We received a Christmas card in the mail over the weekend from someone we’ve been friends with since our boys were in elementary school.

On the left-hand side of the card was a short, hand-written note about what she’d been up to recently.

I recognized my friend’s handwriting, and then I thought about the few times I actually write to someone else. I jot down quick notes – the grocery list, phone numbers and reminders to pull something out of the freezer – but most of my communication is done on my cell phone via a text message.

I fear we are losing the art of the hand-written note. We’re relying on technology that might not be around years from now, and we’re missing out on collecting some of the most precious pieces of memorabilia we can possess – hand-written letters.

There’s a gray metal box in my closet filled with hand-written letters. The ones from my dad are irreplaceable because he didn’t write that many to me.

My dad had a distinctive handwriting – the letters were larger than life, as he was, slightly slanted, and his bold signature rivaled that of John Hancock’s.

I also have letters from my grandfather. English was a second language to him, and I remember watching him write letters in Arabic to his family back in Lebanon, moving his fountain pen over the onion-skin paper from right to left.

I know his letters to me were a labor of love because he had to compose a letter to his granddaughter in English all the while writing backwards from what he’d been taught as a child.

My Grandmother Marguerite’s letters were always chatty about her life, and she asked about everyone in the family. She had a distinctive ending quote she included in every letter– “remember to have fun along the way.” I think of her every time I stop my routine and engage in something silly.

We’re fortunate my mom is still with us, and her handwriting’s always been a bit hard for me to read. Still, I have all the birthday cards she’s written to me, and there’s no way I’d ever toss those.

I’m glad she hasn’t resorted to texting because her cards and letters to me are worth their weight in gold. They’re a small piece of her she shared with me.

These days, writing a letter is becoming passé because we communicate electronically in an instant. We compose a quick text – even using the letter “k” instead of typing out “okay.” Commas and periods are seldom used, and let’s not even talk about spelling.

With handwriting, the personality of the writer comes shining through. I can underline the words three times for emphasis, circle important thoughts and use colored ink when I want to make the letters fancy.

My handwriting’s gotten sloppier over the years, and I blame writing down people’s comments and thoughts during newspaper interviews for the decline in my penmanship.

I’ve used a recorder in the past, but when I take the notes by hand, I can circle important things people say, put stars next to stand-out quotes, and the personality of the person I’m interviewing comes alive through hand-written notes.

Little by little, we’re losing that special part of ourselves by typing and texting instead of indulging in writing someone a long letter on special paper and including our signature at the end.

The next time you want to connect with someone, get out some paper, scavenge around in the junk drawer for an ink pen and put your thoughts down on paper.

You never know – that letter just might find a home in someone’s treasure box.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

On the way home today, I followed a van with a Virginia pine tree strapped firmly to the top. It’s almost the first of December, and Christmas is right around the corner.

Some people start decorating for Christmas as soon as the cornbread dressing is packed away in the fridge. These on-the-ball folks head to the closest Christmas tree lot and get their pick of the trees.

These are probably the same people who decorate every room in their house for the holidays. They replace the beige hand towels in the bathroom with green and red candy cane towels, switch out the plastic soap dispenser with a Frosty the Snowman one and wrap artificial garland around everything in the house.

I’m not one of those people.

We get our Christmas tree right before they go on sale for half price, not because I’m cheap but because I keep thinking the weekend after Thanksgiving is too early.

Then I spend the next three weeks trying to decide what to get everybody and then it’s five days before Christmas. By that time, the lot contains mostly four-foot tall trees Charlie Brown would walk past.

I like putting the lights on the tree, but I always forget to measure the distance between the plug and the outlet. I try and untangle the lights from the branches so I can rehang them with enough of the cord hanging out, but I usually just end up shoving the tree closer to the wall.

I’ve had a fully-decorated tree fall over in the middle of the night, and thought for sure someone had broken in and was trying to steal our presents. Luckily the boys were young then, and I managed to get the tree back up and the broken ornaments swept up before they woke up.

There was the year my husband was out of town, and I roped my 8-year-old into helping me put up the tree. He told me the whole time I wasn’t doing it right.

“There’s not enough of the trunk in the stand,” he said. “It’s going to fall over.”

“Nonsense,” I replied. “Your dad always cuts off too many of the limbs, so I’m going to do it right this year when he’s not here.”

A few hours later, I noticed the ornaments were hanging at an angle and, sure enough, the tree was leaning forward. I got my kid out of bed and told him to hold the tree while I sawed off the bottom limbs and could shove the trunk down deeper in the stand.

“I told you,” he muttered the whole time.

“Be quiet or Santa will hear you,” I told him, hoping Santa wasn’t blaming me.

Each year, I’m tempted to buy fancy ornaments, but I’d much rather have the sentimental mis-matched ornaments we’ve hung on the tree for years.

There’s the obligatory macaroni stars our sons made when they were in kindergarten. They’re a little yellowed and somewhat brittle, but they’re all going on the tree.

Some of my favorites are the hand-made wooden ornaments crafted from the bottom of the boys’ first Christmas tree. I painted their names on the wooden disc, and those rustic ornaments have hung on the tree every year since they were born.

I have the ornament I bought with my first paycheck when I was 18 years old. That little plastic angel is a reminder of how proud I was to be able to pay for something with my own money.

Over 50 years later, I’m still proud of that little angel, even though, like me, she’s frayed around the edges and her colors are faded. As long as I’m decorating the tree, she’ll be hung on the branch with care.

It doesn’t matter if one’s Christmas tree is blinged out in matching glass ornaments or adorned with construction-paper chains and pipe-cleaner candy canes.

It doesn’t matter whether you get your tree by the second of December or five days before Santa’s coming down the chimney.

As long as you make new memories every year, the spirit of Christmas will stay alive and well in your home and that’s all that counts.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Since 1997, I’ve had the privilege of writing an editorial column on Thursdays. Most holidays fall on different days of the week from year to year, but not Thanksgiving. It’s always on a Thursday, and, for 20 years, Thursday’s been my home here in the top right-hand corner of the Op/Ed page.

I’ve written Thanksgiving columns about being thankful for the big things – family, faith, friends. I’ve attempted to infuse humor into the column with some well-deserved digs at myself – the year I didn’t know I was supposed to take the giblets out of the turkey before baking the bird. Another year when I basted the ham for two hours only to discover I hadn’t taken the plastic sleeve off the meat.

There’s been Thanksgiving columns about my family, of which I’m so grateful and proud of, and the quirky things I’m thankful for – the automatic transmission in my car and air conditioning.

Sitting here at the computer, all my blessings are going through my head, and I’m humbled by how fortunate I’ve been. The ever-present feeling of poignant gratitude in my life comes down to the simple things I too often take for granted.

That realization became crystal clear through the actions of the congregation at Sutherland Springs Baptist Church and what they did with the inside of their place of worship following the senseless murder of 26 people on Nov. 5.

Instead of closing the building off permanently or tearing it down, they removed all the bullet-ridden pews, quietly removed the blood-soaked carpets and painted the inside of the room white from ceiling to floor.The only Items in the worship room are 26 white chairs and 26 red roses, one for each person killed, including a pink rose for an unborn child that was murdered in his mother’s womb.

The name of each victim is painted in gold on the back of the chair where they’d been sitting when they were gunned down as they worshipped their Lord.

The effect is one of the most powerful and peaceful ways I’ve ever seen to honor those slain in a senseless act of violence and madness.

Looking at the pictures of that white room, it’s impossible not to cry and think about those innocent people who lost their lives in a holy place.

As I dried my tears, my heart was filled with amazement at the amount of forgiveness and healing that one simple room displayed to the world.

One white room.

Twenty-six white chairs.

Twenty-six red roses.

That simplicity said more about forgiveness and how we can convey more emotion with simple acts than with all the gadgets in the world.

Children understand if we love them or not. Simply giving a hug, spending time listening to them talk about their day or watching them play says more about how we feel about them than any material gifts.

At the end of a tiring day, one wordless hug from someone we love means more than all the counseling in the world. And the reason is because that hug, that act of physically embracing another human being in need of comfort, is a simple act from the heart.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m grateful and thankful for the simple.

The simple bond between two best friends who no longer have to impress each other.

The simple act of opening the door for someone else or letting another driver merge in front of you during rush hour traffic.

The simple act of telling the people in your life how much they are loved and appreciated, and that only takes two words – thank you.

This Thanksgiving, I hope your life, like mine, is filled with the simple.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

Christmas is right around the corner, and there’s garland and tinsel all over the place. Red and green decorations started showing up right after the Fourth of July, and now that Thanksgiving’s almost here, we’re in full-speed-ahead Christmas mode.

That includes playing Christmas music round the clock. I’m one of those dorky people who love Christmas music, but I stopped the other day and listened to the lyrics instead of the melody.

Just hear those sleigh bells jingling… wait… I don’t even know what a sleigh bell is. I’ve seen pictures because I love movies from the 1940s, but I haven’t a clue what jingle bells, silver bells or sleigh bells really are.

Same with city sidewalks covered with snow. I grew up in upstate New York, so I understand what snow looks like on a sidewalk – it looks like a slip-and-slide ready to happen to the next poor sap who walks a little too fast.

It’s also a little hard for me to picture a red-nosed reindeer pulling a sleigh. The only reindeer I’ve seen have been in the zoo because, in Texas, anything as big as a reindeer would have a saddle on it in less than two minutes.

For most of us, a winter wonderland is glancing at the neighbor’s yard with at least 25 wooden yard signs, all illuminated by a flood light, and at least one University of Texas wooden cutout with a fake wreath around Bevo’s neck.

We don’t roast chestnuts around an open fire in the South. We roast marshmallows and make S’Mores or we stick a hot dog on the end of a wire coat hanger, wave it over a back-yard campfire and call the charred Oscar Mayer wiener dinner.

We don’t have white Christmases and the closest we Southerners will get to a white holiday is if somebody toilet papers our house.

We hang our Christmas stockings on the fireplace, but it’s a fake fireplace because very few of us need a roaring fire in the winter when the temperature’s a constant 80 degrees.

Frosty might go frolicking through the square, right past the traffic cop, but not in the South and especially not in the growing suburbs we have in Fort Bend County.

A snowman doesn’t have a chance in, well, you know where, of making it across Highway 6 and Williams Trace unless he’s surrounded by 2,000 pounds of steel.

And speaking of hot temperatures, it’s the end of November and I’m running the air conditioner while I’m still comfortably wearing shorts and sandals. I see thermal underwear and woolen mittens in the stores, and I wonder who’s going to spend that kind of money for the one or two weeks when the temperature dips below 50 degrees.

Even though Christmas songs were written with snow, icicles, snowmen and parkas in mind, we Southerners have our own way of celebrating the holidays, and our traditions are some of the best.

There’s the big pots of chicken and sausage gumbo simmering on the stove on Christmas Eve, the tradition of making tamales and pecan cookies in the days leading up to Christmas and making sure we eat ham and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day to ensure good luck for the coming year.

So keep the snow. Keep the sleigh bells. Keep the woolen mittens. We’ve got riding bikes on Christmas Day in a T-shirt, reading the “Cajun Night Before Christmas” before tucking the little ones in to wait for Santa, and the smug knowledge that when the jolly old elf comes cruising past the Mason-Dixon line, he’ll have the air conditioner on full blast in that sleigh of his.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I remember when one of my sons asked me why people have to die. Surprised, I gave a variety of answers – it was their time, God needed them in heaven more than we needed them here and, grasping at straws, referencing “The Lion King” movie with the circle-of-life explanation.

They didn’t really buy those responses but I think they knew those were the best answers I could give. I don’t know why people have to die. I especially don’t know why innocent people have to die at the hands of a madman, terrorists or thieves.

Nobody has an answer to that.

Here in Texas, there’s been another senseless killing, and we’re trying to make sense out of a situation that has no explanation even though quite a few are proposed. The shooter had a history of mental illness. He was angry at his mother-in-law. He had access to guns.

In the shocked aftermath, we helplessly search for a way to figure out why people do the things they do.

Nobody’s been able to figure out why the gunman in Las Vegas opened fire on innocent people at a music festival. We can’t wrap our minds around the fact that somebody, or more than one person, wanted to deliberately kill innocent people.

People with a conscience cannot comprehend that type of thinking.

There are, however, some things I think I can explain.

I know why churches are hiring armed police officers to stand watch during services. I know why people stay away from outdoor concerts or large crowds. I know why people are instructing their family members to be aware of their surroundings at all time.

I know why Stephen Willeford grabbed his gun and shot at the murderer who had opened fire on innocent people who were worshipping at the Sutherland Springs Baptist Church. I know why Willeford climbed into a stranger’s vehicle, told him to hit the gas and why the two chased after the car with the murderer in it.

They did it because, as Johnnie Langendorff, the driver, said, “That’s what you do.”

These two men stepped up because they wanted to stop the bad guy. They wanted to save lives. They put themselves in danger without thinking because it was the right thing to do.

In our society, doing the right thing isn’t easy any more. We hear so many excuses about why people do bad things. At the top of the list is they’re suffering from a personality disorder.

Thousands of people have personality disorders, conditions that cause them immeasurable pain but they don’t hurt others. They quietly work their way through life, day after day, and many of us don’t even know they’re battling such demons.

We hear that there’s too many guns in our society and we should take them all away. Accountable people who have access to firearms don’t go out and shoot innocent people. Most gun owners obey the laws, file the right papers to carry firearms and teach their children to respect guns and ammunition.

As I read article after article about senseless killings and as reporters and pundits try to come up with a reason why someone would kill people in a mass shooting, I know they’re wasting their time.

Because there isn’t a reason.

Instead, I want to concentrate on what I do have answers for. There’s a simple reason Johnnie Langendorff and Stephen Willeford stepped up as heroes, put their lives on the line to try and stop a killer from hurting anybody else.

“That’s what you do,” they said.

That’s an explanation I understand.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Baseball is supposed to be just a game.

The movie “Bull Durham” described baseball as “…. a very simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose…”

If America’s pastime was as simple as catching, throwing and hitting, millions of us wouldn’t have been glued to our television, phone or radio station listening to every minute of the World Series games.

The relationship athletes have with their fans borders on the religious. Athletes, especially baseball players, are held to a high standard, and their fans expect Herculean efforts from the team they back.

Grown men guard their baseball card collections from their childhood more than they do their Social Security number. We walk around with our favorite player’s name on the back of our T-shirts. Most gimmee caps have a team insignia on the front, and those hats are seldom removed.

Sporting memorabilia doesn’t fully explain this country’s fascination with baseball. Our connection goes much deeper because baseball’s more like life than any other sport.

At the entry level, baseball’s a pretty easy game to learn. Somebody throws the ball and somebody hits it. And somewhere out behind the pitcher, somebody catches the ball.

But the game ultimately depends on relationships. The infielders have to work in tandem if they hope to make a double play. The shortstop depends on the outfielder to get the ball in before the opponent gets to second or third base.

Of particular interest is the relationship between the pitcher and the catcher. The pitcher has to trust that the catcher’s making the right call and that the player crouching behind home plate is going to catch what’s thrown their way. Life’s the same way – we depend on others to understand our signals and then follow through.

Baseball also requires guts. Players have to live right on the edge if they’re going to steal a base, especially if they want to steal home. Taking a chance is risky in baseball, but it’s even more risky in life. Still, without taking a chance we risk either losing it all or getting ahead.

Errors are counted in baseball. So are they in life. A team can suffer a humiliating loss but come back the next night and go from the goat to the champ.

Batters have numerous opportunities at the plate to get on base, including not one strike but three. That’s three chances, and that’s more chances than many of us get in life.

What’s great about baseball is if you strike out in the first inning, you’ll be back at the plate with a clean slate in the same game.

We cheer for the homerun slugger, but the game is ultimately a team sport. Without everyone’s cooperation, there’s no way a team can win. We can rack up accomplishments, but most of us need the support of our family or friends to make victories possible and sweeter.

And so it goes in life. All of us make mistakes and think we’re down for the count. We all wish we had another chance to make things right.

Baseball shows us that we’ll get another chance to connect with the ball. We’ll get another chance to step up and show the world what we’ve got.

Every once in a while, we swing for the fences when there’s people counting on us, whether it’s in life or the bases are loaded, and bring in the runs. We succeed one base, one goal and one run at a time.

A simple game? I think not. In life, just like in baseball, there’s nothing better than stepping up to the plate, knowing you could strike out but stepping up anyway.

And when that bat connects with the ball, when we reach a personal goal or when we come down the stretch to score, the hard work pays off.

It’s that simple.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

Most people, when asked to name an influential person in their life, will immediately say a family member. If asked to name someone outside of their family, they often name a teacher. Two events have happened recently that reminded me of the positive impact an outstanding school or teacher makes in a child’s life.

The first is the closing of St. John’s School for Little Children in Richmond. When we moved to Richmond almost 30 years ago, I passed in front of St. John’s United Methodist Church on my way to the grocery store, and I’d see children laughing and playing on the swings and gym set.

I checked around and found St. John’s had a pre-school two mornings a week. I decided to check it out because my then 4-year-old son was extremely shy. I knew he’d be heading to kindergarten the next year, and I didn’t want to send him without his knowing school rules – how to stand in line, what a cubby was used for and, most importantly, how to get along with other children.

He wasn’t as convinced as I was that leaving home for a few hours was a good idea, and I remember having to pull him out of the van by his ankles to go to “school.” I felt guilty, so I’d circle through the Richmond post office drive-through lane over and over again during recess so I could see what he was doing.

His teacher would smile and wave to reassure me my little boy was okay.

It was different with my youngest son. He bounced out of the van every Tuesday and Thursday morning, and absolutely loved being away from mom and making new friends. As different as my two sons were, what was identical was the loving and nurturing environment they received at St. John’s.

In July, the school closed, and the church halls no longer echo with the sounds of sneakers skipping on the linoleum and happy voices on the playground. The memories we created there, however, will last for years as will my gratitude to the staff at St. John’s Little School.

Our community lost a tremendous teacher and friend with the passing of Diana Barnett. For many years, Diana was a beloved teacher at Austin Elementary, and I had the privilege of interviewing her. Her classroom was as cozy as anybody’s living room, and there was an energy in those four walls that emanated from Diana.

With her always-present smile and boundless creativity, “Barnett’s Kids” absolutely adored her, as did their parents, her colleagues and the Austin Elementary community. I was instantly won over by Diana, and I wasn’t alone. She was teacher of the year numerous times and was one of the most creative people I’ve ever met.

One of her former colleagues, Sue Bromberg, said Diana was with her every step of the way in her life and extended her friendship and care to Sue’s sons, even as they grew into adults. Diana was that irreplaceable mentor and special friend to dozens of people, and she never stopped teaching the kids that came through her classroom door.

Diana and her family moved to Arizona a few years ago where she continued positively impacting that community, school and dozens of families. There are few natural-born teachers in this world, and Diana Barnett was one of them.

A celebration of Diana’s life will be held tonight at 6 p.m. at Austin Elementary School in Pecan Grove. For those wishing, Diana’s family asked a donation be made to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. I usually make a donation to the school library when someone passes away, and book I’ve chosen to remember Diana with is “100 Things That Make Me Happy.” Diana Barnett, you were someone who made so many people happy.

I hope you’re drinking a Coke somewhere, Diana, and teaching somebody how to live life to the fullest, just as you did. Your legacy will live forever in the hundreds of lives you touched in your too-brief stay with us.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I could smell the cigarette smoke as soon as I got near my friend. Now the stale smell bothers me, but when I was younger, I had no room to complain because I was a smoker.

I started smoking when I was a teen. My dad smoked and even though I didn’t like his habit, I told myself I was being “cool.” Unlike other types of teenage rebellion, smoking wouldn’t land me in jail.

I successfully hid the cigarettes from my parents until a family car trip. My mom was complaining about my dad’s smoking, and he went off on a rant that he was an adult and could do as he pleased. I’d recently turned 18, so I reached into my purse, pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges and lit one up.

There was complete silence in the car, even though my siblings knew I smoked.

“When did you start smoking,” my dad asked quietly.

“A while ago,” I remember saying.

That was all he could say.

I kept up the habit until the day I found out I was expecting my first child. The minute I got the news, I tossed the pack to my best friend and told her I was done with cigarettes. I never smoked while I was pregnant because I wanted a healthy baby.

But when my son was about a year old, I went through some tough times and picked up the cigarettes again.

I rationalized I wasn’t hurting anybody and had almost convinced myself I could indulge in this one little vice.

Until one summer evening.

My toddler son was playing in the living room, and I was smoking a cigarette watching him. We had window air conditioners at the time, and I noticed that the smoke was staying in the room – I could see the haze near the ceiling.

I realized my child would be breathing in that second-hand smoke, and I was the one putting toxins in the air he was breathing. Feelings of guilt and shame swept over me. Over the next week, I tried to quit, but I couldn’t, and it scared me – I was hooked.

At about the time I realized I was addicted, my office offered a sweet deal to the employees – if they enrolled in a smoking cessation class for $50, anyone who was smoke free six months later would get their $50 back.

Believing my prayers had been answered, I signed up. The instructor had a logical and emotional game plan to help us stop smoking.

First, we had to switch to menthol if we smoked regular cigarettes and vice versa. His reasoning was it’s easier to quit something you don’t like instead of something you do like. Those cigarettes also had to have half the nicotine of the brand we were currently smoking.He told us cigarettes were our little buddies and that stopping smoking was as much an emotional break up as a physical separation.

The last two weeks, we had to give up one cigarette a day, starting with our favorite cigarette. Roger said it would be easier to break the habit of associating a cigarette with something we liked, like that first cup of coffee or after lunch, if we knew we could have another one later in the day.

On the last day of class, all of us smoked the last cigarette together. We were nervous because we weren’t sure we’d make it. But I felt I could be strong, if not for myself but for my son.

Six months later, I collected that $50 and I haven’t had a cigarette in over 35 years.

Putting down the cigarettes for good was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and one of the few times I’ll pat myself on the back for achieving a goal.

Now when I hug my friend and the smell of cigarettes smacks me in the face, I know that will never be me again. I don’t have to worry about burning holes in my clothes, spending money on an addictive habit or having nicotine stains on my fingers.

And that’s a great feeling.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Whenever I’m in the grocery store and I see a child with his or her shoes untied, I have to physically restrain myself from bending down and tying that shoe. I have the same reaction when I see a child scrape their knee – “mommy mode” kicks in.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been a “mommy.” My sons all called me “Mom,” but the “mommy” was how I saw myself – I kissed their boo-boos to make them feel better. I banned peanut butter until they were in the third or fourth grade because I’d read the peanut butter could stick to the top of their mouths and they could choke.

I cut their sandwiches into squares or rectangles, depending on what they wanted that day, and I packed their lunch every single day from the time they were in first grade all the way to when they were a senior in high school.

It wasn’t that I was a super mom because I made plenty of mistakes, including sending them to school with stains on their shirts, hair that wasn’t brushed because I was tired of arguing with them or with unsigned papers the teacher needed but I’d forgotten to sign.

But when it came to giving advice, trying to solve their problems and wanting to know what was going on in their lives, I was 100 percent all in.

My sons are now grown men, and I wonder if I’m overstepping out of habit, still being “mommy” instead of “Mom.” The boys are probably too nice to tell me to stop fussing over them, but I see signs that I need to do so.

They seldom call to ask my opinion any more. They call their dad. He only gives out advice when asked and the boys call him for help with their cars and home repairs. They’ve moved on to man-to-man advice.

The advice I have to offer isn’t that important to them anymore. They don’t have scraped knees that need mommy’s kiss to make it better. They don’t need me to put the legs back on their Ninja Turtle guys and they know where to buy underwear.

In a way, it’s a relief not to have to constantly worry that they’re going to get hurt, lose their lunch money or won’t know what to do in a tough situation. They’ve all been through fender benders, have all had to look for a new job and have endured heartbreak and frustration.

And they survived, just like we all do.

From time to time, I have the selfish desire to go back to the days when they’d snuggle up in my lap, tuck their heads underneath my chin and let me rock them to sleep. I yearn for the nights of kissing them good night as they slept in their beds, a baseball mitt or well-loved panda bear tucked in next to them.

Then I see them buying their own homes, starting their own businesses, handling their finances and job situations and the pride I have in them for being such incredible men is overwhelming.

I asked my mom how she made the transition from mommy to mom, and she said she always knew her children were capable of making solid decisions. Life is all about learning as we go and to butt in is to rob children of the opportunity to grow into the adults they’re meant to be.

She’s right.

My mommy time is over, and it’s time to move into mom time.

And, who knows. I might discover, just as my mom did, that when I move into the “Mom” role, instead of having little children to fret over, I have three new adult friends.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As writers, we’re supposed to come up with words for everything. We write about the back-room tactics of politicians and the feel-good activities of people in our community. On the flip side, we do our best to shine the light on those who manipulate the system for their own good. Most of the time, we do a fairly good job.

But there are no words for why someone would shoot up an elementary school.

No words why someone would open fire in a concert.

No words for those who grieve.

No explanations.

There are no sentimental clichés to make the tragedy any better. There’s not enough fire and brimstone that can bring back a sense of security or bring back those who perished.

No one could foresee that this level of evil exists in our country. How could anyone imagine someone could walk into an elementary classroom and massacre innocent children?

How could anyone see that a deranged individual would target innocent people who were simply outside enjoying a music concert with friends and loved ones?

The answer is – no one.

I wish I could think of the words that could take away the pain of the families who lost a loved one due to senseless violence. I wish I could bring back those young people, back to a life unfulfilled.

I wish with all my heart I could write something to those who ran from the terror to put a safe feeling back in their lives, but there’s no words for that. There’s no way to make them feel safe again, and there’s no way to erase what happened.

For years, millions of words will be written about these tragedies. We’ll examine the senseless violence committed against children and families in Sandy Hook, Columbine, Charleston, Virginia Tech, the University of Texas, the West Nickel Mine Amish School and at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. We’ll search for a reason why someone would open fire on innocent people. We’ll condemn the shooter’s family and friends for not paying attention and alerting others that this person was dangerous.

We’ll try and blame those who own guns for allowing people to stockpile weapons. And then we’ll blame those who try and take guns away for not allowing people to arm themselves against the lunatics in the world.

But rational reasons don’t exist. There are no explanations to comfort those who lost a loved one in an act of violence that rocked the entire nation. There are no words that can bring that friend or loved one back to life or make the nightmares and all-too-real fear stop for the survivors.

We’re shaking our heads in disbelief, hoping there’ll be someone with an answer for stopping the violence.

What’s left is the most basic form of empathy humans know – we reach out and pull the person hurting close to us. As we hug them tightly and blink back the tears, we’re wordless as we stroke their hair and vow to never let them go.

Words aren’t enough to heal the broken hearted. Only the comfort of those who love us and those who are mourning the deceased with us can get us through the horrors no person should have to endure.

Until we do find the words, we’ll continue to hold each other close for dear life because that’s the one answer that makes sense.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.