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"Natural Grace: The Vow" WordArt


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Ophelia stepped carefully over Greg lounging with his head into a mound of pillows on their handmade crewelwork rug sent last month from India by warily weary son Nathan during a break in his Jesuit duty. "Steaming mud" he called this tour, missing last year's stake of starkness in the Israeli dessert where he'd helped build a school, and later a communal clinic.

"Dad, I can't cope," he cried from a soul rent by urban Hindu hordes. Nat located a guru nearby on recommendation from his priest to learn acceptance and peace from exotically colorful curvatures of temples to ancient native gods and spirits of the holy deceased. Frequent retreats to private fountains in florridly fragrant gardens of comfortably-ensconsed friends in hidden alcoves eased the disturbing dismay arrayed along jagged sags of a still-stalwart man passing his prime to world service for health and justice.

"Hmm-m," Greg hummed as the holy of holies passed over his senses. Ophelia grinned above her thinly swirling summer smock as she continued on toward their brass-and-glass encased culinary center.

"Hot or cold soup?" she wondered.

"Chilled," Greg chose resolutely, given summer's humid humors seeping in screens retrofitted from Munford's house abandoned down the road after Allen passed and Dory removed in needless protest to Bittles All-Care Home-from-Home where Gillian ordered Alzheimer Watch 24/7.

"Let's pack it in," Greg suggested suddenly.

"Take a nap? This early?" Ophelia added, "We'll smother. Brother."

Gregg groaned lowly as an engine gunned and died in the back lot. "Here's Drew, I bet, anyway to take us on that Holston River driveby we talked about yesterday."

"Fish fries, here am I." Ophelia smiled, twirling a silver spoon held high while she danced in place with anticipatory delight.

Gregg raised his bones with some creaky alacrity from the floor of their newfound domicile and clasped her hand as they swagged in synchronous time to the lingering tune of their torrid and tempestuous affair toward the latched screen door.

"Shalom," he waved toward the ivory-toned figure emerging from the driver's side of a freshly laquered antique carriage.

~ 350 words 2163 characters

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National Peace Museum

Peace Pilgrim Mildred Ryder

National Women's History Museum

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counseller, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace."

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"The way of the Cross is not easy, yet it is the tuneful, the rhythmic, the beautiful, the lovely way."
-- Edgar Cayce, Association for Research and Enlightenment

Original material c. A Country Rag, Inc. and/or Jeannette Harris, Jonesborough Tennessee, April 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014. All rights reserved.

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