A new year has rolled in, bringing with it frigid arctic temperatures and hopes for a prosperous, happy 2018.

People used to publicly post their resolutions to the fridge with a magnet. Now we use social media, and the usual lofty goals are there – lose weight, eat healthier, work less and play more.

One of the more creative online resolution prompts was to use one word as a mantra for the coming year. “Enough” was a popular word as was “joy” and “pray.” It’s a pretty good suggestion, but I have a hard time narrowing down my life’s path to a one-syllable word.

Others are choosing to let go of the negatives in their lives and embrace the positives. That makes sense until we realize the negatives and the positives balance each other out. As much as I hate it when things don’t go my way, the different path brings challenges that make me a stronger and humbler person.

Some people want to sleep more – good luck with that if you have a toddler – while others want to learn a new language. I’d settle for understanding what emoji’s are all about.

I used to make a list of resolutions every New Year’s Eve and tape it inside my medicine cabinet where I’d see it every day.

The list didn’t change and neither did the fact that I failed at those resolutions by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around.

A few years ago, I changed my approach – I wrote down a believable list that won’t set the world on fire but is achievable. This year, I’m continuing the tradition.

I came up with three doable and achievable goals for 2018. While three resolutions might make me look like a slacker, I can say with certainty I’m going to achieve these resolutions.

Resolution Number 1:  Clean out the pantry.

I hate to admit it, but there are spices in my pantry from when we moved to Texas 30 years ago. I have no idea why I bought turmeric or sage, but they’ve been taking up space in the pantry so long, there’s dust on the bottles.

I am never going to cook anything that requires an exotic spice, so out they go. Salt, pepper and Tony Chachere’s are all I need.

Resolution Number 2:  Throw away orphan socks.

When the boys were young, they believed the clothes dryer ate their socks. That belief was right up there with the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

We repeatedly told them if they took their dirty socks off at the same time and put them in the clothes basket at the same time, they’d get both of them back.

We might as well have talked to the empty clothes basket. Dirty socks ended up under the kitchen table, in front of the television and in the toilet.

They believed, and probably still do believe, that the dryer eats their socks. Funny but that same dryer never eats my socks or my husband’s socks. But I’ve noticed when the grandchildren come to visit, the dryer’s appetite for socks kicks into overdrive.

I’ve got a nice stack of mismatched toddler and kid socks in the laundry room. If the mate to that Bob-the-Builder sock hasn’t shown up in the last two years, something tells me it’s never going to materialize. So out they go with the spices.

Resolution Number 3:  Watch for blue skies.

As I write this, I haven’t seen a blue sky in at least two weeks. I find myself standing by the window, hopelessly searching for a little sliver of blue. Yesterday, I found a faint patch of blue in the distance, and I could feel my spirits lift.

In 2018, I’m going to keep looking for blue skies, both out the window and in my life.

Even when it’s gloomy outside, even when life’s handing us hurdles instead of blessings, I need to keep in mind that the blue skies always return if we’re patient and we never stop looking.

So 2018, bring it on. Let’s see what you’ve got.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

The year is ending in just a few days, and not a moment too soon. Two-thousand-seventeen was a year of the unexpected, the unknown and who-the-heck-knows. Personally, it’s been a year of poignant regrets and letting opportunities slip past.

In the unexpected category, the worst was Hurricane Harvey. No one predicted a horrific flood that would devastate thousands of people and homes. Harvey was a brutal reminder that Mother Nature is not always a benevolent entity.

We started 2017 with a new president after a stunning and unexpected election upset in 2016. It’s still too early in the West Wing game to see if that unexpected means more jobs or bread lines or whether we’ll be at war when summer arrives.

As a voracious reader and writer, I’m glad newspapers are defying the odds and holding on to readers. People are finally accepting that something worth having is worth paying for.

This publication continues to be the source that connects us and does so by letting you know what’s going on in your community. Social media is incredibly inaccurate, so having a printed voice of reason is an invaluable lifeline.

We lost so many people in our midst this past year, from close relatives to community leaders. Too often, I saw their obituary long after the funeral, missing the opportunity to say “thank you.”

There’s one opportunity to say thank you I don’t want to miss, and that’s to our district attorney John Healey. John’s been in that office for most of his political career, and whether or not you agree with his politics, he’s been a steadfast public servant, one whom I appreciate.

My association with the Healey family is personal – John and his wife, Theo, were the first people we met when we moved to Fort Bend County 30 years ago.

They lived across the street, and Theo and John were the ones who told us where the closest grocery store was located, how to find the nearest Catholic church and were the ones we called whenever we needed something. They also treated our boys with love and kindness from the time they were in elementary school through college. John and Theo, thank you for your friendship and for being our port in the storm when we needed you.

To friends and co-workers I’ve neglected, thank you for not judging me too harshly when I put our relationships on the back burner. Know your friendship is what gets me through the day.

I’ve also neglected to tell my family how much I appreciate everything they’ve done for me and the entire “Hebert Nation.” Through good times and sad, our family’s always stayed united, and I know that’s a rarity these days. I’m not letting 2017 slip away without a big “you’re-the-best” shout-out to my crazy, loud but always dependable family.

At the top of the list is my incredible mom who listens to me whine almost every single day without judgment. She understands I need a sounding board, and she’s a wise, always-there ear for me. Thank you, Mom, for being you, my role model, my friend, my voice of reason and my touchstone.

To my husband who talks me off the ledge, takes care of so many details, both big and small, and always does so without asking or demanding thanks, I appreciate what you do for me, our boys and our grandchildren and pray you’ll continue to put up with me for another 33 years.

If you have people in your life you appreciate, those who’ve been there when the unexpected happened, don’t let the year end or begin without telling them thank you. I can think of no better way to ring in 2018 than with a thank-you to someone you love.

I hope 2018 presents you with more blessings than sorrows. Most of all, I hope this coming year allows you to grab every opportunity that comes your way and gives you the awareness that life, with all its unexpected hurdles, is absolutely wonderful.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In less than a week, it’ll be Christmas Day. People all over the world have been preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ or planning for the biggest shopping season of the year. Christmas songs softly play over store loudspeakers and on the radio 24 hours a day.

One of the highlights for so many is attending a Christmas concert. Nothing beats hearing little voices singing “Jingle Bells” or “Frosty the Snowman.”

Professional choirs are stunningly beautiful, but hearing youngsters sing with a childlike belief truly makes the season bright.

Many of our school choirs give public concerts in December. Rhonda Klutts is the choir director at B.F. Terry High School, and we’ve been friends over 20 years. I first met her when the choir was singing at a funeral, and I was so impressed that these young people held themselves together to honor a slain classmate.

Every year during the Christmas holidays, Rhonda and her varsity choir visit area nursing homes, singing and visiting with the residents. They also visit elementary schools, and it’s not only their pleasure to spread Christmas cheer, it’s a treat for the young ones to see the “big kids” singing.

The teens enjoy eating lunch out during this Christmas tour, and one of their stops over the years has been the food court at First Colony Mall.

It’s centrally located, and the choir usually stages an impromptu concert before they leave the food court, always to cheers and applause from the diners.

They were preparing an acapella version of “Carol of the Bells” when the mall manager walked up and told them they were not allowed to sing without prior permission. She did allow them to sing one song since they were already in place, but that was it.

Rhonda said they left, embarrassed because her choir wasn’t sure why they weren’t allowed to sing again, especially since they’ve sung two or three songs in the food court before.

I spoke with the public relations representative for First Colony Mall, and the mall has a new policy that groups must get permission before singing. I understand that policy. So does Rhonda.

It was the way in which they were treated that’s caused the embarrassment.

In the mall’s defense, their reps simply stated policy to Rhonda and enforced it. In the choir’s defense, they wanted to sing for the crowd and spread Christmas cheer as they have for years.

I’d think that after the summer public relations fiascos, executives would understood the delicate balance between how not to treat customers.

Second guessing how to treat customers usually reveals a better path both parties could’ve followed. Had the mall general manager taken Rhonda to the side and told her they had a policy about impromptu singing without prior permission, the choir would’ve understood.

If the choir would’ve known they needed permission, they’d have asked in advance.

But when it’s Christmas and a choir wants to stand in one place and spread good cheer, something they’ve been doing for years, I don’t see what harm could’ve come from a two-minute song in the food court.

Knowing the rules ahead of time means nobody gets feelings hurt. But rolling with life is the difference between making memories and creating hurt feelings.

Allowing the choir to sing “Carol of the Bells” wouldn’t not only made the teens feel proud, the people in the food court would’ve appreciated seeing teenagers engaged in a wholesome endeavor, and the mall management would’ve come off as generous and understanding.

But neither result happened, and that’s a shame for everyone.

May your holidays be filled with opportunities to make new memories as you celebrate the holiest season of the year with your family and friends. Merry Christmas!

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

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.