Birthdays are a little tricky. To get to #1, you have to complete that first year. So even though last Tuesday was my magnificent number of 89, it truly denoted 90 years of steps down the road. In Psalm 90:10, mention is of 70 or maybe 80 years and mostly labor and sorrow. If this writing is taking stock of decades, the first thing I need to do is correct that statement. Get ready for personal. That’s the only way life is lived. Happening 1, life unfolded early with the death of my birth mother. That lead to an adoption which resulted in a double group of people who loved me and showed me that adversity was that only if you named it so, otherwise just manage. Happening 2, I had a cancer at 55 just as I thought I was starting a prestigious teaching job I really had longed for. However, that school provided the insurance for surgery and care and opened that retirement fund that none of my previous schools had provided. Happening 3, we all have an end point and my husband’s was Alzheimers. Through his final years, he was still connected to us, and we were able to work with him through some needs to close a family business.

So, woven in between I’ve had adventures, none of which required that I be a competitive athlete. I have always liked things that grow: flowers, yeast bread, piecing material to make a pattern, children in various situations, friends, and of course, family. Since I am a survivor, I get for this time to be the matriarch of the family David asked me to join. I had a 70 year birthday lunch with the nephew who stood as a seven year old at our wedding. I am responsible and dependable. Never in your wildest dreams am I a perfectionist. Too many options for mistakes lurk unsuspectingly in the corner. You can list my faults that sandpaper you.

To wrap up, how can I not say, I am a child of God, whatever work it takes. I can name the places I have chosen to not forsake assembling myself together with others. I have set another place at the table to welcome and make a place for friends and strangers. I have forgone a bauble to give to a need in a cheerful way. I have made sandwiches in a foreign country so others could tend to medical and social needs of those who spoke in a language I didn’t know. I personalize verses like Psalm 90:12: ” So teach me to number my days that I may apply my heart to wisdom.” even as I see the horizon moving closer, knowing God’s word is always true.

Even when you’re old, I’ll take care of you. Even when your hair turns gray, I’ll support you. I made you and will continue to care for you.

Isaiah 46

Though it is undocumented, If someone tells me to make a note of a certain fact, I may be the last person on earth who pulls out a day book and a writing implement (pen or pencil) instead of a phone. At almost 89, I don’t mind not being up to date. I’m surprised there is still a website for pencils, though the designations are china marking, laundry markers and colored carpenter pencils. Children can still get special pencils at a party, but they are usually left behind after they roll off on the floor. The cover it all Amazon does have boxes of yellow #2 Ticonderoga which were my memory jogger.

In a day journal from 2000 was a reminiscence wondering even then how many families still had a pencil sharpener. My daddy could pull open the right hand drawer of the desk, choose a pencil, and if the point wasn’t to his satisfaction, walk to the back porch where the sharpener, turn it yourself, was attached to the wall. Caught in public with a broken point, he could open his pen knife and sharpen on the spot. Sometimes the pencils lasted long enough for the eraser to harden and smear instead of removing the marks.

Pencils arrived on the American scene thanks to the family of Henry David Thoreau who in 1834 developed a mixture of plumbago and sawdust to compete with the mark making addition already developed in England. The initial sales in New York paid his Harvard tuition and supported a school he ran which taught Louisia May Alcott. Eventually the mixture was used for electrotyping and its sale underwrote the publishing of Walden which was not a success. He died of tuberculosis from breathing the dust of what was the pre-graphite mixture.

To wrap up, Paper Mate finally made a use-and -toss mechanical pencil. Children around school knew that brand belonged to me and would religiously return them from a left behind location. I still have half a box available and husband David would keep as many as four in his pocket to note unidentified phone numbers and to hand out to persons caught without something to write with. You’ve probably surmised this offering is not Biblically based; however, yesterday a technical relative had to spend an hour so I could send a text message to an Android phone instead of always having to call. My mind and mouth may know the words, and a pencil at hand to write them down assures their life.  Read what you wrote with a pencil because your phone needed charging.

My tongue is the pen of a skillful writer.

Psalm 45:1

It’s amazing what a little research will do for ignorance. I had an outline beginning with a word I knew though seldom used and tying it to a building at Rice and travels for the summer. Poof! All that was changed by Merriman-Webster. Originally sallyports were gates giving controlled entry to a jail to prevent escape by the prisoners. Then it evolved to a place where boats could be docked and unloaded which is still the meaning in Great Britain. The next step was to assure non-entry to a building that stored ammo yet had gates that could be flung open to allow troops to flow out for battle.

From those thoughts to 1912 and the first building on Rice Campus’s 300 acres was, and is to this day, a Sallyport. In the beginning it was a mixture of dorm rooms and classrooms as well as an entrance to the new university. Now it is steeped in tradition. When new students arrive, they are greeted with a handshake by the president and may not leave the campus through that gate again until they have a diploma in hand. Prepared for their chosen profession, they are to go forth and do good.

Even with summer heat this is the season for sallying forth. Most families find a place with water from an on site pool to a club to Galveston or farther afield. It’s a time for several familial groups to sally to one place for a reunion and catch up time. It may even be the time when new learning or skill is applied to a study camp or even a mission trip. Think what has prepared you to fling open the gates in the next month. After organizing his disciples, Jesus set you a precedent.

Calling the Twelve to him, he began to send them out two by two.

Mark 6:7

Life is lived in forward motion. Only memories can give us back our past, and they can cover the gamut of human emotions. Consider last Monday, a national holiday declared in 1868 to remember those who died in the Civil War and has expanded to honor all who have died in any conflict since then. Wreathes are laid on graves, patriotic speeches are made, and the poignant notes of taps drift across a silent crowd. For many, the memory of this day is recalling a very personal loss. For others, and I’m one, it is a series of various gatherings in varied places of friends and family to eat and share plans for the summer. Once again, school’s out!

We try to make notes or put letters in a folder, or start a diary-like journal to reconnect one time to another. I just read in a July, 2000 journal, that I sat on a porch in Colorado and watched balloons add color to a vast blue sky. One son with long arms is always ready to call everyone together for a selfie. No selfies and that happening may not have been. Fireplace books are pictures taken after we have met as a family for a meal and before everyone goes separate ways again. Even without prompts, we often gather and say that starter sentence: “Do you remember when..” Words tumble on top of one another as moments are relived, restoring something precious that had been buried. A favorite request of children is, “Tell me about when I…”

Remembering what brought us to this place creates a sense of a journey bathed in gratitude. Some disasters for us were survived and some days brought pleasure that still has the power to uplift our spirits. We are most sad when relationships reach a stage where shared memories no longer cement our time together. Time after time, God reminds us to remember by whatever means: twelve stones, an Ebenezer, a date on a calendar, or a picture on the refrigerator.

Remember the former things, those of long ago.

Isaiah 46:9

Knot doesn’t always have to be a problem. To tie a knot and move on is to wrap up a solution and declare fine to that project or to keep all that has been accomplished from unraveling and lying as a tangled mess on the floor. If you are a person of artistic bent, you may spend affirming hours designing or admiring knots with capital letter names that denote interconnectedness and eternity: a Celtic Knot that has slight changes to be Love, Trinity, or Endless. For a sewer, a knot is useful or decorative. A fly-fisherperson depends on the knot to keep fish and hook together. A sailor’s safe return to shore hinges at times on the tenacity of knots that have been tied to anchors or other equipment. In a slight whisper, remember the efficiency of a hangman’s noose is essential.

I would venture every person has a knot story. Before velcro most children learned bunny down a hole to tie their shoes. My first beyond that expertise is now totally useless. In the far away time when boxes and goods were trusted to the USPO, a knowledge of the final step of tying the box was essential. My daddy very carefully taught me how to measure a piece of cord and create an over and under presentation that displayed six squares on top and bottom with a looped and pulled knot that would hold all the way to Santa Fe carrying clothes for a summer job. To finish the hem of a skirt, one circled the thread around the needle and pulled it through.

When the knot serves its purpose or creates a problem, how to release it remains. Faced with the Gordian Knot In the ancient Greek legend of Alexander the Great, he drew his sword and cut instead of laboriously unweaving. I had to guide fishing line over and under between two nails on a back porch, so I could rewind it knotless on a reel for the next trip. Offspring who walk away from parental care are said to “untie the knot.” Sometimes an extra person is needed for help whether dealing with a real length of cord or a metaphorical knot that has to be faced to resume ease of life. Keep an extra friend or two around for help in either case.

Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

Ecclesiastes 4:12

English is an evolving language, adding to and dropping from as need demands. In my childhood of WWII days only a few items domestically required the term. “Plug it in” to serve its purpose. Lamps, of course, maybe a drill depending on the man of the household, and the ubiquitous item of day, the iron which also required the reverse statement, “Did you unplug the iron?” Some households moved forward to plug in a coffee pot. I went to college with a drip pot still sitting on the back of the stove. Water was boiled, poured over fresh grounds, and the pot placed in a shallow pan of warm water to keep the brew ready for a hot cup during the day. Oh, yes, the washing machine stayed at ready alert from the day of purchase unless protection was thought necessary during a summer thunder storm. No drier was required because the clothes line was in the back yard. The black phone with a dial needed electricity after you got an account, yet the word for its being in use was connected.

Just as I was ready to move on and update, the radio came to mind. A large, almost piece of furniture, was in the living room for news and evening programs. The one that counted was the small aqua one in the kitchen for morning weather and the update of police reports. Sandwich in a phonograph and then the explosion starts. Televisions moved into the home. College made me aware of various a.v. equipment, some that worked as touted and some that didn’t. An electric typewriter did not really improve my keyboarding skills, only revealed my mistakes more rapidly. Now, a current seven year old could add to the list devices I can’t imagine that go beyond computer and cell phone. These require words like reboot and charge and link and SIM cards to make them useful on the beach or in outer space.

And yet, behind all this, is our wonderful God-made machine, body and soul. Even for us, the words of plug it in or connect or recharge count when we do not have the energy for that productive activity required of us. What helps us restart varies. Turn off concern, worry, and disconnects by rebooting, resting, and starting afresh. Find the listening or reading that redirects your program to be useful again. Sometimes trust another person who sees a needed solution and can rewire a system to help us become at least a refurbished B. When total frustration takes over, go back to the source of unlimited power.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.

Ephesians 3:20

Much loved are flowers in my yard that were never once bouquets from lovers, or cherished friends, or even from a funeral overflow. They had their first life in someone’s yard. Mostly they were dug up by the giver, placed gently in a brown paper bag, and handed to me as a sideways gift. Only one was ordered from a company and one that has multiplied was a starter stolen because it poked through the restraining fence. Let’s start with those. In the front right bed I am gradually building a clump of red amaryllis. A horticulturist’s step forward was to encase a bulb in wax, so it needed no vase or care. When the captive bulb has spent its life on a table near a sunny window, I just free it from the wax and relocate in a bed to restore its strength and allow it to multiply. One spring on a neighborhood walk, spires of bright blue salvia poked their square stocky steams toward the sidewalk. I broke several to make the parent even with the fence, bought the children home to put in dirt enriched with root starter and now have four stands in various places.

My mother raised a long row of daylilies: yellow, orange, and mixed blends , down the ditch that separated two houses. My sixth year of marriage I finally had a yard, received the paper bag offering and have three large cheerful groups on Swift sixty-three years later. Since I shared when I had an overflow, I also know other streets that are brightened by their offspring.

Along a side fence, though I can enjoy them from my kitchen window, are multiple peach cannas. Their arrival was convoluted. A friend’s mother from Oklahoma gave her some in a pot. When they needed dividing they were shared with another joint friend in Bellville who in desperation one spring mailed me a box, “Here, have some!” Those kept spreading and now until fall are glory in bloom.

Red, blue, sunrise yellow, peach and the last group is shout out loud white Easter lily trumpets. Truth be told, they were a pot gift for Easter lunch at least 15 years ago. To Rice yard and to Swift, again divided and planted in eye catching spots for a May exuberant show. Last fall I was negligent about seasonal care. In March I realized three pots were crowded with buds like people in an elevator. Now those pots are the eye-catching color of the back yard. I found I can have them as extravagant cut flowers on the dining room table. In about three weeks, I will clean out the pots. If you want some bulbs, I’ll do my best to transport, and maybe you too can be one who shares.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

Matthew 5:28 – 29

My eye was caught by shades of red in a small square of a brick wall. Bricks aren’t stacked like Legos. They are staggered one row on top of another with the end of a top brick being in the center of the bottom one. Then thinking about why they were built, I kept running full force into a WALL! Sturdy walls have a main purpose: keep out. Even Robert Frost’s iconic Mending Walls has the man on the other side of a repair project state: “Good fences make good neighbors.” That sounded more negative than admiring the beauty required.

Always back track and change perspective. In 122 A.D., Emperor Hadrian began a stone wall between his new Roman colony, now England, and the wild tribes to the north. Its purpose was protection of the colony to ensure growth. That sounded better than I put this up to cut you out. A secondary reason was to establish a boundary. This wall was as far as the empire would go and it marked an area where civilization could grow. Each opposite area is now strong and tours are held through piles of rock that helped make today possible.

Even before Hadrian by about 300 years, Nehemiah rebuilt a necessary wall. He was part of a group of Israelites in exile in Persia under King Artaxerxes. Some Jews had returned to Jerusalem and had sent word city walls were in disrepair. Returning to rebuild was Nehemiah’s purpose. His task was make a useful inspection of need, clear rubble, defy taunts and opposition and set up teams of some to work and some to protect the laborers as needed. He provided a strong inverted sentenced to define his task, “So built we the wall!”

At times each of us needs to build a wall, not for a need to be isolationists. We might require a peaceful moment to restrain choices that come our way as we learn to create our own independent character and strength to withstand assaults. Cracks may appear and we push to reset goals and even enlist others to stand guard with us as we redefine our safe place. At times we feel overwhelmed by surrounding attacks as we claim for ourselves the title mason: a skilled worker who builds with substantial material. Nehemiah set the reason for success, “the people had a mind to work!”

The Lord was standing by a wall that had been built true to plumb, with a plumb line in his hand.

Amos 7:7

This is personal and, truth be told, that is how individuals live their lives. As the saying goes, “I finally got it all together and forgot where I put it!” Easter Monday was heights to depths, catch your breath for me. You’ve had such a time. All in the car for a perfect famiily vacation and the thought keeps niggling the back of your mind, “Did I really turn off the stove when I cleaned the kitchen?” You finish the last statement in a time consuming office report, hit the wrong key and the computer freezes.

From our last week contact, you know I really love Easter on many levels. The week builds emotionally and spiritually to a glorious worship service and a family gathering. The group to eat has shrunk from lunch for 30, yet it is still my responsibility to make rolls and a so yummy dessert. Who knows how long strength and eyesight will allow me to keep my place in the program? Check,check,check and all from special music to joyous conversation around the table made the day just right.

I had a list for Monday of reclaiming routine that anchors my life, and it didn’t happen. First I slept late. I, who am always a lark, felt pushed to get breakfast out of the way and make two business calls that had been put on hold already. Both businesses had a pleasant robot who asked me several times what I wanted to do before offering to get someone to help me. That person also said I was important, but would have to wait my turn. Then the doorbell rang for two of the water department’s finest. Last week the occupants at the end of the block covered the manhole of the water main in the easement with a flower bed and they had to check each house of the block for unobstructed flow. At 3:30 power went out along with the possibility of rain. A son came in time to be eyes to match prices and meds that needed sorting. After opening every drawer and cabinet door I discovered the book with needed information to complete the day.

About 7:00 p.m. I sat down twelve hours late and laid out what I had done instead of asking for guidance about what to do. The dust settled, At LSU I went to the small University Baptist Church. My education philosophy professor stood each Sunday at the front of the center aisle and proclaimed Psalm 113:3 to begin the service. Help that I needed is available each and every day, and, just so you know, Tuesday was better.

From the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same, the Lord’s name is to be praised.

I am not a theologian, though I am a believer, even if sometimes I am a doubter. This Holy Week, whenever it comes in the spring calendar, leaves me smack dab as one of all three at the same time. The seven days bring a mixture of breathlessness, awe, and overwhelming joy. Think of times you consider what is coming at the end of a week. Here’s a list. At the end to have finished first grade or to have graduated from any educational goal you’ve worked toward. A wedding with all its plans to be an extra special occasion. A new baby will move from dream to reality .A move that will involve uprooting and resettling. A gathering of family and friends to memorialize the life of one no longer in that circle. Preparation aside, each of these bear the possibility of change lurking along the way.

From Genesis on through Christmas to the River Jordan and a peripatetic ministry, I struggle with the concept of fully God and fully man. Fully man – or human if you prefer – is difficult enough in dealing with daily demands whether it is organizing eating or dealing with quibbling members of a close group. To have a total knowledge of a better way and never say, “Because I told you so!” calls me to always consider the omission of an opportunity missed.

Follow that week that began with palm branches through the days which Jesus knew would unfold. The shouts sound good, but the affirmation won’t last. The misuse of the Temple provided no comfort. A walk out of town and the fig trees didn’t even get the season right. Maybe Martha did her best for a quiet place. Yet, He knew ahead that the right person would provide a room for a last supper together, facing the betrayal that began the process of a trial and the end of his human demands by the requirements of the heavenly gift.

My settling places are two. My church has a Thursday worship service that ends with the Christ Candle carried out of a dark chapel noting finality with each of the bearer’s steps. Even as I cook and prepare for a Sunday gathering, the time of finishing the week hasn’t come until that Candle triumphantly leads a choir processional back into an Easter worship service and the fully God’s words come true for all. The week ends as it began, “Hosanna! Hallelujah!”

 “The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men. 23 They will kill him, and on the third day he will be raised to life.”

Matthew 17 22-23