In the mountains of east Tennessee and a bit of snow has
fallen. A line of deer gently winds
through the woods. The Bensons are
gathering from all the hills and hollers like some ancient tribe being called
together by blood and toil for a family rite.
The old ones hobbling the young scampering. It is a satisfying thing to be in an ancient
clan, many called home but the tree full of new ones. The Bensons are gathering and the great joy
of it all is “where two or more are gathered in My name…” The hills are coming alive with rustling
woods as The Great Ancient is on the move.
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