In England, they call them Water Closets or “WCs” for short. When a group from our church visited the London and Kent area some years ago, a man in a Sunday School class leaned over to me and asked about our deacon W. C. Thomas, who had just been introduced, “Why in the world would his parents give him such a name?” I explained his name was William Cledith, and that in America “W.C.” had no connotation about rest rooms–or anything else, for that matter.

People are funny about rest rooms.

You don’t hear “little moron” jokes any more, but one I recall from childhood went like this. “Why did it take the little moron four hours to travel fifty miles on the highway?” Answer: “Because he kept seeing signs that said ‘clean rest rooms’ and he must have cleaned a hundred that day!”

Here’s a question for you: in what public buildings in every town in America would you expect to find the dirtiest, smelliest rest rooms? Most people would probably answer: in the schools. The institution where we send our children to spend eight or more hours every day. The institution charged with molding these young lives and preparing them for the future. Dirty, stinky toilets.

Yesterday, Friday, a group of New Orleans high school students who have formed an organization they call “Kids Rethink New Orleans Schools,” held a news conference to talk about some of the more basic problems facing our city’s public schools.

Dudley Grady, age 16 and a rising senior at New Orleans Charter Science and Mathematics High School, told the assembly that during the Katrina evacuation he attended school in Shreveport and got the surprise of his life. The rest rooms were beautiful. He wondered, “Why are their bathrooms so clean and ours are so not?”

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I talked to Mom this Friday morning, as I do every day, and she says the birthday card count has leveled out at 144. Our goal, of course, was a card for each of her 91 years. So, she’s thrilled and we all are.

Thanks to so many who wrote these terrific notes and cards. A special thanks to you who went the extra mile with a personal note or, in several cases, enclosing a dollar or two. Even though we did not ask for it, several included money and Mom she ended up with over $150. That was lagniappe, as we say in South Louisiana. A little extra.

One of my Texas cousins wrote, “Hey, I didn’t know everyone was sending money. No one told me.” I wrote her back that that was not part of the deal, that we were just asking for notes. The money business got started over 15 years ago when Pop was coming up on his 82nd birthday (we thought that might be his last; he’d had health problems) and big brother Ronnie–always one to figure the money angle, being a Baptist preacher and all–thought we should get him that many cards, and ask everyone to include a dollar bill. Pop ended up with over 200 dollars and had a lot of fun opening the cards and reading the notes.

This week, we’ve had a death in the family–Mom’s youngest sister, Lorene Kilgore McKleroy, from Lake City, Florida–and our family is sad and coming together in love. Since they’ll be flying the body to North Alabama, and that will incur extra expenses on her husband, my siblings thought our bunch ought to contribute financially to help. When Pop suggested to Mom that she give some of her birthday money, she responded in typical half-serious, full-teasing mode and said, “I didn’t tell you what to do with your birthday money, and you don’t tell me.” I’ve laughed at that ever since.

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I stumbled onto Isaiah 50:4 the other day and plan never to be without it. The New American Standard Version reads like this: “The Lord has given me the tongue of disciples that I may know how to sustain the weary one with a word.”

Everyone I know down here is weary. Some are weary in well-doing, some are weary for just “doing,” and many are weary for their own reasons. Everyone needs a good word.

In our Wednesday pastors’ meeting, attended by thirty, some of whom came late or left early, we heard the kind of reports that do indeed sustain the weary one. Most were praise reports.

Rudy French told of a church team visiting his FBC-Norco from Forest, Louisiana. Yesterday, they knocked on doors in St. Bernard Parish and led three people to Christ. The pastor led one, Rudy led another, and then, the third guy is the one that stood out. Rudy said, “I was driving the van and dropping the group off in small clusters. I was driving down a street and noticed this guy in his yard working on his car. He was shirtless, sweating, tattooed, wearing a bandanna on his head.” When the fellow waved a greeting, Rudy stopped to chat with him. Soon, he was sharing his faith in Christ and the man was weeping, praying to receive the Lord.

Rudy said, “I came back and told our group about him, and one of the men said, ‘Wait a minute. You said he was shirtless and wearing a bandanna on his head?’ Right. The man said, ‘I spent a half-hour witnessing to that same guy before you got there. And he wanted nothing to do with the Lord. What happened?'”

Rudy said, “I told him, ‘I don’t know what happened. The Lord just intervened.'”

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Just outside Slidell, Dolores and Kermit Atwood live in the house they have owned for decades. It’s a humble house, they paid it off long ago, and they’ve never had to pay taxes on it. However, it recently came to light that in 1996, the house was revalued for $75,100, exactly $100 above the homestead exemption cutoff. The Atwoods would be taxed for the $100 difference and they were billed for $1.63. But there was a problem.

When the addresses were updated from “Rural Route Whatever” to street names to comply with the 911 system, their home address became 4122 Dauphine Street. However, the tax bill–which the Atwoods did not know existed and were not expecting–was sent to the old route address. When it was returned to the assessor’s office marked “address unknown,” it was entered into the books as an unpaid tax debt. Eventually, in July 1997 the house was sold at a tax auction for the $1.63 in unpaid taxes plus 10 cents interest and $125 in various costs. A real estate guy named Jamie Land bought the property a month later from the folks who acquired it at the tax sale.

The Atwoods had a 3-year exemption period during which they could redeem their home from Mr. Land. The problem is they didn’t know it. At no point had they been notified. The first they knew of this monkey business was exactly one week after the exemption period had expired. “We’ve lost our house?” they asked, astonished. “For $1.63?” even more astonished. “For a bill we never received?”

Is there any sanity in the universe, they wondered. How could this happen in America? Too bad, said Mr. Land. Business is business.

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Senator David Vitter hopes he has put his troubles behind him after the very brief news conference he and his wife Wendy held Monday at a Metairie hotel. Mrs. Vitter called for everyone to show grace to them to protect their children. Others in the community have echoed that plea. Couple of quick comments.

It’s not just that the senator consorted with prostitutes, as bad as that is. It’s that his own words–uttered when President Clinton was being assailed for his dalliance with Monica Lewinsky–condemn him. At that time, he called Clinton a moral failure, unworthy to hold that hallowed office, and urged him to resign. If there’s a difference here, we haven’t found it yet.

The other thing is this. When a public figure, whether a preacher or a politician or whatever, decides to ignore his family’s welfare and do something horrendous, not to say stupid, like this, then would someone please explain where he gets off asking us to protect his children when it becomes public. Wasn’t that his job in the first place, and didn’t he fail to do it? And isn’t he asking to have it both ways: to have his fling but not have to pay the consequences.

I am in favor of protecting the children. And I admire the wife for her strength and loyalty.

The talk shows and newspapers are saturated with citizens defending and damning Vitter, who has always seemed a very decent sort, if perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer. His counterpart, Democratic Senator Mary Landrieu, however, creates the impression of being the brightest girl in the class, the one brainier than all the rest of us, someone created to be a senator.

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Readers who live outside Louisiana can only imagine this scenario: New Orleans’ Congressman, William Jefferson, is under indictment for bribery and racketeering; Louisiana’s Republican Senator, David Vitter, is making headlines across the country for consorting with prostitutes in Washington and here; Mayor Ray Nagin, arguably the least effective chief executive in any city in America, one given to making announcements and speeches but clueless on how to lead a city, is building a war chest in order to run for some political office since he cannot repeat as mayor; and now District Attorney Eddie Jordan is “it.”

Already attacked from every quarter for the DA office’s ineffectiveness at prosecuting major crimes while spending the majority of their time and energy prosecuting minor stuff, this week Jordan announced that charges against 20-year-old Michael Anderson were being dropped because the chief witness had disappeared. Anderson was indicted last year for shooting to death five teenagers on a street corner in Central City. That tragedy made every newspaper and news program in America and considered greatly to the deteriorating reputation of New Orleans in its post-Katrina existence.

Here’s what happened.

On Tuesday of this week, Jordan’s staff announced they were dismissing charges against Anderson. The sole witness could not be found, they said, so they were helpless to proceed with the case.

On Wednesday, NOPD Superintendent Warren Riley held a news conference to announce that his homicide detectives had gone out and found the missing witness within hours. Jordan’s people hastily gave the woman a subpoena to testify before the grand jury next week.

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She was born on July 14, 1916, in the house still standing on the next ridge. Her dad–John Wesley “Virge” Kilgore–bought this entire part of the undeveloped rural countryside in 1903 and built the house, the barn, the blacksmith shop, and eventually the garage which would hold his old Packard. Everything still stands, including Lois Jane, one of his middle children, whose birthday the family is celebrating today. Lois married Carl McKeever on March 3, 1934, and they moved 5 miles south to Nauvoo, produced 7 children (the fourth would die soon after childbirth in 1939), and have lived to see their household sprout into so many grands and greats that Mom despairs of trying to keep up with them.

If you could have chosen your mom or grandma, you’d have picked her. My brother Ronnie points out that she never smoked a cigarette, never took a drink of liquor of any kind, and never uttered a profane word in her life. He adds, “as far as we know.” The rest of us would bet on it.

She was raised to love the Lord, read the Word, and support her church, and she’s still at it. That church is the New Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church 2 miles from Nauvoo. It’s the same church, although with sparkling new buildings, where Virge and his bride Sarah began worshiping over a hundred years ago and where Lois and Carl met in 1930.

We call this “roots.” Through both Dad and Mom–but particularly through the Kilgores–this family has roots, solidly planted in the soil of Winston/Walker Counties of northwest Alabama.

My brother Ron put a note on this blog a couple of weeks ago requesting cards to Mom for her birthday. As of today, Saturday, she has received perhaps 110. (“I think,” she said. “The number changes every time I count them.”) She’s read them and reread them. “Right now, they’re spread over the dining room table.” Each day this week, from 7 to 16 have arrived each day. I usually call about 9:30 just to see what came in today.

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Grady Cook, an artist in Central Mississippi, told me how he had improved his technique. “The picture you bought from me last time,” he said, “was all right. But I still had a lot to learn.” I assured him Margaret and I thought it was fine and that it was hanging in our living room.

“Since then, I’ve studied under a wonderful teacher,” he explained, “and have learned how to add darkness to my work.” He said, “Here. Look at this.” Pointing at the picture I would buy from him a few minutes later, he showed the shadows and the blackness of the undergrowth of the forest. It made the picture far more three-dimensional than the first one. The trees stood out. It looked like someplace I’d like to explore.

We still have both pieces of art on display in our home, but since he explained the difference, I’ve enjoyed the last one far more.

“There’s something missing in this sermon,” I said to myself. On the surface, it seemed to work just fine. The “fruit of the Spirit” passage of Galatians 5:22-23 is a familiar and well-loved one. I’d studied it numerous times over the years and had preached it on several occasions. I like what it says about the effect of the Holy Spirit in the life of a believer who abides in the Lord, that in time one may observe all nine qualities of this “fruit” in his life. I have enjoyed pointing out to the members of my congregations that all nine qualities are the “fruit,” not “fruits,” and that we do not specialize on one or two, but the indwelling Spirit may be expected to shine forth in all of these ways.

And yet, studying my notes and trying to put myself in the place of my people and listen to my own delivery of the message, I felt it was rather blah. It just lay there. In short, it was boring me–and if I was bored, how much more the poor hearers would be.

Something was wrong.

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The latest bad news to hit our city is that Senator David Vitter, Republican, is on the list of clients of the Washington, D.C., brothel. In Tuesday’s Times-Picayune, Vitter–who has been a strong voice for morality, faith, and family values–said, “This was a very serious sin in my past for which I am, of course, completely responsible.” He added, “Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife in confession and marriage counseling. Out of respect for my family, I will keep my discussion of the matter there–with God and them. But I certainly offer my deep and sincere apologies to all I have disappointed and let down in any way.”

Driving into the office Tuesday morning, I caught a snippet of a call-in talk show in which this was the subject. Everyone had an opinion. One station said the calls and internet votes were running 57 percent for Vitter to resign.

A reporter for the Associated Press–who said he reads this blog, so I told him I’d be careful what I write!–called for my reaction. He’d been on the streets interviewing citizens, he said, and most people were saying it was no big deal. “Every man does that,” said one woman. Thankfully, not.

What was my reaction? I said something to the effect that in my mind, Vitter has not been the spokesman for religious values that Congressman Bobby Jindal has, and that if Jindal had confessed to such a failing, the disappointment would be even greater. Barring further revelations, I said, this will probably not be an issue when Vitter runs for re-election two years from now. “God’s people believe in grace.”

Then, Wednesday morning’s headline read: “Canal Street Madam: Vitter was New Orleans Brothel Client.” Uh uh. Not good.

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We’re told that in places, the Mississippi River runs both ways. One layer of water heads south toward the Gulf, while underneath, the bottom layer is flowing northward. Obviously, that condition holds true only for a limited number of miles before it all gets together and heads back downriver. Riverologists (is there such a word?) have an explanation for the phenomenon, no doubt.

Two streams are flowing in opposite directions in New Orleans life these days.

The outward stream was on display Sunday morning at the First Baptist Church of New Orleans. While Pastor David Crosby led a prayer for the city’s recovery in his pastoral prayer, a time when the altar was filled with members interceding for the community, various church leaders announced their plans to leave.

Brian Skinner, minister of music at FBC-NO for the last year or two, was experiencing his final Sunday before departing for the same position at FBC-Daytona Beach. Brian said to me, “My family was just never able to make the adjustment to this city.”

The pastor thanked the former president of the choir. “Today is her last Sunday with us.”

Donna Johnson–whom I pastored in Columbus, Mississippi, when she was a teen and went by Donna Fielder–informed me she has taken a job in Mobile and bought a house in the bedroom community of Daphne, and that the family will be moving over soon. Her family has been a mainstay at FBC-NO for many years.

Meanwhile, the other current flows, the incoming stream.

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