A familiar fox arrives, the rose behind its left ear bobbing as it bows its head to you, then takes a missive from the bag at its side.

You take the letter, and begin to read...

Salutations, and many happy returns of the season! (Preferably with less leaf mold.)

In personal news...

My migraines are ramping up with the season's change. The bass speakers that every car seems to have these days make them worse. When they drive through my neighborhood, I suffer an extra little blast of pain, despite being inside my home. The inventor of said devices should be drawn and quartered… Or at least forced to sit in a room full of blasting music from their creation for an hour every day… (And they don’t get to pick the genre of music. It’s drawn at random.) Yes, I do need to be kinder to my fellow man. They have some reason this makes them happy, I'm just not sure why or how.

It’s increasingly come to my attention that I have less self-control than I used to. Or that it’s manifesting in different, more vivid, ways. I’m finding it harder to say no to things I want to do, and in leaving some things for later, I’ve been making more mess for others. If you’re so inclined, prayers for finding the space between finding-joy-and-resting, and being-overindulgent-and-lazy, would be wonderful. (Also, my memory is a bit shot right now so the ‘leaving things for not immediately but fully intending to do them’ is sometimes swallowed up in the void of what should be memory. Which kind of sucks when I AM trying to be responsible.)

I’m also dealing with some further joint issues, which I may end up seeing a physical therapist for, to get some exercises to help my body learn to work with itself better instead of being self-destructive and generally a royal pain. Yahoo.

Did I mention fall allergies? Blech.

Also… I’m dealing with Seasonal Affective Disorder, which basically means I’m trying (and failing) to hold some semblance of cheer when everything feels like it’s swirling down the toilet for lack-of-sunshine-and-fresh-air reasons, and not the reason that the world sucks because it’s tainted by sin and that tends to be kind of depressing.

And to top it all off… I have not spotted ONE fuzzy caterpillar this year, either. (Some of you who were here last year may have heard my upset about it last year, as well. I don’t know if they are becoming endangered, or if it’s just all the weirdly warm years are delaying their migration or whatever it is they do, or if they’re moving with weather patterns, or… if it’s something entirely other.) What happened to all the woolly bear caterpillars??? I must register a complaint to the caterpillar distribution office.

In GOOD news, my one sister got a new job that she’s pleased with, one of my other sisters moved to her new room down the hall and got it all beautifully arranged, my baby nephew has, you guessed it, more teeth (Where will he put them all? I don’t know. But he’s making better use of them as he’s gaining interest in more solid of foods.) I’m baking up a storm with some delicious cookie mixes and things of that sort, and the garden looks really, really nice when we’re prepping it for the winter… My other sister got an awesome haul of Halloween clearance candy and shared some… (Did you know they made all the Charleston Chew flavors in minis for Halloween? This may be the greatest year of my life.)

Oh, and I got freshly ground beef on sale for $3.50 a pound instead of the $7.75 it’s currently going for in my area. So, yay! 💃

I do have many things to be thankful for… it’s just that things are hard and I’m feeling down in the dumps harder and longer than I used to, whether for this particular season or for things in general, I’m not sure which. It’s hard some days to make sure that I’m focusing in the right direction, and while I know this is a common-to-Man problem, it still doesn’t make it any easier.

What I’ve Been Reading:

I haven't finished one book this past month, other than the Extension Squad collection #1 (that I was highly pleased to have read, and am upset that I cannot access more at this time). I'm currently in the middle of five or so books, so watch this space for more, or not.

Some Funny Stuff:

Snippets/Stories to Share:

Continuing my series of stories based on songs for 2026's exclusive gift to you, my subscribers... This was a request from a friend. May I present Sweet Baby James by James Taylor?

The sky is filled with an abundance of stars; more than man could count, more than the sand on the seashore.

The canyon is filled with sleeping cattle, and James drifts in and out of sleep as he looks at the stars overhead. It’s not so much the sound of the night, nor the look of it that makes it lonely— truly, it’s not a night to be wasted in just sleep.

He spends his waking moments in introspection. If there were another way, he’d have taken it. But when one makes the wrong kind of mistake, one with heat that one never hopes to see again, one hopes to find resolution however one can, even if that means being lonely.

He’d always had a temper, Lord knows he had… and when he found a man taking advantage of a woman that now-distant night, he’d beaten the man straight out of this life, despite his youth and lanky frame. Such passion was something he’d always been warned about, and while he regretted the man’s death, he did not regret stepping in to teach him a lesson.

After that, there was nothing for it but to leave. There was Scripture somewhere that told him that those who kill a man without intent are to sequester themselves in a distant, marked city— and in this instance, the only place he could think to compare it to was life on the range, away from others, to neither drag them down nor to be tempted beyond his ability anymore. He carried a gun, for it was foolish not to do so with rattlesnakes and coyotes… but there was but one bullet inside of it. The rest were at his side. That was the chance he took.

He’d never touched strong drink, but a good beer was something he missed. In his sleeping, he dreamed of friends back home, and lovely ladies, and a good beer. But he knew that it was better this way, so he enjoyed the dreams, for they kept him less lonely. They were warmer than the night, but nearer than the stars, a completion for his rest.

He would sometimes sing lullabies to himself, remembering his childhood days in the choir loft, and wonder what happened to his old school friends, and Melissa Sweet, who lived up to her name; always clean and pleasant, even when they were both young and foolish. Sometimes his dreams would take him dancing with her, or perhaps they’d pass one another in the street, old friends comfortable with their relationship.

The wind howled, and the biting air made him shiver. They were taking the cattle to slaughter, and it was already frigid. This winter would be delightful… but then, he had a cozy cabin that was his alone, one that would be well-stocked when the pay came in, and he would pass this winter as he did the last, studying over books he traded for earlier in the year. He’d been fortunate to have a preacher come through who had an extra copy of the New Testament, as well as the law book he’d gotten from his boss as a Christmas gift last year.

It was quiet, but it was home, and he was at peace with it. The weather didn’t even have to be mild… As long as they didn’t have drifts that were too tall, he could make it work.

The snow started early, a light dusting of powdery-sugared delight. Two inches later, there was a knock on his door, and when he opened it, his surprise was doubled when it was his boss standing there.

“Need all hands we can get, son. Missing child.”

He nodded. “Let me grab my coat, sir.”

The grizzled man offered a nod, and off they went as the flakes swirled thicker, picking up others as they went.

At the big house, men stood tightly packed, row on row, the snow slowly melting off them and steaming in the warmth of so many, so close.

The boss cleared his throat, and all eyes went to him.

“It’s Johnny’s youngest,” he said without preamble. “Mason. But four years of age. Went out to the outhouse and never come back. They can always go further than we think, but let’s not let it get any later. It’ll be dangerous if he’s out too long.”

The men nodded, and out they went in twos and threes, wishing one another good luck before mounting up.

“It’ll be better to go in pairs, but do as you like,” rumbled the boss from behind them.

James nodded, and mounted his chestnut. He turned her, and, with a cluck, they set out into the wind, the cries of ‘Mason!’ blending with the howling of the wind as it increased. It looked to only be getting worse, and he prayed that Mason was nearby and aware.

The wind sliced through, and everything was white. Cruelly cold, and still no sign of the child. Hope was growing thin in his chest, but he wouldn’t go back yet. Something in him drove him doggedly onward, calling out now and then, his eyes peeled for any sign of life. His horse trudged onward, head low, and he tried to discern where they were… but it was such a raging blizzard, that he’d started to have doubts about his own way into this. What if he didn’t get to the child in time… or, worse, he got himself into worse trouble, finding the child too late and losing all control? He wasn’t one to do anything, much less grieve a child, lightly.

No. He couldn’t think like that. Think of the mother, waiting for her son. Think of the warmth he would receive when they got him back home. When, not if. He found a lullaby winding itself up in his throat again, and as they went on, though the wind tried to snatch his breath away, it would not snatch that tune from his heart.

“We’ll get you home, Mason,” he murmured. “I swear it on my life, so help me God.” He looked up the heavens, no different from the earth in such solid snow, and shouted “I’ll trade you. His life for mine, if you’ll have it.” The snow continued down, and there was no other answer from the heavens… but he got the distinct feeling he’d been heard, and was being weighed.

“I know I ain’t been much in the way of holy. I know I ain’t been noble or true. What I’m asking is that you help me find this boy. I’ll take anything that comes, Lord, if you’ll only let us get to him alive.” His eyes stung with the cold, and he felt a sudden urge to go seek shelter instead of looking.

“I won’t quit,” he growled, but again, the urge came, louder and more insistent. His horse shuddered beneath him, and only then, cursing himself for his weakness, did he look for shelter.

But it was then that he saw it. A boulder silhouetted against the snow, a great thing, all hung with icicles now… and when they drew nearer it to find some shelter from the wind, at least, there was a odd little mound in the snow there that made his pulse go double-time. He leapt down, and dug at the snow, and when he caught a glimpse of red hair he let out a cry. “Hang on, Mason. Just hang on.”

The boy was half-buried in a foxhole; he was dressed in warm clothes, with hat and mittens. He’d been smart enough to go to ground, smart enough to cover his head with his arms, but not smart enough to stay at home. Adventure had called, and it had nearly been misadventure, but today was not the day to give up. It was all he could do not to shout for joy, yet from the bluish tinge to Mason’s face, they weren’t out of the woods enough for that, yet.

“Let’s get you home.” He mounted his horse (no easy feat with a child in one arm), and tucked the boy into his own coat. There, Mason shivered, sharing a nicely chilled pair of hands, while James looked about.

They’d come from that direction, more or less, from the rapidly-filling hoofprints. But there was no time to waste in wandering to find his way back. He had to be sure, or…

No. They would start in that direction and pray it was enough. On they went, and he sung under his breath to the boy who huddled against him, songs of warmth, of childhood games, and of the good times back at home. Of delicious meals, glasses that never ran dry, of friendship and first love.

And on they went, on through the blizzard, deeper into the storm. Soon, his horse staggered, and he knew there was not much left in it. Was there much further? He didn’t know. But the life of the child was at stake. They had to go on for as long as possible. He didn’t know if Mason was getting warmer, or if he was getting colder. He couldn’t feel much, to be honest. But if there wasn’t much time until the horse stumbled, unable to rise again, he needed a plan.

And he continued to sing, though Mason slept and did not heed the songs.

The men had come back, one by one, shivering and stamping on the rug, sodden and ice-crusted, eyes downcast and hands empty. With each new arrival, the woman by the fire looked more and more gaunt, and shrank into herself a little more. Her husband, pale, stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, looking at the boss gratefully as the big man went to fill warm glasses himself and came by to encourage the woman in soft, firm tones. “We’ll find him,” he repeated. “There’s no way we’ll not find him.”

Though Anders Fillian was a man of influence, and had been on more than one occasion accused of dealings that were less than ethical (though untruthfully, thank Heaven), he feared that this might be the only thing in his life that would leave him truly haunted. He prayed it would not be so, and so he moved restlessly with empty words, and despite those around him taking encouragement from it, he felt as though it would be nothing but a sham. There were only a few left to return, now, and the storm grew ever greater. Only God could stop this storm, and he began to pray as though he’d never prayed before in his life that the flakes might slow, that the temperature break and grow unnaturally warm, that the boy would have been welcomed into a distant home for shelter… something.

They needed a miracle.

The morning dawned bright and clear, almost as if trying to make up for the horror of the storm. The big house was filled with restless men, and so they got to work digging it out, grim and silent.

There was nothing they wanted to do more than to put something to order, to silence the quiet sobs they could hear from Johnny’s wife… but there was nothing.

There was a shout, and the men flocked to it. They’d found, buried not too deeply, but thirty yards from the house, a horse. The beast’s body was covered in rime, imbedded from the wind.

They dug deeper, and found, as they traveled further down, that the horse had been killed, not died on its own. The body of a man lay beside it. A single gunshot wound to the poor beast’s head, and the gun still was in the man’s fingers.

“It’s James,” one said, and they shook their heads. “Poor lad. Senseless, that’s what it is.”

Then they cried out, as one man suddenly crouched near its stomach.

“Mason’s here!”

A streak of red showed where the horse had been cut open. The boy, wrapped in a man’s coat, had been put inside the body of the horse, leaving only the smallest of gaps for him to breathe. Breathing he was, though barely. His face was bluish, but he breathed. They dragged him out, hurrying to the house, voices raised in the hoarse, jubilant cries of those who rejoice against all odds.

And James… James was buried under a green tree that spring, in a place where he overlooked the stream. His epitaph, penned by the mother of the child he’d saved, read thus…

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

And on warm summer nights, they say you can hear a lullaby being hummed beneath that tree, gentle and low.

The End.

Something Cool to Me:

I was very much looking forward to The Sheep Detectives, a delightful-looking murder mystery starring Hugh Jackman, where, as you might've guessed... the sheep figure out who done it.

I got to see it— and I really enjoyed it, despite the sheep being computer animated. There’s only so much one can do to ignore that, but it ended up being a good enough story that different bits were really good-looking, and others ended up being emotionally impactful enough you forgot about the quality of the visuals. The one problem with the film that I was aware of was the fact that my mother called the secret twist ten minutes into it. Aloud. And I spent about half the movie trying to dismiss her theory, only for it to be correct. Phooey.

Mom, if you’re reading this… I love you very much. But I remember why watching mysteries with you is hard sometimes. You will be calling the ending every time until my death, and I still won’t get it or see it coming any better than I did last time, because I fall for the red herrings and the “but they’re too nice!” ploys. Aren’t we glad I’m not a real detective? ;)

It also stars the late Sir Patrick Stewart, an actor I loved most dearly because of his gentle and rich voice. I hope that he was a fellow believer and that I will see him again someday, this time in person. He was someone I have a great deal of respect for, because of his body of work and professional manner speaking so well of him. He’s another actor I would’ve loved to have in a movie of one of my books, simply because I am so fond of him. (Other deceased actors that I would’ve enjoyed having are Angela Lansbury, Robert Vaughn, Dame Maggie Smith… y’know, I think I just want a lot of English actors. This is sad. Very sad.)

Anyway! If you ever want a list of people I’d love to have (despite whether or not they’d actually fit some of my characters…), I’ll have to share that sometime. But now is not that time.

Closing thoughts:

\There is too much search for novelty. Too much desire for the new. Where did the old lose its value?

God has been God since before time. Christ was with God then, and the Spirit was, too. They are unchanging, the same today as they were before and will be in ten thousand years. I honestly wonder if the pursuit of novelty is the devil’s doing, because seeing what is there with eyes of wonder and awe has fallen to the wayside. Instead of treasuring that which we have, we look for the new because what is already there is no longer good enough. It stems from a spirit of entitlement instead of gratitude. We forget who we really are in the grand scheme of things, because it’s no longer a priority. Feeding the desire is.

The book of James talks about this.

Where do wars and fights come from among you? Do they not come from your desires for pleasure that war in your members? You lust and do not have. You murder and covet and cannot obtain. You fight and war. Yet you do not have because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive, because you ask amiss, that you may spend it on your pleasures. Adulterers and adulteresses! Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Whoever therefore wants to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God. Or do you think that the Scripture says in vain, “The Spirit who dwells in us yearns jealously”?

But He gives more grace. Therefore He says:

“God resists the proud, But gives grace to the humble.”

Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you.

It doesn’t say that trying to readjust your attitude makes it better; it doesn’t say that getting what you want makes it better. It doesn’t say that making friends with the right sort of people or that avoiding temptation fixes the issue. What it does say is that submission to the Lord will drive the Enemy away. It says that we are to submit ourselves to God, and to resist the devil in doing so.

When we truly submit, making a choice to bend the knee and being aware of Who we serve and what He desires, that will be a shield. Because once you make the choice to hand God the reins, He will root you in Himself deeper than you ever could’ve yourself, and probably deeper than you’d like.

Does this mean that all that is new is wrong? No! God makes all things new, in fact. He would not renew things if it would not serve a purpose. But novelty for novelty’s sake, the new in and of the world, is no blessing.

We’re to seek Him with our whole hearts, and to run to Him in everything. In Him, we find our satisfaction. In Him will our greatest desires be met. In Him will the awe and wonder awaken. Contentment is a mark of His people, and we are in no way complete if we seek our satisfaction elsewhere.

Look for the eternal, not the new.

The fox bows again, and as it turns to leave, cocks its head.

"Shall I take a message in return?"