates next to each other, and happily sleep/eat with only the bars between them. They seem very relaxed together, although there is usually still a barrier between them.

This week I have allowed them limited time in the same space—always when Meg has been given a ‘mission’ first. This means her focus is on whatever ‘job’ I have given her, and so although she knows the cat is under the table, or on the chair, she ignores her. For example, I will tell Meg we are going in the garden, or to get in the car. Then I open her door, and Meg goes straight to the car/garden, ignoring the cat. So far, so good.

I have also, while I have been in the kitchen, used the vacuum cleaner to divide them. The cat was asleep on the chair, I put the vacuum cleaner on the floor next to her, and released Meg. Meg was perturbed, and kept an eye on the cat, but did not pass the scary cleaner. Eventually she relaxed, and lay down. This gives me hope that I will manage to make the cat ‘boring,’ something to be ignored.

The cat takes no notice of anything. She was born in the garage, and I had read that anything a cat encounters in the first 10 days it will accept, but after that it will never change (which is why a feral cat is always a feral cat, however much it is nurtured in later life). I therefore made sure my kittens encountered as much life as possible in those first 10 days—I vacuumed the garage, Kia my GSD went in regularly and licked them (oh, for a lovely calm GSD again…) they had the radio playing, etc. This means the cat is now very chilled. As long as I can keep her physically safe from Meg, and not allow chasing or bouncing, we should be fine. One thing I learnt is that Meg is jealous. We made the mistake of stroking the cat, and Meg in her crate was very angry and started to bark. I can stroke the cat, but I need to engage Meg first, tell her that I am going to stroke her cat—somehow let her be involved. I don’t know why this makes a difference, but if I talk to Meg throughout the interaction, she seems happy with my stroking or carrying the cat. I try to limit this to a few minutes, and then I go back to Meg and praise her. They cannot become rivals, that would be bad.

April 2026

Unfortunately, the cat now lives outside. Meg and Mandy did cohabit relatively peacefully together, and although they were never alone when unsupervised, they did seem to tolerate each other. However, Mandy decided that my plant pots made better places to poop than her dirt tray. I cannot cope with poop in the house (I was a terrible mother when potty-training my children.) Definitely cannot cope with a dirty cat in the house. We therefore made a safe place in a shed, with a dog-free exit route. Mandy seems happy, and has not returned to her homeless state.

Shame it didn’t work. But that is often how things are with animals. Hope your own plans go well this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

My wonderful Kia with a kitten.
Not Meg…

Elementary students taking a science test at desks with teacher monitoring

In the Classroom

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I loved teaching. I enjoyed being with children. Perhaps because they were mostly uncomplicated, and very honest, and you could be uncomplicated and honest in return. If they felt cross, they didn’t try to hide it. If they liked or disliked something, it was obvious, there was no pretending. I like that.

But, occasionally, there was a child who was different. A child who was very manipulative, not a team player, completely unmoved by their impact on the other children, very determined to get their own way. As a teacher, you learnt very quickly to spot these children, and to keep an eye on them. They were not to be trusted. ‘What you see is not what you got.’

Elementary students taking a science test at desks with teacher monitoring
Students attentively taking a test in a classroom setting

These children did not believe they were part of the class, the rules did not apply to them. They were sneaky, and tried to avoid being caught misbehaving–passing the blame onto someone else if they could. They would also create distractions. Some children were unsophisticated, if they wanted to divert attention from something they didn’t want you to see (like that they hadn’t learnt the words for the spelling test and therefore had answered incorrectly) they would just yell. Or throw something. Or hurt another child. Anything to divert attention from what they hoped you wouldn’t see–because these children do not like to ‘fail’.

But some of them were more sophisticated, they would create a phantasy, perhaps get another child involved. Perhaps they would ‘fall over’ when walking to the playground–and it would be because ‘Julie pushed,’ not their fault. And then they would be very brave, very forgiving of Julie. As a teacher, you learnt to notice things. The ‘fall’ would look slightly staged. They would ‘recover’ a little too quickly. They might respond in a pre-prepared way: ‘If I hadn’t been told to walk to the playground, and you had let me play in the classroom, this would not have happened.’ There would be something a little ‘off’ about the situation and their reaction. As the teacher, you would try to be aware of what they might be trying to avoid, the reason for the theatrics. As a teacher you would try to not be fooled by the performance. You might ignore the fall (which would anger them) and instead help them with learning spellings. You would try to notice what was actually happening.

Young girl sitting on playground floor crying with injured knee

But I am describing a situation in the classroom. What is more worrying is when I meet or see these people as adults, perhaps as leaders. When they still don’t think the rules apply to them. When they still try to avoid the consequences of their actions by creating a diversion. One which is convincing, yet there is something a little ‘off’ about the situation. Something which makes you wonder what the truth is. I have learnt to listen to my feelings, if something feels ‘off’ it probably is.

In the classroom, these children can be helped–although I am no expert here, and some need specialist help. But they can learn to control their selfishness, they can learn that there are consequences for breaking rules, they can learn not to hurt other people. When they reach adulthood, I’m not so sure… But I’m a teacher, I can only really talk about in the classroom.

I hope your interactions this week are with people who know how to behave. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Jewish scribe in traditional attire writing Hebrew text on a Torah scroll at a wooden table with candles

What is the Biblical Canon?

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What is Scripture?

I have read two books recently which challenge my view about Scripture. Both are readable, and not full of academic vocabulary, so I recommend them. The first is by James Barr, Holy Scripture: Canon, Authority, Criticism. He writes a few things that challenge me. One observation he makes, which is very obvious when you think about it, is that the biblical characters had no ‘Bible.’ At least, not in the way that we think about it. For characters like Abraham, he had his relationship with his God, and there were certain traditions he would have inherited from the surrounding cultures (like sacrifice) but he had no written holy texts, no Scripture. Later characters, like the disciples of Jesus, or Paul—the people who wrote much of my Bible, had nothing similar themselves. They did have sacred texts, but these would be scrolls, kept in synagogues, and not every synagogue would have every text. Therefore, although I glibly assumed they had ‘the Old Testament’ they would have had some of ‘my’ Old Testament, and some texts which have since been lost. It was pretty inconsistent.

The thing the more recent ancient people had was the Torah—the 5 texts (the Pentateuch) which is ascribed to Moses. This was the Law, the ‘Word of God,’ the rules they were to follow, the texts which affected how they lived. They also had the texts of various prophets, and the Psalms—but these were probably not seen as being as important as the Torah. The other texts were ‘Scripture’ because they were viewed as sacred texts, but they were not ‘Canon’ as in ‘these texts are from God, and no others.’ The Canon (an exclusive set of texts which were considered ‘from God’ which should not be added to) came much later.

The ’Canon’ is something my next book discusses. John Barton, A History of the Bible, explains how the sacred texts were put together, and how they were treated. The thing I found extremely challenging is this: The writers of the New Testament were not trying to add to Scripture. They already had the Torah and other (various) texts which they held as sacred—they did not need more sacred texts. What they had, which differed from the Jews, was the new understanding that Jesus gave. Jesus explained the Law in a new way, he explained that concentrating on the ‘letter of the Law,’ like the correct way to wash your hands, was missing the point. The Law was about being right before God, about right actions following from right intentions. They still had the Law, but they understood it in a new way. The very last thing they intended to do was write a new Law, a new Scripture. The teaching of Jesus was what made them enthusiastic, and they spoke about it, and lived it, and wrote about it—but there was no hint that this new writing would become like the Law. They were moving away from rigid adherence to a written text, towards a new living based on the intention behind the text.

Jewish scribe in traditional attire writing Hebrew text on a Torah scroll at a wooden table with candles

This is what I find challenging. I grew up in an evangelical church that taught me that everything should be based on biblical texts. By this, I mean ‘my Bible text.’ The Bible text which included other books (the books accepted as Scripture by other Christians) was ‘wrong.’ And everything in ‘my’ Bible text should be followed closely. Like the Jews with their Torah. But was this missing the point of Jesus? Was this making ‘My Bible’ equal to God? It was certainly using the text in a way far removed from how the writers of the text used it—they didn’t strive to find the infallible text to replace the Torah. They did not refer to their own writing as ‘The Word of God.’ They held the text very lightly—it was Jesus that excited them, not what was written on scrolls or in letters. When they discussed ‘Scripture’ they meant the Torah, some texts by prophets, the Psalms—not an ‘infallible closed canon’ and certainly not one that included any of the post-Jesus texts. (That’s not to say they didn’t give authority to the letters of Paul, for example, but they did not view them as equal to the Torah, and nothing was as important as the teaching of Jesus. Not the ‘exact words of Jesus’ because they remembered different things, but the essence of what Jesus showed them.)

Now, I have always considered that my ‘religion,’ my doctrine, was Bible-based. By this I mean based on ‘my’ Protestant Bible. However, James Barr’s book queries this. He notes that doctrine does not really follow the biblical texts, but rather we translate the biblical texts according to our doctrine. For example, I as a good Protestant do not believe we should pray for the dead. Therefore, I interpret texts like 1 Corinthians 15:29 (about being baptised for the dead) to mean something different. I also don’t believe in reincarnation, therefore I translate Matthew 17:12-13 (about John being Elijah) accordingly. There are several examples like this—where I use my understanding of God, and what I believe, to interpret texts accordingly, even though at face value they appear to say the opposite.

So what do we do with this new way of looking at things? To be honest, I’m not sure, but I find it strangely liberating. When I read the New Testament texts as written by people who were excited to share their understanding of what Jesus taught, not as a new Law to be followed, I catch the excitement. I want to think about what the meaning of the narrative is about, not concentrate on every (translated) word, the nuance of every sentence. It doesn’t mean God doesn’t speak through the text, it means it was not meant to be Law. That deserves some thought.

Thanks for reading.~Take care.
Love, Anne x

PS. As every with academic blogs, I want to add the observation that I don’t feel any of this study changes my understanding of God. I know who I believe in. I’m just exploring the best way to decide on my religion. I don’t think any of this makes me a better person—that happens by following God. It’s just very interesting!

Busy Hatching Goose Eggs . . .

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I am very happy as I write this—and slightly too busy. You know the feeling? Just a few too many plates to keep spinning… But I can’t complain. The sun is shining, the trees are in blossom, the natural world is busy. The main reason for my happiness today is the incubator eggs are hatching, and this is one of the very best things in life (I think—some of my friends would prefer a designer handbag!)

The eggs started to hatch yesterday. They lie in the incubator, looking dead—exactly like the eggs in your fridge, and then one starts to cheep, or a crack appears, and you realise there is something alive inside, trying to emerge. It can take several days for an egg to hatch, which requires lots of patience (not something I am blessed with). I know from bitter experience that interfering usually ends badly. Although there is a point, after a couple of days, when a hatchling that is struggling will die unless you help—so it’s a difficult balance.

I am currently helping a gosling to hatch. The first crack appeared two days ago, and two other eggs have safely hatched during this time, but this one seems to be stuck. The egg is fairly small for a goose egg. Farmers advise not attempting to hatch small eggs—they only use the large ones for hatching. But I don’t have lots of fertile eggs, so each one is precious. My guess is that the gosling is too big to move around inside the egg, so cannot turn and crack the egg all the way round—like a zipper—and then push its way out. It made a crack, but then stopped, too squashed to wriggle and make more cracks. So I am helping. Each hour, I open the lid (letting out all the warm air and humidity, so it’s a balance) and I crack off another piece of shell, drip some warm water on it (to replace the moisture lost from the open lid) and leave it to rest. The gosling’s beak is free, and it cheeps at me, which is the only indication it’s still alive. I hope to have it almost free by this evening, and then I will leave it, in case there is still some yolk to absorb (completely removing them from the egg is a bad thing to do). I really hope it makes it.

Two hatched goslings are in the garage under a warm lamp, and two chicks, plus the 4 ducklings I rescued from the pond. It’s a happy gang in there. The ducklings are too big now, and ought to be outside, but until Goose gets off her nest, they have to stay inside (because they will disturb her). There are three new trees which need to be watered regularly, weeds which are threatening to engulf the flower beds, insects invading my house plants so I need to buy a spray…A lot of nature to sort.

I am juggling this with trying to prepare work for my first year review, which is a big deal and has to be passed. I need to update my proposal (the document that says what I intend to research, and how) plus a writing sample. In a couple of weeks the university will send the monstrous form it sent last May, so I need to plan time to complete that. Plus I am itching to begin my new chapter—looking at death, and whether animals have life after death, and what is the significance of death in terms of relationship with God.

So you see, I am happy, but busy. (Don’t mention housework—I am making that a swear word!) I will go now and chip another piece of shell from my struggling gosling. I hope you have a happy week too, enjoying all the life of springtime.

Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

PS, My flock to date:

Goose
Maverick

Unpredictable Birds

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Goose Eggs

I am very keen to have company for Goose, so I contacted the man who kindly gave me her egg two years ago, and asked if I could buy some more. He lives near Sheffield. I looked online, to try and find someone nearer, but I am keen to have more Sebastopol geese. No one local was advertising eggs. (Eggs through the post is always a bit unreliable.)

We had been home from the US for one day. One frantic day of unpacking and washing laundry and sorting animals. Then we drove to Sheffield, planning to collect the eggs, sleep in an Airbnb, drive home. The timing was terrible! I was exhausted, but there was no way to delay (if I wait too long after the eggs are laid, they are unlikely to hatch. These eggs were already 2 weeks old.)

In terms of bird-timing, it was perfect. Goose has laid 4 eggs of her own, and is making a nest. I was very hopeful that adding a few more would be enough to make her grow broody. As she’s an inexperienced mother (some birds get bored after a couple of weeks and abandon perfectly viable eggs) I also put 4 in the incubator. I gave her a child’s paddling pool full of water, so she can wet her feathers regularly.

I decided to also try a different breed of goose, so I ordered two Emdon goose eggs from Ebay. I also decided to order some more Orpington chicken eggs, as company for Maverick (my hens are old now and have stopped laying). They were all ordered on the Thursday, I hoped if they were posted on Friday, they would arrive Saturday and they could all go into the incubator together. Such a great plan. None of it worked very well…

Maverick
Goose

Monday, Day 1: Eggs had rested for 24 hours, so I washed them and added to incubator.[1] Ebay eggs not arrived. I put 4 fertile eggs into Goose nest, and scribbled on her infertile 4 with a pencil. Left eggs to warm for 24 hours.

Goose Eggs

Tuesday, Day 2: After 24 hours of warmth, I started to turn the incubator eggs, 3 times per day. Ebay eggs not arrived. Goose seems to be sitting on her nest.

Wednesday, Day 3: Continued to turn incubator eggs. Ebay eggs still not arrived. (Contacted the seller, who said he sent them via Evri the next day. Evri are useless in my experience, so I am worried.) Goose seems to be sitting on her nest, coming off to eat and stand in the paddling pool.

Thursday, Day 4: Continued to turn incubator eggs. Ebay eggs still not arrived. Goose nest a disaster! When I went today, she got off the nest and I could see signs of egg-eating. There are 5 remaining eggs.

I have no idea whether Goose ate the eggs I bought because she knew they weren’t her own, or if a rat got them, or if they were bad (hens will eat bad eggs to stop the nest being ruined). I could not see my pencil marks on any eggs at all. After much debate with Husband (who has a stake in this after driving all the way to Sheffield and back) I decided to remove 3 eggs from the nest and add them to the incubator. They were filthy, so I washed them—which at this stage may have killed them if they have been developing for 3 days but I worried about adding so much dirt to the incubator. I have no idea how many days they have been developing, if at all, so they might be behind the other eggs, or they might be the same as the other eggs, or they might be the infertile eggs that Goose laid. Not great.

Friday, we had a power cut. Big worry! I immediately started to think about whether I could move the incubator to a family home where they had power—but realised that moving the eggs at this stage would kill them. So would getting cold. I thought I probably had about an hour before they grew too cool (I immediately covered the incubator in towels). Husband then suggested it might work on a back-up battery he has for our alarm. I plugged it in, the incubator whirred back to life. Phew! (The power came back after about 30 minutes, but that wasn’t something predicable.) If these eggs hatch, I feel it will be a miracle, there are so many problems.

Saturday, Day 6: I filled the water reservoir in the incubator and noticed water leaking from the other side. Great, it has sprung a leak. The humidity inside was dropping. I added an egg cup of warm water, the humidity rose. But this will only work for a while. Long discussion with Husband. We decided that the incubator is about 15 years old, and has hatched many batches of eggs, maybe it’s time to replace it. We looked online.

There are hundreds of incubators to choose from, with varying reviews and very varied prices. My one is still sold, and is about 4x the price of most others. But it works really well, and regulates the humidity (when not broken) as well as the temperature and turning of the eggs. We decided that it was worth investing in the same one. Deep breath. Ordered it.

Day 7: I shone a light through the eggs. It’s a bit early, but I am impatient. It looks as if the 4 eggs I put straight into the incubator are all fertile. One of the eggs I rescued might be fertile, but the other two look as if they are not.

I really hope the one is, because that means Goose did not eat all the fertile eggs, and potentially might still be sitting on fertile eggs. She is, as far as I can see, sitting on two eggs now. Her eggs seem to be a little delayed, which would make sense if she didn’t actively sit on the nest for a day or two after I added the eggs. She’s very diligent, sits on her nest most of the time, coming off to wash and eat. It’s hard to keep her water clean because she adds lots of mud to it—plus of course there are the two ducks I shut in the cage.

Ducks are fun but terrible. They turn everything into mud soup. They are laying, and have made nests, but no sign of sitting. They are probably hoping another bird will come and sit for them. They race around the cage, digging up the mud with their beaks, splashing in any available water. Very messy. When they go near Goose she hisses at them, so they have stopped running into her nest (which they first did). I’m really hoping they sit soon, or I shall have to release them back onto the pond.

The Ebay eggs never arrived. Evri is hopeless. I informed the sellers—one is being helpful, the other one is being obstinate. I want him to refund my money, or I shall leave a terrible review. I have ordered 2 more batches of Buff Orpington eggs, which I might put into the old incubator as it’s still working (the new one arrived today). They should all hatch about the same time, which will mean two weeks of lots of work, but then they will all be independent by May, if it goes to plan.

Chicken Eggs. They finally arrived, 8 were fertile (out of 18 bought). No idea whether they will hatch, but am hopeful.

Day 10

I candled the eggs. It’s really hard to see inside because the shells are so thick. I do it at night, when it’s dark, and shine a very bright light through them. I think 3 are definitely fertile, 2 were not so I took them out. The rest I am not sure about. They look too dark to be unfertilised, but they are not as developed as the others—but they are the ones rescued from Goose, so maybe she didn’t sit consistently until a few days later. Ot they might be her infertile ones. I don’t want to risk throwing away a goose, so I will wait a couple more days. If they are not clearly developing (they should stop moving and appear as a solid dark lump) then I will take them out. The danger of leaving infertile eggs is they may go bad, and the fumes will kill the other eggs. I hate making these decisions because it’s so awful to get it wrong and kill something by mistake.

In the garden, Goose is firmly sitting on her two remaining eggs (which I fear may be infertile ones she laid). She has plucked out her breast feathers, and lined the nest with soft down. When she leaves the nest to eat and drink she makes a big fuss of covering the nest with hay, so it can’t be seen. One of the ducks is also nesting. The other duck was being disruptive, so I have put her back on the pond.

They build up the sides with hay and sticks, and line it with their own feathers to make a cosy enclosure around the eggs.

I need to decide when/if my incubator eggs hatch, whether to give them to Goose to raise. She is broody, so might raise them (which is the best scenario) but given that she ate the other eggs, I’m worried she might kill the hatchlings. I’m not sure I trust her now.

To add to the chaos, one of the ducks appeared on the pond with ducklings. Ducklings on the pond have never survived to adulthood–the crows and magpies eat them. I left her with 4, and took 4 into the garage where they will be safe. (To date, she has 3 left, so is doing better than expected.)

I hope your days are less chaotic. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

[1] There is much discussion online as to whether you should wash eggs before incubating them. I decided that the very dirty ones should be washed and added straight away. Washing them removes their protective coating, but dirt adds bacteria to the incubator. If you wash them in water warmer than the egg, it stops the bacteria entering the egg through osmosis (apparently).

Toddtown

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We spent the night at another motel, in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, then drove across the state to Alabama. When planning the route (with the ‘no highways’ option, so the roads were quiet and interesting) we spotted Toddtown. It appeared as a name on the map, and when we zoomed in, there appeared to be a road and a few houses. But it wasn’t far from our route, and we liked the name so decided to do a brief detour and photograph the town signpost.

It was Sunday, so we also discussed church, and whether to look online to find one to attend. I suggested that we just drove, and at about 10:30 we looked for a church, wherever we were, and attended their morning service. We had a plan.

The drive was pleasant—it’s what we like to do. We drove through several small towns, some richer than others. Unlike England, which tends to have a mix of houses in each town, the US tends to have towns that are either full of rich people, or ‘white collar workers’ or ‘blue collar workers.’ In Alabama, although race segregation is no longer a thing, most of the poorer towns seemed to have only black residents, and the richer towns were predominately white.

At about 10am, I started to look at the churches we passed, and then checked online for their service times. Most had an 11am service. One church, which looked promising, had an ‘all white congregation’ in the review, so we avoided that one. We arrived in Toddtown at 10:45. There was a road, a few houses, and a church (which wasn’t marked on Google maps). Perfect. A man arrived and we asked whether we could attend the service—he said we could—we went inside.

The church was wonderful, we received such a warm welcome. There were not many people, but I think everyone spoke to us, and there was something genuine in their welcome, they made us feel very at home. The service was slightly pentecostal in flavour—not something we are used to—but it was lovely. I felt I was amongst people who had come to worship God, and it was good to join them. We were the only white people, and I wondered whether if one of them had attended an all-white church they would have received such a warm welcome. I suspect not (which is perhaps unfair of me, I don’t know what the white churches in Alabama are like).

During the service, various people arrived at different times. There was a choir, all dressed in white, and a pianist. The pastor was a man, and he welcomed us from the pulpit when we arrived and then came and spoke to Husband during a break. (I think men and women probably had different roles in the church, although they had female deacons and the singing was led by a woman—but it was definitely men who welcomed Husband, and women who welcomed me.) The men who took the collection had matching red blazers. The congregation were all dressed smartly, the women wore quite fancy clothes so I was very pleased I had worn a dress (although I think they would have welcomed us whatever we wore—they were such a warm-hearted group).

We arrived during the end of their Sunday School. There was a short break, and then singing and prayers. Some of the songs were in a hymnal, some were sung line by line by the choir with each line repeated by the congregation. After each song the people voiced short prayers/expressions of worship, while the piano played.There were two collections, plus a call for ‘tithes’ when people walked to the front and put envelopes into a box. There was a Bible reading and sermon by the pastor. The sermon ended with an ‘altar call’ and they put a seat at the front, but no one sat in it, so they moved on. There was then communion, but we slipped out. We weren’t sure how long the service would last (I think a couple of hours) and we were mid-drive, so when people went to the front for communion it seemed an okay time to leave. I hope it wasn’t rude, because they were a lovely group of people and I would hate to offend them. (But communion is always complicated in unfamiliar churches, because they have different rules about who can take it, and a family had just arrived so we felt the congregation was fluid in when people arrived and left.)

I have really enjoyed attending different churches during our road trip. They all have a slightly different style, the way that people choose to worship is very personal. As people passing through, we have felt accepted by the three churches we attended, but the Toddtown church was by far the most welcoming. It blessed my soul to be there.

We continued our drive through Alabama, and stayed overnight at a motel in Enterprise. Another good day.

Was he naked?

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At college, we have been considering how other people’s interpretations of the Bible affect our own. This involved looking at some works of art, and considering whether we understood texts differently afterwards. I think I didn’t—though some of the ideas were very interesting.

One passage we looked at was after the resurrection, when the women found the empty tomb, and Mary (his friend, not his mother) sees Jesus but thinks he is the gardener. Some paintings showed Jesus shying away as she tried to touch his clothes—emphasizing that he told Mary not to touch him.

Some depicted Jesus wearing gardener clothes, to try and explain why Mary confused him with the gardener. I have never personally imagined Jesus in a floppy gardeners hat, or carrying a spade, but I guess it’s one possible reason why Mary was initially confused.

As someone pointed out, Jesus rose physically (his body got up again) and the grave clothes (which is what he was dressed in) were found folded in the tomb. So, what was he wearing? Did he leave the tomb naked? (Not something mentioned at Sunday School). Did he perhaps borrow the gardeners clothes, thus confusing Mary? I guess it’s possible.

http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/468532
The Resurrected Christ Appearing to Mary Magdalene in the Garden
South Netherlandish ca. 1500-1520

(Jesus is holding a gardener’s spade. And has no clothes.)

Jacopo di Cione ca.1368
(Jesus is holding a gardener’s axe.)

Jesus appearing to the Magdalene
by Fra Angelico
(Jesus is shown holding a gardener’s axe, and is avoiding her hand.)

The thing is, I don’t think what physically happened at the resurrection is discussed much. We consider the theology of the situation– why did Jesus die and rise again? What difference did it make to our relationship with God? And we talk about the reaction to the resurrection, that his disciples changed and stopped hiding after they saw him. But as to what happened physically? That’s not something I have thought about. A man’s body is a big thing to hide, so where did Jesus go between rising and seeing people? And why could people not touch him, when he touched things like bread and ate it? Would touching him have affected Jesus, or affected the people?

Something for you to think about. Hope you have a great day. Thanks for reading.

Love, Anne x

Texas Farmhouse

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Texas Farmhouse is an unfortunate name. A wooden house, with dim lighting, far from the nearest town, evokes images of ‘The Texas Farmhouse Massacre.’ (A very slight modification of the film name, which I have not seen, but kind of evokes an unsettling image.) I think the furnishings don’t help. There are austere-looking people gazing from the walls, and although I have similar photos of my own ancestors at home, not knowing these grim people, and feeling nervous, makes for a bad combination.

The ‘farmhouse’ (‘log cabin’ is more accurate) is furnished with historical artifacts so it sort of feels like living in a museum exhibit. They have also tried to make things ‘more old’ by scraping off paint, not removing grime from sinks—which to me seems very inaccurate. ‘Old’ does not equate ‘dirty’ and I’m sure the original occupants would have repainted things when they needed it, and kept their sinks clean and free from rust. There are some concessions to modern living (indoor bathroom and modern plumbing and air/con, heating system). I think it would be nicer if they had also removed rust and grime from the sinks. But we are getting used to it.

The first morning we discussed changing our plans, and abandoning the cabin. We would lose our fee, but if we weren’t going to enjoy it, what was the point? But we have now settled into ‘camping’ mode—ignoring the grubby parts and enjoying what is lovely. And there  are lovely parts. Yesterday evening, as we sat in rocking chairs on the veranda, sipping red wine, enjoying the peace, it was perfect. Leaves rustled in the breeze, birds sang, the spanish moss swayed on the ancient trees.

There are also animals, which I love being near to. We found a field nearby with deer, which came up to the fence to greet us. There were also bison, huge shaggy bodies squarely facing us as they decided whether we were interesting. Then they walked towards us, one deliberate step after the next, slowly coming towards the fence. (We were quite happy to have a fence between us—I don’t know much about bison). An emu appeared, and did a sort of dance next to us (which may or may not have been aggressive—if it was a cockerel I would have been wary, but it’s hard to feel threatened by a bird which has a perpetual smile). It followed us along the fence line as we continued our walk.

Then there was screaming, or a siren—something loud and urgent, which made us stop and look, and worry about whether we should be running towards or away from the noise. It ended with a definite animal noise, and a he-haw that we recognised as ‘donkey-noise.’ Out from the trees, our side of the fence, ran a donkey. It looked very cute, but something about the noise had sounded aggressive, so I wasn’t so sure. Husband assured me it just wanted to be fed, I thought it was warning us away. We walked on, it followed, although never got very near. A second donkey appeared, and they both followed us. It was a shame, because it stopped me wanted to stay and watch the fenced animals. That’s the trouble with animals you don’t understand—it’s hard to know what might be dangerous. (Later, I looked online to see whether donkeys are ever aggressive. The main result was newspaper articles about a mayor in Texas who had been killed by a donkey on his ranch. This was not reassuring.)

Other than the scary donkeys, it was a lovely walk. That, and the wine-on-the-veranda moment encouraged us to stay for another day. I like staying in weird places (for short periods). It’s less comfortable than the ubiquitous modern motels, but also more interesting, something that builds memories. And if we get killed by donkeys—well, it’s a pretty unique way to die and probably better than hooked to machines in a skyless hospital room, isn’t it?

Thanks for reading. More of our road trip in my next blog.
Take care (and avoid haunted houses).
Love, Anne x

Btw, I have since done more research into donkeys, because there were loads of them in Texas. Apparently, they make very good guards and keep foxes and coyotes away from livestock. So people keep them to protect their sheep, flocks. I’m now trying to persuade Husband that we need a donkey to keep foxes away from my birds. He is not yet convinced.

Road Trip 2026

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We drove from New Orleans to St, Martinsville. I was desperate for a washroom when we arrived. It was Sunday, in a sleepy town there were not many options. We tried to buy coffee in a Mexican restaurant, but they said they did not serve coffee. (They may not have understood us.) We bought a couple of bottles of coke. I asked if I could use the washroom. Relief! Now, it might seem strange to begin a travel blog with washroom details, but that will only be if you are not an older female who has had children. Age and children muck up bladders, and this can become something of a hindrance to travel. However, usually it’s not a problem in the US, as there are usually plenty of restaurants with washrooms (you just have to drink a lot of coffee, because they are only for customer use).

We were in St. Martinsville because the guide book told us there was a famous oak, a famous square, and an eternal flame. The people who we spoke to in the street seemed unaware of this. We did, eventually, find the oak, and the square (which was not really identifiable as a square) and the eternal flame (which could be seen by walking across some grass and peering through a fence). I don’t think they get many tourists. Most things were closed (it was Sunday).

We then drove, without much optimism, to the nearby Cypress Swamp reservation. This also seemed deserted. We parked and followed a pathway to look at the river. It was swampland, with wooden decks into them, and it was pretty amazing and very beautiful. However, the decking was low over the water, and broken in places, and I worried it might give way and we would plunge into the swamp water and be eaten by alligators. (Not that we could see any alligators, I think it’s the wrong time of year.) We survived, and took some photos. We could see large white egrets in the trees, getting ready to nest. It was beautiful, and peaceful, and very unnerving because we are foreign and not sure of the dangers. We went into the information hut afterwards. This is like reading the instructions of a machine after trying to work it out first. There was a helpful man, and information boards, and it all seemed very well organised and safe.

We drove to Lafayette and checked into a Residence Inn which are my favourite motels because they have a little kitchen area, and a shared laundry. I like being able to wash our clothes. We ate in a nearby restaurant, which had welcoming music, and comfy booths, and a very friendly waitress. I ate alligator nuggets, which were deep-fried and tasted exactly like chicken. Apparently, alligator meat is high in protein and iron, but low in fats. 

(I think from my current study of Noah, that humans were told they can eat fish and ‘creepers,’ not all animals. I have not yet finished researching this, so I may come to a different conclusion, but currently I try to only eat veggie food or fish/‘creepers.’ I decided alligators are ‘creepers.’ Husband is not admiring of my food choices nor my theology.)

The following day (Monday 23rd Feb) we drove through Louisiana (LA) towards Texas. We passed flooded fields, and swampland, and vast green fields of cows. According to the internet, the flooded fields are for rice, which some farmers alternate with crawfish after the harvest. It would be interesting to stop, and see one properly. I hadn’t realised that rice was grown in the US.

As we neared Houston, the roads grew very busy. We stopped for food, and I asked the waitress for the name of a good grocery shop. Kroger’s. (It’s very hard to find supermarkets, because Google does not differentiate between the small garage shop with outdated food and the big supermarket that locals use.) We drove through Texas. There were fewer farms, and lots of industry: aggregates and oil. Some of the oil refineries were huge, the size of a town, filled with tall metal tubes and machines and nasty smells. Driving around Houston was no fun. Huge lorries, 9-lane roads, junctions on both sides, everything moving very fast, overtaking on either side, roadworks shutting lanes.

We made it, and left the main road for our next stop. 

Husband had booked an airbnb on a ranch. Sounded nice. It took 15 minutes to drive down the dirt track. The houses were cabins, hidden in the trees, full of historical furniture. As we parked the car, we saw a wooden outside loo. I was silent.


We went into our cabin. It felt haunted, I don’t really like houses that have photographs of dead people on the walls (which makes no sense). The facilities were quirky, but there was modern plumbing, so I felt happier. We ate some food, and went to bed. No ghosts visited. I rather like the place now, it’s very unusual, but has good working washrooms.

It had a washing machine. Sort of…

Thanks for reading. More of our road trip in my next blog.
Take care (and avoid haunted houses).
Love, Anne x

More New Orleans

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Our last day in New Orleans was Sunday. We woke early (managing a sort of hybrid UK/US time, although the extra hour when we moved from Florida towards Alabama was brutal). We ran in the hotel gym, because even though we wait until it’s light, running in New Orleans would feel unsafe due to all the drug addicts—who I suspect are unpredictable when needing money.

We wanted to attend a church. I like attending local churches when away from home. Since I went to Spurgeon’s College (a Baptist college) I have definitely become less Baptist ironically, and much more interested in how different denominations express their faith. Most of the churches near us were black churches, so I checked with the hotel receptionist whether we would be welcome in a black church, or whether it would be rude to attend. She assured us we would be welcome, and also suggested we could try the local Catholic church—St. Jude’s. This, plus the information that the local Baptist church service would run to at least 2 hours, was helpful. We walked to St.Judes.

The walk to church typifies New Orleans for me. The roads were big, but easy to cross because traffic stops at crosswalks. The streets were fairly busy, with a mishmash of people—many with dyed (blue/green/pink) hair, many looking smart, music seeping from doorways. Lying on the hard tarmac, huddled under old coats because the weather was chilly, were the homeless. There was a police convoy, stopping traffic as floats from Mardi Gras swept past—going I guess into storage until next year. The floats were bright, huge figureheads, painted fences to enclose the people who would ride on them.

 As we neared church, I saw a couple of people, sleeping with blankets pulled over their heads, bare toes peeping out from under the cover. It was sad, sadder for some reason than the homeless that I see in London—perhaps because there are places they can go to if they choose, and here I don’t know what their options are. Plus so many were young men, thin faces and blank eyes, ravaged by drugs. It broke my heart. I wanted to lay my jacket over them, but Husband stopped me, said it would probably be sold for drugs, better to donate money to a charity that could help them properly. But it was sad. As we arrived at the church I felt very near tears. I kept wondering where God was in this city, wondering who was working for him to help these people.

The church was welcoming when we entered. We are not Catholics, and much of it was completely confusing, everyone else seemed to know what to chant at intervals, which responses to give. It was a big church, packed with a whole variety of people—many were very smart, posh clothes ladies wearing hats and heels, some were casual, some looked like they had wandered in from the street in search of somewhere warm to rest. The choir were dressed in white and processed down the aisle to signify the start of the service. Most were fairly old, and they wore fez-type hats. All the church wardens wore red gowns, which helped to know who was an official. There was a brass band, and the songs all had a Kum by Yah African-American spiritual-folk flavour to them. The offering was collected in baskets with long handles (like fishing nets) and after collecting it, they came back a second time, which was unexpected. (I think they were collecting for two different things, but it made me giggle.) The Priest gave a talk, which was short but I thought it was good—about Jesus being tempted and how people are tempted today by Power and Prestige and Profit (even the leaders). There was then a prayer asking that leaders of countries should behave according to God’s will, and for the good of the world not just their own prestige or the good of their own country. (But he did not name anyone specifically.) At the end was a little prize-giving for the women’s group (who seemed to do all the work in the church) and they reminded me of the strong women working in the Zambian church we visited. Then it ended, and people walked out, dipping their fingers in a bowl of holy water.

We packed our bags and drove away from New Orleans. I’m glad we visited, but it made me sad. There was so much creativity, a lot of carefree relaxation, a lot of excellent music, all with an undercurrent of heartbreaking sadness when you noticed the lost faces of the addicts. But we were only there for a few days, so my impressions might be wrong.