However you name the kingdoms of life, humans have to fit in Animals, like it or not. This is the season of the year we can closely observe our own changes by watching the choices of our winged friends. You know how it begins: eggs, hatchlings, feeding , growing, and that moment comes when soft downy feathers disappear, space in the nest becomes a premium and something has to go. With the change comes a time to try exploring the world, though not entirely independently. The definitive term is a fledgling.

Adults have a very active part in this happening and I’ve watched it three different times. The first occurrence was at the end of a dirt road in Dayton, TX. Our small house was in front of a stand of several large pecan trees. One morning the air was ripped by screeches of a frightening decibel level. Little boys and I ran to the back yard. Two hawks were swooping and turning in a DNA formation. Soon we figured that one was less comfortable with flying and trying to come back to the tree while the adult kept edging it into the sky. As surety of motion built, the noise lessened, until finally the younger made a few turns on its own before heading to a limb to perch. On Rice Blvd., the cardinals that led that year’s brood to the feeder were more gentle. Parents and a light brown youngster lined up on the electric wire leading to the house. I really thought the little one was going spin upside down. Parents edged closer and finally nudged him into space. At the same time they took places on each side and guided him to land on the deck. Somehow they managed to chase him up toward the bird feeder and then back to the electric wire. This was a process they repeated until he could map the circuit on his own. Number three example starts with a large nest in the oak tree at the end if the Swift driveway. It was built several years ago by a pair of black crown night herons. They are migratory. We know when they return because the street has a patch of white droppings to mark the location of the nest. The sequence goes from only an adult who comes and goes, to as many as three fuzzy heads peeking over edge to finally the family of four lined up on the limb. At some magic moment, we have three long legged adolescents exploring our yard. I’ve never seen them fly down or return to the nest. One day they are all gone.

I just learned this week that having an empty nest is important for the adults. This is the season of the year they molt, getting rid of flight feathers that show the wear of summer activity. You may find the single tail feather in the grass during this time. I thought of fledglings and molting with the beginning of school yet again. I heard 7:45 chatter as parents walked children down the two blocks to Roberts, our neighborhood school. For some of you, it was not small hands to hold; it was handing over a plane ticket to a college town and independence you weren’t sure you or they were ready to receive. As life has circled, we all have been in one place or another, either taking a step onward or regrouping to be a part of what is next.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

The phrase is “Beauty and magic are in the eye of the beholder.” Fifty years ago our family made the Houston to Boerne trip for week-ends with the larger family. We usually arrived after dark. One evening we took the exit from the freeway north to New Braunfels. A large empty field to the east of the curve was alive with the movement of fireflies. A small visionary voice said, “Ohh, look at the little stars.” Then an older brother’s tone of reason cut in. ‘Fireflies only blink if the temperature is over 50 degrees.” Both statements were correct. I thought of that evening after reading a short column about a yearly August happening. In my childhood it was the surprise magic appearance of a “shooting star,” a unsuspected burst that arched momentarily through the dark heavens.

The scientific voice says this mid-August delight is called by astronomers the Perseid meteor shower. Under the best conditions 50 to 100 flares of fast moving bits of ice, dust, or rock can be seen when the Earth moves through the debris trail of a comet or meteor. The heat generated by the friction between debris and molecules in the atmosphere creates the light. At least three times, I have been in situations where the frequency of spotting the flares would be more predictable. I have lain on a quilt in a pasture in West Texas listening to the rhythmical chomping of grass by two horses who whooshed air when they came too close to this strange object in their locale. Some of you at a much younger age sat in pajamas with me on a upper deck at Live Oak Ranch and asked where you were supposed to watch. The most elaborate viewing was a year when a number of unparalleled sightings was to occur. One of the teen nephews drove the red pickup truck down the road away from the light of the house windows. He may have even dragged a mattress out to put in the bed of the truck. Ten cousins and me (other wiser adults sat on the porch) sat, lay, and dozed while calling out, “There went one!” or the frustrated cry of, “I just missed it.”

The pages of the scientific discussion are not what we remember. It is the feeling of warm bodies huddled and the momentary light streaks that remain etched on our memory, Most events are explained by reason. We provide the magic in our reaction to whatever, from dry ice creating boiling water to cutting an apple crossways and seeing the star made by the seed. Delicate mushrooms push their way through the earth where none were the day before. My favorite is the child who answered why God made rainbows with “So angels had something to slide on.” Dawn gives shape each day to forms that look as if they have vanished in the night. It’s magic!

 Daylight makes the hills and valleys stand out like the folds of a garment, clear as the imprint of a seal on clay.

Job 38:14

We call advances forward progress. Some I question, mostly those that are self- whatever and seem to be connected with bathrooms in public places. Have you ever managed to squirt twice, soap up your hands, and have been left repeating repeatedly the passing of your hands under the faucet to get rid of all the soap. Maybe ounces of water have been saved, yet you are more than marginally frustrated. Right up there as far as I am concerned are self-flushing toilets. None work in the same rhythm. Some are rise and flush. Some are take three steps away and stop to be sure. The only progress I’ve seen is raising a generation of children who never consider checking before moving on.

All right, that’s only two complaints out of others that have truly improved life. I resorted to one of my favorites this morning. Today ovens come with a self-cleaning cycle. Juices get spilled and spatters happen in cooking. Over time the floor of an oven resembles the bottom of a grill in a slop house which hasn’t been cleaned since Joe fried his first burger. In my early days of “housekeeping,” I put off dealing with this problem as long as I could. The magic of cleaning was supposed to happen with the use of E-Z OFF, a concoction that could burn hands and scar lungs and really didn’t do the job the first time. I found the direction booklet for my oven just to be sure, removed the racks, and pushed the self-clean words on the option panel. For four and a half hours, I went about other tasks with a soft hum in the background. A ding told me the process was complete, even with a cooling down process. White residue was wiped up with a wet cloth, racks renserted. I was ready if the Inspector General came for a visit.

Point of truth. The spills were accidental and the residual build up was a predictable result. The same process happens in life. I didn’t push the coffee pot under the drip funnel. Coffee was on the counter instead of in the pot. My actions and attitude began the day with a black cloud. The schedule for a trip was tight and a friend ran late. Words that should have been swallowed were spit out and left a hurt to walk around with care. Eventually, I don’t want to be a person with a black gummy mess. Cleaning may take care, and only action on the part of self can make it happen. This is what works.

Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your deeds from before my eyes; cease to do evil,

Isaiah 1:16

Everybody contribute. At what point do you think the year is moving on? When do you feel this one will soon be under your belt? I know some who are invigorated by the 01/01 point. January may be out the starting gate, yet imagine all the possibilities. Most everybody anticipates Valentine’s Day, counting love as a plus. March can be how the Irish saved civilization or Vernal Equinox, both worth noting. Look forward to April in Paris or the Merry Month of May. June is a half-way month with a school year done, camps on the horizon, and maybe some birthdays.

I personally feel that after June 30 stagnation sets in. The year doesn’t reach a tipping point of 183 until July 2. I imagine myself slogging through July. Month 7 does its best for a rousing encouraging start with an acceptable national holiday. Days are brightened with family/friend gatherings. Those who cook outdoors clean the grill and maybe even crank a freezer of ice cream. Slices of chilled watermelon are laid out on red gingham table cloths. We have a birthday the 5th that the celebrant manages to stretch to fill out the week. Then all the other days seem like numbers on a big calendar laboriously checked off one by one. Yes, trips may occur. and we just come back afterward to hot sticky days. This year a four letter 31 day month seemed interminable with five week-ends

All that said, I woke up Monday morning to August 1, ready to soldier on. I anticipate a restart of various fall activities. Even if hurricane season still needs to be dealt with, I feel that some showers, and a drop in temperature may be a gift in the future. HEB has jumped the gun with Hallowe’en offerings. Trick or Treat still has to wait for the designated time in October. If turkey is your choice for Thanksgiving, November 24 is already designated. After the high note of Christmas festivities, New Year’s Eve waits to write a climax to 2022. For now, July lurks a whole year away. My favorite this week quote is “The days are long and the years are short,” A good many have passed. New ones are ever provided.

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

Genesis 8:22

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