THAT was motivating

     Persistence: To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first

    Stay positive : Work hard : Make it happen

    Such are the typical motivational posters found plastering the walls of junior high schools. Fading into the background-a week after they are tacked up, they disappear into your subconscious never to be seen again. 

    The best of intentions-inspire the student body. But rarely is there an impact where the rubber meets the road.

    Until this year-when our brilliant yearbook sponsor brainstormed a new wrinkle-to rip down the generic "hang in there" dangling kitten posters

and replace them with quotes and photos of current students. There has been a lot more interest in the hallways since real people saying real words started making their appearance. 

    Student engagement-check

    Entertainment value-check

    **************************************************

    ....enter Tomas. He entered our school as a squirrely 6th grader with a penchant for elopement. In the world of educational jargon, elopement does not mean "escape to Las Vegas to be wed by an Elvis impersonator in a neon chapel." Instead, it refers to a student that leaves class without permission. Absconds. Escapes, even.

    In other words, Tomas was a runner. When the going got tough--well, he got going. That first couple of months was a huge adjustment for him and the staff alike. He was assigned a pass to a cooling-down room that he could use instead of taking to the sidewalk. We learned to read his moods and to de-escalate tension to keep him in the classroom. Meanwhile, we focused on accelerated instruction in English to bring him up to his academic capacity.

    He was a bit resistant to learning. By that, I mean "almost totally uninterested in anything beyond Marvel comic books and Naruto anime." Dinosaurs, maybe. But math-science-social studies? Oh, not at all. He dug in his metaphorical heels and sat in class like a man of stone. All that 6th grade year.

    Seventh grade saw small improvements. Strategized bribery worked pretty well-given a list of what to accomplish at the beginning of each class, he would get it done to earn five or ten minutes of free time. But he rarely ventured into learning more than the absolute required minimum. Especially if it did not fall into his specialized fields of interest.

     And then, sometime over the summer between seventh and eight grade, his maturity switch flipped on. Along with growing a couple of inches taller, he developed an appetite for completing all of his work. For staying caught up in all classes. In answering questions posed by teachers in group work. In fearlessly taking on new projects even if unsure of how to begin.

     It was downright inspiring to everyone to see how a couple of years of hard work turned him into a success story. His 6-grade social studies teacher, who was also his 8th-grade technology teacher (and the aforementioned yearbook sponsor) was so amazed at his academic about-face that she awarded him her student-of-the year honor. 

    And featured him on one of the motivational student displays in the hallways.

    "Be Brave" proclaims the header, over a photo of Tomas cheekily typing on a keyboard "step outside your comfort zone."

    In smaller script below:

    "Take the leap, try something new

    and discover what you're capable of becoming"

    Tomas was grinning like a Cheshire cat both in the photo...

     ...and when he saw the poster for the first time in the 6th grade main hallway. The one across from the counselor's offices, next to the clinic and the teacher's lounge. The high-traffic area of the school where EVERYBODY passes every day.

    So of course I snapped a photo of it for him and sent it to his mom and dad. You'd want to see that if it was your kid, right? 

    Of course.

    And of course mom and dad were overjoyed to see him celebrated before the entire student and faculty population.

    Still-sometimes a hurried snapshot does not do true justice to the real McCoy.

    Which is why on this year's awards night, I snuck Mom and Dad into the school proper, past the double doors that separate the cafeteria/event stage. Down into the main hallway. To see their son splashed in glorious Technicolor on a 3 feet by 6 feet glossy poster, a testament to hard work and family support and triumphant redemption. 

    Must have been overwhelming to them--there were tears in evidence. The requisite shot was framed of him standing in front of his poster gesturing possessively towards it. 

    This is the glory of teaching-to watch struggle turn into jubilance.

    I wish every kid I teach could be like Tomas. 

    But the fact that they are not makes him all the more memorable.

       "Take the leap, try something new

    and discover what you're capable of becoming"

What's for lunch?

     Third day in.

    New school.

    New language.

    New country.

   

    Of all the uncomfortable and novel situations that I witness students engulfed in, the Late Arrival seems to carry a heavy burden. Junior high is such a transitional phase that it's inherently chaotic. Human bumper cars in crowded hallways. Navigating six or seven classes a day. Mastering locker combinations, changing into and out of PE uniforms in just a jot of time. Deciding which tribe is yours, and fitting into it. Already a dog's breakfast of anxiety and isolation.

    What if it is worse? What if you are new to the school, without even a group of friends to ease you in?

    What if you are new to Texas? To America?

     To speaking English?

    

    So, about a month before the end of school, we enrolled another Newcomer. Meaning Katya tested on beginning levels for speech, for listening, for reading, and for writing. Since the Newcomers are marked by a need for accelerated English instruction, they are grouped in the same class regardless of grade level.

     Originally from Kazakhstan, the last constituent piece of the USSR to break away as the Soviet Union crumbled. Speaking Russian. 

    Katya came in to a class with no common ground for her. No other Russian speakers.

     No other 6th graders.

     No other girls.

    

    So we assigned her a buddy for the first couple of weeks, a girl in the same grade, a native-born Texan whose family speaks Russian and who could thus bridge the gap for her. Show her where her classes are, how to open her locker, and how to get through the lunch line. Host Katya at her lunch table and involve her in the lunch community, hopefully sponsor some friendships in the group.

    What's that Robbie Burns said about the best-laid schemes of mice and men? Yup, third day in, the buddy got sick. Like out with a fever for a whole week sick.

    What was the most critical part of the day that Katya and her buddy shared? Not getting to class, she already knew her way around by the end of the second day.

    Not opening her locker.

    Not remembering which binder to use for each class.

  

    Rather--what to do about lunch? Where to sit? How to be accepted somewhere?

    We decided to ask the buddy's group of lunch friends to let Katya sit with them It would mean reaching out to several students and asking them to welcome our stranger to lunch. With her dozen or so words of English.    

   

     Only to find my efforts were not needed.

    

    Only to have my thunder stolen by a delegation, no less. 

    

    Between classes, I was visited by a solid half-dozen 6th grade girls who told me they would be coming by at the end of the next class to gather Katya so she would know where to sit for lunch.

    

    I am sure somewhere there is a motivational poster with those girls on it. Right between the one of the cat dangling from a branch that say "Hang on" and the one of impossibly neon lemons that instructs you to make lemons from lemonade. 

   

    Because there is little that is more "motivational" than a group of youngsters actively setting out to make the world a better place.

      

    One good deed at a time.

    Have I mentioned before that I am constrantly gobsmacked by the prosocial behavior of youngsters? I seem to have a perpetual lump in my throat, awash in inchoate epiphany. 

    

    Who better than a bunch of junior-high kids to understand how important it is that everyone has a place? 

    

    A place for lunch.

    A place to belong.

    

    

    

    

a Trivial Pursuit? Nope

    Who is buried in Grant's Tomb?

    No, really....

                  * * * * * *

    The word arcane may mean known only to a few or mysterious.

    

    In the way that I am about to use it, it means 'obscure'.

    "I know a lot of arcane facts."

    Obscure. Not prominent. Restricted. Minor. 

    

    Trivial, even.

    So, yeah, I know a lot of arcane facts. A lot of trivia. 

    

    For instance, many people know that the symbol for lead is Pb. But did you know that Pb is an abbreviation of the Latin plumbus?

 Yep, that is also the origin of the word plumbing--the connection being lead pipes used for water transport.

    Or that the 10th President of the US, John Tyler, in office from 1841 until 1845, still had a living grandson until May of last year--Harrison Tyler, who was born in 1928 when his father was 75. HIs father, the son of President Tyler, was born in 1853 when his father was 63. 

    Arcane.

    

    So, who was buried in Grant's Tomb? Well, this is a joke originally thrown out numerous times by Groucho Marx. The correct answer is "no one". General Grant and his wife Julia (another iteration of the joke) are not buried but rather entombed above ground in sarcophagi.

    Pretty trivial, when you think about it.

   Soooo...after this long buildup that is Dickensian in length if not in pathos, where am I going with this?

    Simply that I have been putting my trivial knowledge to use recently. About a month ago, a fellow teacher mentioned that she had recently joined a group that competes in a trivia contest weekly, and asked if I would like to try it out as well. 

    And that is how I spend my Monday nights now. Huddled around a crowded table at a local entertainment megaplex, cudgeling my brains to name the  Canadian peak which towers 19,551 feet above sea level--that would be Mount Logan--and scribbling down answers for my side rather than shouting them out. Don't want the other teams to overhear, of course, so we pass around memo pads for security. 

    Security?

    Well, there are gift cards for the winning team each week. So there is that...

    But more than the thrill of competition, of besting the opposition, there is the inestimable joy of just hanging out for a couple of hours with a group of people with a shared purpose. 

    

    Moving to Texas almost 15 years ago was difficult not because of the 800 miles pounded out with a UHaul in a day but because of the 12 hour distance from my friends and family. Living in the same area for so long, I had developed a close group of friends. It was wrenching to leave. 

    That is why I look forward to Monday nights at Home Run Dugout and the Evolution of Quiz.

 It is not for the games but the company that I look forward. For the jokes and the exhilaration of getting one right and the agony of missing a gimme like Marie Antoinette's favorite pink flower. Ok, yeah, a rose, but that is so....predictable.....

    And even  a bustling town like Katy, with its 350,000 souls, seems a little smaller. I saw Richard in Costco a couple of weeks ago, Kevin last weekend in HEB. And although our 'hail fellow well mets' share little of substance beyond 'great game last week, see ya next Monday!', an unexpected encounter with a new friend is a treasure beyond accounting.

   

    It makes the world a bit smaller.

    Friendlier, even.

    And that, my friends, is 

    NOT TRIVIAL.

    

We do not walk alone

    There is little dispute that we live in "divided times". Seems like every time I turn on the news or glance at social media, I am reminded of these divides. Political. Religious. Class. Racial. National.  Identity. Gender. Entertainment and sports, even. 

    So...just when we needed togetherness the most, here comes the Walk for Peace. 

    Maybe you have seen the story. Not much on the national news about it, but local channels and social media are full of coverage. About 20 Buddhist monks are walking across America, from Texas to Washington, DC--about 2300 miles in 120 or so days-- to "raise awareness of peace, loving kindness, and compassion across America and the world."

    Rather than a protest, the walk is described as an exercise in mindfulness and an outpouring of love for all humans. Here is a recent post by the group on the Facebook page that tracks their progress: 

    “We do not walk alone. We walk together with every person whose heart has opened to peace, whose spirit has chosen kindness, whose daily life has become a garden where understanding grows"

   

    Mercy, compassion, and forgiveness, both for others and for oneself, are the stated focus of the monks' daily lives. 

    The theme of mindfulness, being present in the moment for yourself and for others, to honor the simple act of being alive, is a constant reminder of the shared humanity in all of us. Unsurprisingly, this message of shared values and loving kindness has struck a resonating chord in average Americans throughout the country.

    They have walked through Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia. Overwhelmingly, the response has been an outpouring of love and acceptance. They have touched normal lives, normal people, with extraordinary results. Families line roads to greet them. To offer them food and clothing and support. Christian churches have opened their doors to share multifaith blessings.

    Civic leaders and law enforcement have presented pins and awards and service badges of the communities they have traveled through.

    Crowds gather at every rest stop to wonder, to ask questions, to pray together, to offer hearts and hands to these wandering strangers.

    So it was that the monks came to my hometown Christmas night.

    Not only came to little Opelika, Alabama on the night of Christmas, the holiest night in the Christian calendar. But they also came to rest for the night to my childhood church.

     Once known as Pepperell Methodist Church, it was shut down as the congregation moved away and dwindled, then recently reopened as a new Methodist congregation called The Foundry.      

     Thousands of people left their family celebrations and their warm homes to assemble in the cold December night under the flood of street lights and the warm yellow spill of light from the open doors of the church. Thousands of people hugged and prayed and joined in the celebration of peace and acceptance and understanding.

    Here is what the crowd looked like:

    

    And here is where it gets even more personal to me. Right around the corner from the church is my daughter Pam's house. The lights and noise and commotion from the huge crowd drew her attention that night, and she walked across to the old church out of curiosity.

    She hung around a while, even talked to one of the Buddhist monks.

    Pam is normally very private and reserved, but she was inspired enough to talk, to listen, to commune with him.

    What they talked about, she didn't share, but she was still profoundly affected when she called me the next day. She sent a photo someone snapped of the two together, and the illumination on her face is riveting. Inspiring. 

    With these divisions so present between us all, I am so thankful that in one shining moment, my oldest child found a shared humanity and compassion with a fellow traveler. With whom she shared a common moment of understanding and tranquility. 

           * * * * * * * 

Here's a quote I have seen many times in the past year:

    

    “If you want to hate America, watch the news. If you want to love America, drive across it.”

    Thank God for all my fellow-countrymen who are turning out to accept and reflect a message of humanity and of peace.

    Thank God for these peaceful wanderers who are everywhere inspiring us to listen and to think with heart and mind.

It's The Most Wonderful Time....

    

Ah, the delights of a junior high at the approach of Christmas. 

    

    Grading semester exams. 

    Starbucks gift cards and handwritten letters.

    PTA lunches that make you drowsy the rest of the day.

    And sometimes a moment of clarity and beauty that catches you as you round the corner headed for your classroom in the morning--not expecting a rush and swell of blaring trumpets a crunch of drums a shimmer of violins. 

    This time of year, the jing-jing-jing of jingle bells.

    This week and last, the orchestra, the band, and the choir have taken turns to regale passersby with holiday music at the entrance to the main hallway. Don't know how long they've been rehearsing but there have been emails directing teachers to send various combinations of students to rehearsal rooms for all month long.

    The kids are FANTASTIC.

    McMeans Junior High has a spectacular fine arts program. For the same reasons that some sports teams build long-lasting dynasties. A seasoned and motivating coaching program inspires talented recruits to achieve excellent results year after year.

    One of the constant adjustments of teaching is avoiding reductionism. Day in and day out, a diligent focus on instruction and results can result in tunnel vision. English teachers can forget that students also apply themselves in math and science, or math teachers that their pupils may be gifted in shop or history. We forget that these are not just students taking one class--our class.

    They are rounded individuals with complete personalities and distinct skills. To realize that the kid who struggles with the seven principles of government can saw out a pizzicato on a violin or that one who cannot determine when to use their-there-they're can hit a high note with precision and depth of feeling is nothing short of illuminating. A most welcome reminder that we are all of us complicated complex multilayer limitless and transcendent.

                               *****

    As I hang around in the hallway to the rousing strains of timeless classics, my daily classroom setup pushed to the back burner, I notice the growing crowd of teachers and staff around me. And I notice that the ones who stay the longest are the veterans. 

    Maybe the more you teach, the more you realize that these rousing instances of beauty and glory that burst forth from a grey December morning are precious beyond measure. And more's the acclaim when such artistry burts forth.

     Dazzling and impassioned....

                        *****

    So will I be back there every morning this week, to soak up the music and to close my eyes in sweet transport and glow with reflected pride at what these children have shown us? 

    You bet I will.

    

For Christmas, a story about..a Bunny?

     

Christmas is a time of wonder. Of reflection. Of memory. Of looking to the past and to the future while rooted in the present.

    Nothing brings the promise and emotion of Christmas together like stories.

    As we roll into December 2025, I have inaugurated this Christmas season as I have the past decade or so. First, I have watched the stirring video of a flash mob astonishing mall shoppers with a rendition of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus.

    Second, I have read an old 1970's story about a Christmas...bunny.

    Bunny?

    Aren't bunnies associated with Easter? 

    Well, let's begin with a story.

    Once upon a time, there was a brilliant priest who was a master storyteller....

    Martin Bell was a priest, a theologian, an educator, a musician, and an author. His particular genius was in writing fables which reimagined the Gospel or Parables in ways which lent richness and depth to familiar texts.

    Along his travels, he found his way to a small church in the foothills of the Appalachians, in Alabama....

    Martin served for several years as parish priest at St. Francis of Assisi Episcopal Church in Indian Springs and left his indelible fingerprint there. My time at St. Francis came years after he had left, but I heard so many stories-again, stories and legends-about his illuminating sermons and his wisdom-that I felt his presence constantly. Especially among those who had been around for the longest, who served on all the committees and who funded all the missions and who showed up every time the doors swung open.

    Once upon a time in my era, we chose as our church mission statement "Minds to Think, Hearts to Love, Hands to Serve". I am pretty sure the first clause of that statement came to us from the enduring influence of Martin Bell.

    So, back to my own story. 

    Deep in the mists of time, a wise woman opened her mouth and spoke words of truth and wisdom..

    One of these cornerstone members of St. Francis, Betty Bond, introduced me one early December to a most singular Christmas story by Martin Bell. The story was legendary among the old guard at the church.

    This unexpected fable is called "Barrington Bunny," and hails from his novel The Way of the Wolf. This short story has been the subject of short films, YouTube adaptations, sermons, and youth camps since its publication 50 years ago. It is not a comfortable story, but it is one of those that moves you to  think. To feel. To reconsider What It All Means. 

    Here it is--- 

***

                                        BARRINGTON BUNNY by Martin Bell 

Once upon a time in a large forest there lived a very furry bunny.  He had one lop ear, a tiny black nose, and unusually shiny eyes.  His name was Barrington.

Barrington was not really a very handsome bunny. He was brown and speckled, and his ears didn’t stand up right. But he could hop and he was, as I have said, very furry.

In a way, winter is fun for bunnies. After all, it gives them an opportunity to hop in the snow and then turn around to see where they have hopped. So, in a way, winter was fun for Barrington.

But in another way, winter made Barrington sad. For you see, winter marked the time where all of the animal families got together in their cozy homes to celebrate Christmas. He could hop, and he was very furry, but as far as Barrington knew, he was the only bunny in the forest.

When Christmas Eve finally came, Barrington did not feel like going home all by himself. So he decided he would hop for a while in the clearing at the center of the forest.

Hop! Hop! Hippity-hop! Barrington made tracks in the fresh snow.

Hop! Hop! Hippity-hop! Then he cocked his head and looked back at the wonderful designs he had made.  He thought to himself, “Bunnies can hop. And they are very warm too because of how furry they are.”

(But Barrington didn’t really know whether or not this was true of all bunnies, since he had never met another bunny.)

When it got too dark to see the tracks he was making, Barrington made up his mind to go home.  On his way, however, he passed a large oak tree. High in the branches there was a great deal of excited chattering going on. Barrington looked up. It was a squirrel family. And what a marvelous time they seemed to be having.

“Hello, up there,” called Barrington.

“Hello, down there,” came the reply. 

“Having a Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

“Oh yes!” answered the squirrels. “It’s Christmas Eve. Everybody is having a Christmas party!”

“May I come to your party?” said Barrington softly.

“Are you a squirrel?”

“No.”

“What are you then?”

“A bunny.”

“A bunny???”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can you come to the party if you’re a bunny? Bunnies can’t climb trees.”

“That’s true,” Barrington said thoughtfully. “But I can hop and I’m very furry and warm.”

“We’re sorry,” called the squirrels. “We don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but we do know that in order to come to our house, you have to be able to climb trees.”

“Oh, well,” said Barrington. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” chattered the squirrels.

The unfortunate bunny hopped off towards his tiny home. It was beginning to snow when Barrington reached the river. Near the river bank was a wonderfully constructed house of sticks and mud. Inside there was singing. 

“It’s the beavers,” thought Barrington. “Maybe they will let me come to their party.”  And so he knocked on the door.

“Who’s out there?” called a voice.

“Barrington Bunny,” he replied.

There was a long pause and then a shiny beaver head broke the water.  “Hello, Barrington,” said the beaver

“May I come to your Christmas party?” Barrington asked.

The beaver thought for a while, and then said, “I suppose so. Do you know how to swim?”

“No,” said Barrington. “But I can hop and I am very furry and warm.”

“Sorry,” said the beaver. “I don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but I do know that in order to come to our house, you have to be able to swim.”

“Oh well,” Barrington muttered, his eyes filling with tears. “I suppose that’s true.  Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” called the beaver. And he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Even as furry as he was, Barrington was starting to get cold. The snow was falling so hard that his tiny bunny eyes could scarcely see what was ahead of him. He was almost home, however, when we heard the excited squeaking of field mice beneath the ground.

“It’s a party!” Barrington thought. Suddenly he blurted out through his tears, “Hello, field mice! This is Barrington Bunny. May I come to your party?”

But the wind was howling so loudly and Barrington was sobbing so much that no one heard him. When there was no response at all, Barrington just sat down in the snow and began to cry with all his might.

“Bunnies aren’t good to anyone,” he thought. “What good is it to be furry and to be able to hop if you don’t have any family on Christmas Eve?”

Barrington cried and cried. When he stopped crying he began to bite on his bunny’s foot, but he did not move from where he was sitting in the snow.  Suddenly, Barrington was aware that he was not alone.  He looked up and strained his shiny eyes to see who was there.

To his surprise, he saw a great silver wolf. The wolf was large and strong, and his eyes flashed fire. He was the most beautiful animal Barrington had ever seen.

For a long time the silver wolf didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there and looked at Barrington with those terrible eyes. Then, slowly and deliberately, he asked in a gentle voice, “Why are you sitting in the snow?”

“Because it’s Christmas Eve,” said Barrington, “and I don’t have any family and bunnies aren’t any good to anyone.”

“Bunnies ARE good,” the wolf said. “Bunnies can hop and they are very warm.”

“What good is that?” Barrington sniffed.

“It’s very good indeed,” the wolf went on. “Because it’s a gift that bunnies are given, a free gift with no strings attached. And every gift that is given to anyone is given for a reason. Some day you will see why it is good to hop and to be warm and furry.”

“But it’s Christmas,” moaned Barrington. “I’m all alone. I don’t have any family at all.”

“Of course you do,” replied big silver wolf. “All of the animals in the forest are your family.” And then the wolf disappeared. He simply wasn’t there. Barrington had only blinked his eyes and when he looked, the wolf was gone.

“All of the animals in the forest are my family,” thought Barrington.  “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies can hop. That’s a gift.” And then he said it again: “A gift! A free gift!”

On into the night Barrington worked. First he found the best stick he could (and that was difficult because of the snow). Then hop, hop, hippity-hop, he went to the beavers’ house. He left the stick just outside the door with a note that read, “Here is a good stick for your house. It’s a gift — a free gift. No strings attached.” He signed it, “a member of your family.”

“It’s a good thing that I can hop because the snow is very deep,” he thought.

Then Barrington dug and dug. Soon he had gathered together enough dead leaves and grass to make the squirrels’ nest warmer. Hop, hop, hippity-hop!

He laid the grass and leaves just under the large oak tree and attached this message:  “A gift. A free gift! From a member of your family.”

It was late when Barrington finally started home. And what made things worse was that he knew a blizzard was beginning. Soon poor Barrington was lost. The wind howled furiously and it was very very cold. “It’s a good thing I’m so furry,” he said. “But if I don’t find my way home pretty soon, I might freeze.”

“Squeak. Squeak.”

And then he saw it — a baby field mouse lost in the snow. And the little mouse was crying.

“Hello, little mouse,” Barrington called. “Don’t cry, I’ll be right there.” Hippity-hop, and Barrington was beside the tiny mouse.

“I’m lost,” sobbed the little fellow. “I’ll never find my way home, and I know I'm going to freeze.”

“You won’t freeze,” said Barrington.  “I’m a bunny and bunnies are very furry and warm. You stay right where you are and I’ll cover you up.”

Barrington lay on top of the little mouse and hugged him tight. The tiny fellow felt himself surrounded by warm fur. He cried for a while but soon, snug and warm, he fell asleep.

Barrington had only two thoughts that long cold night. First he thought, “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies are very furry and warm.” And then, when he felt the heart of the tiny mouse beating regularly, he thought, “All the animals in the forest are my family.”

Next morning, the field mice found their little boy asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny. Their relief and excitement was so great that they didn’t even think to question where the bunny had come from.

As for the beavers and the squirrels, they still wonder which member of their family left the little gift for them that Christmas Eve.

After the field mice had left, Barrington’s frozen body simply lay in the snow. There was no sound excerpt that of the howling wind. And no one anywhere in the forest noticed the great silver wolf who came to stand beside that brown lop-eared carcass.

But the wolf did come. 

And he stood there, without moving or saying a word.

All Christmas Day.

  Until it was night. 

And then he disappeared into the forest.

    ***

    The first time I read this story it hit me like a punch in the gut. As other readers have noted through the years, the story reaches through Christmas and straight into the Easter season. Like the Parables, the story is complicated and complex. 

    The Incarnation of Christmas Eve is answered in the Passion of Easter. 

    Stories touch the mind, touch the memory, touch the heart. Stories are from our deep past, they are from our childhoods, and they are being made today for tomorrow's meaning.

    They are not always comfortable. Sometimes they remind us that love ends in sacrifice, that compassion can be painful. 

    That is why I welcome each year the tale of Barrington Bunny, to remember that sorrow will give way to joy and loneliness to belonging. It is a gift.

    A free gift.

    With no strings attached. 

    

    

      

I believe you

     Growing up in the 70s and 80s with two working parents, I was just like the rest of my Generation X latchkey cohort...

     ...raised on a lot of television. The afternoons were the golden age of syndication. Mainly sitcoms, from All In The Family to M*A*S*H* to Hogan's Heroes and more.

     Oh, that crazy Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz! (Where is my sarcasm font when I need it?)

    And there was always  The Andy Griffith Show. The black and white one, before it was flooded with too-sharp flooded-out garish color. The halcyon days when the scriptwriting was topnotch.

    I seem to have picked up a lot of ideas from The Andy Griffith Show. Despite marketing which primarily cast it as a comedy, laugh track and all, it was a keen character study of small-town or rural life and community. In interactions between the principal cast. it sketched an accurate portrayal of both character and situation, and regularly imparted astounding wisdom to viewers.

    Which brings me to the episode in which Andy faces evidence that son Opie's fanciful flights of imagination--encouraged by Andy, even--have given way to a series of bald-faced lies. 

    This is the first episode of the third season, titled "Mr. McBeevee." After an intro that established that not only does Opie show a vivid imagination in riding his imaginary horse Blackie, and a sidebar in which they sucker Barney into their make-believe, the show pivots to a more serious situation.

    To wit--Opie, visiting his father the sheriff in his office, turns down a request to help take out the office trash because he has to hurry back to his new friend. He describes this new friend fancifully.

    His new friend, "Mr. McBeevee," walks around in the treetops. He wears a shiny silver hat, and he jingles when he walks. 

    Blows smoke out of his ears. Has 12 extra hands in a toolbelt around his waist.

    So...a perfect set-up. Andy and Opie just a few hours ago were playacting an adventure in which Opie galloped an imaginary stallion around the backyard. Barney, sore at being reeled into the scenario, grumbled that Andy ought not to encourage his son in creating such fiction: 

        " I just don't think you ought to let the boy get started in that direction."

    Seemingly, just a few hours later, Opie is at it again. Making up a friend who is unbelievable, and selling this new fantasy to his father as well.

      So is Andy culpable in this extension of tall tales? What is the boundary between imaginary play and reality? How does a child learn one of our most important maxims--always tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth--without having his spirit crushed?

    The plot unfolds over the course of the day, and the tension between father and son grows to the critical scene that evening at bedtime.

    Andy sits stiffly and uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, and tells Opie that the time has come to tell the truth and "stop the playactin'." If he admits that he made up Mr. McBeevee, then he will be forgiven.

    "But if you don't, then somethin' else is gonna happen.

    I believe you know what I mean, don't you?"

    The choice is brutal--recant, or suffer a whipping. 

    Opie struggles to say the words. Struggles to save his backside.

    Can't do it.

    The regret and sorrow on Opie's face is so powerful that I just broke out with goosebumps and shivers down my spine recalling it. Just now.

    Opie looks at the floor, stands his ground. Says no, Mr. McBeevee is real.

    Then---

    "Don't you believe me, Paw? Don't you?"

    The eyes of a young boy, clear and innocent, but mouth wrinkled with worry that he has lost his beloved father's trust. Ron Howard--Ronnie, then--was 7 or 8 years old, maybe. A glorious Emmy-worthy bit of acting.

    A heartbeat separated the response from his father. Emotions war on Andy's face, his brow clouded with grim purpose. Then finally, the stern knife-edged lines wrinkling his forehead smoothed into repose and clarity. 

    They say that "I love you" are the three most powerful words we have, but so are these that Sheriff Taylor says to his son:

    I believe you.

    Downstairs, the ever-present Barney and Aunt Bee want to know if Opie came clean. If he confessed to lies or if he took his whipping. To their puzzlement that neither happened, that Andy told him he believed him, Andy replies that even though Opie's narrative about his new friend seems unbelievable, he realizes that he has also asked his son to believe in some things that must have been similarly impossible.

    "I guess it's a time like this when you're asked to believe somethin' that just don't seem possible...

    That's the moment that decides whether you got faith in somebody or not."

    Cue a sputtering Barney. Of course. He is just like us, the best representation of our failures and foibles and fears. Asks if Andy REALLY believes in Mr. McBeevee.

    Nope, Andy shakes his head, still grounded in objective reality.

    "But I do believe in Opie."

    

    Today, that would be a mic drop moment.

     Actors exit stage left. 

    Audience leaps to their feet in rapturous thunderous cataclysms of applause. 

    Roses tossed upon the stage and all that. Emmys or Oscars or what have you.

    However, this was the early '60s, and the laugh track went on and on. A neat wrap-up as Andy finally meets--in the woods--coming down from a tree--Mr. McBeevee. 

    A phone lineman.

     With a silver shiny hat. Who jingles as he walks. Has extra hands--tools--in his belt. With sleight-of-hand tricks where he seems to blow smoke from his ears. Relieved and reassured in his faith, Sheriff Taylor pumps Mr. McBeevee's hand in a vigorous handshake. Roll to credits...

    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    So why did this hit me so hard that I gasped with the ragged effort of holding in great sobbing tears, even as the laugh track indicated I should be guffawing or at least chortling?

    This kernel about faith versus doubt goes to the heart of human experience. Shakespearean or Biblical. 

    How about this?  Faith in someone else is at its most powerful when it triumphs over our stubborn suspicion. That is why there is such a visceral reaction when Andy believes in his son, in his honesty and his truthfulness. 

    Belief is not a feeling, but an action. Andy moved himself to belief, struggled mightily with himself in front of us in our own living room. Overcame overwhelming doubt with unshakable faith.

    Here is a parallel:

    Thomas, the dour skeptical apostle, did not believe in the resurrected Christ until he jabbed his fingers into the wounds. To which Jesus gently but drolly observed that Thomas believed now that he saw, but more blessed are those who believe without seeing.

    Just like Andy Taylor did.

    One of my favorite quotes attributed to St. Francis is this one:

    "Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary-use words."

    

    

Unwrap A Smile

    I know it's not just me.

    I know that almost everyone bears deep childhood memories of holidays and food and family lore that grow beyond their empirical meaning until they become wellsprings of identity and remembrance.

    Seeing Christmas lights wrapped tightly around light poles as you drive downtown. 

    Scented balsam fir candles.

    The ecstatic boom of fireworks in a dark winter night, or over a beach on Independence Day.

    Memories of comfort and pangs of nostalgia may energize your emotions.

    For me, I am always sent into nostalgia and reverie by the humble Star Crunch....

   Typically, Grandmother Harrington would cook fifteen or so dishes for our Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners. She would also put out innumerable homemade treats and sweets, and stock the kitchen with Cokes and snacks alike. Like any good Southern grandma, she was partial to anything from Little Debbie. Nutty Buddies. Oatmeal Creme Pies. Star Crunch. 

    If you have never had one, a Star Crunch is puffed rice covered in chocolate and caramel. Nicely crisp, not too sweet. The story has it that they were marketed right after the Apollo 11 moon landing as a Moon Crunch, then the name was changed and they were later added to the permanent menu.

        

       I have always felt very fortunate to have had grandmothers--3 of them, actually--in my life until my mid-40s. Even after growing up and starting a family of my own, I made a lot of trips to visit with my own kids along. So they were introduced to the family traditions, the family lore. 

    When Grandmother Harrington sold her house and moved into an assisted living complex, we continued to visit. Most of the times, we would take her to her favorite local restaurant, Buck's Dairy Quick. One of those old converted Dairy Queen-style cafes turned into a hamburger steak and chicken finger joint. 

    She always wanted a hamburger steak made from ground sirloin instead of ground beef, with diced onions mashed into the meat and fried along with it. Well done. "Don't be afraid to burn it" she would always say. We would spend a couple of hours hanging out at the table "visiting" after the meal, me and her and the kids. Thinking back on it, I am really proud of  Pam, Andrew, and Sarah for actually spending the time talking to her instead of running around the place. A lot of kids don't give a rip for hanging out with family, but mine sure did.

    When we would get back to her tiny little room, she would always pack us snacks to go.

    In her top dresser drawer she kept a ready supply of Star Crunch cookies.

    It seems they served them every night with dinner, and she always saved hers and squirreled them away in her room.

    For later. 

    Or for company. 

    Growing up in subsistence-farming Alabama during the Great Depression, Grandmother had learned to always put something back for later. 

    Growing up in an atmosphere rich in hospitality, of covered-dish suppers at church and visits from family that could come at any time, she always put something back to share with someone that dropped by.

    She would load us down--sometimes 8 or 9 of those little cakes. Press them on us. 

    "You have to have something to eat in the car on the way home."

    You know how it goes. You know what grandparents say. 

    

    I absolutely marvel at the discipline and the forethought she showed by such a simple act. Alone as a widow for almost 40 years, she excelled at being a great hostess and providing any food we could ever desire. Even selling her house and moving into a room the size of a hotel suite did not make her throw in the towel. 

    Instead, she continued to find a way to do what she did best, to provide for us. 

    When people get up and speak at funerals, they often talk of great deeds and stories from down the years. But as often as not, it may be the almost-unnoticed but inspiringly consequential small moves that give an eternal and lasting testimony of personality. 

    Of character.

    Of love.

    Not only am I fortunate to have been born into a family that loves each other so well, but I am unutterably blessed to have been shown how to live life.

      So, I feel like I need to add a box of Star Crunch to this week's grocery list....keep them in the pantry when the kids come calling...