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.