When Hurricane Harvey swept Houston’s Bay Area, I didn’t lose everything, but the storm unsettled me. Returning to class two weeks later, I faced students carrying grief far heavier than mine. Had I suffered a major loss like so many others, maybe the words would come easier. Monday couldn’t just be about economics—it had to be about steady ground and hope.
I taught in ten different classrooms before real stability—floated through schools like a substitute in my own career. Then came asbestos, portables, fire‑alarms that never shut off—and the refrain: “carry on like normal.” If harnessing chaos was a policy, we aced it. Now, “normal” feels almost fictional. And after 9/11 and hurricanes, COVID has rewritten even that. Maybe what needs to be normal is our care—not business, not calm, but our commitment to one another, even when the world tells us to act otherwise.
Living among Texas oaks has its lessons: storms leave scars, but the tree stands firmer for it. Psalm 1 paints that same image—one rooted by streams, standing through seasons, bearing fruit. Not a symbol of perfection, but perseverance. It’s tempting to drift like a tumbleweed, but a life grounded in truth can weather the chaos. Real strength is quiet. It’s nestled in deep roots, consistent nourishment, and choosing where you walk, stand, and sit—in ways that let life grow from the inside out.