Years ago, I had a conversation I had with a fellow reporter and his political, cultural and social views were 100 percent opposed to mine.

If I said “blue state,” he said “red state.” If I said “conservative,” he said “liberal.” Most of the time, I didn’t think twice about his views, until he said he believed in burning the American flag.

That one shocked me, and I had to stop and think about that statement for a long time.

I came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to see any flag burned or desecrated but, in the United States, I would uphold his right to express his views as long as no one was hurt or killed in the protest.

And that’s where I find myself as I read blogs, Tweets and online postings about NFL players taking a knee during the National Anthem. This started last year when NFL athlete Colin Kaepernick refused to stand for the anthem.

Kaepernick said he was not going to “show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.” So instead of standing, he knelt during the anthem and faced a tidal wave of protests as well as people siding with him.

When I first saw him kneeling instead of standing, I was furious. Not because he was protesting but because of the respect I have for the many veterans I’ve talked to over the years.

I remember interviewing the late Charlie Kalkomey about his service. He didn’t agree to the interview because he wanted glory or recognition. He agreed because I asked and I think he wanted people to understand what so many veterans endured. During the interview, he quietly told me why he limped. It was because he was trapped on an enemy island during World War II and, while wounded, had to crawl through gunfire just to make it to safety.

I can still remember sitting in his office, feeling sick to my stomach for what he’d gone through. For the rest of his life, Mr. Kalkomey lived with that limp but never whined or blamed anyone for his war injuries. They were the result of his having performed his duty to his country.

I remember interviewing a Vietnam veteran who sobbed through the first part of our interview. He hadn’t talked about his service for over 40 years, and seeing pictures of himself at the age of 18 in the jungles of Viet Nam brought the knowledge of the youth he’d lost. No one knew the internal sadness and loss of innocence this veteran carried with him every single day. But he didn’t regret serving his country. He regretted that so many people didn’t give Vietnam vets the respect they deserved.

I remember the late Arthur Mahlmann and Frank Briscoe talking about hunkering down in foxholes in Europe while artillery exploded over their heads. They endured freezing winters and nightly terrors of not knowing whether or not they’d live another day.

I thought I was interviewing them because of their generosity to this community over their lifetimes. I found out they’d given much more than money and time – they gave their youth.

The World War II nurses I interviewed in Greatwood all had Purple Hearts and all had tended the wounds of soldiers in the battlefield, held the hands of bleeding service men and listened to the final prayers of those who’d been mortally wounded.

These women came home, put their medals in the closet and went about rearing their families, never asking for recognition or thanks.

So when I hear the national anthem played, I stand for the veterans and the people and way of life they believed were worth fighting for. It’s my way of thanking them for putting their lives on the line every day of their service.

So while I understand one’s taking the knee during the national anthem and have to grudgingly say America allows that freedom, there is no way I would not stand.

The reason is simple.

So many stood for what was right and so many died so we could continue fighting for justice, whether it was in a foxhole in Europe, a jungle in Vietnam or the attitudes of prejudiced people.

They fought so we can disagree, protest and demand change.

They fought for you.

They fought for me.

They fought for America.

I understand your decision to kneel.

Understand mine to stand.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Next week, my mom will be celebrating a milestone birthday – 85. I remember the days when she was 39 for about 15 years, but now that she’s in her 80s, our family doesn’t miss an opportunity to celebrate another year with our mother.

Her daily schedule is ambitious. In the morning over coffee and cereal, she finishes the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle. Except on Sundays. She said that one’s too hard.

She does all her own shopping and housework and is always making soup or dinner for someone who’s under the weather.

Once a week, she volunteers in the gift shop at Lane Memorial Hospital. She loves greeting the customers and helping them find gifts for loved ones. She’s the first to take someone else’s shift if they’re ill or going out of town, and that’s in addition to her regular hours.

One day a week, she enjoys “lunch with the ladies.” There’s quite a few older women in the complex where she lives, and a group goes out to eat on Fridays. Over soul food, egg-drop soup or fried fish, they catch up on what’s going on in the neighborhood, talk politics and discuss their great-grandchildren.

After lunch, Mom often plays cards with another group of ladies and then it’s home in time to watch the soap opera she’s watched for over 20 years, “The Young and The Restless.”

On Monday nights, she fixes a complete dinner for my brothers and their wives. The main reason they visit is because they genuinely enjoy Mom’s company. But Mom knows having dinner together is her sons’ secretive way of checking on her, seeing if anything needs repairing around the house and making sure she’s taking her medications.

She manages her own checking account, pays her own bills, loves surfing the Internet, playing “Cookie Jam” and reading Facebook posts.

She remembers the birthdays of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and always sends a card and a few dollars to the little ones. In turn, they all know who she is and, from time to time, have all spent time on her lap.

As I write this, she’s in the hospital, recovering from a small blood clot in her leg. She’s furious because we’ve got a huge party planned for her next week, and she is fuming in that hospital bed because she has things to do to get ready. Although all her children are grown with families of their own, she’s still the boss and is making sure we’re doing what supposed to be done for the party.

First, and most important question – what are we eating?

I told her our in-town brothers and sisters-in-law have caterers lined up and that we all have a list of what we’re supposed to supply for the party.

“What about entertaining the out-of-town guests?” she asked.

Triumphantly, I said her sons had already thought of that – they’ve arranged visits to the Baton Rouge casinos and lunches at Cajun restaurants. Rides are arranged for transportation to and from airports and everybody has a place to stay.

“You raised us right,” we told her, and, with that answer, she was satisfied to do everything the doctors are asking because she wants to be up and ready to see family.

We know the promise of seeing her loved ones is the best medicine in the world for our mom, and she said she’s leaving that hospital in plenty of time to get ready for her party, even if she has to drag that pole and drip along behind her.

I pity anybody who stands in the way of this 4’11” Lebanese matriarch.

We know we’re extremely blessed to still have our mom with us in good health and of sound mind. So we’re rolling out the red carpet for her 85^th birthday and celebrating Dee Hebert with food, laughter and, most of all, love.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

I heard the giggling before I saw what triggered the laughter. The happiness came from the dozen or so children sitting in a circle with Gene and Doris Tomas as they sorted a mountain of mismatched socks for Lamar CISD’s food and clothing pantry, Common Threads.

Doris and Gene were some of the hundreds of volunteers who came to Common Threads in the days after Hurricane Harvey to donate their time to help those affected by the storm.

Attack Poverty and Friends of North Richmond helped out some of the hardest hit homes in our community, and the work isn’t finished yet. Churches have organized work crews that are working seven days a week to help residents already struggling financially.

These organizations don’t just pop up when there’s a tragedy. They’re helping the neediest year round, from making sure children have shoes and school uniforms to providing diapers and formula to young parents.

Social media played a huge role in getting helpers to donation sites. Armies of volunteers would search on Twitter or Facebook to find a neighborhood or family in need and then arrive to do whatever they could to help. Groups formed online pages where people can search for places to volunteer and help out.

At Common Threads, parents with their children, teachers, businessmen and women, teens, athletes, coaches, retirees all came and found a way to give back. Every day, coaches and young athletes unloaded donations, delivered supplies to area hotels where displaced families were staying and volunteered for any job that needed to get done.

Firefighters and EMS personnel were busy 24/7. Businesses and churches donated hot food, water, supplies and money to relief funds. Most fanned out into the community to muck out houses, remove sheetrock and salvage as much as possible. Many of our business owners provided food for volunteer workers, even when their livelihoods were suffering.

For hours, people worked behind the scenes, making sure the power stayed on, the Internet lines kept us connected and supplies were delivered as soon as the roads were passable.

People not only donated food and clothing, but they donated their talents. Barbers and hair technicians cut hair at police stations and recovery sites, putting a bit of normalcy back into people’s lives. People with boats went from house to house during the worst part of the flood. Four-wheelers and ATVs drove through drenched neighborhoods, retrieving people who couldn’t navigate flooded streets.

Simonton and Valley Lodge were hard hit and over a dozen trucks were lined up near the entrance as volunteers fanned out and helped at homes for people they’d never met before. We were at a house in Simonton and the homeowners were removing ruined furniture and carpet. Two state troopers, one from another county, stopped and offered to help along with the young National Guardsmen riding with them. They quickly picked up the ruined living room furniture and deposited it at the curb, much to the relief of the exhausted homeowners.

So often, law enforcement personnel are criticized but, during the flood, they were pitching in to help wherever they were needed. House after house. Family after family. Neighborhood after neighborhood.

Those who weren’t flooded cleaned out closets and pantries to donate what they could. Young moms and retirees took in laundry, and bilingual folks helped displaced people get through the overwhelming mountain of paperwork required for financial aid.

This area was slammed by one of the worst hurricanes to ever make landfall. people worked together to make a positive difference in the midst of tragedy. It’s humbling and uplifting to watch prejudices disappear. White, Black, Asian, young, old, rich, poor – none of that mattered as volunteers all over southeast Texas stocked shelves, sorted clothing, gathered supplies and then delivered them with a smile to those in need.

No complaining. No racial barriers. Just people helping people. Volunteering brings out the best in people, the best they didn’t even know they had in their hearts.

The road ahead is long, so please continue giving and helping where needed. If you weren’t able to help out during the initial flood, don’t worry. Organizations are going to need volunteers for months, so please consider adding your name and muscle to the list. If you’re willing to give of your time and effort, there’s a place for you. Most of all, Fort Bend County, thank you for your incredible generosity, your gusty optimism and your willingness to start over, bigger and better than ever.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

School starts next week, and parents are frantically downloading school supply lists, fighting the mobs on the pen-and-pencil aisles and reading every article on Pinterest about how to pack the perfect lunch.

Having been there and done that, I thought I’d pass on a few back-to-school tips you might not read in a parenting magazine.

Only bought two tubes of glue instead of four? Don’t sweat it. These days, all school supplies get dumped into a big bin and the teacher doles them out during the year. This is to make sure everybody has an equal amount of supplies. It’s also to prevent children from sharpening their pencils all the way down to the eraser on the first day because they’re fascinated with the pencil sharpener.

So turning in two glue sticks instead of four will not be a big deal when the teacher is trying to keep little Susie from crying because she sees Lydia has the Paw Patrol lunchbox she wanted.

Your child will survive not having a pencil that writes with blue lead on one end and red lead on the other. They will survive not having the latest Despicable Me backpack and they will survive having a bag of grapes in their lunch instead of a bag of chips.

Lunchboxes are not only cool but they’re also useful. Your child will use said lunchbox as second base when one’s not available after school. They will also play “kick the lunchbox” on their way home in the afternoon or while waiting for you in the nightmare carpool line.

Paper lunch bags are wonderful unless your children are boys and require two sandwiches, two pieces of fruit, a Little Debbie Cake, two juice boxes and a bag of chips in their lunch every day.

Then you have to go to one of the huge box stores and buy a case of oversized lunch bags that will last you until your last child graduates from college.

It’s not just the kids who have to survive school.

So do parents.

You will survive the vicious drop-off and pick-up line. Here’s a tip – bring a book to read. Better yet, bring two. Listening to books on CD or playing the radio will simply drain your vehicle’s battery because you’re going to wait in that line a long time. A really long time.

Your child will volunteer you to be a chaperone on a field trip. Whatever it takes, beg your child to not sign you up for the zoo field trip.

A trip to the zoo sounds fun until you remember that those trips take place on a school bus that’s not air conditioned. A zoo visit requires you to walk at least five miles in humid 98-degree weather to look at smelly animals that are all sleeping.

Volunteer to be a class reader or decorate bulletin boards. Volunteer to sit in the dunking booth. Even volunteer to work in the carpool line.

Anything but the zoo.

Your child will make friends. Your child will be friendless. Your child will be happy to go to school and then a pack of wolves couldn’t drag them out of bed.

And you, mom and dad, will also have days where you fret incessantly about your child because you sent them to school when they were worried they wouldn’t make any friends, thought the teacher didn’t like them or were worried about a quiz.

You’ll worry they won’t have anybody to play with during recess or they’ll get hurt or they’ll get in trouble. The hardest part of sending children back to school is letting them spread their wings and fly when you’re not there to watch them soar or not there to catch them when they can’t seem to get off the ground.

Your job is to lovingly remind them there are good days and bad days. In life, one decides what kind of day to have, not the other way around. And as you tuck them in at night, be sure and listen to their school adventures and reassure them that even though they don’t have a Paw Patrol lunchbox, life is still pretty good.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

Two men came into the restaurant while we were eating dinner in Norwich, New Hampshire. They resembled hippies with their long hair and beards, but my husband said they probably were hiking on the nearby Appalachian Trail. Opened to the public in 1937, the AT, as it’s called, is a 2,180-mile walking trail from Georgia to Maine, and thousands of people make the pilgrimage every year.

We struck up a conversation with the men as my husband has hiked portions of the trail. Sure enough, they’re what’s known as “through hikers,” people who start either at Mt. Katahdin in Maine or Springer Mountain in Georgia and finish the entire odyssey in one trek.

The trail takes walkers through gorgeous territory, from mountains to forests, and weaves through Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire.

Both said they’d retired from their careers in their mid-50s, picked up their hiking boots and gear and headed out to complete a long-held dream of hiking the entire AT.

Most hikers adopt a trail name, and the gentlemen we were talking with had done the same. “Tripod,” a soft-spoken man, said he hailed from Georgia and “Tin Man,” a tall, slim man with an easy smile, had retired from a second career as a firefighter.

Tripod said he felt guilty about leaving his wife for a few months to hike the trail, so he came up with an idea that fit his spiritual nature. For every mile he walks, people donate money to help build water wells in Nicaragua. So far, he’s raised over $10,000, and Tripod said he felt he could help a ministry that mimicked his life on the trail where water sources are often scarce.

“We’re out here fighting for water every day, so I can’t imagine what people have to go through to fight for water every day of their lives,” he said.

He did have a plan for ending his trek in grand fashion. When Tripod came off the trail, he was heading to a dealership, purchasing a motorcycle and riding that bike all the way home to Georgia.

“Tin Man’s” life path was as rocky as some of the places on the AT. He watched firefighters help his father during his numerous heart attacks until his father passed away when he was 3 years old. Those early memories stayed with him when it came time to choose a career.

He didn’t want to put his widowed mother in financial difficulty for his college education, so he joined the armed services, enrolled in classes and discovered he was pretty smart. Smart enough to use the G.I. bill to earn a degree in nuclear engineering and enjoy a career in that field before heading over to his real passion, firefighting.

The two met on the trail and said walking all those miles allowed them to realize they’d lived good lives so far. As they talked about their journey, there was a calmness surrounding both of them, and I felt myself relaxing the more they talked about the peacefulness that came to be part of their daily life.

Each bend on the trail, each fork in the path took them to places they’d never been, and they got through over 2,000 miles by simply putting one foot in front of the other. They kept going, and that’s probably the best advice anybody can follow when it comes to accomplishing a goal.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a bearded and dusty hiker in the middle of the forest in Virginia, a tired and cranky commuter on the freeway in Houston or an unemployed college student, hungry for an adventure before responsibility comes bearing down.

It really doesn’t matter if you hike on the AT, through a state park or around the block in your neighborhood.

Adventure starts with taking that first step into the unknown and believing the answers will become clearer with each mile you travel through the unknown.

You might not ever step foot on the AT, but you don’t have to go that far to find answers. They’re as close as the next step you take.

            To donate to Tripod’s mission of helping drill a water well in Nicaragua, email him at jacarr242@gmail.com. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

The line of people waiting to get into the church started in the front of the building, snaked down the side driveway and wound to the end of the back parking lot. Patiently, people stood in that line, waiting to pay their respects to David Stelzel, a beloved and long-time resident of East Bernard.

Stelzel passed away in a tragic accident this week, and family and friends are left to mourn. His obituary states he was born into a farming family and graduated from East Bernard High School in the late 1960s.

He started college, but was drafted into the U.S. Army and served in Vietnam from 1971 to 1973. He returned to Baytown and began his family farming legacy, starting with his father, Awald. For 35 years, Stelzel and his brother, Harold, farmed, and Stelzel was proud that he had brought in 44 crops.

In the community, Stelzel served on the Farmer’s Co-Op Board of Directors for over 40 years and on the Farm Bureau Board of Directors for 25 years. All his success with farming and in the community is commendable, but his greatest joy was his family.

I can attest to that as I know his family, and they are down-to-earth people who would do anything for anybody. Stelzel’s wife, Brenda, taught at East Bernard High School for years, and there were quite a few former students at her husband’s wake. I interviewed Brenda a few years ago because she’d won numerous national awards as the yearbook teacher. We struck up a friendship, and I came to cherish her wisdom and down-to-earth advice.

When I heard David had passed away in an unforeseen accident, there was no way I would miss expressing my sympathy to her and her family.

I wasn’t alone. Over a thousand people were there to honor Stelzel, from older men wearing starched jeans and well-worn cowboy boots to young parents explaining to their fidgety children that, in times of sorrow, a community rallies together.

Standing in the line, I saw that solidarity. Residents out here take care of each other. They shop in the town’s businesses and they come out in force to cheer on the East Bernard Brahmas.

That camaraderie was evident in the way members of the church set up refreshment stations outside and made sure everyone was offered a cold glass of lemonade and a smile while they waited to pay their respects to the Stelzel family.

No one complained about how long they had to wait. No one complained about the heat. Instead, they talked about this year’s crop, the weather report for the upcoming week and reminisced about how either Brenda or David had positively impacted their lives.

Behind me in line was one of Stelzel’s good friends, Ken. He said he was still in shock because David was one of those guys everybody thought would be around forever. He took care of business in a quiet way, and did what he was supposed to do, from serving his country to working day after day on a tractor in the rice fields to spoiling his grandchildren, all in a town he called home.

With all the growth in Fort Bend County and the explosion of master-planned communities, it would be easy to categorize East Bernard as just another small town.

But that impression would be incorrect.

East Bernard is a city that’s held together by families from all cultures and walks of life who cherish and honor the deep roots they have in their community.

These families look out for each other, laugh with each other and, this week, cry and comfort each other.

David Stelzel was one of the pillars of the community, and he’ll be sorely missed. But he won’t be forgotten. His legacy was planted in rich soil out in East Bernard where others will make sure that love lives on for generations.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

While up in Aggieland this weekend, I decided to get out of the heat and tour the George Herbert Walker Bush Presidential Library. The library is celebrating its 20^th year in 2017, and it’s well worth the short drive to College Station to see a presidential library. No matter one’s political affiliation, or whether or not you support the Bush family’s politics, this library is first class.

Each exhibit lends itself to the next one, the displays are interactive and there’s something to see from the floor to the ceiling in every part of the building.

The price of admission is reasonable — $9 for adults and $3 for children and students – for what you’ll see.

A long winding road leads visitors up to the sprawling library, and friendly docents greet you once you get past the metal detectors. The library is high tech, and the admission ticket includes a speaker you can wear around your neck if you want more information as you move about the exhibits.

Often times, we think of museums as dusty, boring places, but the Bush library is vibrant and informative in an engaging way, from a recreation of the Oval Office and Bush’s office at Camp David to the hundreds of gifts from foreign dignitaries given to Bush when he was president.

The long wall near the entrance details the Bush family’s background, and one can understand how the Bush and Walker families came to become such powerhouses in America.

There’s an actual presidential limousine on display, and it’s fascinating to get close enough to the car to look in the windows and see the leather seats in the back.

The family traditions section traces the Bushes and the Walkers lineage, and it was interesting to find out that Bush was an outstanding baseball player from the time he was young all the way up to playing first base for Yale University.

That love of baseball stayed with him all his life, and he kept his glove from his college days in a drawer in the White House – always oiled – while he was the president.

I knew Bush had served in the U.S. Navy as a young man as a pilot. Hanging from the ceiling in that section of the library is a life-sized restored Avenger airplane, similar to the one Bush flew in the war and was piloting when he was shot down over the Pacific Ocean.

Photos in this section of the library show a young 21-year-old Bush being rescued after floating in the ocean for three hours. That might not seem like a long time, but in an interview that plays, Bush said he knew the possibility of being captured was a real possibility. He also knew he might never be rescued and could die out there in the ocean.

At the age of 20, Bush was awarded the Navy’s Iron Cross for valor. I thought about that young man, who was the age of most of the Aggies walking around College Station, floating in that vast ocean, not knowing if he’d be rescued or die in a POW camp.

Barbara and George Bush were married young and their printed wedding invitations had a blank where the date should’ve been printed. Instead, the wedding date was written in by hand. That’s because they weren’t sure when George was coming back from the service.

But he did return, and George and Barbara started their family right away. From the pictures and their recollections, the couple saved their money and worked hard as their young family grew and George started his oil business.

The displays of his making a living in the Texas oilfields is well documented, and personal letters bring visitors into the lives of this young couple.

It might seem like Bush had a charmed life – born into money, attending Yale University and making a fortune in the oil business – but the Bush’s second child, Robin, became listless when she was 3 years old and was diagnosed with leukemia.

She died before she was 4 years old from a disease that is now 90 percent curable. For decades, Bush carried a charm in his wallet that honored Robin, and a letter he wrote to his mother in 1958 about Robin will bring tears to your eyes.

Robin is now buried at the presidential library where her mother and father will one day lie.

Throughout the museum, artifacts, letters and photos take visitors into the personal life of a man who experienced the biggest triumph a politician can achieve and the worst nightmare a parent can envision.

POLITICS:

A visit to the George Bush Presidential Library in College Station is refreshingly informative, beautiful and a step through history. That this building is less than three hours from our doorsteps makes a visit a must.

George Herbert Walker Bush was the 41^st president of the United States, and his political life is a walk through some of the most incredible times in our nation’s history.

Bush began his political career in Texas, and the many campaign buttons and signs reflect a time when politicians had to personally campaign for every vote. There’s a copy of a hand-written letter Barbara Bush sent to many of the female voters in George’s district, asking them to vote for her husband.

Bush’s biggest claim is as president, so it’s easy to overlook his lifetime in public service, both on the local scene and at the national level, including time as a diplomat.

His political career is well documented in a way that is informative and entertaining. There’s political bumper stickers and buttons on display, videos from his actual speeches and newspaper clippings detailing Bush’s victories in Texas and then on to the White House.

One of the most stirring videos was when President Ronald Reagan gave a speech to Congress following an attempted assassination attempt on his life. Few people knew at the time how close Reagan came to dying, but seeing the video stirred lots of memories of that scary time.

Bush’s time as director of the CIA was also detailed in video, pictures and letters. On display is an actual section of the Berlin Wall. That slab of concrete is a sobering reminder of how part of the world was cut off from the rest for so long.

One side of the wall is brightly painted with words of encouragement and peace and the other is steel gray, and that’s what the East Berliners saw for many years. I looked at that wall section a long time, thinking of how so many people in the world are still behind walls and the efforts we still need to take to tear down those walls.

At many of the exhibits, there are drawers visitors can pull out and inside are laminated copies of letters and extra details so you can read and see for yourself what was happening at that point in Bush’s life.

The White House is an elegant place, and there are two vignettes that are wonderful to see life size. One depicts a state dinner, complete with the White House china and silverware and the gown Barbara wore.

The other is a duplicate of the Oval Office, complete with Bush’s desk, and you actually feel as if you’re standing in the most famous room in the world.

I especially enjoyed seeing all the gifts other countries gave to Bush during his tenure as president. There was an intricately carved ivory tusk from Africa, and numerous gold-plated bowls and dishes.

One of the best spots is a reading room filled with children’s books, a miniature wooden replica of the White House and couches where you can sit and watch the Bushes when they were on television shows, like “David Letterman” and “Saturday Night Live.” Their sense of humor comes through loud and clear.

There’s quite a few tributes to Barbara Bush and copies of the many books she’s written in a cozy reading room near the rear of the library.

No matter if you agree or disagree with his politics, George Herbert Walker Bush did his duty, both to family and country, and left a legacy to be proud of. This former president deserves the respect he’s earned through a lifetime of service, and the presidential library in College Station is a fitting tribute to this man.

So take a ride up Highway 6 to Aggieland and tour the museum. You won’t be disappointed.

 

This column was originally a two-part series and was published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I grew up Catholic. Hand-picked flowers on the altar in our living room to Mary every May, eating fish on Fridays during Lent and weekly visits to the confessional. I can instantly recall the smell of the oils the Altar Society ladies used on the pews and the scent of incense the priest would waft over the congregation on special holy days. I can’t hear the phrase “the peace of the Lord be with you” without instantly replying “and also with you.”

Despite the ingrained Catholicism, I haven’t been to Mass in a couple of years, and I no longer feel guilty about not going.

My reasons for not attending Mass have nothing to do with my faith. That is strong and intact. I believe in God. I believe in Jesus being our Savior, that Mary is a patron saint for mothers and that St. Anthony has always helped me find all lost things and will always do so. I say a rosary every morning and I talk to God every day, much as a daughter would talk to her father.

Belief isn’t the reason I don’t attend Mass any more. It’s the people, and it’s uncanny the way something happens every time I go to Mass to convince me that a fancy church building isn’t the place for me.

This break came a few years ago. A deacon in the parish I attended for over 20 years was fired because of some petty people who worked in the church office. This deacon encouraged my son to return to the faith. He held our congregation together during tough times and he lived the words of Christ, even while his son was dying of cancer. His booming voice and boisterous spirit infused all of us with the belief that God was truly alive. When the smear campaign happened, hundreds of us stood up for him, but the bureaucracy had their way and many of us left that parish, heartbroken.

We moved, and I thought I’d start over. I went to a smaller Catholic church and attended a youth Mass one Sunday. I approached the woman in charge and told her I was new to the parish and that I had 25 years of experience teaching CCE to teens. She looked at me and said “that’s nice,” and walked off. I was stunned as religious education teachers are hard to come by. I continued to go to Mass there, but I stood in the back of the church where every week, something happened where I could fill a need with the other quiet people standing in the back. I figured God was trying to tell me to stay there.

But the call to pass on my faith pulled at me. A few months later, I saw there was a ministry fair. I told the ladies at the table what had happened and told me they needed me in the parish. I gave them my email address and cell phone number. I went into Mas that day hopeful, thinking of the lessons I’d taught that were my favorites and that I could resurrect them.

I never heard from the parish.

So I went to other Catholic churches, always standing in the back, never feeling part of the church family. I didn’t reach out but no one reached out to me either. When an announcement was made that a new church was being built in my city, I rejoiced, thinking this was a fresh start. Then I saw the list of those in charge of religious education, and it was the same small-minded, vindictive people who’d been at my previous parish.

After months of smoldering resentments, I talked to the deacon who’d been wronged, and he told me I shouldn’t let people keep me from celebrating Mass. “Forgive, my daughter,” was his advice. I tried but resentments are difficult to dissolve.

But I thought a new church would be a good start. My first time to go to the new church, I hadn’t made it to the back door when my cell phone rang. It was a friend needing someone to talk to.

The second time was today. I sat down, four chairs from the aisle with an empty seat between me and the couple at the end. A woman came in and sat to my right. Before Mass started, a woman and her daughter looked to see if they could sit on our row – this church is pretty packed. I asked the woman to my right if she’d move over. She refused.

Stunned, I stepped out of that row and told the mother and daughter they could have my seat and that empty one to my left. The mother didn’t want to take my spot, but I assured her I wouldn’t be there long. I stood in the back again, and five minutes later, my son called, and I left, talking to him as I made my way back to my car.

Now some would say this was the devil, seeing if he could get me to stop believing. I disagree. I could never be anything but Catholic, the doctrines, rituals and tenants part of my religious fabric. I still look to former priests, people in my family and religious leaders for inspiration because these few live their faith every single day.

But organized religion is ruined for me because of people. People like the woman who wouldn’t give up her seat this morning because the mother and daughter were foreigners. The petty church leaders who fired a wonderful deacon because they were jealous of his popularity and his unencumbered spirit.

I know all churches are filled with sinners looking for redemption. I also know there are genuinely good and kind people not only sitting in the pews but on the altars, in the pulpits and in the religious education classrooms. They spread the word of God in their words and actions every single day.

But I’ve encountered too many people who say the words of God but don’t live them. The biggest difference between me and the front-row sitters is that I know and admit I’m a sinner. I know I need God in my life every day to steer me toward where I can be His servant and how I can best serve him.

And that’s not from a church pew.

I shall continue to find ways to live as I think God would want me to – to constantly be on the lookout for ways I can help people in need, whether that’s taking time to listen to a friend in trouble, helping someone financially or giving up my seat to someone whose skin color is different than mine. Whether or not they believe in God doesn’t matter to me – their actions matter, and one does not need a religious affiliation card to have a caring and kind soul.

When I taught CCE, one of the questions I always asked the teens was if Jesus attended Mass today, where would He sit? Some said Jesus would sit in the front. Others said in the middle. Invariably, one would say that Jesus would stand in the back. I agreed. Jesus, I think, would be in the back with those who feel unworthy to be inside, those looking to quickly leave when they feel overwhelmed. If Jesus could rescue one – just one – then it would be a good day in heaven.

So I worship and pray by myself, but I’m not alone. God is with me every moment, every hour, every day. My faith is unshakable. I pray for those I love, my enemies and those in need of a kind word, a smile and encouragement.

And try to never forget the sad feeling of being alone in a church filled with people but feeling totally at peace when alone with God.

“I have your chair,” my cousin, Sylvia, told me at a recent family reunion.

My face must’ve registered confusion, so Sylvia reminded me that she’d borrowed the chair from me over 20 years ago.

At the time, Sylvia was teaching pre-kindergarten, and she said she was looking for a small chair for students who needed a little quiet time. She spotted a rocker in my living room that belonged to my then 6-year-old.

I’d gotten the chair when Nick was a toddler, and he spent many hours rocking in that chair, turning it upside-down to serve as a mountain and covering the chair in blankets to use as a fort. Now he was too big for the chair, and I knew Sylvia would take good care of it.

I told her to take the chair, but asked if I could get it back when she was finished.

She agreed, and 30 years later, Sylvia remembered her promise. The reason I was getting the chair back was because Sylvia was retiring after 30-plus years as a teacher. The teaching profession is losing one of the best educators around because Sylvia’s a born teacher who absolutely adores her students, always has a smile on her face and believes children learn best in an atmosphere of understanding and love.

For over three decades, she was an enthusiastic teacher for 4-year-olds. She sang songs with them, got on the floor and played games and taught thousands of children how to be happy and successful.

She also taught them how to be a good friend and how to manage their emotions.

One of the tools she used was the rocking chair. She transformed our plain chair by painting it grass-green and adding hand-designed iguanas and red-and-yellow snakes on the arms and back.

The chair was nicknamed the “peace chair” or, as Sylvia laughed, the “place-to-get-your-stuff-together” chair. When youngsters needed time to calm down, she gently guided them to the chair, and told them to spend some time thinking and rocking.

And rock they did. The paint on the sides of the arms is worn away from little fingers holding on tight to the arms as they rocked.

“They’d rock like maniacs in that chair,” Sylvia said with a laugh, and she said it wasn’t unusual to find a child wrapped up in his or her favorite blanket, rocking away until they felt safe and secure again.

I’m so happy that chair provided comfort to so many youngsters, because that’s what a rocking chair is all about. A rocking chair is also the best place for a parent to snuggle up with a colicky baby or calm down a screaming toddler.

No matter our age, we can sit in a rocking chair and rock away our problems and worries. It doesn’t matter if the chair’s padded and located in the living room or it’s an old wooden chair on the back porch.

I brought the chair home, and our grandchildren came for a visit the next day. The minute our 2-year-old grandson saw the chair, he said “mine,” and sat right down. With his little fingers, he traced the colorful snake design on the arm of the chair and then settled in with his favorite stuffed animal.

Something tells me that little green chair will always be needed, whether it’s in a living room or a classroom. And a child will know that if they need to get their “stuff together,” nothing beats that back-and-forth rhythm that only a well-loved rocking chair that’s just the right size can provide.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As a lover of words, I find myself scouring the Internet for interesting articles after I’ve finished the printed newspaper and the latest book I’ve checked out from the library.

I’ll read the top news stories and, when I’ve finally had enough of the shenanigans of the people we elected to pass laws in this country, I look for off-beat and quirky articles.

I came across a link for a blog posting the writer’s opinion on the top overrated tourist destinations in the country. As we’re planning a trip to the New England area, I clicked on the link to see if the writer mentioned any cities where we’re headed and if we should rethink where we want to visit.

Glancing over the list, I realized I’ve been to a lot of the places he mentioned. As I kept reading, I found myself disagreeing with most of the things in the essay.

But by the time I got to the last paragraph, I realized this guy is the biggest snob I’ve come across in a long time. He gets his kicks, and attracts blog readers, with ridicule and a snarky attitude.

He mentioned that Asheville, N.C. was “sadly average and overpriced.” Our stay there was luxurious and affordable, including my first experience with a bed and breakfast.

The owners of the B&B were some of the most gracious people I’ve ever met, and they treated my sisters, mom and me like queens.

Our primary reason to visit was to see the 250-room Biltmore, and the estate was overwhelming in its grandiosity and a glimpse into a part of our nation’s past. I found the place fascinating, certainly not average.

His disdain about Colorado was pure snobbery – “the state is too often either uptight or boring.” I’ve been to Colorado a couple of times, and “boring” is not a word I’d use to describe the rugged Rocky Mountains and some of the most colorful meadows and valleys I’ve ever seen.

He also bashed San Francisco with a snotty comment about the smell of body odor “rising off unwashed pavement.” One could say that about any sprawling metropolitan city, but if that’s all he concentrated on when visiting, then he’s missing what’s really beautiful about this coastal site.

I watched someone ride a bike up one of those steep hills, and my admiration grew for the people who have to walk or bike up those streets every day. The people in the shops were friendly and helpful and all told us to hang around and watch for the fog.

Watching the fog come in over the bay is truly a unique experience. That fog resembled a fluffy white blanket as the edge slowly crept toward the shore.

Boring? Not a bit.

But this Texas gal saw red when he bashed Austin as a “mildly entertaining town.” He’s obviously never watched the parade of creative types around the state capitol, attended an energetic “Austin City Limits” taping or eaten from one of the city’s many food trucks where one can order everything from spicy Thai to authentic Mexican to flavorful Jamaican.

Almost anybody can put on their snob hat and dismiss a city’s attempt to attract tourists or visits. That’s what sells these days – writing mean comments and hiding behind a cartoon picture on the Internet.

The real trick is to lose the snarky attitude and actually do what writers are supposed to do – dig beyond the surface and talk to the locals, the real treasure in every city and town. Through them, you’ll find the beauty and uniqueness everywhere you travel.

The next time you’re in Austin, Mr. Snooty Writer, get off that high horse, strap on some leather sandals and stroll around the capitol. While you’re there, pick up a “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt and talk to the folks milling around the food trucks.

That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for in these “underrated places.” The people are the real treasures, and they’re what makes any destination a memory maker.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.