Category: Simple Observations and Musings

           “Play is the absence of stress.”–Poole

           “It’s okay to be absurd, ridiculous and downright irrational at times; silliness is the sweet syrup that helps us swallow the bitter pills of life.”—Richelle E. Goodrich

           “Mrs. Hill, may we play with the yoga blocks and build “Bob” before we start?”  

           I looked up from the teaching notes I was reviewing to see a fairy-like student of my yoga club imploring me with her large brown eyes.

           “Of course, this is snack time.  We have about ten minutes before we start. Handle them with care please. They are not made of the most sturdy material,” I added with a chuckle, thinking of how the students are known to karate-chop “Bob” after they build him.

           Yoga club is for students, grades 5-8, as well as any staff/faculty members of the school in which I work.  We meet one time per week for an hour and twenty or so minutes after the regular school day. The first 10-15 minutes is an open time to allow students, and any staff members that might also be joining us, to have time to change clothes, enjoy a snack if desired, chat a bit, decompress, and, well, even play before I guide a more formal, but still somewhat not-too-serious, yoga practice.

           It is during those unstructured moments that students are free to be kids.  I never know exactly what they are going to do during this time, and I am often reminded of my days teaching kindergarten in which my co-workers and I purposely planned time to allow the five and six years old to play with new materials before directing their use in more formal, so-called educational ways. Watching these now 10-13 year old students giggle, play with what they consider fun yoga poses, dance, and, of course, build with yoga blocks to create “Bob,” holding a variation of mermaid yoga pose, makes my soul smile—no matter how tired I am.  I so enjoy seeing kids using their imagination to simply play.

           Recently, a coworker/friend of mine and I were engaged in a quick conversation after school regarding the levels of stress and anxiety we now see in many of our students as well as our own children. It seems as if kids don’t have much free time to play—play without teams, without electronics, without extra curricular lessons . . .. In fact, we drifted off into our own memories of childhood play . . .

           Swing sets and hula-hoops,

           Roller skates and 45-records

           Spinning our favorite beats.

           Badminton, jarts, and croquet,

           Company was over last night–

           Play it our own way now.

           Baseball bat not used for sport,

           Might be a sword or a gun—

           Depending upon the tale spun.

           Stories told, roles assigned;

           Funerals for butterflies and birds—

           You got to be preacher the last time!

           Banana seat bicycle for him,

           Pink Schwinn with

           Flowered basket for her.

           Kick ball in the circle,

           Better not kick the ball in that yard.

           Rules might change, depending on players,

           Hope he doesn’t lose his temper once more.

           Frisbee’s on the roof again

           Why d’ja throw it there?

           Can we make a fort out of that box?

           Summer sun, autumn chill,

           Wintertime stands still.

           Spring car washes,

           Big Red Machine’s on the radio.

           Rook on the porch when it rains.

           Go outside and play.

           Stay until called for supper.

           Childhood memories of long ago.

           I wonder, how many of my students have ever ran around at night in the late spring catching fire-flies as the dew soaks their sneakers?  Do they ever get to ride their bikes around the neighborhood poppin’ wheelies and riding with no hands as the wind whips all around their faces?  What about playing neighborhood pick-up games of kickball, touch football, run-down, or monkey-in-the middle? Have they ever hung out on their front (or back) porch just to watch it rain?  

           What about swinging with head held back until it feels like you’ll puke; and then, laugh at the feeling of butterflies in the stomach?  Or have they experienced that older cousin or neighbor who will play part friend, part devil, and push them on a swing high enough for the pusher to run under?  What about the rush of merry-go-rounds that the biggest kid of the grade pushes as fast as he or she can, then hops on at the very last breath-taking second! Then, there was tetherball, jumping-ropes, marbles, and pick-up-jacks— and all the different ways to define “King” or “Queen” in grade school.

           I can even recall, shock of all shocks, going outside on one recess while snow danced down around us.  I clearly remember Mrs. Jones, one of the beloved first grade teachers at my school, leading us (students) around the playground in a hand-held chain, snow gently falling, and calling it a game of “snake.”  There were slicky-slides of all heights, monkey bars of all styles, and even a few gymnastics-like apparatus’ that gradually began to be withdrawn from public and school playgrounds alike, year after year. Like the erosion of one’s favorite beach shoreline, you don’t really notice the changes until you see time-lapse pictures spanning the years, and little by little it is revealed the beachfront ebbing away, in the same way, the notions and toys of childhood play have also ebbed away.

Andrew, a seventh grader at SJCS, “play” with pie, and throws it at my husband, and fellow SJCS faculty member, John.

           To be honest, I suppose I have begun to reach an age of introspection as I begin to identify all the vast change I have witnessed over the decades—especially with regards to “play”.  As a person who, depending upon the definition used, is either the very last of the Baby-Boomer generation, or the very first of Generation-X, the changes of which I have observed, and of which I have experienced first-hand is, at-times, nearly unbelievable.  I cannot image what my parents must feel with their additional two decades of experience. And while change is an inevitable constant, the need for playtime, or at the very least unstructured, down time, I believe, will always be a need for all ages, but especially for kids.

          While preparing to write this piece, I found the following quote by Alan W. Watts, “This is the real secret of life—to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now.  And instead of calling it work, realize it is play.” Maybe that is the lesson my yoga club kids were, and are, teaching me.  Play is always available, and is always a choice. It may look differently now, but that doesn’t mean it still can’t be play—it’s all about the attitude brought to it.   Even more so, maybe that’s why my brain “played” with this idea—to beautifully illustrate—that I, too, am playing each week with a screen-full of words, hoping to discover “playmates” in which these words will resonate.

           “Get yourself grounded and you can navigate even the stormiest roads in peace.”—Steve Goodier

           “But it turns out that people who are grounded and secure don’t change much under stress.  That’s what being grounded means.”—Michael Gruber

“You need grounded,” Amy Vanhorn said to my daughter, Madelyn.  “Get outside. Go barefooted.  Get grounded.”

My husband, John, and I had left immediately on a Friday at the end of our school day at St. Joseph Catholic School, where we both work, in order to make the four-hour drive to Bethany College where Madelyn is attending.  It was Dad’s weekend for our daughter’s sorority, Alpha Xi Delta.  However, Maddie and John had both insisted that I also tag along, and make it a family visit.

Amy VanHorn, and her husband, Keith, had invited us to stay at their home, which is less than a five-minute drive from Bethany.  Amy’s daughter, Eden, is a friend of Maddie and also in the same sorority.  We gratefully accepted this invitation to save the trips and time driving up and down the mountainous, curvy, and car-sickness inducing roads traveling to and from the nearest hotel in Wheeling, WV about 30 minutes away from Bethany.

The week had been exhausting.  John and I are finding that while we still love working during our 5^thdecade of life, it seems we are never able to get enough rest.  Our recovery time isn’t what it used to be, and although we still get around six to six and half hours of sleep at night—which used to be plenty in our thirties and forties—it is no longer enough.  Still, we keep pushing through fatigue and forging ahead, ever grateful for our jobs.  Furthermore, that Friday had been filled with Halloween celebrations at our school.  Students were amped, and a large portion of the day was filled with the typically loud, stimulating celebrations that go hand-in-hand with the spirit of the holiday.

Personally, I emotionally struggle with Halloween. I find our society’s obsession with the holiday upside down.  I know, I know, it’s all about fun and frivolity, making me sound like a grumpy old lady. To be certain, I certainly enjoyed the holiday as a young child, but once I hit seventh grade, it was no longer an important event in my life.  However, this holiday has since developed into a multi-million dollar industry with all ages celebrating it for days on end.  Thus, when I look at all the millions of dollars and countless hours spent on candy, costumes, as well as decorations, and when I think of all the other beneficial ways the money and our collective focus could be used, it leaves me feeling not only a bit icky, but conflicted and out-of-sorts.  Therefore, this only added to my level of energy drain.

Upon arriving at Bethany, we stopped by Maddie’s dorm to pick her up before heading to the VanHorn home.  She would be joining us for dinner.  Amy had suggested that we go to Dovetail Fire and Ale in nearby Wellsburg, WV, a local, family-owned and operated restaurant. (Which, by the way, John and I highly recommend!)

“We love to cook, but not on Fridays, especially after an exhausting week like this past one,” Amy explained.

We completely understood, and after hugs, greetings, and an exchange of a few pleasantries, we all hopped in Keith’s new, roomy truck and headed to the restaurant around 8:00 pm.  The restaurant’s atmosphere was comfortable and casual allowing all of us to relax our tired bodies and enjoy each other’s company.

It was during the early minutes of our conversation that Amy began advising Maddie to ground herself outside regularly to fight the stress and anxiety of college life.  I found myself agreeing as my mind drifted to earlier in the week . . .

It was moments before the sun began to rise; the sky had blossomed with a harvest full of fruit colors:  cantaloupes, peaches, and rosy, pink apples. The inky black outlines of the graceful willows in our yard were in the foreground of these expanding colors as birdsong filled in the background.  I stood mesmerized in the open-door area of the garage holding my bags for school.  I breathed in the chill of the crisp air, both of my feet planted firmly on the concrete.  My heart yearned for more time.  Time to watch, time to breathe this moment into my body, time to fully feel all the gratitude of this heavenly touch at the start of my day.  Yet time tick-tocked onward, and I needed to move if I was to make it to school on time.  Thus, the sands of my hourglass slipped through this holy moment, not allowing it to be savored in a manner it so rightly deserved.  I took one more deep breath, drank in the lovely peacefulness, and packed my wares into my vehicle, making my way to school as the moment continued on without my presence.

Amy was right; not only for Maddie, but also for me.  I need grounded. We all benefit from time spent out of doors, but especially me.  My soul, my heart, my spirit needs it, and I have not been making time for it. God is there in nature, whispering soft words of love, understanding, and healing while painting seasonal images of Divine magnificence.

As I awoke Saturday morning, I soaked up all the “grounding” opportunities I could find.  I walked around the VanHorn property listening to the birds, their rooster, the snufflings of their horses, the cluckings of their chickens, and the pitter-patter of a cool, autumn rain.  Later, John and I drank-in the wonder of our daughter and her gentle friend, Ben, as we walked through the continual mist, across Bethany campus, listening to the swishing sounds of our feet traipsing over damp yellow, brown, and red leaves.  Then, we warmed up with coffee made with love by Ms. Linda, campus mom to many, at The Hub, Bethany’s coffee shop.

Afterwards, we parted ways with Ben, and Maddie blessed us with time alone with her as she gave us a personal tour of her daily haunts.  From the Robert Richardson Hall of Science, where Maddie currently takes three different science courses, to the Office of the University President where Maddie works several days per week; and on to the Art Building, where Maddie’s eyes twinkled as she shared several works of her own design as well as works of other students and professors.  I bathed in the gift of each moment.

Finally, we made the journey towards stadium and the tailgating event hosted by her sorority.  The fall air continued to kiss our cheeks, the light rain incessantly baptized us, and joy of time spent with someone you love enveloped us with warmth in spite of the chilly, damp air.

Sounds of music and laughter offered a new backdrop.

Silly smiles. Serious smiles.

Poses held for photographic memoirs.

Sweet, sweet, time.

Grateful heart, overflowing with love and pride.

God’s goodness all around.

Centered by family love.

Surrounded by a Divine embrace.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Blessing abound.

Grounded in the gift of the moment.

P.S.  Thank you, Keith and Amy VanHorn, for taking time from your busy schedules to assist in this much-needed moment.  (I wish I would have thought to have taken your picture while I was there!)

MUCH love and appreciation to our beautiful daughter, Madelyn, for taking time away from her social obligations and course studies to be present with Mom and Dad for a few hours.

           “Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.”—Rabindranath Tagore

           “We’ve had bad luck with our kids—they’ve all grown up.”—Christopher Morley

           “The world is going to hell in a handbasket,” was an expression from my childhood that I often overheard grown-ups use that I never quite understood at the time.  Of course, now, as an adult, I certainly understand those sometimes-still-stated words. In fact, I’ve even been known to think it a time or two! Then, I go to work, see the kids, and rethink that phrase.

Some of the SJCS students who belong to my EW! (Elevate Writing) Club.

A few of the SCJS students who belong to my Yoga Club, including Annie Smith, Julie Blatt, Nicolas Mozafari, Izzy Styer, and Lily Casto.

           I have been blessed with an amazing career—education.  I became a certified (now licensed) teacher, unbelievably, at the age of 21; naively thinking I would set the world on-fire!  Now, thirty-one years later, I realize, it is the opposite. It is the kids, as well as my own daughter, that have continued to ignite and inspire my own inner fire.  They give me hope that, well, maybe, just maybe, society, as a whole, is not doomed to a fiery abyss.

           While I have had the privilege of working in several wonderful schools, my current place of employment is St. Joseph Catholic School.  One of the unique qualities of this school is that our students’ ages range from 6-weeks (daycare) to preschool age, as well as from Kindergarten to grade 8.  While I spend most of my time with students in grades sixth through eighth, I do have occasional opportunities to indirectly encounter and interact with younger students, such walking through the halls, attending our weekly mass (church-service), and during school-wide events such as assemblies, the upcoming pumpkin drop, and so forth.   Additionally, there are school-families, one of, if not my favorite, cross-grade activity.

           Arranged differently each school year by our administrators, a school family is one or two students per grade from each K-8 grade level paired with a teacher or instructional aide.  Then, throughout the school year, special activities are specifically planned to be completed as a school family. When these activities occur, middle school students are asked to gather the younger students, K-5, and lead them as a group to their assigned staff member.  Then, the staff member helps facilitate the activity.

           Benefits of school family activities are numerous, including fostering positive and appropriate communication, increasing empathy and understanding, encouraging team-building and problem solving, as well as an opportunity for leadership and role-modeling for the older students to name a few.   As a teacher, school families allow me to see students as kids—the whole child, not just the student-side.  Furthermore, it puts me in touch with wonder—the unbridled joy and enthusiasm with which children view the world!

           Recently, staff and students at SJCS took a break out of our regular daily schedule for our first school family event.  I individually talked to each member of the middle school students in my family—Caleb, Hope, and Carson–regarding my expectations for them.  As I talked to Caleb, Hope and Carson individually, I tried to be both cheerleader and guide. All three students responded with nods of agreement, yet I still wondered if they would step up and own the full leadership potential I saw within each one.  It would only take minutes to discover my answer.

           The two kindergarten students tentatively entered my classroom holding Hope’s hand.  First and second grade students burst through the doorway vibrating with liveliness, two of the *four kids, holding onto Carson’s hands. Lastly, walking politely and energetically came the third, fourth and fifth grade students with Caleb in the center, smile spreading widely across his face.  As I assembled the group around a table set up with supplies to paint pumpkins, I could not help but feel a sense of pride for the middle school students as they assumed their role as caregivers and leaders.

“Curly” Carly spent the most time painting her pumpkin. Even after the others were finished, she was still creating.

Sophie Lo, Lola Walker, and Kailey Robinette draw and chat easily together.

           Natural conversation ensued as the painting began.  It never ceases to amaze the ease with which younger kids can engage one another with little to no apparent bias, judgment, or preconceived notions.  Further, I love the way in which the little guys can fully embrace their task with a can-do attitude. By middle school, most students have lost part, and sadly sometimes all, of that openness.  Thus, it is good for the middle school students to observe and once more be around that genuine spirit of all-is-possible.

Oakley Mullins, 3rd grade, teaches Carson Patrick, 8th grade, how to draw a peacock.

Oakley Mullins and his finished peacock.

           Once painting was completed, I allowed students the freedom to draw, talk, and even read to one another, although one student read simply chose to read to himself.  The conversations grew more animated. I walked about the room hopping in and out of the chatter, taking pictures, and overall soaking up the sweetness of the moment.  Then, my ears perked up.

           “How long did it take you to get to middle school?”   

           It was a second grader, his face intently and earnestly gazing at Hope, a seventh grader.  I couldn’t help but smile and inwardly chuckle; and from the look of Hope’s face as well as the twinkle of her blue eyes, so was Hope as she tried to explain the math to him.  His question stuck with me though.

Caleb Maru, Neil Kumar, Hope Spangler, Emma “Bree” Smith, Mythili Gurram, and Jack Quehl draw and chat together about how long it takes to get to 6th and 7th grade.

Simon Marchal decided to immerse himself in a previously read favorite book he found in my classroom.

           How long did it take to get to year 31 of my teaching career?  How long did it take for my own child to grow up and move on to college? How long did it take for my husband, John, and me to arrive at nearly 30-years of marriage?   How long, how long, how long . . ..

     The older I get, the more precious time and life become, and yet still, I move through each day more likely than not, forgetting that life is short.  Like that slice of Grandmother Helen’s decadent brownie I can never recreate as much as I try, or Mamaw Musick’s beloved sugar-laden, thick-crusted apple pie that John swears was the best, life must be savored because it too will soon be gone as quickly as a fork being placed across an empty dessert with only a few crumbs of memory left.  

           Isn’t it ironic that some of the most important life lessons are presented in the form of child’s question?

          Author’s note to reader: This was not easy to write, and I realize by sharing a story so personal that I risk offending and/or losing readers.  Further, I do not write this to change minds, but rather to offer additional insight.  I am NOT promoting one political party or position.  Instead, I am sharing how one short-term experience with trauma forever impacted me.  I cannot begin to imagine what other victims of long-term abuse, violation, and/or suppression have experienced and been impacted.  My hope is that readers begin to see there truly are faces behind statistics, and that the other “you” is a real person.

           “Through the darkness of today’s conflicts, each and everyone of us can become a bright candle, a reminder that light will overcome darkness, and never the other way around.”—Pope Francis

           I don’t know about you, Dear Reader, but my mind, heart, and soul are a swirling with questions.  As I type this early Sunday morning, I am reflecting over events of my lifetime, events of recent years, and current headlines.   I am one who rarely speaks to topics of controversy, but my heart and soul are urging me, an ordinary person, to share my story in order illustrate why there is often a great divide.

           I am but one person, one voice, and one point of experience.  I am not naive enough to think my thoughts will impact the world in a big way.  However, as I sat this past week in Morgantown overlooking the Monongahela River, I observed a random leaf drift down onto the chocolate-milk-colored water.  As soon as the leaf alighted upon the river, it created a wave that reached the shore. That is my hope for these words—they will resonate and/or increase understanding/empathy within a person or two.  

           “Don’t say: ‘That person gets on my nerves.’ Think: ‘That person sanctifies me.’”—St. Josemaria Escriva

           As a child I often received spoken and unspoken rules from a male-dominated society.  Some of these messages included:

            “It’s not good for a woman to be too smart.  She won’t get a husband.”

           “Women should only be nurses, teachers, or secretaries; otherwise, they are taking work away from a man.”

           “Women who wear _______________ (short skirts, low-cut blouses, high heels, and so forth.) are asking for ‘it.’” (What “it” was, I never understood as a kid.)

                       “Women who go to a/n ______________  (bar, restaurant that serves alcohol, empty street, boy’s house, and so forth.) alone are asking for ‘it’.”  (Again, I did not know what “it” was, but I sensed “it” must be bad.)

           As a youngster, I questioned the validity of these messages.  In fact, I questioned most everything, including my own family rules. I am sure I drove my parents crazy because “why” seemed hard-wired into my child-brain.  My siblings have often told me they learned from me, mostly due to my frequent bouts of “punishments,” including getting my mouth washed out with soap on more than one occasion, the rewards of not talking back.  Still, I kept speaking out, questioning. Then, I learned the hard way, not everyone cares what you have to say.

           I was an older teen when it happened. How it exactly happened, I am unsure.  Just as I cannot tell you the dates or the exact words I said as a kid to get my mouth washed out with soap, I only remember the bitter taste of the soap, so too is this memory.

           The shag carpet of the staircase in my face, and pain exploding in my body.  I said, “stop”, but the carpet was in my face. The pain was like no other. The carpet fibers chafed my tear-stained cheeks as I continued to say, “No.” The pain continued to explode as my voice fell on deaf ears.  Shame filled my mind. Can. Never. Tell. Must. Not. Ever. Tell. It. Must. Be. My. Fault. Hurt, hurt, hurt.

           I do not remember how I got home. I only remember the bathroom, lying on the cool linoleum, overcome with pain and shame that would not go away, and continually sobbing. Must. Not. Tell.   

           I remember him.  He is clear as the taste of Dial soap, but I don’t recall the date or many pertinent details.  Most days, I don’t think of him or the event. Most days, I have moved beyond that event, and even forgiven him because he was (and is) a product of the times in which we were raised. However, I can now recognize how that event forever changed me, changed the way I perceived my voice, created fears and inner demons within me, and planted seeds of mistrust of others and myself that have taken decades to acknowledge and understand.

           “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”—Mother Teresa

          These past two weeks though have brought much of it back: the nightmares; feelings of shame; the knot in my stomach; and the feeling of being powerless.  The talking heads of society that mock, ridicule, and/or hide behind positions of power often remind me of the same vitriolic attitudes I sensed so long ago–those attitudes and “rules” I once questioned as a kid.  I feel those same questions begin to rise once more as bile rises when one begins to get sick. And, yet, my faith and personal disposition at age 53, remind me that I must move beyond the hate, the judgment, and acridity of headlines.  Therefore, I choose to use my voice, my words, and my thoughts to promote change; and, I do this with the full love and support of my husband and daughter.

           “Feeling hopeful does not mean to be optimistically naïve and ignore the tragedy humanity is facing.  Hope is the virtue of a heart that doesn’t lock itself into darkness, that doesn’t dwell on the past, does not simply get by in the present, but is able to see a tomorrow.”—Pope Francis

           I say, not just to women, but also to all victims of oppression, cruelty, and repression: Rise up.  Let your voices be heard in government, churches, businesses, educational institutions, corporations, social media, news outlets, and all other forms of societal groups.  Tell your stories. Be quiet no more. Act upon your words and beliefs. Work to bring about change. Uplift and support others. Watch and protect one another. Do not dwell on past events; but rather, use them as a point of motivation.  

           Most of all, now, more than ever, embrace an attitude of hope, rather than defeat.  For it is by embracing hope that we are motivated to work towards a future of change—a tomorrow that, albeit, may never be perfect, but can be filled with progress—progress toward a path in which ALL voices can be heard/seen; positions/institutions of power and policies can be questioned; and the content of character matters more than media image, political party, bank account size, or special interest affiliation.   

           “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”—Jeremiah 29:11

              “When Jesus touches a young person’s heart, he or she becomes capable of truly great things.”  Pope Francis

              “If you are what you should be, you will set the whole world on fire!”—St. Catherine of Siena

Gavin Polan was prepares to challenge himself on the zipline-swing!

Owen Turner is ready for any challenge!

              “No, that’s okay.  I’m really not that good,” I replied to Emily one of the staff members at Camp Magis at the archery station as the eyes of a small group of 7th graders turned to me.  “I don’t need a turn.”

              It was the last day of camp.  Just the day prior, I sat with this same counselor after an activity as she asked the students to reflect for five minutes on how they could be more of a servant-leader to others. Afterwards, Emily asked each students to identify one specific action they could offer in service.  Once each student had shared, she asked another teacher and me to also share our thoughts. Typically, teachers are not asked such questions, as the focus of camp is on the students, so I was caught a bit off-guard. Nonetheless, I gave an honest reply.

              “I can model more for my students.  If I hold my students to a certain standard, then my actions need to reflect that same standard.”  

              At the time, I was thinking more about reading and writing, since that is what I teach, as well as my request for students to treat one another with respect and dignity.  I wasn’t per se thinking about specific student-oriented camp activities . . .

              In fact, this school year, my back pain was (pun-intended) back with a vengeance. The effects of the ablation and epidural shots during the 2016-2017 school year for my three bulging discs had worn off months ago, but I had not yet returned to the doctor because I am still paying those bills.  Therefore, my pain-level during camp often kept me from fully participating in several of the physical activities. My heart broke because my former, younger body longed to fully participate right alongside my students. Still, I long ago learned to respect my physical limitations, while participating to the degree possible.

            During the bike riding activity, Ava, a student from another school, was in my group and did not know how to ride a bike.  I was given the task of helping Ava.  By the end of the hour and several crashes later, she had successfully made four short rides around the front lawn!

              Thus, when Emily challenged me to shoot a bow at the archery range on that last morning, I had politely declined. Then, I recalled my reply for how I could be more of a servant-leader for my students.  Why couldn’t I shoot a bow? Sure, I would have to stand in one place which often triggers my back pain, but I wasn’t lifting anything heavy, and shooting the bow would certainly not inflict more harm.

              Then, one of my students, Hope, said, “Come on, Ms. Hill.  You can do it. Show ‘em girls are better than boys!” as the one of the other chaperones in the group was male.

              Looking into her imploring eyes, I replied, “Sure. Why not?’

              Emily smiled with delight.  “Good! We’ll have a contest to see which chaperone is the best shot!”

              “Oh, brother,”  I inwardly moaned as she lined up the three chaperones . . .

                      Various images from Camp Magis 2018.

              John, my husband, and me, along with parent volunteers, were chaperones for St. Joseph Catholic School 7th graders attending 2018 Camp Magis.  This annual fall retreat is held at the Bishop Hodges Catholic Pastoral Center located on a 1400-acre property situated in the mountains just outside of Huttonsville, WV.  It is a beautiful outdoor setting with an ongoing operating farm, chapel, and expansive campus designed to be used for various purposes. One of those purposes occurs the fall of each school year: Camp Magis.  Operated by the Office of Youth and Young Adult Ministry of the Diocese of Wheeling-Charleston, this six-week period invites 7th graders from the various WV Catholic Schools to spend a few days in attendance.

              The main purpose of the camp is, “ . . . to help young people fall in love with Jesus Christ and His church.” However, it has several other goals.  By stepping out of the classroom setting and away from screens (students do not use phones/computers during their three-day stay), students spend time with one another engaged in meaningful activities designed to help them recognize that they have more in common with one another than they do differences.  Students are also asked to step outside their comfort zone, and perhaps even, overcome a fear or two, by participating in new experiences/challenges. It is further hoped that students will then return home and seek their own unique way to serve Christ and others. However, John and I have found that it is not just the kids who are reached by these goals.

              Magis means more.  Therefore, throughout the week, campers are asked to, “do more” in each activity and/or setting:  pray more, fellowship with friends more, and offer more service to others. Each activity begins and ends with student-led prayer.  Some form of worship service is held at the chapel each day. Bonding time with friends increases just by the mere face-to-face interactions as well as team work that if often required by the on-going scheduled activities.  Additionally, opportunities for service are programmed into each day.

              Meanwhile, back at the archery range on the last day of camp.  . .

              “Oh well, no one has high expectations for me,” I thought to myself. “Still, I might as well try my best since that is what I would ask of my students.” Therefore, I listened carefully to Emily’s instructions as to how to aim and shoot the six arrows into the target ahead  . . .

              After the round, Emily carefully counted the points on each chaperone’s target.  Who knew there were points in archery? I thought it was about how many arrows we could each get into the target.   Oh boy . . .

              Before the close of the archery activity, Emily provided us with a mini-science/object lesson.

              The drawn string with an arrow attached is filled with potential energy similar to what is present in each person. Once the arrow is shot, the bow serves its purpose as the arrow is driven forward to its target by kinetic energy.  In fact, if a bow is shot without an arrow, the undirected energy can break the bow. And, so it is with us.

              Adults and kids alike need a purpose for our energy.  We can choose to mindlessly go through life, throwing our energies into various endeavors; but without any real direction, we risk being broken, or at the very least, living a purposeless life.  The Creator formed each of us with a purpose in mind. Finding our purpose is possible when we allow Divine Providence to lead us. However, that requires time spent with a quiet mind in prayer, meditation, or reflection. It requires, not only time spent seeking and asking, but also time spent listening with an open heart/mind. It may take years to find individual purpose, but, just as Emily shared with the kids, once found, the Ultimate bow guides our aim towards our desired target.  And when this happens, well, look out world!

              Thus, it is a worthwhile endeavor, just as we did in camp, to take time daily to ask/reflect/meditate/pray to discover what our potential energy is calling us to do more of.   Therefore, I ask you, Dear Reader, as well as myself: What is our purpose? How will we use our energy?

              Oh, and by the way, in case you were wondering, I happened to win the archery-shooting contest.  Luck? Most likely, but it would not have happened without my willingness to humble myself in service to do more for the sake of a student.  Magis.

           “Our lives are not measured in years, but are measured in the lives of people we touch around us.”—Suzanne Collins

           “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.”—2 Timothy 4:7-8 as read by Jake Helton upon the passing of his Papaw, Mike Mullins

           Author’s Notes:  This is not a story about me, yet to tell it right, I must include bits of my life only to illustrate the positive impact one person can have upon others.  The sole purpose of this narrative to honor and uplift the memory of a beloved man.

           As John, my husband, and I approached the funeral home, we could not help but notice that it was located directly beside Heiner’s, where our dear friend, Mike Mullins, had spent 27 years of his adult life working.  I smiled at the thought of the family gatherings in which we attended with Mike’s family where Heiner’s buns, rolls, and/or bread were served. I remember him once telling me, with a note of certainty and sternness in his eyes, “Steph, you gotta support local businesses.  It’s real men’s lives and families at stake.”

           It was not the first time Mike spoke forcefully to me.  Neither would it be the last, nor would I be the only one to be on the receiving end of his firmly rooted convictions.  He said what he meant, he lived by what he said, and by golly, anyone for whom he cared should also live by those same principles.  Mike lived his life wholeheartedly—passionate beliefs, passionate appreciation for those “doing the right thing,” and a passionate distaste for those doing the opposite. Most of all, Mike possessed a deeply abiding love for his family as well as others for whom he cared.  

           Given such strident persuasions, I more than once witnessed Mike’s face redden and contort with outrage whenever he witnessed, thought, or spoke of another person who had crossed his line of right and wrong.  Fortunately, I was never, per se, at the receiving end, but I was always certain where Mike stood. Therefore, when his son, Todd, stated at his funeral, “Dad had a way of getting your attention” in order to let the listener know his belief, well, I certainly believed it!  However, I always knew Mike loved my husband, our daughter Maddie—who called him, “Papaw Mike,” and me.

           I came to know Mike, and his sweet wife Betty, through a gradual series of life successions.  First, I began working with his daughter, Kelli Helton, nearly 30 years ago at South Point Elementary when she was still Kelli Mullens.  It was there that our friendship and trust of one another began to evolve. A few years later, when Kelli and I were teaching across the hall from one another at Burlington Elementary, Maddie went to preschool with her son, Jake.  Soon enough, she became fast friends with Jake and began to feel Josh was the younger brother she never had. That same year, Maddie began to play soccer with both Jake and his cousin, Noah, Todd’s son. Therefore, every fall and spring was spent with the Helton/Mullens clan at the local YMCA soccer field.  In fact, countless weekends throughout Maddie’s elementary and middle school years were spent with Kelli and her family.

           Additionally, I drew even closer to Mike and Betty because of the fact I had the privilege of teaching both of Kelli’s sons during the 15 years I taught Kindergarten.  It was during the school year in which I taught Jake, that I was especially on the receiving end of Mike’s strength and love. Early in that school year, one of Jake’s classmates lost his life.  While I worked hard at school to help the kids through their grief, I secretly spiraled into the worst depression I have ever experienced. My faith was shook to its core, but I dared not outwardly reveal it.  

           Throughout that school year, during the kid’s soccer games, Mike would grab me with a force of strength, and wrap me up in his arms as if I was his own daughter.  Then, he would tell me he loved me and was praying for me. It was as if he knew my tightly hidden secret. He would whisper in my ear, so no one else heard, “Steph, don’t let this get you down.  You gotta keep strong for those kids. You gotta trust God.” Then, he’d pull away and look into my eyes with such ferocity; I felt as if he was trying to shoot strength into my very soul. Looking around the funeral home this past Sunday, I had to wonder the number of other people for whom Mike had also done this.  

           From the opening notes of Casting Crowns’ version of “Beulah Land,” to Mercy Me’s, “I Can Only Imagine,” and finally, to the organist’s rendition of “When We All Get to Heaven,” the funeral was a fitting tribute to Mike.  In front of me was Kelli with one arm strongly wrapped around her mom as her Dad would have done. Her brother, Todd, spoke with the heart and conviction of his Dad. Jake, Mike’s oldest grandchild, read two passages from “Papaw’s Bible” that he had selected on the previous day in his own Bible only to find those same passages highlighted, the following day, in his grandfather’s Bible.  Josh, Noah, and Grace, Mike and Betty’s other grandkids, firmly held steadfast jaws and faces in the same manner as I had witnessed Mike hold his on numerous occasions requiring strength. The service was filled with tears, laughter, and the poignant beliefs and memories of Mike Mullens.

          When John and I entered the funeral home, sunlight filled the skies with brilliant radiance, reminding me of Mike’s radiant eyes when he smiled.  As we exited the building upon the funeral’s conclusion and began our drive to the cemetery, the clouds were brooding with the temperament of Mike when he was worried about a loved one or someone who had committed a transgression.  Soon those clouds became threateningly dark, reminding me of the way Mike’s eyes could darken whenever he observed or spoke of a person’s misbehavior or “wrong” opinion. During the graveside ceremony, the sky began to cry rain as I had seen tears stream down Mike’s etched face on more than one occasion when he was feeling moved or saddened.  Driving away, the skies unleashed their anger, shooting daggers of lightning bolts and booming thunder. I had to inwardly grin; I had certainly known to Mike verbally unleash stormy words of clarity with those who had crossed the line! It seemed as if the day’s weather was full of Mike’s passion.

           An hour or so later, as John and I were driving away from our own church’s evening mass that we attended after Mike’s services, we saw a colorful rainbow arching out and from the heavens above. How fitting, I thought, as we drove down 5th Ave of Huntington, that our entire drive was spent moving towards an eternal sign of peace and love.  It was as if, in full Mike Mullens style, he had the final words of the day after all. “I am in my heavenly home. I am at peace.”

           Once more, I could hear him whisper not only to me, but also to all that he knew and loved.  “You gotta get through this. You gotta stay strong. You gotta trust God.”

           Rest in Mike. Rest in peace.  You will be missed, but you will not be forgotten.

P. S.  Mike’s testimony from when he turned his life over to God can be found below.  It is worth reading!

           “There is a lot that happens around the world we cannot control.  We cannot stop earthquakes, we cannot prevent droughts, and we cannot prevent all conflict, but when we know where the hungry, the homeless and the sick exist, then we can help.”—Jan Schakowsky

           “Most people never really sat down and got to know a homeless person, but every homeless person is just a real person that was created by God and it is the same kind of different as us; they just have a different story.”—Ron Hall

           A man and woman, both possessing skin as brown and lined as an oak tree, stood at a corner along 6th Ave waiting to safely cross the street.  A small boy, perhaps six or seven years in age, held the hand of the man, while an impish girl with large eyes, perhaps four or five years old, held the woman’s. Despite the fatigue in the eyes of the adults, they repeatedly looked down at the children seemingly answering questions and/or giving directions.

           As the traffic light turned green, they began to cross the intersecting street as I began to drive towards school. I noticed the parents appeared to cling a bit harder to the hands of their little ones—much as I used to do when crossing an intersection with my own daughter when she was quite young.  I continued making my way down 6th Ave, but my thoughts kept drifting back to that family.  Were they homeless? Did they have food? Did the kids go to school?  Was the family safe? Where were they going—after all, this part of town is not really known for its family-oriented businesses.  I wondered if the kids had toys, books, and/or other children with which to play.

          I am often troubled by images such as this as I travel to and from St. Joseph Catholic School where my husband, John, and I teach.  I have frequently wondered how I could help in a tangible, meaningful way. As a 30+ year veteran educator, I have seen a wide variety of heart-breaking circumstances in which kids are often surrounded—situations that I feel quite certain I would have never survived.  It has always been my mission, above all as a teacher, to meet the needs of my students as they come to me, provide them with loving structure and routine in order to not only educate them, but to also reach their heart.

           Sadly, over the years, despite not only my attempts, but also the millions of teachers, and other services, across the country, kids’ environment is such a powerful influence that, at least in my experience, very few kids can overcome the situations in which they are raised. That said, “hope is eternal;” and thus, I continue to shine a light on the potential futures each of my students could have with a bit of hard work and elbow grease.  Still, I have often wondered what more can I do, especially for the homeless children I see daily on my way to work.

           Several months ago, my sister-in-law, Jacki Humphreys, and her husband Tony, were telling me about a “Blessing Box” on 7th Ave in front of the fire station.  She described it as a type of pantry, where anyone in need, not just the homeless, can walk by and take what they need.  Items such as non-perishable foods, hygiene products, toys, and clothing necessities such as socks, shoes, hats, gloves, and so forth can be donated and found there.  The box is open 24/7 for the community to fill as their schedule/budget allows, and for those experiencing hardship to take as needed. Yet, like so many others things in life, I became distracted, and the Blessing Box fell off my radar, I am ashamed to say.

                     Photos courtesy of Missy Clagg Morrison via Facebook

           Then, Katrina Mailloux, founder and owner of Brown Dog Yoga as well as one of my yoga teacher training instructors, stated during one of our most recent trainings that she wanted our group of 20 yoga-teachers-in-training to do something for the community.  Suddenly, Jacki’s words about the Heart to Hand Blessing Box came rushing into my mind. I casually mentioned this to Katrina and the rest of the group. That was all it took, Katrina and the rest of the “2018 Yoga Tribe,” as we often refer to ourselves, were ready to help; and by the next day, my trunk was overflowing donations for the Blessing Box.

           Then, once again, life happened, and it would sadly be several days later before John and I found our way to the Blessing Box. My fallibility once again raised its ugly head.  Nonetheless, we had finally arrived and went to work filling the box when I noticed on my second trip walking to the trunk of my car, a couple standing a respectful distance from me whom I would later learn were named Dan and Rose. As I walked by, I spoke to them. They immediately thanked me for what I doing.  I explained that it wasn’t me, but a whole group of people. (And what I should have added was that I am the one that is flawed and waited nearly five days before I came to load it.) On my way from the car to the box, I encouraged them to come join John and me.

           Looking into their eyes, I could see the beautiful young woman that Rose once was and the dashingly tall guy Dan must have been.  Quite frankly, that beauty was still within them if you were willing to look into their eyes, but it was hidden behind the wear and tear of the streets.  We offered them a small Amazon box that we had just emptied to fill with supplies for which they were need. As they talked, I noticed they were missing most, if not all, of their teeth.  They shared stories of life on the street–narratives filled with robberies, beatings, and even recently being stabbed for a backpack. They described visits to the ER and showed me recent wounds and past scars.  Furthermore, Dan spoke of a preacher in another section of Huntington who tries to help them; however, they have been mugged on that part of town so often, they now try to avoid that area—but it was clear they missed talking to the minister.

          To be certain, my mind wanted to go into judgmental role, and I had to keep drawing my focus back to see Rose and Dan as the small children walking into a teacher’s classroom years ago. Inside, that is who they still were at their essence.  In my mind, this was worth remembering as my education experience has taught me that no child has ever stepped foot in my classroom and stated, “When I grow up, I want to be homeless, mentally ill, and/or addicted to drugs.”

           Dan and Rose seemed afraid to take more than what they thought was their “fair share.”  As Dad stated, “There are others who have it worse than us.”

           Rose focused on taking a few feminine products for self-care as well as personal hygiene supplies for both of them, “I haven’t used lotion in so long.  This smells so good,” she said opening a bottle a taking in a deep inhalation. Meanwhile, Dan took a box of honey buns, several packages of snack crackers, and toilet paper. “Toilet paper is hard to come by,” he said blushing a bit.  

           In the end, Dan and Rose repeatedly thank me.  I kept telling them that it wasn’t me, but many other people far more thoughtful—I just happened to be the one delivering.  Then, Dan looked me straight in the eye and said, “One day, I hope to be in your position.”

           Despite thinking, “I am nobody important, Dan.” I heard myself instead saying, “You will be Dan.  You will be. You just have to believe and begin to take small steps.”

           Hope is eternal.

           Walking away, in the opposite direction of which Dan and Rose began to walk, I fought the sea of emotion welling inside of me. My mind went back to a bumper sticker I had recently seen in the Pullman Plaza parking garage, “Do small things with great love.”  I realized in that moment, the Heart to Hand Blessing Box was a small thing I could begin to do with great love. I hope to overcome my past shortcomings in my failure to help the homeless. Now, that I have witnessed the power of the Blessing Box, and I see how close it is to my school, I have no excuse not to continue to help.  I am called to action. What about you?

           For more information regarding the Heart to Hand Blessing Boxes in Huntington, visit their page of Facebook; or, read “Blessing box– a blessing to those who give and receive” on-line at the Herald-Dispatch.