Part of my morning preparation when I taught eighth graders was to check the sports section of the paper and note details of the headline. As gangly boys slouched through the door, I would say, “What did you think about…” and fill in my detail. They would straighten up, take over the conversation, move on to their seats and think Mrs Smith was a cool teacher, not knowing I had shot my wad for the day. I have had some sports moments, mostly in attending. Anything that requires catching, throwing , running, or blocking is not on my list.

My heart is closer to and I know more about basketball than any of the other choices. My high school had a total of 80 on good years, at least half girls, and some of the boys not athletic. A basketball team and enough subs was the best we could cobble together. That provided the opportunity to have jocks and cheerleaders and to take trips up and down the parish for games. Though I went to football games in college, even had a date a time or two, they were in an open stadium and maybe a dance afterward. A cold two hours and a late night were not high on my list. Louisiana Tech had/has a good basketball team and were sometimes ranked high in the state, making them fun to follow and check on.

While I don’t yearn to attend the games, I give my whole attention to March Madness. When the bracket first comes out I clip and scotch tape to a cabinet door. All options are over at the edge, poised and ready. I scan the list for first hopes. For some years, North Carolina was the team at the top from the very start. Other years a low seed clawed farther than anyone had thought and maybe even made the top contender sweat.

This year, I had some stress over my druthers. Three Texas teams and Baylor ,whose progress was amazingly not mentioned in my Baptist church services, weighted the right side. On the left side, LSU, one of my alma maters, and Gonzaga. How could I not like a team dubbed the ZAGS!. Another good option to root for was my friend’s Crimson Tide because she has kept the tie strong while four states away. About three time a week, I would reach up and ink in progress, at times sadly. I never watched a game. I just checked the score of the late game before I went to sleep at night.

As in any competition, the end was reached with excitement and also the satisfaction that both teams had held themselves accountable. Not a trounce, just a well-played game. The winners could tear down the net, clutch the trophy, and hold up the banner. I wonder about my bracket. As Yogi Berra said, “It ain’t over until it’s over,” and my task is to play my best until the final round.

“Do you not know that in a race all run but one receives the prize. Run in such a way that you may obtain it. …Now they do it to obtain a perishable crown, but we an imperishable crown. “

1 Corinthians 9:24, 25b

I can only hope that each person anywhere has some foundation that strengthens them to be a strong helpful person in the world. Years ago I chose for Christianity to be my guide and measuring rod. That said, this is probably the week out of the whole year where I am taught and retaught the life changing story. Memories are varied and run a gauntlet from lows to high.

The larger arc of receiving started small for Easter. Presents were a part of the day, yet not the overwhelming surprises and even the ability to request that came with Christmas. Count on a basket, eggs, candy and you’ve covered the morning. New clothes for a coming season were important. My mother believed in “an Easter snap,” one more cold spell. At the sunrise service in the city park, other girls appeared gorgeous and shivering in their ruffled short sleeve dresses, while I was able to stand, embarrassed yet warm, in my woolen skirt and a long sleeve houndstooth jacket which would be available for the event of winter in October.

I never came to accept an egg laying bunny. I fed the chickens and knew where eggs came from. Dying eggs was messy and too many specific directions. The only part I really liked was cutting squares from the Sunday comics, covering them with a cloth dipped in vinegar water and releasing it to find a picture on the egg. We had a big egg hunt on the school grounds. Some one usually uncovered the unfound egg on a hot day in May providing a perfect example for the smell of sulfur.

Write your own paragraph on Easter Sunday. Some travel; some don’t. Some have elaborate meals; others eat out. Church is a focal activity or should be. My favorite part of this season begins Thursday night. I like the idea that before all falls apart, Jesus has a meal that ends up being a teaching session and a reminder that all will be together again for some meal like this. For years – maybe twenty – our family had a “Friends, Family, Widows, and Orphans,” Easter meal. The net began with single adults who didn’t have family in town. It also included families with young children who needed someone to serve as a grandparent on site substitution. Some older adults couldn’t travel for this particular holiday. The menu was simple enough that all could be put on the table soon after church was over. One year we got a phone call, “Are you eating? Can I come?” As so many things, need and location changed. Now we will meet at another house with a much smaller group. I will still bake rolls, as my mother did, and remember the purpose of this meal.

“the Lord Jesus on the same night in which He was betrayed took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, “Take eat, this is My body which is broken for you, do this in remembrance of Me.”

1 Corinthians 11:23-24

I really don’t know if this Part 1 and Part 2 series are even of interest except to me. The underlying idea of time for a change is more universal, so apply these to whatever jerked you up short and made you say, “I no longer have to…,” or even ” I no longer want to…..” Two weeks ago I confessed I wanted to look through clean windows, and I felt no guilt if I didn’t make them appear that way. This week is crossing the Rubicon and not looking back when I stop giving my all to a task I love, keeping a yard.

The change may have come about gradually. Back when I was growing up – that’s like walking to school in snow stories- the yard was a family job. Daddy put on his fishing kahkis and used the push mover to lower the grass. A moment to raise your hat to a faithful reader who still does the same. Mother raked leaves and piled them under the azalea bushes and whacked back whatever was out of shape. I weeded the cinderblock bed Daddy had raised in the back yard for Shasta daisies and pansies.

Marriage changed the relationship with mowing. David managed near the house in Dayton and that ended his agrarian labor. His part was hired out. In various moves, I was the garden gal. I grew sweet peas in Dayton in memory of a trellis next to a garage in Louisiana. I brought daylilies from Mother’s yard. They multiply with water and love and bloom on Swift Blvd. sixty years later. One year David gave me forty pansy plants for our December anniversary. I picked out each smiling face, and gold would not have pleased me more. Russellia spread and attracted humming birds while asclepias called in the butterflies who left the cycle of eggs and caterpillars and cocoons.

At one point, I needed help. I had a yard lady who came in with her crew twice a year and did in one long day what would take me a week or more in daily effort after tending to family and teaching. As years passed, aging moved in. The desire was there. The getting down was slow and the getting up slower. I let last fall’s leaves cover the wildflower bed as mulch. Freeze week left a mess. I tried a leaf blower and instead of a nice pile to sweep in a bag with the fan shaped rake, I created “leaves that before the wild hurricane fly.” To wrap this up, the yard man for next door and I reached an agreement and his skill solved my problem.

I know the final step in adding decades is to open hands and release. My trowel is getting less use. Yet, I’m saving this writing and then going out to plant zinnia seeds in hopes of having a multicolored bouquet in July. I just rejoice that what I’ve been a part of was a continuation of one of God’s first gifts to man.

The Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden. Genesis 2:8

I will come back to Part 2 that started a Step Forward last week. March 17 brought two questions to mind: Who’re your people? and Where’re you from? Those questions can find a shirt tale relative or an identification of place as important to you. They unveil my ethnic day. Since my auburn childhood curls have become white slight waves, the connection is not as evident, but my people are Kellys and Mileys and in the late 1700’s they had just come over from Ireland to find dockhand jobs in Pennsylvania, implanting in me a yearning for all their cultural characteristics.

An aunt hand wrote an ancestor list that got lost in my moves. I remember it had names of marriages and places of residence. For 200 years the Kellys and other Irishmen worked their way down the east coast of the United States providing cheap labor as needed. Jacks of all trades and masters of none, they were at times demeaned as drunkards and brawlers and con_men. The name paddy wagon came from the week-end trip of the police to pick up “paddies,” immigrants of their day from the peat bogs of Ireland. My branch ended up in Florida with a granddad still working for the railroad that some previous relative helped build. Through generations, a woman’s name of Margaret kept reappearing. It was paired at times with Maria. A cousin’s name is blended to Margaria. I envy the sound.

Behind the pejorative comments that come to almost any cultural group are those characteristics I cherish. An accent that flows like honey over warm bread with sentences that begin with, “Sure, and.” Dances like jigs and reels that call you in when music is played by fiddles, flutes, and the strums of a harp. Songs from a Irish tenor: My Wild Irish Rose and Galway Bay. Even Danny Boy finds an appropriate place at funerals. Folk tales and mystical beliefs run from a scary Banshee to skin changing selkies and the leprechauns who may lead one to a pot of gold. I especially like the thought of “thin places” where you can almost easily move into a spiritual realm. St. Patrick, one of the few saints I think I know, is admired if he did nothing but drive snakes from Ireland, making it a perfect place for me. I wore something green yesterday. However, joined with you and whatever heritage you love, there is a kingdom for all, creating within us the same intense longing to belong.

Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom. And your dominion endures throughout all generations.

Psalm 145:13

You were warned this was old lady stories. A this week and next week comment are called progress, yet both took a deep breath and acceptance on my part. I come from a family maybe one step away from pioneer. We may not have raised our own vegetables. We did buy from a farmer, bushels of them, and sat on a back porch to snap and peel and use them and put up for the winter. My dad taught animal husbandry and killed what I ate until I went off to college. My mother did her own housework and cooking and wouldn’t have considered someone else equal to the task.

You may have to sit down and rest after I tell you what was needed for the background to step one. Some just right day in spring, sunny, not too warm, my mother would rise and say to my dad, “Honey, put out the ladder. It’s time to wash the windows.” My first job was to go through the house and take down all the sheer curtain panels that hung in front of pull down shades. They were piled on the cot on the back screen porch where we all slept in the summer to be washed another day. The shades were then removed and left on the couch to be out of the way. We started washing on the west side of the house, moving around the compass, so the sun wouldn’t streak the windows as they dried. Mother, all five feet, worked on the outside with an old towel and a hose. I did the inside with a well wrung out rag and the admonition, “Now don’t drip on the floor.” Mother would tilt her head and tap the pane to show a spot I hadn’t cleaned to her satisfaction. After the water treatment, we polished both sides with sheets of newspaper. When the sun was overhead, we stopped for a light lunch, sweetened tea and a banana with peanut butter and salad dressing on an ice burg lettuce leaf. At the end of the day, I have to admit the glass did sparkle; however, I did not look forward to that chore as a life time job.

My solution was mostly to ignore the need. The young married second story rental apartment was too complicated to even contemplate, Four years in Dayton, we lived in a house at the end of a dirt road and had a well with a pump that cut off if too many faucets were opened at once. Swift again had upstairs windows as did Rice. I did do with Windex and paper towels the small panes in the three French doors that led to the side porch. Children had left hand prints and tongue marks. The two times the house was painted, the workers sprayed with a hose. That worked.

Then we moved to Swift. Thirteen single pane windows needed to be un-shuttered to the light. After the first year, grime looked evident, and I began to get a needy feeling. A friend I trusted rhapsodized one day about having her windows washed, and a light went off. Geek Window Cleaners (I love the name) became the 20th century equivalent of mother and me. Two able bodied young men (one does have a beard and a tattoo) arrive with buckets and squeegees. In forty-five minutes, inside and outside is done with something added to encourage streak free drying. I write a check with unwrinkled hands and say a heart felt thank you. I don’t mind at all where this step of progress has taken me.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: 1 Corinthians 13:12

Sometimes the lessons come from someone gently leading you down a new path. At times, the knowledge comes from a word of warning, “Don’t touch the stove. It will burn you.” You may learn by listening, or you may need the reinforcement of experience. My lesson this week came from an application of Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. At the end of January, I was made aware of the opportunity to volunteer to read virtually to a class of children as part of a Houston Literacy program for Houston Reads Day: 400 volunteers reading to 10,000 school children. A desire of my heart. Yes! Step 1 – be approved and vetted by HISD. I knew from previous knowledge this wouldn’t be easy. I was sucked into a loop that kept throwing me back to the begin again stage. A deadline loomed. In desperation I called the literacy office. Emma, (remember that name) actually answered an e-mail, called me at home, and told me which keys to push. I was able to read the handbook, take the test, print the certificate, and be approved for service. Whew!

In the next several weeks, Emma sent me encouraging notes, and all was on course. Then the week of deep winter descended. Schools closed and a grinding halt to various activities spread over Houston. Two days before R-Day, notice came that all instructions would be in next e-mail. Emma, surely realizing she was dealing with a needy soul, wrote at 4:30 the next day to ask if I understood what to do. Another panic mode. No instructions had come my way. They arrived in my folder at 10:30 p.m. At 5:00 a.m., coffee in hand, I called on the guardian angel of technically challenged and followed very specific instructions. Everything seemed to work. I even put on lipstick and was ready for my 8:05 welcome to a classroom slot. The short story is after 45 minutes of three-way texts about a blank screen that said the host will invite you to join, I packed up my marbles and went home.

I was not abandoned. Very faithful Emma found me a 1:50 slot. That principal was bonded to the program and would be in the classroom and make it happen. Short story: my video never connected as a small picture in the corner, and I couldn’t see the children. The pages of the book did appear on a screen, though the program was very slow on turning pages. I gave my best shot and somehow had vibes the children were following the story. At the end, a round of applause and a shouted, “Thank you,” were warmly received however they were instigated.

The obvious lesson was that plans can go awry. In the background was another lesson. This all happened on Dr Seuss’s birthday along with a news article that his books are now being banned. Can’t children learn from The Cat in the Hat that messes can be made and can be cleaned up? Do observant imaginative eyes need to be directed by a story other than And To Think I Saw That on Mulberry Street. Should inclusiveness be taught through didactic language instead of the gentle flow of The Sneetches. Each book read, each new task attempted, and each day lived has a lesson. We need to always have one request.

Teach me, Lord. Direct my understanding Psalm 119: 33,34

Of course I didn’t mean that word! This is a G-rated family friendly blog. A newspaper picture expressed my word non-verbally. A woman sits in her car with the window down, gloved hands reaching out to receive four styrofoam boxes that hold meals for her family. The giver of the boxes has his back to the camera. His hands, though, are holding the boxes steady until the transfer is complete. He has chosen to be cold himself and redirect his plans for the day to be a part of that word in a time of stress: KIND.

That image started me thinking how many times someone’s actions help ease a situation. You probably have your own story from last week of being the receiver or the giver of kindness to others. The sources could be a combination of blood relatives to the rescue or of the new term in today’s paper, “chosen families.” One Smith child took me to a warm house while my dwelling played power roulette. Another restarted water back when the thaw came and was able to put the most demanding problem on hold until, oh, maybe later this spring when plumbers have helped others with more pressing repairs. The third offspring, not on site, called to check-up and offer words of encouragement.

Between Kirby and Montrose, the drums of kindness beat on Swift Blvd. Through the week, texts went back and forth. Some were announcing that the power is on, no, off again, so I didn’t have to drive over to check. I thought I had a water problem under control until a neighbor called, “I hear a rushing sound in your back yard.” Four different families offered to share soup if I needed food. Neighbors met in the middle of the street on Monday to give thanks and report who still had open switches.

A disaster can bring out kindness. That action, though, is welcome any time from anyone. The short Asian employee at Kroger’s self-checkout recognizes that I usually make a mistake and appears at my shoulder to swipe her card. nod her head, and smile as she says, “There!” My battery died and the one-man tow truck who was taking it to the dealer banished a concerned decision of mine by saying, “You ride with me.” Kind is a word I am planning to keep at the forefront of my dealings with friend and stranger, even if that resolution requires staying focused. Yesterday I had to tell me to keep my voice calm and soft while the customer service rep in another state couldn’t get my name right and wasn’t speaking to my request. I ended the exchange feeling less stressed and, hopefully, she really meant, “Thank you for calling.” Psalm 119 is 176 verses based on being faithful to God’s decrees and commandments. One of the more important is those words we may have learned first as a child and certainly need to pass on to children who follow us.

And be kind to one another. Ephesians 4:32

Even outside my published area, readers and others know that Houston just had that go to word of at least several days of “unoprecedented” cold. As I start writing on Tuesday, I have taken the option of leaving a house that has been without power for 32 hours with the unknown of heat restored and the results of thawing still part of cloudy future. Much of my concern is consumed with what I can’t do for a vast majority in more dangerous situations than mine. That said, here are the op-ed sequences that may have been part of your story.

Evaluation. I work up Monday morning to know the power was gone because the green light was out on the printer. I padded to the living room to unplug computer and back to a warm bed. When time passed and nothing happened, I went into pioneer mode. Dress in ski clothes and be thankful that a previous moment in life had required those items to be available in a bottom drawer. Light a gas burner with a match. No electricity, no auto pilot starter. Recall making drip coffee and set up percolator to pour hot water over the grounds. Take a moment to revel in the unusual beauty of a white, unmarred front sidewalk, yard, and street. Call children to say at that moment all was well.

Realization Ten-thirty came, and I didn’t have a reassuring message form Center Point saying they knew of my problem and were working on restoring service. Instead their site had crashed from so many questions. The power grid for most of Texas and especially Houston was in difficulty. I began getting did I need help messages from various neighbors checking my one in a household status. Move to stage two and inform a son-in-law that if his four wheel Jeep could be the cavalry to the rescue, I needed to abandon the ship. I wasn’t worrying about mixed metaphors. I gathered what might be overnight supplies, locked the front door, and made it down the sidewalk without slipping.

Acceptance This morning I am in an upstairs bedroom at my daughter’s house with really not a hope of above freezing temperature outside and safe road conditions until Friday. I can’t even get my car out of the garage until power is restored. Bananas are rotting on a counter and food in the refrigerator has passed the 24 hour make it mark. I look up and facing me at the foot of the bed is the chest of drawers from a three piece set of bedroom furniture my mother ordered from New Orleans in the early 1930’s. It was shipped up Black River to Monterrey, Louisiana, by boat. The bed, mine as a child, awaits me to return to Swift Blvd. The set has survived a fire, a flood, five moves, and several hurricanes. Many feel crushed by these days, yet now some of us are survivors as was Nehemiah who came back to Jerusalem after captivity, He surveyed the mess, gathered some helpers around him, and laid out a plan.

I also told them of the gracious hand of my God…..They replied, “Let’s start rebuilding.” So they began the good work.

Nehemiah 2:18

Addendum As I wrote the final words, a text came that Swift had power, one of several on and off times. Some unknowns still exist. One river is crossed. I won’t know the next step until Friday’s thaw. Rebuilding still calls.

David used to say that I made him promise never to move more than 50 miles from the Gulf Coast. I don’t recall those exact words, and he never did put me to the test. However, those parameters have defined my life. A few stretches, yet always within the confines of Louisiana and South Texas. I taught school for three years in Shreveport. Every few weeks, I would leave in the dark of early morning to head south on black topped secondary roads. The only marker was a yellow center stripe, and the unknown depth of ditches on each side was blurred in with the edge of the road. As I passed through Elm Grove headed toward Coushetta and a coffee stop, that heading home feeling kicked in.

One defining characteristic of living near water is weather matters. Weather conditions top every newscast as if nothing can be faced responsibly without that settled first Tides are reported along with fishing comments. “Crappie are running near the mouth of the river.” Water falling varies from scattered showers to heavy rains upstream that lead to floods to hurricanes which also can have force winds. One of the most eerie is dense fog. The phenomena occurs in various seasons created by some mixture of moisture in the air and temperature conditions of the ground. One can go to bed on a clear night and wake barely able to see down the sidewalk to find the paper.

We’ve had two dense fog advisors from the weather men the last two days. Sometimes the prognosticator is brave enough to declare a clearing time, which may or may not be accurate. Driving through wispy or sometimes thick blockage of landmarks slows down movement, especially if the area is unfamiliar. On a highway, a pattern of red tail or brake lights define what is ahead.

So, for two days, I have ventured out early encased in grey swirls to clock some walking before rain comes. Exercise is one of my obsessive actions only because in the back of my mind I can easily ignore it. Yesterday required I put a reflective vest over my raincoat to make me visable crossing a street. The walks reminded me of my life since last March and the predictions of clearing are not yet. To step out and carry on calls for moments of resolve and attention to safety. I think about whether to get a vaccine or do I change choices of where I will go. Before the day was over, mist vanished and sunshine appeared. In Exodus, when a cloud, a dense fog, was over the tabernacle, staying put was the order of the day until it lifted. Yet, even in 2021, a time will come when I, we, can move on with what we consider our lives.

Throughout all their journeys, whenever the cloud was taken up from over the tabernacle, the people of Israel would go forward. Ezekiel 40:36

We learn from our mistakes. Theoretically, Advent ended with the fourth Sunday. If Thursday is my day, I should have started earlier to come out even. However, the final word is important at any time. This word can be both a foundation and a pinnacle, and its four letters makes all the difference in our lives. Sometimes we give it the casual weight of LIKE on steroids. I love ice cream. I loved that movie. Oh, I just love being with you. All we are saying is whatever gave us a transient moment of pleasure and delight will be forgotten and never returned to us in the same form. The distance is vast between a pleasant visit with an airplane seatmate and the “I love you” exclaimed when the baby we have waited for is put in our arms.

Through this life, this year, this season, love has been a foundation: rock solid and immoveable. We know it by the way God has acted toward us from the time of forming us from clay and then the spending of eons redirecting, forgiving, and sending us on our way, yet again. This verse speaks of how God shows love. “In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed. In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling.” Exodus 15:13. Standing firm on that statement, the rest of the verses in the Old Testament are how we show our love by what we choose to do, even in 2020.

Then at the top of the mountain is the vista of God’s love in capital letters. LOVE. Not just ordinary love, if there is such a virtue; the ultimate SO LOVED. That’s what we say when we light candle number four. Christina Rossetti’s poem leads to the white candle in the center of the wreath.

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign. 

If you read this, you probably know the verse.

For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son. John 3:16