Places matter to us and what happened there. I know one family of you spent time in Scotland, a place I can picture. Another of you have summered in Bend, Oregon, maybe not as exciting except for a just walking granddaughter. On the over the top list is the group who went to the Oberammergau Passion Play, a memory of traveling some of us share. My addition to the list is four days in New York, exciting enough to give worth, as well as an escape moment, to Houston in July 2022.

The decision to be in New York came slowly over the spring. I know Winslow Homer as an American artist and like his work on New England seascapes that depict foaming surf and windy beaches so that the smell of salty air is almost real. The MFA mounted an exhibit of his work this summer. I kept clipping articles on the offering and sending them to middle son until it seemed almost imperative to say, “We need to go!” We chose a time and he became a trip organizer. He planned how to get there and also printed out all background material from MFA. We felt we had taken the course Art 101 in Homer.

Tied into the trip were a visit with long time friends in Hoboken who provided some transportation and a meal. You read last week about Central Park time. Add to that hitting gongs in the Reuben, an offering of Himalayan art, and a spontaneous visit to an art studio in Chelsea.

First and foremost was the MFA at 9:00 on Thursday morning. The second floor entrance was constructed to frame The Gulf Stream, the centerpiece of the exhibit. Doug had written to the curators to tell how helpful their presentations had been, and they came down to offer some more background about various pictures. For almost three hours we moved slowly among paintings, savoring how each was unique yet all alike. To be the creators of these was not our gift, yet they gave to us another of the blessings that God offers through individuality.

⁶ “And I, indeed I, have appointed with him Aholiab the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan; and I have put wisdom in the hearts of all the gifted artisans, that they may make all that I have commanded you: 

Exodus 31:6

Feeling that we were ending our time of quarantine, middle son and I made a four-day trip to New York City last week. Reasons for going and many delights will be shared in weeks ahead. For now, the memory of a large three pane window presenting a iconic view of New York City is all that is needed to define a worthwhile visit.

The door to 3502 was pushed back and the window to the world on the far wall revealed a grand expanse of green bordered on three edges by buildings of various heights, widths, and roof shapes. I knew the name Central Park and had never viewed 834 acres laid out in its entirety. Over the four days, I learned the area was originally a rocky swampy useless plot laboriously transformed to compete with parks of European cities. It’s development included blasting out “rocky ridges with more gunpower than was later fired at the Battle of Gettysburg.” -a quote from the history web site. The lake I enjoyed across the street from the hotel was once a mosquito hotel while another water feature to the east is now a skating rink in the winter. Politics, of course, played a large part in relocating some poorer families who lived in the area in the beginning and in deciding who would be able to use the park as it improved. Statistics say 42 million people, that includes me, visit the park in a year. Pedestrian roads that peek through the tree openings reveal skaters, bikers, walkers, and carriages moving on their own trails while designated vehicle roads transverse other areas.

This vision became mine on Friday morning. After Houston heat, walking into a tree shaded area of 85 degrees and a hair rustling breeze, was an unimaginable gift. Lawns weren’t opened for sitting or sunbathing until 8:00, so we moved at our unobstructed pace up a gentle incline and over a rock bridge. We passed a man who had spread crumbs over the front of his shirt and pants legs and didn’t seem to mind the gathering of pigeons using him as a breakfast bar. Thanks to the “Come see,” cries of two young boys we watched a box turtle begin the hole to lay her eggs. Then we circled around past the ice skating rink of another season which the night before had flashed neon lights and disco music. As we left to re-enter a busy street, I patted the nose of a horse waiting to begin his day’s work. Maybe Central Park doesn’t solve all the needs of the city any more that the same action was everything the writer of Ecclesiastes needed, but for that day, its being nourished my soul.

⁵ I made gardens and parks and planted all kinds of fruit trees in them. 

Ecclesiastes 2:5

If salesmen (never saleswomen), jokes exist. Sometimes there is a visual description: sleeves rolled up two turns, a half-loose tie, at worst, a cigar about to drop an ash. The bottom of the barrel is to live on cold calls, the original robocalls of the cell phone where callers hope they can get past, ” I’m _______ from __________and your _____________ is about to expire,” before a door is closed or a phone hung up.

I have a son who has made a living in various types of selling from cars to condos and that is a whole nother ball game of skill and professionalism. He is one of the more successful ones of any offering who has a list of clients who call him instead of the always hustling up buyers. My experience in the field of just getting up and striking out left me knowing I would rather roll over, pull up the covers and eat stale crackers. I tried selling World Books one summer when teacher salaries only covered the nine months actually producing. I came through, yet unscathed is not the descriptive word. Whenever it is time for a “letmetellya” statement to a crowd in front, my heart beats and my mouth get dry.

That reaction was true this Tuesday morning. A totally unthreatening situation of reading some of my blogs was to be the offering at our twice a month gathering of church members of a certain age. We shared life experiences and I looked forward to a moment of fame. Then the sweater started to unravel. A respected member of the work staff died and those who would be my backup were called to be support elsewhere. Part of the group I had counted on to be a cheering squad went to the funeral. Near starting time only 15 game playing early comers were in the room. Not heavy sweating, but a healthy glow built up. Then the cavalry started to arrive, finding chairs and facing in my direction. I took a deep breath, called up a smile, and created what I hoped was a welcoming beginning. A slight chuckle called up another. The listeners became one with me. I sold the morning. Whew!

He will yet fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy.

Job 8:21

True for about some percentage of readers. For others it may be named Me Time or even I Made the Choice. The title came from a comment made by a woman of a certain age on the 4th of July gathering. Not me, and she will remain nameless. That phrase resonated. In the way of wandering conversations, we were discussing favorite brands of peanut butter and the recall of certain jars of Skippy. Said person announced that at times she only ate lunch at the retirement dining hall and at night piled in bed with a spoon, a jar of Skippy’s on one side and a jar of grape jelly on the other, alternating spoonfuls. Sudden silence and a circle of disbelieving faces turned toward her. She straightened her shoulders, “I live alone!. I do keep an extra clean jar in case I have company.” The reasoning was perfect.

Another maybe cliche is ,”You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.” Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. It just means YOU organize time the outsider doesn’t have to know. In thinking about this, I went back to 1973 when our youngest was five and I was 37. For nine years, I had planned doing and sharing around three various young ages plus a husband That September, I took that last one to the first day of kindergarten. There was no clinging on her part, and I was there mainly to fill out papers. Some young mothers and unsure children were in tears or at least encouraging one another. One younger woman said to me, “What will you do now?” Very truthfully I replied,, “I’m going home, sit at the kitchen table, take out a cold bottled Coke, pour in a package of salty peanuts, and enjoy it all by myself!”

All of this I thought of as I moved this day forward, making a list and rearranging. I could write in advance of two happenings next week. They probably will be more interesting after the fact. The garbage had to go out and who takes if not me. I can count the back and forth as steps for the day. Then it was to wash sheets day with the anticipation of clean ones tonight. While the machine made its familiar noise, I sat uninterrupted in the rocking chair with coffee while praying over what had come and what I hoped would be. Finally, here I am, breakfasted and ready to be alone and satisfied with a day. Whether a group of one or of five, may you find your Coke moment, remembering never alone is always our statement.

Every day the Lord Himself is near me, With a special mercy for each hour; All my cares He fain would bear and cheer me, He whose name is Counsellor and Pow’r. The protection of His child and treasure Is a charge that on Himself He laid; “As thy days, thy strength shall be in measure,” This the pledge to me He made. Day by Day

Sometimes I write just for me to see if I can tell this story. If you’ve followed however many weeks, you know choosing to be a Christian is a part of me. Last week I ran into a Bible verse I never knew was there. What I think it means could be important to anyone, so here goes. Last week 4 year olds through 4th grades had a music camp and gave a production of Paul and the Shipwreck. My job was to come each afternoon and offer some spiritual thought other than wearing a Roman helmet and carrying a sword or being an angel on a stormy night. The first day was background as to why Paul was on a ship and the telling took some navigating through what they thought they knew.

Me: Paul was just 24 when he first knew about Jesus preaching. Boy: My brother is 23. He already knows about Jesus. Me: Paul held coats for the people who stoned Stephen. Group: Did he bleed a lot? I got hit by a baseball bat and it bled..and it hurt. Me. God got Paul’s attention with a bright light. An argument: Didn’t he know not to look at the sun without dark glasses? Aw, I could stare at the sun. That’s not hard. Slowly and surely, we got to the reason for a sea voyage and a 14 day storm. After that, I just had ten minute comments to hopefully guide a regroup each afternoon.

Then Thursday morning, I read Acts 27:24. The angel said, “Do not be afraid, Paul. You must go on trial in front of Caesar. God has shown his grace by sparing the lives of all those sailing with you.” Never had I thought of that. At sometime, I or you, may be on a special journey. It may even be difficult or dangerous. We will complete it. AND by grace those who are close to us on the fringe will be cared for also. Or turn it around. Maybe you or I are not the important one, but we are part of the crowd that survives in order to keep someone else safe. Turn the words over and think about them. Chosen for a purpose or just rowing the boat.

“Continue to be brave.” Acts 27:25

Tales from the Bermuda Triangle are vague and unclear. Disappearances in the Devil’s Triangle have never been proved true, yet neither are they totally false. That is not the case, especially for the Smith family, for examples of delayed overnight suitcases in the Denver Hub. Denver is a touch ground and take off airport from all points of the compass and many times the margin of connecting with both passenger and baggage transfer does not match. It happens often enough that Baggage Claim has a routine in place to quickly identify the not available item, a system for sending it on its way the next day, and a local at various points who makes a living collecting and delivering said items.

We Houston Smiths became aware of the process ten years ago. A private plane slid on an icy runway delaying a turnaround flight from Hayden, Colorado. I was able to start a pick-up rescue from our son, and I managed to have baggage pulled and held for his arrival. However, when Son Number 1 came, only one bag was available. The other had been sent to Dallas. Two relatives said, “No worry.” By tomorrow, it will be sent back, routed to Hayden, and delivered to Steamboat by the rescuing local they knew by name. And all was as said.

This past Wednesday I went to Steamboat for a first time visit in four years. One bag was unclaimed at the end of pickup, but it wasn’t mine. Plug in the system. All will be well by Thursday afternoon. The d-i-l provided toothbrush and sleepwear. Because it is Colorado, no one even noticed my attire, much less passed judgement. I revelled in cooler weather, had a birthday supper, and went to a local production of an opera. Sunday was a late turn around leaving for Denver. Can you guess what happened? A speedy wheelchair pusher helped me make the plane. My bag had no such luck.

Some necessary items were in my home stash. However, I had packed chargers for electronics, as well as all notes and plans for a presentation on Paul’s shipwreck to thirty children Monday afternoon. I decided that being without a suitcase was better than being crashed on rocks in freezing water and a good night’s sleep would restore equilibrium. Even though I had a most apologetic email from the airline, the item won’t be here until tomorrow.(Wednesday in the week being lived.) I charged my phone at the church while I presented. The story had enough drama and danger plus the addition of a snake to hold attention. Along with an admonition not to worry about food and raiment, the last verse of Matthew 6 sums it up succinctly.

Each day has enough trouble of its own. Matthew 6:34 b

Somewhere out there is a person who has moved through life always reading directions and following rules. They may have lived a complete and satisfactory existence for themselves, yet I wonder what would have happened if they had thought through solutions and had just forged ahead. I don’t want to be a 100% breaker. Neither am I a 100% keeper. My most recent up short moment was the side of a ballpoint pen I was using. In very small print on the side are two directives. First, remove the tip protector before using. I vaguely remember that plastic blob that I had squeezed before the first use. Second, Always retract tip after use. That throws me smack into the rule breaker category. Maybe it is followed before I put in a purse. Also though, the pen can lie on a table for weeks unretracted and ready for instant use. If my husband had known that was a rule, he would have had shirts without ink stains along the bottom of his pockets.

Start watching around you. An interesting one is on the bottom of doors to various stores. This door is to remain unlocked during business hours. If this wasn’t said, would some owner suddenly decide he wanted to keep all customers in until a profit level was reached. He could lock the door and deliver a spending ultimatum. Form a line to the right with your packages and receipts for your purchases. Sam’s Club has already perfected the exit technique. A woman with a black grease pencil compares the sales slip with items in the basket and makes a squiggle down the middle of the slip. Then and only then you may exit toward your car.

Somewhere in the middle of this one, I realized I was boxing myself in. There is no way that some of the edicts of 2022 will be tied to a Bible verse. Since I am already in paragraph three I just have to soldier on. My favorite strong suggestion is outside every elevator. In case of fire, use the stairs. With flames leaping around you, why would you choose to close yourself in a box that could easily become an oven with you as the turkey? Be forever thankful to the person who offered you an option.

I hope you had a chuckle at one of these or maybe realized you could refrain from creating one of your own when a spoonful of common sense is all that would be required. Consider this and hum the second verse of one of my favorite hymns.

“Be Thou my wisdom, be Thou my true word.”

The world wants more contact with me than I want with it. A good part of what comes to me technically or newspaper (I still get one to go with morning coffee) is about protecting my privacy. Just ran a search, ( and that in itself may be dangerous,) and found lists of 7 best apps and 10 best apps to download for safety. Some I would have to pay for on a sliding scale. Others would be free, yet reviews say those sites lack the filtering that subscription sites have. I’m not sure how it works, but I was attracted by the name for an alternate search engine GODUCKGO, guaranteeing to limit information about me that could be gleaned when I used a site. The phrase I really took to heart about its effectiveness was “you’re essentially tracking who’s trying to track you.” Will it damage my self image if I learn nobody is really interested in my interests?

Maybe because of a lifetime of listening to various age children trying to con me into something, I am fairly savvy about the letter from the nun in Africa held hostage by the Chinese and send money or else. The ones that I always run by my very alert daughter- in-law are the e-mails on Amazon like stationery saying my account has been hacked, and it is closed down until I go through a special number and process to be reinstated. She takes one glance and declares it a scam because Amazon would never put that extra squiggle at the end of line two.

The habit is for me to write down a number if I make a call to a service or medical person who will need to call back. If you aren’t in my address book and really are a long lost cousin from Wyoming, the digits without a name doesn’t get an answer. Real people and robots both get the off button pushed if their opening sentence is, ” Mrs. Smith, how are you today.”

In spite of dire warnings, you who are part of my Thursday output are safe. The list of followers are mostly by e-mails, and I really don’t know you are there unless something catches your fancy and you reply. One unknown from California and one from Singapore have just sent a Like without requiring any response from me. I have just left them in anonymous status which suits them and me. So far, I have had enough wisdom or good sense or a questioning mind to avoid a snare. In this world I open e-mails for pictures great-greats who live afar, and I visit with voices I know that are more than a short drive away. I have no desire to lose contact with the world. I just want the right protection when it’s needed.

My prayer is not that you take them out of the world, but that you protect them from the evil one.

John 17:15

How is it that wee ones still know the sounds trains make though they may never have been to a train station much less taken a ride? A headline in the mostly ads weekly throw away for the neighborhood opened not a story but a series of snapshots of trains in my life. In Bellaire, the suburb/city of Houston, trains may not blow whistles during the night and disturb the sleep of residents. Trains of my first two decades were the second most available transportation after cars and four lines cut through Hammond to cover all points on the compass. One of my earliest memories is to turn over in the night, barely note that “lonesome whistle blowing,” and drift back to sleep thinking all was right in the world.

Like turning a page in a photo album, train memories are a little jumble. Maybe the station itself is a good place to start. A sturdy brick oblong building long enough to have a ticket office, an area for sitting, restrooms, and at one end an eatery that may have been the Whataburger of the time. Our house was at the foot of Charles Street which dead ended into the depot several blocks up. We could walk down on a Friday night for the rare treat of a bought hamburger. There were three tables with ice cream parlor chairs and everyone else sat at the counter.

Most trains rides were to New Orleans for shopping trips. Twice a year, Mother and I would catch the City of New Orleans at 9:00 a.m. coming south after its overnight run from Chicago. She always wore a hat and white gloves. Usually some other mother/daughter were available for visiting on the way over the lake and through the swamp. We shopped our way from Union Station down Canal Street, had lunch at Morrison’s Cafeteria, and were back to catch the 5:00 heading north to Chicago.

Riding trains taught me how to travel independently. My birth dad had a church in Marietta, Arkansas, and in Springdale, Arkansas. By the time I was ten, I was sent on my two week summer visit alone. I don’t remember having a name tag or being assigned to any helper. A porter helped put my suitcase overhead. Mother provided me with two new comic books, a library book,and a lunch with two sandwiches in case someone turned up who was hungry. When the call was made for Memphis or Siloam Springs, I gathered my belongings and disembarked. Someone I knew was always standing right there to hug and welcome me.

I tried to give our sons the thrill of the ride. I put a five and four year old on a local at the same depot I knew. My daddy left ahead of time to be in Ponchatoula to pick them up. They were already the generation of airplanes and the train in Hermann Park may have been as exciting for them. For me, it was their rite of passage. These reminiscences have been longer than most, and some of you know I have left out David stories with railroad passes and a bell business. Maybe the only good comment about Mussolini is, “He made the trains run on time.” My train lesson is you need to have a ticket and be ready to go when the train comes along.

Whenever the cloud lifted above the tent, the Israelites set out. At the Lord’s command, they set out.

Numbers 9:18,23

The metaphor is “Life is a journey”. Unless you make it a simile, “Life is like a journey.” If you haven’t clicked delete already, the like provides you with reasons while the flat metaphor allows you to make up your own. A journey can move quickly and smoothly down I 10 to the right exit for a destination or a rest stop. Secondary roads can provide the scenic route or take you out of traffic jams. Dirt roads are adventures or total confusion, and you’d better have a vehicle equal to the requirements for either. Once we were vacationing at Rainbow Trout Lodge with verbal directions, took an unmarked left instead of unmarked right, and the way ended when only trees were ahead of us. Thank goodness for reverse and try again.

All of us have road blocks. A big one now is quarantine and pandemic. A child throws up just as family is ready for church. The cat eats the turkey sitting on the counter. (Another true story). Life happenings of a new baby or a death. Next step is check the gas gauge, pass out emergency rations (always leave home prepared), and then see what turning around requires.

My life this week is not a full stop, yet definitely a haven’t been here before place. For the first time since I was 17 and had a 4/5 choir in a small Baptist church, I have only a 2 minute sermon to prepare for a 1st and 2nd grade church service, a task I can do as I fall asleep on Saturday night. One at a time I have passed points that were highlighted on my map of life. Three retirements finally put on end to planning classroom presentations, activities, and tests. I made it to tutoring which put me face to face with a child and able to chart growth until masks and certification erased that option. I still had a 1st grade SS class to create and direct. Like one of those detours, a schedule necessity closed that road. This week, I am adjusting. I’ll make two minutes be as good as I can, eat cookies, and see if another town close by offers any other attractions. Who knows, I may become a Master Gardener.

Forget about what is happening. Don’t keep going over old history. Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand new!

Isaiah 43: 18-19 The Message