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FORT WORTH – The Fort Worth Report says that across the state, 78,000 families currently sit on a waitlist to receive subsidized child care, according to nonprofit organization Texans Care for Children. Nearly 22,000 of these families live in Tarrant County, said Kara Waddell, CEO of nonprofit Child Care Associates. As the Texas Legislature gears up for its 2025 session, an often overlooked aspect of education and economic development will soon come into focus: early childhood education. The growing demands for child care and pre-K intersect with the state’s economic resilience and the well-being of its families, according to state and local experts. In Tarrant County, the child care crisis is multifaceted, Waddell told the Report. As more than 20,000 families throughout the county wait to receive child care, the shortage undermines children’s early learning during developmental years, burdens working families with limited and costly care options, and strains the ability to maintain a reliable workforce across various sectors.

The crisis, she said, affects families, educational outcomes and the wider economy. State lawmakers must find ways to relieve the burden off of families and child care providers, she said. “Even when they’re able to get a scholarship or subsidy or afford it on their own, then families need to find a good match.” Waddell said. “These are gaps that are critical here in Fort Worth, but certainly across Texas as well.” One proposal to keep an eye on this session would be the introduction of child care innovation grants, Waddell said. The grants would aim to empower five to six local workforce development boards in high-need areas across the state to collaborate with employers, providing competitive base grants that encourage child care programs to expand capacity in line with regional workforce needs. Through now-expired COVID-19 relief funds, Child Care Associates worked with Workforce Solutions of Tarrant County to expand child care in areas lacking those services. That could be emulated across the state with further funding, Waddell said.

HEBBRONVILLE, Texas (AP) — In this corner of southern Texas, the plump cacti seem to pop out of arid dust and cracked earth, like magic dumplings.

It’s only here and in northern Mexico that the bluish-green peyote plant can be found growing naturally, nestled under thorny mesquite, acacia and blackbrush.

For many Native American Church members who call this region the “peyote gardens,” the plant is sacrosanct and an inextricable part of their prayer and ceremony. It’s believed to be a natural healer that Indigenous communities have counted on for their physical and mental health as they’ve dealt with the trauma of colonization, displacement, and erosion of culture, religion and language.
Lack of access for religious use

The cactus contains a spectrum of psychoactive alkaloids, the primary one being the hallucinogen mescaline, and is coveted for those psychedelic properties. Even though it is a controlled substance under federal law, an exemption afforded by a 1994 amendment to the American Indian Religious Freedom Act made it legal for Native Americans to use, possess and transport peyote for traditional religious purposes.

For over two decades, Native American practitioners of peyotism, whose numbers in the U.S. are estimated at 400,000, have raised the alarm about lack of access to peyote, which they reverently call “the medicine.” They say poaching and excessive harvesting of the slow-growing cactus, which flowers and matures over 10 to 30 years, are endangering the species and ruining its delicate habitat.

Native American Church members say the situation has worsened with demands from advocates of the psychedelic renaissance seeking to decriminalize peyote and make it more widely available for medical research and treatment of various ailments. Agriculture, housing developments, wind farms in the region and the border wall, are also damaging the habitat, experts say.

A vast majority of peyote people agree the plant must be protected and should be out of reach for medical researchers, Silicon Valley investors and other groups advocating peyote decriminalization. But there are diverse opinions within the Native American Church on how to accomplish that goal.

While at least one group spearheaded by Native American Church leaders has begun efforts to conserve and propagate peyote naturally in its habitat using philanthropic dollars, others in the church are more suspicious of investors’ intentions, saying they fear exploitation and would rather get funding from the U.S. government to protect peyote.
Peyote embodies the Creator’s spirit

Darrell Red Cloud, who is Oglala Lakota, remembers at age 4 using peyote and singing ceremonial songs at all-night peyote ceremonies with his family. Peyote has always been about forging a connection with the Creator, said Red Cloud. He’s the vice president of the Native American Church of North America.

“Our people were not religious people, we were prayerful people.”

Frank Dayish, former vice president of the Navajo Nation and chairperson of the Council of the Peyote Way of Life Coalition, compared peyote to the Eucharist in Catholicism.

“Peyote is my religion,” he said. “Everything in my life has been based on prayers through that sacrament.”

Adrian Primeaux, who is Yankton Sioux and Apache, says he grew up hearing the story of a malnourished and dehydrated Apache woman who fell behind her group during a forced relocation by the U.S. government in the 1830s.

“She was about to give up on life as she lay close to the Earth when she heard a plant speaking to her,” Primeaux said. “The peyote was telling her: Eat me and you will be well.”

She carried this plant back to Apache medicine men and elders who meditated and prayed with it, said Primeaux. He believes the Native American Church and what would become the Peyote Way of Life was unveiled during that spiritual quest.

Peyote is not just a medicinal herb — it is “a spiritual guide and a north star,” said Primeaux, who comes from five generations of peyote people. The plant has been a guiding light amid their traumatic history.

“It gave us hope and helped us process our thoughts, emotions and life purpose,” he said.
An initiative to conserve and protect peyote

In October 2017, the National Council of Native American Churches purchased 605 acres in Hebbronville, Texas, to establish a peyote preserve and a “spiritual homesite” that is now run by the Indigenous Peyote Conservation Initiative or IPCI.

Steven Benally, a Navajo elder from Sweetwater, Arizona, and an IPCI board member, remembers his annual pilgrimages to the peyote gardens with his family. He recalls losing access to the gardens after the “peyotero” system took over, where government-licensed peyoteros harvested the button-like tops of the plant by the thousands and sold them to Native American Church members.

This meant that Native American people could not freely go onto privately owned ranches and prayerfully harvest peyote as they had done for generations. They lost their sacred connection with the land, Benally said.

It wasn’t until he threw open the gate to their sprawling ranch, affectionately called “the 605,” that Benally felt connected once again. He was so overcome by emotion that he placed a sign at the entrance with the words: “This is real.”

“It felt like we were finally living what we just dreamed, prayed and talked about,” he said.

One of Benally’s favorite spots on the property is a hilltop bench — a tranquil corner where visitors have placed prayer notes, painted rocks and other offerings to a nearby cluster of naturally sprouted peyote. Benally sits on the bench inhaling the gentle breeze and taking in the stillness.

“Our belief is that these plants, these animals, these birds are just like us,” he said. “They can hear, they can understand. They have their powers, they have their place, a purpose and a reason — just like us.”

The peyote preserve is a conservation site where the plant is not harvested but propagated and replanted naturally in its habitat without chemicals, said Miriam Volat, executive director for the nonprofit that oversees it. Native Americans who can produce their tribal identification cards can camp at the preserve and prayerfully harvest from amiable surrounding ranches, she said.

The goal is to restore peyote and its habitat, making it abundant in the region within the next 50 years.

Peyote grown in their nursery is under the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency’s watchful eye, she said. Licensed to operate, the nonprofit tries to balance being welcoming with satisfying the agency’s requirement to secure the plant behind locked gates and camera monitoring.
The debate over peyote conservation

Those trying to protect peyote disagree on whether it should be grown outside its natural habitat. While scientists and conservationists say it is essential for the protection of the species, many Native American Church members say doing so would dilute its sacred nature.

Keeper Trout, a research scientist and co-founder of Texas-based Cactus Conservation Institute, remembers how abundantly peyote grew in the region during the 1970s. It’s all but disappeared.

“It was like walking on mattresses,” he said.

Trout empathizes with those who object on religious grounds, but he believes people should be able to cultivate and harvest anywhere. With a little help, Trout is confident the resilient plant can survive.

But many Native American Church members say where the plant grows matters. The ceremonial protocols were bestowed by the Creator’s grace and preserved through storytelling, said Hershel Clark, secretary for the Teesto chapter of the Azee Bee Nahagha of Diné Nation in Arizona.

“This is why we don’t support greenhouses, growing it outside its natural habitat or synthesizing it to make pills,” Clark said.

Red Cloud fears those changes would harm its sacredness.

“Then, it just becomes a drug that people depend on rather than a spiritual medicine,” he said.

Funding peyote preservation and conservation efforts has been a challenge as well.

The Native American Church of North America is calling on the U.S government to uphold its obligation to protect and preserve peyote in its natural habitat in southern Texas, which includes financial incentives for landowners, said Red Cloud. His organization is asking for a $5 million federal grant to jumpstart such a program.

IPCI started with seed money from Riverstyx Foundation, which is run by Cody Swift, a psychotherapist and prominent supporter of psychedelic therapy research. The organization continues to seek philanthropic dollars to carry the conservation effort forward and is not opposed to receiving funding from the U.S. government, Volat said.

“But, we’re not waiting for it,” she said.

There is suspicion and skepticism about Swift and other investors’ intentions in some corners of the Native American Church, Clark said. Swift has said in interviews that IPCI’s goal is to preserve peyote in its natural habitat under the leadership and guidance of Native American peyote people, a stance Volat, his co-director at the foundation, also affirms.
Demand for peyote exceeds supply

There is no question that opening peyote up to a broader market will create a supply crisis and increase access to those who have the financial resources, said Kevin Feeney, senior social sciences lecturer at Central Washington University in Ellensburg, Washington, who has studied the commodification of peyote.

Indigenous people would struggle to access their sacred plant while seeing others use it in a way they deem profane, he said.

Peyote supply remains limited for the Native American Church. Today, in southern Texas, only three licensed peyoteros are legally allowed to harvest the plant for sale to church members. Zulema “Julie” Morales, based in Rio Grande City, is one of them. She inherited the business from her father, Mauro Morales, who died two years ago.

She has been out in the fields since she was 10. Now 60, she says the peyote habitat is dwindling not because of peyoteros who harvest legally and ethically, but because of illegal poaching. She remembers her father gathering enough peyote to fill a dozen large trays while she can barely fill one.

Even though she is Mexican American and a Catholic, Morales, who charges 55 cents a button, considers it a privilege to provide peyote for ceremonial purposes. Her father, who customers called “grandpa,” hosted ceremonies for Native people every year and she has been a keen observer.

“As Mexican Americans, we value our traditions,” she said. “This is their tradition and it’s beautiful for us to be a part of that in our own way.”
Teaching future generations

At IPCI, one of the main goals is to teach future generations the value of getting back to their ancestors’ spiritual and healing ways, said Sandor Iron Rope, an Oglala Lakota spiritual leader and president of the Native American Church of South Dakota. At least 200 people gathered on IPCI’s grounds over Thanksgiving week, learning about peyote through panels, discussions, ceremony and prayer.

“We’ve put our moccasins and our footprints in this place,” Iron Rope said. “The hope is that these children, the next generation, will see the therapeutic value in getting rid of their phones and learning about what is right in front of them.”

Iron Rope says this is how he is fulfilling his responsibility to future generations.

“You can pray all you want, but you’re going to have to meet the Creator halfway somewhere,” he said. “You’re going to have to implement that prayer into action. And I see this as prayer in action.”

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

LUFKIN, Texas (AP) — Tonya Jackson left an Angelina County nursing home on a recent December day, happy with the successful resolution she brokered between the staff and a resident.

The elderly woman faced eviction after communication broke down between her family and the facility. That’s when Jackson stepped in.

Jackson is the Deep East Texas managing local ombudsman for long-term care facilities. Each day she serves Texans living at these facilities as a state-assigned independent advocate.

“We do not enter a nursing facility to wreak havoc,” Jackson said. “We enter the nursing facility to assist and advocate for the residents who do not feel they have a voice. We are there to help mend the broken bridge.”

There are not enough people like Jackson in Texas, which has a dismal track record for long-term care. The state ranked 42nd for safety and quality, on a 2018 scorecard from AARP, the last time the survey was taken.

The lack of ombudsmen — which include both paid staff and volunteers — is a statewide issue, and is acute in Deep East Texas, which includes Angelina, Nacogdoches and Newton counties. Just five people, two paid staff and three volunteers, bounce between 48 long-term care facilities — 34 nursing facilities and 14 assisted living facilities.

“We would be lost in the long-term care community without them, but they definitely need more support across the board,” said Andrea Earl, the associate state director of advocacy and research for the AARP.

In early December, the Deep East Texas Council of Governments, a group made up of representatives from local governments, called for more volunteers to bolster this program.

Jackson prays the extra hands will better support her small team. She believes one volunteer for each facility would go a long way toward improving the lives of residents.

“Volunteers can usually catch things that we can’t, being that our time is so limited going to each of the facilities,” Jackson said.

At the same time, state officials hope the Legislature will step in to provide extra support when they reconvene in January.

Patty Ducayet, the state’s lead ombudsman, wants lawmakers to fund more full-time and part-time positions, regulate the use of Medicaid and create a portal to handle involuntary discharge, the eviction of residents.

Texas legislators have signaled they intend to prioritize dementia care and research this session. Earl hopes this means they’ll see the value in prioritizing the ombudsman program as well.

The program has faced an uphill battle in past sessions.

“This session, we have to continue to lay the groundwork to ensure that legislators over in the big pink building understand that this is a critical office to long-term care residents and families,” Earl said.
The role of an ombudsman

The state ombudsman works independently from the Health and Human Services Department, which oversees the state’s long-term care facilities. This independence provides ombudsmen the chance to work on behalf of residents without fearing retribution.

Texas utilizes full-time employed ombudsmen to investigate complaints related to the health, safety, welfare and rights of residents in care facilities and help resolve any issues. Their work is ideally supplemented by a large force of volunteers who do similar work but for only a few hours a week.

Jackson tries to see 15 to 20 people at each facility during her monthly visits. If she’s successful, she’ll meet with every resident at least once a year.

The job requires patience and empathy, Jackson said. In many places, ombudsmen are the only visitors residents get from the outside world and the conversations provide them a level of peace.

Her visits serve not only to connect with residents but also to establish a rapport with staff at each facility so she can more effectively address complaints.

Facilities without that rapport may see ombudsmen as people just trying to stir up problems, Earl said. Ombudsmen and facilities have clashed before. In 2023, the Texas Assisted Living Association worked with Rep. Travis Clardy, R-Nacogdoches on legislation that Earl said would have made the job of ombudsman harder. The legislation would have limited what files ombudsmen could review, even when it is requested by the patient, Earl said.

“Accessing those documents and looking at history, especially when we’re talking about dementia patients and those facing severe medical issues, is a key part of what they do,” Earl said.

Carmen Tilton, the vice president of public policy for the Texas Assisted Living Association, said the organization supported House Bill 4220, which would have impacted ombudsman access to patient records. Their goal wasn’t to curb access, however, but to bring Texas regulation in line with federal regulations.

Prior to this, even volunteer ombudsmen – without consent from residents – could access any resident information. This meant they could access Social Security numbers, bank account information, doctors information, prescriptions, and more, Tilton said. The bill also sought changes to training to clarify the differences between facilities and to establish guidelines for what is an ombudsman’s job and what is that of law enforcement.

“It was perceived as an attack on the program, which was not our intent,” Tilton said.

Clardy dropped the bill before it went for a vote. Since then, the ombudsman office has worked with the Texas Assisted Living Association directly to institute many of the changes Tilton hoped to see within the organization’s framework without requiring legislative intervention.

Making changes actually happen within the facility can be difficult, slow and may result in backsliding instead of progress, Ducayet said. An ombudsman may fix a problem for one resident only to be back in the same facility facing the same problem with another resident. This can be extremely frustrating and requires volunteers and staff to have patience.

When done right, the issues are resolved within the facility — between the administration, residents and their families — and don’t require state intervention. Jackson does a good job of this, said Lynne’ Nix, the business office manager for Shady Acres Health & Rehabilitation in Newton County.

Nix’s relationship with Jackson has been built on the belief that Jackson’s interventions help both the facility and the resident. Sometimes a resident isn’t comfortable speaking their mind and the situation deteriorates quickly. The ombudsman is the logical answer.

“They’re the true advocates for the residents,” Nix said.
A shortage of ombudsman

In 2024, the state ombudsman program had a 25% turnover rate of paid staff, the highest it has ever been. Those who have stayed are overworked, Ducayet said. Ideally, Texas would have one staff member for every 2,000 licensed care facility beds. Right now, Texas has one person for every 2,514 beds, she said.

If the program was fully staffed, then paid personnel could focus their work on recruiting and supporting more volunteers, Ducayet said. An additional 22 full-time employees would further improve advocacy statewide.

Local volunteers, who are often people whose family members are in long-term care facilities, or are eyeing a facility for themselves, serve as the “boots on the ground,” Earl said.

They can accomplish a lot if they can focus on one or two facilities at a time, Ducayet said. But that’s not a reality for Texas right now. Since 2019, the number of active volunteers has decreased by more than 100 people, leaving only 300 people to serve as volunteers across the state.

The work, whether as a volunteer or a full-time staff member, takes its toll.

Residents, who are often elderly or ailing, die. The sudden loss of a person who you have been meeting with for months, or even years, can be extremely difficult, Ducayet said. After serving in the field for 18 years, she learned that any meeting with a person could be her last.

“Those are hard things,” Ducayet said. “It takes resilience and grit, like most hard things do.”

Fewer staff and volunteers means longer times between visits to care facilities. Having more eyes and ears on the ground helps address problems at a facility more quickly, Ducayet said. This could go a long way toward improving elderly care and preventing problems from escalating to the point where state intervention feels necessary.
What can be done

Ducayet has several goals this legislative session to improve the ombudsman program and care for residents of long-term care facilities overall.

First is increasing state funding for the ombudsman program by about $3 million. This would cover the cost of 22 additional full-time ombudsmen statewide, including a quality assurance officer and discharge rights officer at the state level.

She also wants to resolve noncompliance with state and federal discharge rules by nursing facilities. Involuntary discharge, like what Jackson’s client was facing in early December, is the No. 1 complaint received by the program. Ducayet believes creating an online portal for nursing homes to file discharge notices, hiring for a position that is over discharges statewide and making it increasing fines if a nursing home violates discharge laws will help.

Increasing staff at long-term care facilities should also be a priority, Ducayet said. She and the AARP are advocating for the state to require nursing homes to use 85% of Medicaid reimbursements for payroll.

This would put the money in the hands of caregivers, instead of corporations, Ducayet said.

A similar bill was proposed in 2023. The Texas Senate approved it, as did a House committee. But it never received a full vote by the state House. . Earl believes it can go all the way this year.

These goals may not necessarily resolve the major issues within the long-term care industry in Texas, but they would go a long way toward increasing accountability in the industry, Earl said.

The AARP shares many of Ducayet’s goals, and Earl believes the work completed during the 88th Legislative Session to educate lawmakers about the ombudsman program and how it’s funded could help them progress. She is optimistic, but also weary of what is gearing up to be a potentially complicated session.

While Ducayet is working at the state level to improve upon the program, Jackson has other goals – mainly: to find more local volunteers.

If she could find one volunteer for each of the 48 facilities in Deep East Texas, an 11 county region, then she could feel more confident that her program is truly meeting the needs of this vulnerable population.

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This story was originally published by The Texas Tribune and distributed through a partnership with The Associated Press.

DALLAS (AP) — Parts of Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas were under severe weather watches early Friday as the National Weather Service predicted a storm system in the Gulf of Mexico could bring high winds, hail and possible tornadoes to the region.

“Heavy showers and thunderstorms continue to race across Louisiana and the Gulf waters at this time, with SETX in the clear for the rest of tonight. Please stay safe all,” the weather service’s office in Lake Charles, Louisiana, posted on the social platform X shortly after 11 p.m. Thursday.

The weather service issued a tornado warning late that afternoon for parts of Texas northeast of Houston, meaning weather radar indicated there was a tornado in the area. There were no immediate reports of damage.

After a line of thunderstorms started moving across parts of Texas, more than 100 flights were delayed and dozens more canceled at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. Delays and thunderstorm-related cancellations also were reported at Dallas’ Love Field and George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, according to FlightAware, an aviation company that tracks flights across the world.

Texas Gov. Greg Abbott activated state emergency response resources because of the increased severe weather threat.

“As Texans and out-of-state visitors begin traveling after the Christmas holiday, it’s crucial that everyone regularly monitor road conditions, make an emergency plan and heed the guidance of state and local officials,” Abbott said in a statement.

The greatest weather risk was forecast for a stretch of Texas east of Dallas, between Houston and portions of southern Arkansas and western and northern Louisiana, said Brian Hurley, a meteorologist with the National Weather Service’s Weather Prediction Center.

“There does look like the possibility of one or a few tornadoes with this risk, but the main risk will be with high winds and hail,” Hurley said, adding that he expected wind gusts generally between 60 and 80 mph (96 to 128 kph), and hail 1 inch (2.5 centimeters) in diameter or greater.

The storms were likely to push into southern Arkansas and western and northern Louisiana after nightfall, posing a potentially dangerous situation for holiday travelers, Hurley said.

“People can’t see a whole lot and may not be as weather aware,” he said.