Brenda Knight Graham's Blog, page 4

The Hollow Tree

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The picture is not of “my” hollow tree but it will have to do!

Has there ever been a hollow tree in your life? A certain lombardy poplar was one of my favorite places as a kid when I needed a hiding place. Everyone needs a hiding place every now and then, and not just when playing hide and seek. Sometimes life seems too big and overwhelming and one seeks a quiet spot away from demands, criticisms, and fearful things.

The lombardy poplar was in Turtle Hollow at Pinedale. It was a tree tall and stalwart on the side of a hill. An aged tree, she had developed a sizable cave in her side, plenty big enough for a child to crawl into and read a book. From that hiding place I could hear voices in the distance as my siblings played, or I might only hear a gentle wind in the tops of the trees. It was such a good place to enjoy a book or even hear the Lord God speaking to me.

But after a season of quietude, whether ten minutes or an hour, whether a game or not, I’d be ready to be found. Did anyone even miss me? I would sit in solitude hearing my own heart beating. I could peer out of my sweet nest and see only trees climbing a slope, a thick covering of leaves on the ground, and, far up through a leafy canopy, an opening to a deep blue sky. Everything was so still and quiet, not even a dog coming to sniff me out. I didn’t hear voices anymore. Had everyone left me? Just as I was about to crawl out of the hollow tree, brothers and sisters bounded into sight yelling boisterously. Though I pretended to be exasperated, I was so glad to be found.

There may not be a hollow tree anywhere near you. Or, like me, you may not fit in it anymore! But you may find a chair on the porch or some corner where you can, as the Quakers call it, center down. After a spell, when God has whispered peace and courage into your heart and you’re ready to “face the music,” you’ll be glad to be found.

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. Matthew 7:7

Saturday at Stone Gables

Photo by Allie Nowell Reeves

A family reunion means a day full of beautiful cameo moments. When offspring of a family of ten siblings gather it is amazing. This year members of the Knight clan came from Colorado, California, Kansas, Florida, Alabama and, of course, Georgia. Representatives of eight of the original ten drove up the long twisting driveway to the stone house our parents built on a north Georgia hill.

The weather was perfect, almost cool, slightly breezy, and sunny. It was the kind of day that makes you pull your sweater close, nurse a cup of coffee, and take deep breaths of fall-scented air. In the big north fireplace a low, cheerful fire glowed, evidence that someone had been there early to get things started. It wasn’t peak leaf season but to us from the “lowlands” the colors of hickory and sweetgum were absolutely marvelous.

The day included a lot of free time for chatting, playing, looking at pictures (thank you, Nathan, for the great slide show so we could see pictures of those who couldn’t come), and walking in the woods. But two of our nephews, Nathan and Oaky, who live close by, had planned an agenda so that free time was interspersed with blocks of interesting activities that drew the whole sixty-seven together. There was a history sharing time featuring the oldest ones of us relating how our family and home place got started. There were lawn games for children young and older, and a skeet shoot on Sunny Lawn, always a favorite activity. Of course the table was laden with exciting food for lunch and dinner. Several folks participated in a variety show in the evening emceed by Evelyn. Presentations included poetry recitations, music, and a few tales. Thanks to Oaky, Nathan, Evelyn, Charlie, Suzanne and others the day was full and enriching.

Some of the cameos I treasure: Driving in the driveway, making all the familiar turns and noting the fantastic clearing of all the vistas…waves from a work crew picking up sticks in the grove–Nathan, Becky, and Charles Douglas…Hearing Phil’s deep voice when I walked in the door, reminiscent of my dad, Phil’s grandfather’s, voice…Getting a past due hug from Beth and Lorna and James whom I’d not seen for years…Playing author cards with my sister Suzanne, our nieces and grandchildren; Seeing our son Will and two of his children, Thomas and Mattie, arriving from Birmingham; Sitting with my two sisters at one point just being happy to be together…listening to the precious rendition of “Amazing Grace” by Ryan Bonnette and his daughters…

Watching cousins greet each other and burst into conversation was a very happy thing. I loved seeing our grandchildren and great grandchildren spending time with cousins they almost never see. Simply being in
Stone Gables for a day was a happy thing. Certain traditions were not forgotten such as my brother Charlie ringing a cowbell to call everyone into a circle for the blessing. I could just hear our mother in the old days, as she looked around a circle much smaller than it is now, saying in her shy way, “Look what Dad and I started!”

Young mothers and young grandmothers who once played around our feet now carried babies in arms and led little ones by the hand. Deep into the afternoon new arrivals brought on squeals of delight. As we sat chatting on the South Terrace in the dappled sunshine we jumped now and then at the loud pops and cracks from the Sunny Lawn skeet shoot.

As we, the south Georgia deputation (including Charles D driving, his wife Allie, our great grands Charli and Kaison, Charles and me) left that night going back to Nathan and Michelle’s, our very sweet hosts, Charles D kindly stopped at the “waving place.” Historically, as any family members left, Mamma and/or whoever was left at the house would stand on the steps and wave as we paused for our last view. Though we couldn’t see anyone waving this time, the windows of Stone Gables shone with a warm, friendly light and I waved to the house itself and all it stands for.

But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear him, and his righteousness unto children’s children; Psalm 103:17

Splashes of October

Lemony pumpkin leaves of the Indonesian cherry fall gently to color our walkway. The red maple is brightening, promising to be just as beautiful as the picture from last year shows. Out come jackets and hoodies as the temperature drops. Requests for ice cream after school change to hot chocolate. Over-head an expansive sky is as blue as ocean depths. Last night a perfect harvest moon shone its silvery light on all of us leaving church and heading home to light our fires.

The susquehanna camellias are beginning to bloom. I took a picture of one blossom on the “Picture This” app to check the spelling. Among several other names for this glossy-leaved shrub with delicate pink flowers are “Shi-shi Gashira,” “October Magic,” and “Winter Rose.” They’re all pretty names but I really like “winter rose.” As winter draws near the camellia “roses” will brighten everything.

Thick clusters of nandina berries promise a wealth of bright Christmas decorations, though right now they are dull red-brown. Our cats slide through their own special little tunnels through the nandina hedge or lie curled in clumps of border grass soaking up a spot of sun.

The jasmine vine on the mailbox pine is greening again. At last. The poor thing had turned almost entirely yellowish and sick. Charles took leaf samples to UGA Extension Office and learned that the vine was covered with miniscule mites and needed a heavy dose of broad spectrum mite insecticide. Charles wouldn’t have been strong enough this time last year to have gone for a consultation, much less follow through with the spraying. Assuming that most growth nearby was probably beset with evil mites, Charles proceeded to spray lantana and other foliage. Now, six weeks later, the jasmine is greening while the lantana looks as if another dose is necessary. We even discovered, to our delight, that the jasmine has put forth three beautiful little yellow blossoms that, in other years, covered it profusely. We take those three as a promise for much more in February.

We are wearing stickers today (Friday) proclaiming we are Georgia voters. How blessed we are to be able to vote freely and safely! We want to be part of keeping it that way. We are not shy about naming our candidate for president. Charles wears his Trump hat everywhere he goes which brings up mostly positive reactions. He has put Trump signs at strategic crossroads in Grady and Thomas counties, about thirty, I think. And, of course, no one has to guess who our candidate is when they drive by our yard! I understand that many people think Trump is all ego and brashness. But we see him as a vigorous defendant of our constitution, a very authentic, sensible man who keeps his promises, as evidenced by his former four years.

Whoever you vote for, please vote!

Splashes of October: Pumpkins on the front steps, Georgia football on Saturdays, dry magnolia leaves skittering across the driveway, the big old sweetgum at the church beginning to blush, and sunny goldenrods along the roadsides. Anticipation is building for our annual trip to our fall family reunion in Habersham County. Splashes of October will be even brighter there!

He hath made everything beautiful in his time: Ecclesiastes 3:11

A Crown That Lasts

I’ve always been interested in biographies of famous people, all the way from Mozart, Monet, and George Washington to Edison, Fulton, and Helen Keller. But sometimes even more interesting than stories about famous people are those about more obscure personalities like one cited in Demi Tebow’s book A Crown That Lasts.

Demi Tebow tells how her identity was suddenly gone the night she crowned the new Miss Universe. She learned, though, through many God-lessons that one’s identity need not depend on one’s achievements or whether or not one is married to a football star like Tim Tebow. One’s identity needs to be grounded in one’s relationship with Jesus Christ. Only the crown He bestows will last.

Demi describes humiliating scenes she endured in her native country South Africa, both before and after her reigns as Miss South Africa and Miss Universe. She faced a fearful assault, and struggled through failures and disappointments. Her life in the U.S. was a lonely one to begin with as she felt so out of place and bereft of friends. But God was her anchor and she wouldn’t give up. She grew to realize that God’s purpose for her life might not be what she envisioned–but even better.

The true story of the artist Lilias Trotter made a powerful impression on her as she made decisions.

Basically, here is the story.

Lilias Trotter was an accomplished young artist during the time when artists like Claude Monet and Vincent van Gogh were adding new dimensions to the world of art. Though you’ve probably never heard of her, she was told by renowned art critic John Ruskin that she could become more famous than Monet if she worked hard at it and focused only on her art. Lilias did apply herself and was immersed in her art but not to the degree that she could forget her other love. She had a great compassion for abused women and girls.

When it came to the point that Lilias must choose between art and her ministry she prayed hard and then knew she must choose the ministry. Using her own funds she traveled to Algeria to become a fulltime missionary. She never became rich or famous but she was happy and blessed. She even discovered she could use her gift of painting in her ministry. God works that way! And, just as Lilias found her true God-given identity, so has Demi Tebow.

To quote a blurb on her book jacket, Demi “strives to bring compassion to hurting people all over the world and be a voice for the voiceless victims of human trafficking.” She uses her forum as past Miss Universe to speak in many countries, about thirty now, I think. She has started an organization called Unbreakable which aims to educate and uplift the broken hearted of human trafficking, and she also assists her husband in work for Tim Tebow Foundation.

You will want to read Demi’s book, The Crown That Lasts, especially if you’re a girl between the ages of twelve and one hundred. Some portions are interactive, very good for someone who has experienced any kind of trauma. But anyone would enjoy reading Demi’s stories. Some of the headings include “Untangle Your Identity From Your Label,” “You Are Your Own CEO,” “Longing for Belonging,” and “Presence over Perfection.” You will love Demi’s style of writing as if she were talking to you in your cozy place.

You can find A Crown That Lasts at any bookstore. I purchased a copy from Rayann’s in Thomasville, Georgia.

Hurricane Helene–a week later

It’s been over a week since the Big Storm. But we’ll be talking about it for many years. For thousands, life will never be the same again. For some of us things turned out differently than expected.

It was to be the worst hurricane ever to hit Tallahassee, the strongest and the biggest. Our little town, Cairo, Georgia, is just north of Tallahassee so we, too, were right in the path of the storm. All day weather analysers warned us, prepared us, followed the storm as it wreaked havoc on Florida’s west coast. Our son and his wife in Birmingham begged us to come there to be safe but we opted to stay home. Family members in North Carolina and north Georgia as well as south Alabama expressed their concerns for us and said they were praying but we, though handicapped, stubbornly stuck to our plan. Charles got Jared to make sure the chain saw was working so, when we needed help cutting ourselves out from under fallen trees, there would be power. We made a safe place in our hallway with two chairs, pillows, blankets, and water.

Helene was a Category 3 by the time she made landfall near Alligator Point in Florida’s Big Bend area along what I call her armpit, just south of Tallahassee. By then reporters were saying there was a possibility the storm would turn and hit Valdosta, Georgia square on. That’s sixty miles east of us. From all predictions we were sure we would still receive major damage. We retreated to our safe place and started our wait, by turns praying and making jokes. The wind did roar but we heard no trees falling. Charles went to sleep in his chair. At 1:30 when all seemed safe, we went to bed.

Without internet, no television, and only spotty phone service, we didn’t know for days what damage Helene had caused. We rejoiced that we had been spared, started putting chairs back where they belonged, and prayed for those who’d been hit. Only Monday after the Thursday night storm did we begin to see television coverage: devastating images, houses floating down a river of mud and trees, folks standing in front of a pile of rubble that was once their home, and, worst of all, family members mourning loved ones lost in the flood.

I sat in front of the television and cried. The storm missed us but slammed its way up Georgia and into North Carolina, with arms of destruction reaching South Carolina and Tennessee. At the last report I heard, 220 adults and children have perished with the number climbing every day. Hundreds are still missing, some tucked back in remote little communities, cut off from communication, power, and water. One reporter said it could be weeks before they find everyone because some perished in a mudslide.

My niece Carol in Asheville, N.C., in reply to my text of concern for her, said that she and her husband Billy, who has Parkinsons, were safe from the storm, but huge trees were down all over the mountain and the French Broad River was flooding whole towns, homes, businesses, and all. She and Billy escaped after the storm to a hotel in Virginia.

We are inspired by the quick responses of Samaritan’s Purse, Georgia Disaster Relief, the Red Cross, and hundreds of individuals like our own Gary and Rhonda Keve, who have gone to work with their sleeves rolled up. Stories of heroism are coming out. One news reporter, in the midst of telling the news, suddenly became aware of a woman in her car sinking in the river. He left his mike behind and rushed to save her life.

I don’t know why the storm passed us by and slammed into other communities, many of which were unprepared. I don’t know why children drowned in floods or why grandmothers were crushed in their own homes. I only know to hold tightly to the hand of the One who completely understands our grief and promises to be with us through everything.

A John Trip

We would start out early. If you’re going on a day trip, grab every hour. A very usual beginning of a John trip was breakfast at McDonald’s. A widower for many years, my brother John always enjoyed having house guests, like my husband and me and two grandkids, in his large unusual apartment across from Piedmont College in Demorest, Georgia. But he made it plain that he didn’t cook, though none of us expected him to. He insisted on taking his guests to his reliable breakfast spot, McDonald’s.

A John trip didn’t always have the same itinerary. We family members who have experienced those escapades have compared notes and found there were several different routes. But he had certain places he particularly liked to show any of us who took his invitation and piled into his car. There was a narrow mountain road that was all curves, an unpaved road as I remember it. John never noticed how we ground our teeth and gasped wondering what would happen when we met a car on that incredibly narrow road. Somehow we never met anyone and John, who pointed out interesting views along the way, was totally comfortable with that road. My brother Charlie says the road is called Winding Stairs and it certainly is true to its name.

There was the Joyce Kilmer Forest, a beautiful wilderness dedicated to the World War I poet, the one who wrote “Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.” There was the cute little mountain restaurant in the tiny town of Batesville, Georgia where we had lunch one time. We drove on the road that was never finished. The road, a good wide one, leads you through a tunnel and then abruptly stops short of a lake. The road was being built during World War II but there was an urgent need for a lake right where the road was headed. The work was stopped in the middle of a woods. We were amazed at the manpower and skill that had been spent, only to be halted in the middle of nowhere.

And then there was the stretch of dry stone wall somewhere near Bryson City, North Carolina. I think we all were introduced at some time to the stone wall. John probably felt a strong pull to that wall because we grew up with a dry stone wall between our house and the pasture. The reason our dad built that wall was, I’m sure, because of his English heritage and because he had plenty of stones of all sizes and shapes. A dry wall, stones laid carefully with no mortar, is called a stanestack in Scotland. These charming walls may be seen all over Britain, dividing pastures dotted with sheep. The dry wall we saw, Charlie reminds me, was about a mile long. Built by pioneers and preserved until now, it is a treasure. Imagine all those stones staying where they were put maybe two hundred years ago with nothing to bind them!

Though I didn’t retain all the interesting facts John and Charlie have told me, I hold dear the camaraderie and family fun we had on those trips. When John’s daughter sent me this picture I was reminded poignantly of those good times. We stood in the spray of waterfalls, admired old mills, looked far down at the ribbon of river in Tallulah Gorge, exclaimed at wonderful mountain views and, nearly always, stopped at one of John’s favorite “C-stores,” as he called the convenience stores, for a coffee and crackers.

“Every day is a good day, though some seem to be better than others.” –Jo Petty

Dance of the Orange Butterflies

Often I stop on my walk to take in the beauty of a blue plumbago bush beside our driveway. Its azure color excites me and gives me a wonderful lift. But one day last week it was more than the plumbago bush I saw. Flitting from one blue cluster to another was a large orange butterfly with two bold black stripes spanning both wings. An absolutely stunning creature!

I stood and all but held my breath, enthralled. Then another matching butterfly joined the first one. They chased each other, air danced, tasted nectar for a split second and again circled blooms and each other, around and around, dancing just above the blue, blue blossoms.

I started to pull out my phone and take a picture but I didn’t want to miss one second of this beautiful performance. Was it possible I alone would see this fantastic show? It didn’t seem right. But Charles was too far away to call so I just stood rooted in place, leaning on my walker, watching the wonderful butterfly dance.

All too quickly they flew away and I started on around the driveway. Then, around a curve, there they were again, this time hovering over the butter-yellow lantana. They danced and sported and played as if they had an audience of hundreds in a great arena. I watched, spell bound, until they flew away.

When the children arrived after school, I asked Kaison to walk with me to see if the butterflies were back. But, though we saw black ones and orange ones, rusty colored moths, and even some blue butterflies with black markings, we never saw those orange butterflies with two bold black stripes. I’ve sought through butterfly identification charts for those special butterflies but the closest I’ve found is an orange butterfly with multiple black stripes, not just two. That one is called a “Banded Orange.”

We have not caught even a glimpse of those butterflies since that day. Since I didn’t take a picture until later when the butterflies were gone, I can’t prove what I saw. But I have the picture in my mind. It is incredible to me that the Maker of butterflies allowed me, all by myself, to see that fantastic show.

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all. –Cecil Frances Alexander

Loss of a Neighbor

We’ve lost one of our favorite neighbors. No more high squeals from the playground. No more lively announcements over the intercom. No more singing of the National Anthem at 8:10 every morning. No more yellow buses passing our mailbox or gravel crunching in a nearby parking lot.

Northside School is empty, silent, deserted at this time when, in the past, everyone would be back from summer vacation and the whole neighborhood could heave a sigh knowing “All’s right with the world.” The children and teachers have been reassigned to other schools. I know there are economic and other reasons for this change. But that doesn’t keep me from feeling sad over the loss of our neighbor.

I could tell what time of day it was by the bells and other sounds from Northside, whether excitement of starting a new day, high shouts of pure delight at recess, or the calling of names for dismissal in the afternoons. Now it’s as silent as a flag pole with no flag. Swings hang forlornly vacant. The brand new cafeteria has no bustle of preparation for lunch, no boisterous lines of kids, no kindly cooks and servers. Windows stare out at an empty parking lot.

If walls could talk, if desks could tell a story, if cubbies and pencil sharpeners and teachers’ lounge could tell their tales—imagine what stories of childhood grief, ecstatic victory, fear, comfort, pain, delight, and all the woes and pleasures of school life we might hear. I can almost hear the hum of hundreds of children deep into the routine of the day as I pass the school. I can feel the passion as students and teachers put their all into competitions like a spelling bee or a 50 yard dash on Field Day. I can feel the heart-pounding pride of teachers for students who didn’t just “make it” but who actually made huge improvements, who won those coveted honor awards.

I don’t know the history of Northside School but I know it was an established entity when my husband and I moved to Cairo in 1968. In the last ten years we have lived close by and could hear the take-in and dismissal bells. Some might not like an elementary school as a neighbor but we have loved it.

We can only wonder who our new neighbor might be. Beyond the woods and across the street a beautiful place waits for new occupants. Who/what will move into a dear old school building? According to this week’s Cairo Messenger the Help Agency will occupy the cafeteria while their new place is being prepared. It will be interesting to see who else fills the halls of Northside Elementary School.

Kramer’s Goodby

Some cats demand a lot of attention, like our Bertha who often jumps into my lap when I sit down on the porch. She isn’t satisfied just to sit. She wants a constant petting and gets jealous of anything that takes attention away from her, be it telephone, book, or conversation with someone else. But then there’s Kramer.

Kramer was one of a litter of four born to Sassy, a favorite cat who had worlds of spunk. Kramer did not take after his mother. To my knowledge he never caught anything. He was quite content to let other cats do the hunting while he took naps, ate his fill of tasty cat food, and occasionally deigned to sit in a human’s lap. He was an outside cat and had various cozy spots for spending his time–atop a refrigerator in the barn, in a box lined with an old towel in the carport, and sprawled out on the warm asphalt driveway in the late afternoon.

Julie, our daughter, took Kramer to her home as a kitten and was the one who named him. Then, before she died, she gave him back to us because she was afraid she would fall over him. Julie loved him dearly and always made a big fuss over him when she came to visit. But Kramer was aloof and independent even with her. He was a loner, needing no one, cat or otherwise.

Since Charles has retired, he likes to sit sometimes in a lawn chair to open the mail. Kramer sometimes came and climbed into his lap for a few minutes, then plopped down at Charles’ feet. He was still not much for being held unless it was his idea.

When we installed a magnetic screen on the porch door the cats came right through and sprang into whatever cushioned chair they wanted. But not Kramer. Aloof, almost arrogant Kramer would sit on the ramp and watch the other felines slide effortlessly through that screen but never made a move to push through himself. This went on for close to two years.

But about two weeks ago Kramer became a different cat. One morning I was startled to find Kramer sitting on the porch in a window sill. From then on he let himself in the screen, immediately climbed into Charles’ lap or, if his wasn’t available, mine. When neither of us was on the porch he lay on the smooth surface of a little old school desk near the door. He had very little to do with the other cats and maybe chose that desk because they didn’t ever lie there.

Though he was still eating regularly, Kramer had lost weight until he was skeletal. Charles gave him shots to build him up but we told each other Kramer, at fifteen, was “on his way out.” I sometimes called him Old Gentleman when I saw him working his way toward the porch.

Then one morning Kramer didn’t show up. The little desk was empty. No Kramer at the feeding bowl. For forty-eight hours we didn’t see him even though we hunted in all likely and unlikely places. We had given up on him when suddenly he appeared, ready to eat, though haggard and pitiful.

Kramer climbed into our laps, let us each pet him and talk to him. Then he slid down, crept out that screen door and hasn’t been seen since. We think he came that day to tell us goodby. Significantly to me, it was the day before the anniversary of Julie’s death, August 18, 2012.

As for all our pets when they pass, we have a spot for Kramer’s grave right beside his mama, Sassy, at the end of a row of citrus trees. But we’ll have no grave for Kramer. Just many memories of a quiet cat who asked little but was very loved for who he was.

Safe Haven

Hurricane Debby treated so many folks horribly. Lives were lost, homes destroyed. But for us in Cairo, Georgia, though schools were closed, it turned out to be just a very windy, rainy day. We actually sat on the porch and watched the fascinating movement of the wind in the trees, especially the reeds. Charles said the restless tumbling of the massive reed bank reminded him of ocean waves, never still, never satisfied. We prayed for those in danger. When the rain was heavy, I wondered where the birds were huddled. One safe haven for them is that bank of thick reeds.

Routinely, I walk beside the bamboo “wall” several times a day. The wall is four or five feet through dense growth to the neighbor’s yard on the other side. I imagine how hard it would be to cut one’s way through such a barrier, as pioneers must have done. It would take a machete, a lot of muscle, and nerve to keep whacking those tough, unforgiving reeds while not knowing when you might come to a clearing. But we only have to cut the reeds that encroach on the driveway, or the ones knocked over in a storm. It is a constant chore for Charles and his yard man since the reeds creep out so quickly. Spears of tender new growth pop up almost overnight, ready to imitate Jack’s beanstalk.

Walking along the bamboo stretch, I often hear rustles and chirping. The reed growth is so thick I can’t usually see any little creatures but I can hear them. Sometimes I see birds take a diving flight into the wonderful ecology of the bamboo hedge. Sometimes I’m sure I hear a squirrel scruffing around and I’ve seen them dashing into the safe haven. There would hardly be room for an armadillo or a possum or even a grown rabbit because the reeds are knit so tightly together. But tiny things have a world of their own amongst the reeds. Lizards, turtles, sparrows, mockingbirds and–well, yes, snakes. I did see one long oak snake slithering out of the density one day.

A safe haven. That’s what the reeds are for the birds and other little critters. They can fly or crawl into their tiny spaces and peer out at the rest of the world without being detected. They can weave their way amongst the bamboo stalks with no fear. The only enemy they have to face is the very occasional snake.

I sometimes am envious of those little critters who can retreat into perfect safety. But then I realize this great truth: We can’t hide in a bamboo hedge but we can trust our wonderful Redeemer through whatever life throws us.

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Psalms 91:1-2