We’ve all heard the expressions, “Well, bless his heart,” or “Bless her little heart,” and might have even felt a twinge of the “warmfuzzies” upon hearing it used. Depending on which part of the country you hear it proclaimed, it most definitely conveys a different message than that of evoking God’s blessing upon the intended recipient.
I’m most familiar with its meaning, here in the Ozark Mountains, and have witnessed its use on three different occasions in the past month.
For the past three years, our family has started a new Christmas tradition by meeting at a nice cabin in a very remote part of Northwest Arkansas for a weekend of carefree isolation. The rustic cabins are owned by individuals, but are managed for rent during the times the owners are away at their real homes. The manager, a very nice lady who happens to own several poultry houses and cattle in the area, is always a joy to deal with. Upon checkin this year, however, she said that she would have to follow us down to our cabin to make sure the new entrance gate was working properly and instruct us on its use.
Two miles deeper into the already isolated wilderness, she stopped her vehicle at a magnificent entryway with huge stone constructed pillars and a heavy metal gate that was operated by a mobile device that had to be programmed into a small computer, which then instructed a hydraulic cylinder to open and close the monstrous gate.
The petite, chicken farmer stated, “The owner, bless her heart, is from California, and she thinks this gate will cut down on the trespassing and theft that occurs here from time to time.”
As I looked, admiringly, at the gate and its stone pillars, I couldn’t help but notice that the structure was not attached to any fence and there was no fence that surrounded the property of the cabin.
“Is the owner going to construct a fence as her next project?” I asked the manager.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she replied. “She just wanted the gate to keep out unwanted visitors.”
Envisioning that anyone who wanted to enter the property would only have to drive some 20 feet off the road to easily get around the gate and its pillars, I said, “Well, bless her heart.”
After spending a wonderful and relaxing weekend at the retreat, free from cell phone calls, emails and farm chores, we loaded up the two vehicles and reluctantly headed back toward civilization, exiting one last time through that beautiful gate. Before we reached the paved road, however, we had to come to a stop, because the road was blocked by a pickup truck and stock trailer, which was angled completely across the one lane, dirt access, while an elderly couple was attempting to coax two bulls into the back of the trailer, using only a 6-foot cattle panel and a bucket of feed.
Quietly, I got out of the car and slowly walked towards the farm couple. “Can I be of any help?” I politely offered.
“Thanks, but we’ve just about got ‘em, and we’ll be out of your way in a few more minutes.”
Sensing they thought I was some city-slicker who would probably foil their effort, I stated, “I’m a cattleman from up in Missouri, so I know how to handle livestock.”
“Well, bless your heart, son, but you may not know how we handle them down here.”
Bless MY heart?
