It is Wednesday afternoon and I went in to publish what I carefully wrote Monday. Surely I had saved those words, but not so. This is not a well-written rerun. More a sand between your toes walk on the beach. Those shells we strolled and collected at one time housed a nebulous sea animal. By the time we gathered the housing, the creature had already dried up and disappeared, only leaving, as Oliver Wendell Holmes poetically said, “thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!” Just abandoned on the beach.

I always wanted to truly find one of the large conch shells to hold to my ear and hear the song of the sea it had captured. That never happened. Scollops or mollusk shells, the semi-circular fan shaped ones, are the easiest to find unbroken. They are usually bleached white or stained a dirty brown. Some shells are named by their shape like the Turk’s cap which could be a headpiece for an Islamic man or the auger, twisted to have a purpose in a tool box. Sand dollars are special if found before they are cracked. Throw in a few shark’s teeth and you can have a summer display.

This is the summer I have the feelings of the small creature. I need the protective layer of a shell to keep the world at bay. Amazingly, as I manage to grow in spite of, I can claim a useful adaptation of a real shell. The growth occurs at the leading edge and the beginnings can be sealed off to give room to move ahead. Whatever pattern is formed is distinctively mine. Who knows, I may be a collectible someday.

So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, 

Genesis 1:21

Caring for zoo animals in Phoenix involves watering the turtles. Street surfaces are so hot in some places of Arizona that falling and lying on a surface can result in third degree burns. While Houston’s days may say 99 degrees, the weight of humidity raises the “feels like” possibility to over 100. Is it any wonder we envision stretches of polar ice? Global warming is not my climate change of choice. I have lived in days of no ac, drawing the blinds and sitting under an oscillating fan. One trip to England in summer offered only one small cube of ice that melted as I watched.

The rich and famous of the early Egyptians and Romans had means of gathering snow and preserving it in vaults near mountains for a cooling moment. Real progress in ice availability goes to the entrepreneurship of New Englander Fredric Tudor beginning in the early 1800’s. Over decades and financial failures and successes, he became a millionaire harvesting ice from various ponds and shipping it to far away places. He learned to pack it tightly and cover it with sawdust. (Yes, really!) Though progress required time in debtor’s prison, his ultimate success was shipping 180 T of ice for four months over 16,000 miles to India. 80 T survived the trip and made a profit. Tudor had the market cornered until the arrival of electricity and make your own ice at home.

Ice became a defining element in wise sayings. What you know is just the tip of the iceberg. That deal sounds risky, like walking on thin ice. Be on your guard talking to him; he can sell ice to an Eskimo. To break the ice I need to find a topic that interests everyone. Create a survival attitude by pouring a tall glass of iced tea, the Southern solution to hot days. I’m adding a memory of snow on my front yard and having to cover plants for protection. I really didn’t want that time to last very long either. In the larger picture, balance these two verses and look forward to the Autumnal Equinox.

As heat and drought snatch away the melted snow – Job 24:19

For as long as Earth lasts,
    planting and harvest, cold and heat,
Summer and winter, day and night
    will never stop.” Genesis 8:22

Every strength has a vocabulary special to its needs from cooking to investing to open heart surgery. I came to tangentially as a cocky second semester freshman. I went to college knowing I was strong in science and math as much as was offered in high school in 1950. I thought a good fit would be a lab technician. The first math required I took in summer school was a snap, and I chose to venture into deeper waters and signed up for Trigonometry for the fall semester. As the saying goes, “How the mighty has fallen.” In a class of all engineering males wearing wooden slide rules, I was one of two females and the other had her own slide rule and was also on the engineering track. I was not attractive enough to call on boy friend help and solid understanding seemed just out of reach. I did make a B along with a life changing decision that this path was not the best choice for me.

One more saying, “It’s an ill wind that blows no good” From that four months I learned how to back out of a parking place at an angle, turning enough to tangentially make an arc that misses the car next to me. A true tangent just touches: my tangents just miss and that is its own blessing.

Yes, deep intersections count in relationships, yet being near by for the moment needed yields results not always known until after the moment passes. I have taught children who passed though almost as shadows only to meet as adults and have them say, “Do you remember when we wrote Holiday Memories and posted them on our lockers?” I’ve had a basket of groceries and noticed the young mother balancing a baby and only one package of diapers standing behind me. In a slight peripheral moment, i’ve waved her ahead of me. The open smile she offered with a true thank you kept brightening an unfolding day for me. Time and effort is not always available to be a large scale caring action. Amazingly, the card written or the short phone contact defines a brush of air as a just right contact. Offer what you can tangentially. What you do may alter the trajectory of the future.

So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone

Galatians 6:10

Male or female, out in the world professional or stay at home whatever, aged or 8th grader, if you missed being in a pre-school choir, you don’t have motion songs to call on for pop-up occasions. Last Thursday, my power went out as it is want to do for the 67 houses on our grid. While waiting on Center Point to do its magic of restoration, I unplugged devices that would be in danger from a sudden surge, started supper on my gas stove, and waited for light.

Friday morning I replugged and remembered that I hadn’t turned off the garage apartment ac. I couldn’t get a cooler number to come up, only the letters LC. No one was suffering without that cool and across Houston serious emergencies existed with ac problems. The technical son used his talent and said the LC stood for Low Coolant. I am on first name basis with the company I needed. The whole situation went on hold until Monday.

Bright and early, I explained what I needed to Monica (I told you first name basis). She said turn off the unit to be sure it was unfrozen and the service man would come Tuesday – you know the next sentence – between 8 – 12. Though thankfully it was a step forward, that meant I was tethered. No going out, no away from phone, no making a soufflé. My four year old choir sang, “What do you do on a rainy day when you can’t go out to play? ” You march, tip-toe, stomp, skip ( not very well), play a drum, bang a cymbal, or snap your fingers.

So, to the background music I filled in the morning. 8:00 Sarah was coming with croissants for a visit. That was a pleasant start. 9:00 I put on a pot of beans and set the timer so they wouldn’t cook dry while I forgot about them. Clothes could wash while the pot boiled. 10:00 Clothes in the drier and then put away and a few encouraging notes for the afternoon postal person under the umbrella to collect. 11:00 A blog needs to be written and this is an immediate topic. 11:45 Tension! Should I call to reschedule? Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock. 12:17. Marshall appeared and went straight back. You don’t need the whole sequence. Just know the sentence was, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.” All I had to do was make the plan for activity while I couldn’t go out to play.

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.

Proverbs 16:9

Either by genetic disposition or maternal training I am a morning person. For the first part, I just seem to wake up and feel ready to get up. For the second part, our house marched from front door through living room, dining room, and ended in a perpendicular kitchen across the back. The other half of the house was two bedrooms, a bath, and a sleeping porch. When one came in the front door, an unmade bed or a sleeping teenager was immediately visible, and heaven forbid that either should be noted by friend or stranger. Factor in that those early hours were probably the best of South Louisiana in summer. Humidity hadn’t kicked in, and to quote a line from a book I am reading, “darkness was beginning to lighten with a touch of pearl as morning broke.”

With this as a backstory, I have spent my life training to live alone until about 8:00. Morning chores were much as yours are now. Some days I had to make starch (look it up on the internet) and put clothes mother had already washed on the line. Though the years there was always breakfast and organizing what needed to go to school as a student or a teacher. Once dressed and out in the world, choices seemed to vanish under what life required.

Now, it is pure pleasure that mornings are mine. Remember last week’s Rutina? I am in charge. Push the start on the coffee pot and peel a banana. Walk out to get the paper. Sit at the computer and do the NYT Mini Puzzle (not Wordle). I learn words like torus as the shape for a donut. Pour coffee and settle in my rocking chair with needs for being close at hand like a child with favorite toys. A list gives purpose to the day ahead even if rearranged during coming hours. I pray over what is coming and remind myself what day it is by name and date. The coffee cup is drained. Objects are restacked. I stand up and stretch. Today is at hand and tomorrow awaits.

A new day will dawn on us from above because our God is loving and merciful.

Luke 1:78

To help you, this is a Spanish noun cognate for our English term routine. The well of relationship can be dug to be as deep as you have time and interest for a variety of words. Cognate itself comes from the Latin cognates which means blood relative. I chose rutina as a basis for the way Spanish is part of my routine of survival in a hot, dry summer of 2023.

Routine can be a fence that protects when life presses in or it can be the path we can follow when unsure or confused. For understanding how Spanish came to be that for me, start with the choice of an opinionated teenager in the early 1950’s. Remember, a group of 18 of us moved lockstep through high school mostly in the same classes. We were all exposed to Spanish I and II. I liked neither the language nor the teacher. For some reason the structure never made sense to me, so the grades messed up what was an easy more than acceptable average across the board. The low point for me was translating rio as I laugh instead of a flowing body of water. Onward to college. I tried three weeks of French til I realized I was too visual to manage a language that didn’t match sound and sight, and I was glad English was mostly an acceptable choice!

Time marches on. In Houston, I taught in Spanish neighborhoods and picked up vocabulary if not grammar. I married into the geography of El Paso and my husband, while not proficient in structure, loved the cadence of sentences and the culture they represented. Then for fifteen years I traveled at least once a year to Lima, Peru, to make sandwiches for a mission trip. My first competent sentence was “Dónde está el baño?” in the airport at midnight. In January , 2013, I started Duolingo. I now read fairly well, understand the structure of tenses, and still have difficulty with inserting que, de, a, al, del in proper places. Yet 10 years and much maturity since age 18, it is a pleasant requirement of each day to sit and do a lesson, a rutina that defines time and challenges my brain, and nourishes my soul. Es bueno!

Hechos 2:6 Y al ocurrir este estruendo, la multitud se juntó; y estaban desconcertados porque cada uno los oía hablar en su propia lengua.

Acts 2:6 When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment because each one heard their own language being spoken.

Sometimes I just have to see if what crossed my mind can be laid out. I hope that before the end, this connects with any out there who read, even if it is just the verse at the end. If not, click close and know Charis is saying, “This one is for me!” My birthday is June 17 and as the world turns it meshes at times with the other June occasion, Father’s Day. I’ve lived long enough and had contact with various family mixes from blood lines to school families to know ties in relationships don’t always match. While fathers are necessary to being, I have friends who almost shudder at the term. Yet fathering has an underlying meaning regardless of personal experience just as shepherding denotes care even for those who have never patted a wooly four-footed creature.

I was shaped and raised by two daddies. (A co-teacher from Michigan asked, “What is it with you southern girls and your Daddy?) To be a daddy’s girl is a safe and loving place to be. A birth dad gave me to a family that wanted a child and both cared for me enough to make an almost dual relationship work. My adopted daddy was the lode star of my life. One, he loved all children and delighted them by making them a part of whatever he was doing, so a life skill just seemed like the natural thing to do. I can take apart my sewing machine and put it back together because I was seated at a table and taught to do it. Part of any skill I have in speaking is because he put me in front of groups to explain or tell. I learned the lasting advantage of teaching by seeing him welcome gangly college boys who came to visit Mr. Joe and tell where their life was at that time. He looked at report cards and came to concerts and affirmed by saying, “Now that was just fine.”

Go back to the title. Even as I cherished this day and who it represented to me, a different person may be the support of another life. Single moms do amazing things. An elderly next door neighbor may provide listening ears and teach coping skills. Aunts and uncles can be mentors simple because they don’t have to feel guilty if their advice isn’t followed. A teacher opens the door to following new adventures that didn’t seem possible. So maybe these words led you to look back to last Sunday to remember, or reconnect, or mostly be thankful for that person, whatever you called them, who helped shape you to be what you are today. And underneath were the everlasting arms.

 “Yet, Lord, you are our father; we are the clay and you our potter: we are all the work of your hand.”

Isaiah 64:7

This is birthday week and like a first grader waiting for a cupcake treat at school, I can’t ignore the excitement of the approach of another June 17. Thanks for 87 coming up. It might not be as impressive as the total reached by the last living survivor of D – Day or of Kissinger who both hit 100 + this past week; however, for me 87 is better than a lesser digit.

I am winding down, yet a complete stop is not in the future yet. Once I hiked the Colorado trail encouraging four girls who had not prepared for an 8th grade trip and kept wanting to turn back. This March I made a tour to Barcelona with a walker for a backup and checked off each daily demand. I never have to worry again if a bundt cake will come out of the pan in one piece. As a replacement, I still cooked a tasty pumpkin pie with a homemade crust to welcome a son who visited from Colorado. Yes, an undependable back has taken bending and tending a yard out of the easy option activities. A few years past, I changed my front lawn to native plants, so I can enjoy a return of bluebonnets, cone flowers, and golden daisies mostly because they take care of themselves.

While a gathering of decades are memories to be held close, some things are blessings to be cherished now. I like calm coffee while I sort what needs to be tackled first or be given a number for a daily list. I have friends across a broad spectrum. A few who like to do what I do drive well enough to let us both venture beyond just Swift and the church. I can visit with less than 6 year old neighbors who sit on the bench to peruse the Little Free Library. My special support is a multiple number of the Smith clan having various ages and last names. I will be celebrated and fed on Friday by those who are my adult children. To top the privileges of age, naps are permitted at any time and maybe a few words of wisdom are left to light the path of the group of come after me followers.

 Now that I am old and my hair is gray, don’t leave me, God. I must tell the next generation about your power and greatness.

Psalm 71:18-19

With a derogatory tone, those words can denote a waste of time. A second glance may open a door to something new and delicious, Rabbits can appear quietly in their hunched position with only twitching whiskers to identify their presence. One by the gate at the ranch in Boerne melted into the gatepost. I held Sarah’s three year old hand and kept a finger to my lips as we quietly tiptoed closer and hunkered down to look into the calm immoveable eyes. A cry of ,”Hi, bunny!” broke the spell and only a disappearing white tail was visible.

I thought of that moment as I chased the solid repetition of a Greek Key design in a sticker book I had been given for Christmas. I was releasing a line from the book to attach and mark the completion of a morning paragraph. The pattern is a simple repeat of horizontal and vertical lines that identify various Greek objects from vases to arches to the mythical labyrinth that held a Minotaur captive. The motif stands for eternal motion and infinity, yet it is simple enough that a fifth grade girl could decorate the top of her paper without ever lifting her pen.

One more rabbit appeared twitching at the corner of my eye. The key design also represents the twisting of the Meander River that appears in Homer’s Illiad. I have a geography minor and some plane trips show elevation and the substance of the soil by the back and forth turns of moving water over a landscape. I even had 8th graders build a tilted sandbox that created their own river with a watering can at the source before it slowed to a delta at the bottom of the box. So rabbits appear and leave from memories, to new knowledge, to visual examples of concrete truths. Chasing with a purpose leads to something new.

My life flows on in endless song,
above earth’s lamentation.
I catch the sweet, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.

This is the sentence that starts the second paragraph on scientific information about magnets. Quote “Creating a magnet involves aligning magnetic domains in a piece of metal.” Besides being useful, collecting pins when a box spills on the floor, magnets are also entertaining. Correctly aligned they connect. Reversed they push apart. They carry messages to the world along with cute slogans, phone numbers of essential repair men, and the ability to anchor pictures on refrigerator doors. Or they did until some wise guy decided metal wasn’t needed in the doors and it was back to Scotch Tape. However, bumper stickers are still alive and well: “Honk if You’re Just Trying to Do Your Best!”

The tricky part of magnets is the underlying element of magic. Items exist that have a sneaky trick of attraction without having any metal involved. In your house somewhere is an example. There is the washing machine or dryer that can pull a sock into a back corner. Everyone has a space in a closet where the last year’s favorite shirt has slipped off the hanger and disappeared out of sight to the back of the wall for a whole season. Don’t take lightly the drawer that should hold only night clothes, yet has a stockpile of ski pants under a pair of blue bottoms.

For me the master magnet of junk attracting is/was the garage. A visiting son owed me a day to help demagnetize. We moved from Rice Blvd in 2017 and what didn’t have a place in the house was sucked into the garage bit by bit until there was barely room for the car on the far side and getting to the box that controlled the sprinkler involved climbing over two washtubs and a lawn chair. First to trash was the pile of freeze coverings had been reutilized until all shape was gone. Why was there a stack of three green wooden Adirondack chairs? Half-empty paint cans I understood, except the contents were probably thick beyond use. A blessed son- in-law moved some tools to his garage and the lawn man piled chairs in his truck. I did the necessary web search and found the city does a June 29 curbside pickup of what is left. Now I do have a clear place to stand while deciding what is next and that space serves as a quiet reminder that I also need to shake the rooms of my body at times to move with more ease and a clearer vision.

A huge cloud of witnesses is all around us. So let us throw out everything that stands in our way….and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.

Hebrews 12:1