VALADIE ARCHIVES
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Hopefully, we might not end up on reality TV
By George Valadie
August 6, 2010
I don’t know about you but I’m not a huge fan of reality TV. But Sarah, our youngest, loves it. The weirder the better.
It’s those tell-all programs I can’t abide. And I’m not sure I’ll ever understand people’s willingness to publicly open up their deepest personal and family flaws for worldwide gawking.
I mean it’s not that we don’t have personal and family flaws. I can’t think of anyone who would want our family tree in their yard. Heck, if they weren’t family, we wouldn’t want it either. But I’m darn sure not going on TV to tell the world.
Still, I find myself giving in to her and letting her watch, which is where I came to learn about hoarding.
Television portrays the most severe cases but as in all things, I’m guessing there must be incremental phases. Surely there are some folks who just “sorta hoard.” Like my wife.
If there is such a thing, she’s a purse hoarder. She doesn’t collect them as much as she collects stuff in them. Lots of stuff. Weird stuff.
She bought a new one the other day and had to come face-to-face with moving her collection of — well, I don’t have a word that accurately depicts such a mess.
So she decided it might be a good time to go through it piece-by-piece and throw out what she no longer needed. I was impressed with her intent until I realized she had settled in to the task without any sort of garbage bag or 55-gallon drum nearby.
And so she began. The first treasures to spill out were some paper hats with the Cinco de Mayo theme. What in the world? “Well, since Katy’s labor was due to be induced that day, I had bought them thinking we could take a picture with the baby and all of us wearing them.”
Thankfully, the birth happened that day but the photos did not. Yet, three months later, she still has the hats. I can’t explain it and neither could she.
Next to tumble out were four pieces of tattered and worn legal paper looking as if they’d been written about the same time as the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Turns out they are her Christmas lists from the last four years reminding her of what she and we have given to family and friends. Regardless of fashion, Katy is not scheduled to get another yellow blouse until 2014.
She had 23 grocery lists from which to choose, I kid you not. Saves her time I guess. What’s for dinner, honey? “List 17.”
To efficiently save our grocery money, she has a coupon holder case —which was empty. Later she found a rubber-band full of grocery coupons, that had all expired.
She had five tubes of lipstick, a broken eye-liner and a bone-dry container of facial powder which she claims she’s keeping with her so she’ll know what shade to buy when she replenishes.
She won’t get any from me, I bought her some in 2008 and it’s not time yet.
She had five swatches of fabric for a chair we’ve already reupholstered. And underneath those she found hotel credit card receipts for places we stayed long ago. I think she might be holding on to them in case she decides to ‘return our vacation’ if she ever decides maybe we didn’t really like that trip. Any other reason you can think of?
She has a big bottle of sunscreen for me though I didn’t know it. She found quite a few loose ibuprofen pills buried at the bottom but it would take an hour to dig them out. Those must be for her slow-building headaches.
She owns a bottle of medicine she doesn’t like taking and swears she never will. Along with another she really does like but it had expired before the coupons.
I’m always losing my special sort of favorite writing pen she always swears she hasn’t taken. But ahha! I caught her trying to sneak it out of this purse because she giggles when she knows she’s guilty. Keep digging, I bet there are more, I challenged. She only found eight of them.
And of course there’s the usual stuff — an overstuffed wallet but that’s another story, a checkbook, some extra eyeglasses, an emery board and two Sonic peppermints circa 1997.
This is a dark and scary place I just will not go. Do you have a few dollars, dear? Yeah, just get it out of my purse. That’s not happening so I always bring it to her and let her reach into this hole of mysterious shadows. Left to me, I’d rather go without.
OK, I admit, hanging on to goofy stuff isn’t just a female gene. Guys have their own personal collections of weirdness for sure. We just don’t carry it all with us wherever we go.
But looking back at a good bit of these contents, it’s what mothers and wives do. They take care of others. The sunscreen and several of those meds are for when I’ve forgotten to take mine at home. I certainly would have never thought about the grandbaby’s decorations and I wouldn’t know what we gave our girls last week, much less last year.
So I’m grateful they’ve got our backs and they keep trying to fix us. That way, hopefully, we might not end up on reality TV.
Dear God - People care in all sorts of ways. May we be always grateful that someone just does. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘God cut us parents loose without a manual’
By George Valadie
July 9, 2010
      What’s your teenager doing this summer? Playing some ball? Summer school? Maybe the beach? Earning a few bucks for college?      Or to pay you back for the cell bill that had gone berserk?
How about that first trip out of the driveway without you beside them? Abby Sunderland just had that experience – sort of.
     As a high school principal of 1,000 teenagers, and a father of three daughters, I couldn’t help but be distantly interested in the recent news accounts of this 16-year-old lunatic – or adventurer. Call her what you will, I can’t decide.
     She’s the California teen who earned her personal 15 minutes of fame by attempting to sail around the globe – by herself. Ponder that for a minute.
     We’re talking about sailing 20,000 miles around the planet in a mere 50 feet or so of boat. Alone. I’m not sure which is more amazing. All that or the fact she had no other silly 16-year-olds to go to the bathroom with her or anyone to save her life either.
     But before she succeeded, she ran into an Indian Ocean “rogue wave.” Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say it ran into her. And over her. And all around her. Snapping her mast in half and forcing an end to her excursion – and almost her life.
     I’ve read editorials, blog posts, and letters-to-the-editor from sources as varied as National Public Radio to the local weekly newspaper from Marina del Rey. Most focus on her parents but each is as different as the source from which it comes. And, as you can guess, I’ve heard about it from my wife. She’ll want me to tell you she thinks those people are out of their minds.
     Regardless of what you think about her parents and the sanity of this insanity, I can still admire a few things about this young lady.
Sixteen years old, I couldn’t help but think back to that time in our own daughters’ lives. Though fearless on the water, Addy doesn’t yet have her driver’s license and has admitted some apprehension in learning because she thinks the roads are dangerous. That’s what I’d call an ironic common sense.
     She wasn’t topside (I use that term as if I’ve ever been in or on a sailboat) at the time of the storm. She was below deck working on the engine. Let me quote the young lady, “My first thought was to jury rig … I was thinking if I could get the boom on deck I could rig up something, but my boom had snapped in half (too), so there was nothing left.”
     My first question is – does anyone think she learned that while tweeting, texting or updating her Facebook status? I would have given away most anything we owned – including one of our girls – if just one of them could have fixed a clutch. Oh no, instead      I heard “Da-a-a-a-a-ddy, it’s broken again.”
     But to their credit, ours have faced down crises of their own. I remember when Katy took two friends and the family van for her senior year spring break trip. Along the way, the top half of our car top carrier blew right off.
     Let me quote our eldest. I think hers went more like this. “Dad, my first thought was just to ‘jury rig’ … I was thinking if I could get the top back on I could rig up something, but the only thing I had was a McDonald’s straw … That worked for a few miles but my straw snapped in half, so there was nothing left.”
     Imagine that, honey. Then what? “It blew off again, and we just took the bottom half off too and left the whole darn thing along I-75 somewhere in southern Georgia.”
     I kid you not. Not to be outdone in composure or competence, I remember the morning Meg called my cell while I was in a meeting at school. I excused myself in a panic since she was in one. Crying hysterically, unable to speak, that non-stop sobbing where they can’t even breathe – and then you can’t either.
     Katy was with her too. I deciphered enough to know it involved her car. I could tell they were both alive but I wasn’t sure about anyone else.
     Ultimately, she was calling to tell me her car wouldn’t start. And she had no money.      And no more credit. Dental school had sapped her cash, sleep, energy and as it seemed had finally claimed both her sanity and perspective.
     “I can’t take it anymore,” she wailed. “We’ve tried everything and it won’t even make a sound.” I tried to talk her down off the ledge, and offered the very little I knew about starting a car. “Did you leave the lights on?” No, Dad – more crying.      “Could be an alternator, they’re not too much.” More crying.
     “Meg, you do have the car in park, don’t you?”
     “Meg? (nothing), Meg? (nothing), Meg?” More hysteria only this time it was the laughing variety. No longer teens and still, neither seemed ready for the road, much less the open seas.
     The questions seem unanswerable. Were these parents setting her free to achieve her goals? Or just negligent fools? Alexander the Great conquered the eastern half of the world at 16. But how many kids arrive in a college dorm unable to balance a checkbook or do their laundry?
     I won’t lie, I have my concerns, but I resolved long ago that I don’t know nearly enough to tell other parents how to parent. But I wouldn’t mind if they’d come teach mine to work on an engine.
Dear God – You cut us parents loose without a manual. Please forgive me because this is one of those times I wonder what you were thinking. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘I like vacation dad better, too’
By George Valadie
June 11, 2010
      Sing with me. “Schooooool’s out for summer!” Louder this time. “Schoooooool’s out for summer!”
     Alice Cooper was never one of my musical favorites, I’m more of a Carole King sort of fan. But I’ve always liked this one song of his.      Well, that’s not really true, I don’t even know any of the other lyrics in it, but I do love that one phrase.
     “Schooooooool’s out for summer!”
     And so here we are at the beginning of one of my favorite seasons for being a high school principal. But I’m not the only one.
     Our own three kids have long talked about their two different dads.
     There’s the me they’ve known most of their lives, the one they just call “dad.” And then there’s the other me they call “vacation dad.”
     They tease me about how it’s so obvious. They say I laugh more. That I relax better. They’ve actually told me I become a happier person. And I was sure I was already a pretty happy guy.
     They’ll come in our house, walk right past me into the kitchen and ask, “Hey mom, is ‘vacation dad’ here?”
     Nancy’s never been opposed to jumping on any train that runs over me; so she joins right in with them. In her view, she says she can actually see school “seeping out” of me as the day-to-day eases up a bit.
     I try to put up a front pretending none of them know what they’re talking about but her vote makes four-out-of-four, it’s unanimous, and so true.
     Still I made them tell me about times when I’ve been all that much different.
     “Well, do you remember the vacation dad that wore a Santa hat for 600 miles – waving at everyone on the interstate. You even wore it when we stopped for lunch at that Wendy’s. We were inside with people.”
     “Yeah, and vacation dad switches diets from salads and grilled chicken to chips with cheese and burgers with grease. And don’t forget those mudslides you like to drink.”
     “My favorite is the vacation dad that takes us out to eat on the spur of the moment.” (That’s true, but I also do that anytime Nancy breaks out a can of salmon for dinner.)
     “And don’t forget that goofy dance that vacation dad breaks into. The one we’ve banned you from doing in public. Ever.”
     Their teasing aside, they have a point. And I can tell they much prefer this laid back version of me.
     And when I think about it, their everyday dad has always gone to work at a job and a school working with some great kids. How tough can that be really!?!
     With a little time for reflection though, I’ve decided it’s never had anything to do with the specifics of my job. I just think I’m one of those people who grips a little too tight onto the events of the workday. And when I get home, I always find them still there in my pockets along with the change and the keys.
     Do you ever do that?
     I’m hoping so, I’d hate to think I’m out there all alone.
     I suppose living life that way can at times be a good thing. In a day and time when employers are looking for employees who give their all – and then some – the way-too-tight-grippers among us have surely earned a check-plus or two. Haven’t we?
     But then again, I read a quote that says …“The man who doesn’t relax and voluntarily hoot a few hoots now and then, is in great danger of someday hooting hoots for the edification of a doctor.”
     Though we apparently don’t hoot nearly enough for them, I think our families are proud of the work we do, but I also think they – my crew at least – have always liked their “vacation dad” a little bit better.
     No, they’ve liked him a whole lot better. I suppose I do, too.
     Sadly, it occurs to me these silly stories they tell might also reflect what will be some favorite memories of their old man. All my worries, stress and distractions? Not so much.
     How crazy are we for holding on to all that stuff we’d be better off leaving at the office? The shop? The lab? The store? Wherever?
     Hopefully, you’re a lot less like me than me. Hopefully, you can turn off your job at night or at least on weekends. Hopefully, you’re not two people inside of one.
     But if you are, I hope you have a great summer. Yours may not be exactly like mine. Most folks’ summers don’t provide as dramatic a difference as being a teacher does. Still, I hope it seeps out of you – whatever it is — at least for a little while.
     We’ll always have more work to get back to.
     Until then, let’s hoot a few hoots now and then.
     Dear God –We’ve been known to cheat ourselves – and those who love us – out of the best of who we are. Mostly for reasons we don’t even see we but will regret – when it’s too late. Please let the blind man see one more time. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Sometimes written thank you hits spot
By George Valadie
May 21, 2010
   For all those who do what I do for a living, it has to be one of the highlights.
   I know it was for me.
   After our graduation ceremony the other night, I was making the usual rounds through the crowds, congratulating seniors and their parents.
   We’ve got quite a few so – amid all that chaos – there was no way I could see them all. Still, it’s nice seeing a room full of nothing but smiles.
   Well, maybe not all smiles. But even the few tears that flowed seemed as if they were leaking excess from hearts that just couldn’t contain that much joy.
   After most had made their way on to the family dinners and parties that awaited, one of our senior guys and his folks were still hanging around.
   He didn’t say a lot, just walked up and handed me an envelope that had my name on the front. He offered little other than, “This is for you.” And he was gone like the rest.
   I thanked him, stuck it in my back pocket, and headed toward the mess in the back room that still needed to be cleaned up before we left the church.
When I remembered I had it, though not until the next day, I read what turned out to be a really nice two-page letter he had hand-written.
   He was thanking me for all he thought I had done which is always nice to hear. He had taken the time to express how much he had enjoyed his time at our school and very kindly gave me some credit for his accomplishments and those of his classmates.
   It was very flattering – though I don’t know how accurate.
   I had to laugh to myself because I was thinking that any kid who has the manners and thoughtfulness to even think about writing such a note – much less take the time to actually do it – is a kid who has been responsible for much of his own success.
   I won’t lie though, it felt really nice.
   But then I had to take pause. How many times this year – or even in the last few – have I taken the time to do what he did? On how many occasions have I been as classy as he just was?
   How many times have I reached out to someone whom I felt had made a difference in my life or that of my children? Or the person who simply went a little out of their way?
   People do it, I just don’t tell them. And I put all the blame on e-mail. Then I use it.
   Thank yous. Atta boys. And whatever else I can fire off in a few minutes.
   I use it because reaching out this way is a lot less embarrassing and a lot less expensive. My computer’s spell- and grammar-checks pull me back from the brink of abusing the English language. Not to mention the resulting postage and waste when    I start over – and over – and over on yet one more note card that come just eight to a box.
   But the primary reason I think I use e-mail – and most others do too – is the immediacy with which it gets things where we want them to go. Sometimes it’s too immediate.
   A thought enters my head; I knock out a quick note; fix the mistakes; and then it’s gone. Oftentimes all this happens in less than a minute. Sadly, my important thoughts take no more than five.
   I receive a lot of those too. We all do.
   In my younger days, before such technology, I can recall sitting down late at night to pour out my heart on paper. I’ve written page after page. I think we all have.
   At times, I’ve expressed my undying – and maybe unknown – love. While on other late nights, all that ink has released a bucketful of pent up anger.
   Once, my wife did it. Feeling that I had been wounded and cheated by my boss, Nancy took pen in hand and let it fly. Legal pad pages were flying everywhere – lots of them.
   The only part that still sticks in my mind even today was the part where she said somebody had the “finesse of a baboon.” I’m not sure to whom she was referring, but regardless, it wasn’t likely to gain me any favors.
   And thankfully, very thankfully, the post office wasn’t open at that hour. So night turned into day; darkness into sunlight; anger to perspective; she shelved it in a drawer and I’m pretty sure saved my job.
   Maybe we’ve all done such things.
   But seldom does the process work that way anymore.
   Oh we still write with every bit as much passion – about love and hate. Pounding and crying on the keyboard in the dead of night. But now, and this is the scary part, when we finish all this outpouring, it takes but one more click to launch it on its way.
   And so we do with no reflection, and no sunlight.
   One click doesn’t take much time and it doesn’t give us any either. No time to think. No time to consider. No time to reflect.
   Dear God – Time – it might be your most precious gift. Eternity – where there’s plenty of it. Please help us use ours to get to yours. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

If we could re-live a bit, what would you pack?
By George Valadie
May 7, 2010
    “Have you packed that bag yet?” he keeps asking. It’s been bugging him for the longest time. Maybe there will be no sudden need, but maybe there will.
    As I have written before, our eldest, Katy, and her husband, Clint, are expecting their first child. With the exception of a few really weird oddities that bother nobody else on the planet but Katy, these are two of the most laid back people I know. They’re perfect for each other.
    To their credit, and I must admit to my amazement, they decided they should attend all those sorts of birth preparation classes first-time parents probably should attend. There was that weekly series on the childbirth process itself, the one-nighter on childcare (seems like that part would take longer) and infant CPR, and they’ve even been to the pre-baptism class at our church.
    Way back when, I recall Nancy and I going to classes on the Lamaze method of birthing one’s baby. I’ll be honest, I couldn’t take it seriously. Her breathing thing made me laugh, but mostly because she had no intention of having our child this way.
She had been pretty clear to her doctors. She wanted drugs and lots of them. And Katy is her mother’s child in this regard. But all that’s done now minus that one miraculous moment we’re anxiously anticipating. Except for one thing. He can’t get her to pack that darn bag.
    Clint’s preparing for every possibility. He mostly knows what to do when it happens. But he’s come to understand that she might need to go straight from work, or when they’re having burgers, or during one of her many trips to Target.
    Turns out one of their instructors had suggested that moms pack a “bag” with two kinds of ingredients – the specific clothes she’ll want to wear home and the specific clothes she’ll want her baby to wear home.
    And now I understand his stress. Clint’s figured out if she hasn’t packed that bag herself, he will then have the unenviable task of running home from the hospital to grab up a few things for mom and baby to wear.
    He knows how this is gonna go. “Honey, just get that cute blue thing we got at the shower, the one with the matching hat and booties. Just don’t get that other one that’s like it. And grab my favorite outfit. Hurry!”
    Heck, we all know how this is gonna go. I’ve been in that closet. He’ll be staring at a sea of baby blueness with only a lottery type chance of being right. And he will not know his wife’s favorite outfit – not now, not then, not ever. And certainly not on hormones.
    He’s petrified and he wants her to be the one to pack the bag. I’m on his side of this.
    This absurdity became a topic of conversation for our entire family. And all of a sudden, her sister Meg, who lives in Little Rock, decided she needed to have one packed as well, because she’s apparently climbing in her car as soon as she gets the call.
    Thankfully, her other sister Sarah, lives here in the same city. She once went out of town with us to attend a family funeral, the only event on our agenda and the only reason for our trip. She packed lots, but nothing that really worked for a funeral.
    Nancy and I are going to be there as well. Not knowing how long the fun might last, she’s apparently packing extra coins for the Diet Coke machine.
    Amid this chaos, the thought occurred to me we’re preparing to say good-bye to another class of high school graduates.
    To borrow the obvious analogy, we’re giving birth to students who will – for the first time — step into a far different world than the one they’ve known to this point.
    And I can’t help but wonder if they’ll leave our home of sorts with bags properly and completely packed.
    No doubt we’ve had a role in making sure they possess what they need. But so have their parents. And their family. And their pastors. But it is they who will need to pack. And it is they who must decide what – and what not — to take.
    If I may offer a suggestion or two, I’d recommend a few of the following.
    English and Empathy. An Open Mind and an Honest Soul. A sense of when to write, when to text and when to call. Family and Friends. A sense of humor, responsibility and common sense. Lots of common sense.
    A computer, an Ipod, a cell phone and a pencil sharpener. Science and Values. Morals and Math. Sheets and towels and underwear. An understanding of when to say no and when to say yes. And when it’s OK to “get back with you later.”
    Money and Discipline. Motivation and Inspiration. Goals and Dreams. And that prayerful knowledge of where God is and how they can find him when they need him.
    Pick your own but those are a good start, I guess. Which begs the questions — if we could re-live a bit of our own lives again, what would we pack this time?
    Dear God – It’s a crazy place out there. Please walk with all of them. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Does a bunch of stuff give a baby a head start?
By George Valadie
April 23, 2010
   They’ve got everything you could possibly have. And if they don’t, the mom-to-be just casually mentions it and one of the Grandmas-to-be – usually both — race to the store.
   Between the baby showers and two manic grandmothers, I don’t see how it’s possible that any young pregnant couple is more prepared for a newborn than our daughter and her husband.
   Well, except for maybe that whole “what do we do when he actually gets here” part. They might be a little lacking there. Her parents sure were. But if a bunch of baby stuff gives a kid a head start, this little guy is halfway to wherever he’ll want to go. Katy wonders how she survived us. We do too.
   She’s due in three weeks and she and Clint have already sterilized the baby bottles – all 42 of them – in their high tech bottle sterilizer that sits next to the rocket ship shaped bottle warmer that shames what her parents provided for her and her sisters.
   In retrospect, I’m pretty sure the only sterile thing in any of our kids’ lives was the delivery room in which they entered the world. After that, they lived in our house.
   I wouldn’t have known about the sterilizer had I not seen all the bottles spread out on the specialized bottle drying rack. Picture a tiny plastic Christmas tree with bottles stuck on the end of each and every limb to drip and dry.
   I couldn’t help but think back to the hundreds of times we all went on a late-night bottle search. “Here it is,” someone would exuberantly holler, reaching far underneath our couch.”OK, blow the dust off of it, fill that sucker with some Tab and get it in here.”
   They also have a “pack ‘n play.” It’s a changing table, a napper (I don’t have a clue), a baby bed and a play pen, that Clint affectionately calls the cage. This isn’t one collapsible piece; this is four big collapsible pieces. Throw in a storage bin that hangs on the side and a computer keyboard for the front that makes the whole thing sway, sing and light up in the dark.
   The best part is that all of this magically condenses into a carry bag that looks as if you’re hauling your lawn chair to a picnic, though I don’t think anyone will be able to pick it up.
   If they don’t accidentally pack him too, I’m told he himself will be transported in his new travel system. Seriously. A travel system. I think we used to lug our kids.
   Yes, we had a stroller, a car seat and a carrier but I knew what these were. I think this system thing includes all those items but for some reason, they’ve been engineered to somehow mesh together to make an Audi.
   His nursery is so cute, but it’s equipped with devices that necessitate a computer science degree, not a nanny. Baby monitors existed in our day, but we couldn’t afford them, and might not have bought one if we could. Putting them and their screams in one room, and us in another, seemed like a good idea back in the day.
   Today’s monitors claim a 2,000-foot range which occurs to me equals almost seven football fields. And what mother has ever let her newborn get that far away!
   There’s a baby bed that apparently can someday convert into a little tike’s big-boy bed and then later on to a king-size for when he has the entire baseball team over for his first slumber party. Currently, it’s full of so many stuffed animals there’s no room for the baby, but they’ll figure that out, won’t they?
   They have a baby dresser that also serves as a changing table and it elegantly matches the rich dark decor of the baby bed. Ours was more of a nouveau Salvation Army.
   They don’t yet own a baby wipes warmer though Nancy seems determined to get him one. My wife believes it’s important to minimize the cold shock on the little booger’s bottom as that will apparently decrease his ACT score.
   There’s a gizmo that looks like the rocket ship shaped bottle warmer but this one shoots a laser light show onto the ceiling that’s synchronized to jungle music which can become a rainstorm matched up with a rock-a-bye lullaby.
   They already own eight orthodontic pacifiers designed with extra airflow for sensitive skin and a pacifier carry case which I can only imagine will need a little sterilizer of its own. It’s a far cry from, “Don’t forget to put her ‘pacy’ in your pocket.    We don’t want to get home without that thing.”
   But the topper is a “tinkle, tinkle little star” protective cover designed to be placed on top of baby boys while changing them as protection from unexpected geyser-type eruptions. Thankfully, our girls never needed that.
   Poor Clint! I had to laugh. When I stole a peek into the closet, there buried in the back were all of his favorite childhood Houston Astros baseball pennants. Apparently, these lack the required cuteness factor to hang in his own son’s nursery. I can’t wait until he brings out the mounted fish he’ll want to hang.
   Thankfully, we could sit and laugh about the absurdity of it all. These are two parents who understand how incredibly blessed their infant will be. Nancy said it best,    “Think of the babies born in a hut. All they have is their mom. And that’s all they ever have.”
   That’s so very true. Little Brady has a decent shot to make it in this crazy world. We should pray for all those little ones whose lives are not nearly so. We really should.
   Dear God – Ten fingers and 10 toes would be really great. Please. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Have you struggled to see your life more clearly?
By George Valadie
April 9, 2010
    Amazingly, we – all of us – were just moments away from walking out the door.         Together. We were actually going to be on time. That’s the way it should be on Easter morning. Seems like everybody should make it to that Mass on time. Well, every Sunday really, but especially on Easter.
    But Sunday morning timeliness, complete with family peace and joy, has never been all that easy – at least not at our house.
    But there we were – smart and smiling — when I dropped my eyeglasses. Frame went one way, lens went another. And I said something not very Easterly.
    First, I tried to force it all back together. I’d been able to do that all the time with my previous pair, but looking back, I think the fact I needed to do it all the time was why I got rid of them.
    My next attempt was to grab our tiniest knife with its sharpest point to see if I could surgically repair them. That proved frustratingly unsuccessful because I couldn’t even see the head of the darn screw without my glasses.
    My last attempt at salvaging the situation was to conduct a mad but futile search for my previous pair.
    You know how it is when you get new glasses. You bring home the old ones though you know you’ll never wear them again. You keep them around the house because of a possible need that seldom occurs. And then, when it does happen, you have absolutely no idea where they are. So off we went.
    I can never keep track of whether I’m near— or far-sighted but I suffer from whichever one means I struggle to crisply and clearly see all the way across the church. I can see life around me, but just not all that clearly.
    And then our pastor began his homily.
    Though gospel versions differ, one consistent theme each Easter morning is that a small number of men and women had all gone to the tomb. Peter, Mary Magdalene and John were among others. Each had known Jesus in their own way and each was left standing there in their own sense of confusion. What exactly just happened here?
    His death just days before had been shocking enough. A week ago he had ridden into town as the celebrated hero. Don’t you know his friends, family and followers were completely freaked out.
    He had spent his adult life getting them ready, but they had never been entirely sure for just what. No matter what he had told them, you just know they had to have been convinced he was the king for whom they had waited.
    But he had mixed lectures and parables. And even with 2000 years of reflection, we still don’t fully understand what those stories were completely all about. What must it have been like for them — in real time?
    And then, to top off their confusion, the rock had been moved, the tomb had been entered, the body had been taken. Or so they had to have believed.
    Can we blame them? After all, they’d never seen anyone rise from the dead on their own. You can imagine their questions. If Jesus wanted to live, why didn’t he just do whatever it was he needed to do to avoid the whole crucifixion thing to begin with.
    It seems they could see life around them, but just not all that clearly.
    Who hasn’t been right there struggling to see our lives clearly? Especially when what we do see can often look like nothing more than chaos at its best!
    It happens in so many ways, on so many fronts. We feel for the person who loses a job after loyally serving for — not years — but decades. Maybe there was a reason, maybe not. When a voice claims “it’s just business,” is that a sin to be forgiven? Or can something really be “just business?”
    It was painful to watch. She had long worked for a business that had called themselves “family.” In her lengthy tenure, children had been born, parents had been lost. Generations had come and gone.
    It was no longer the same business she had entered but can anyone name one that is? Or that should be? Perhaps it needed to have changed even more. But when she was removed, well, it’s a wound from which she has yet to recover – if she ever will.
    Christ came to convey a whole new way of seeing the world so that the kingdom might also exist now, and not just in a future we can’t imagine. And he got killed for it.
    Was there a lack of loyalty on the part of his friends? Or were they just a necessary piece of the puzzle he came here to complete?
    As for her job loss, was it her company’s failure to see life clearly? Or was it her own inability to appreciate the important things in her life? And this job might not have been one of them.
    How can we know this stuff? The disciples of Jesus had the perfect teacher and they couldn’t see clearly.
Sometimes neither can we.
    Dear God – We try to understand you but we have been known to make it a real challenge for ourselves. Imagine that. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Panic set in . . . I forgot my wife’s birthday
By George Valadie
March 26, 2010
    It seemed like any other day when I got out of bed.
    My routine sure began the same – stumbling and showering, shampooing and shaving, dressing and then driving to school. No one will ever accuse me of having bright-eyed mornings, I even struggle on Christmas. So when I manage to handle all those needs in that precise order, my day is starting well.
    Nancy and I work at the same school, reporting at the same hour, so we get ready each morning in more or less the same time window. Because she knows me, she allows me to graze through the house in silence, though we do have our one simple “good morning” routine.
    I sputter out, “Let’s stay home and play hooky today.” She replies with “I will if you will.” And then we both get ready and head out the door.
I knew this would be a little different day though since a doctor’s appointment had been added to my mid-morning calendar.
    It was a return visit to my dermatologist, two in less than a week. They had diagnosed a basal cell something or other and they had plans to dig at it until I didn’t have it anymore. No fun, but apparently better than allowing it to sit and marinate.
    Before I checked out of school for the appointment, I swung by Nancy’s desk more than a few times as I always do. Can you get this file for me? Can you find that kid for me? Call me if you need me. It was nothing special, just like any other day.
    When I arrived at the doctor’s office, they called me to the counter and handed me one of those dreaded clipboards with three or four very blank pages on them.
You know the ones. They wanted to know everything about my body, including some parts     I don’t have any more, and problems that were long ago healed. I used to know all the answers but not so much anymore. I’ve either forgotten or don’t carry some nine-digit number with me.
    Turns out they were converting all their patients’ records to a new computer system and were using this opportunity to update all the same questions I had answered several years ago.
    I don’t know what it says about my life that I answered every single question exactly as I did back then. Same house, same phone, same emergency contacts and same wife – though that last part was about to get dicey.
    As is always the case, the last two things they require are a signature and the day’s date. Fill in the boxes, sign below.
    And that’s when I realized this was not any other day.
G-e-o-r-g-e V-a-l-a-d-i-e … M-a-r-c-h 1-8.
    Picture a cartoon strip thought balloon: “Hmmm, you know, George, this seems like a date that should mean something? What is it?
    “Did I have another appointment back at school that I’ve forgotten about? Nah, I don’t think so.”
    “March 18, what could that be? St. Patrick’s Day was yesterday, so that’s not it.”
    “I know that tomorrow is the feast of St. Joseph but I don’t think that’s what’s gnawing at me. What could it be?”
    Let me pause here to say that – other than the holy days of the church — I can’t recall the date of any other saintly feast. I have no idea why this has stuck in my mind all these years. But from somewhere in the depths of who knows where, that factoid was rising to the surface when ….
    “Oh my God, it’s Nancy’s birthday!”
    Sometimes people utter God’s name because it’s just what comes spilling thoughtlessly out of their mouths. And sometimes it’s the most devout of prayers. I’ve been guilty of the former but this was most surely the latter.
    I forgot my wife’s birthday.
    I don’t know how that might play in other homes, but for me, panic set in. I began to formulate a plan to call her as soon as I was clothed again.     So while lying there, with time to plot, I began to imagine the excuses I might invent or the conversation that might likely result.
    But I was guilty and there was no escaping it. Mature or not, I schemed as I did when I was 10 and broke one of mom’s dishes. Rather than ‘fess up, I concocted a ploy to hide it at the bottom of the stack, convincing myself she would never find it. But then she did. And she called my name. And well, my name was about to be called once again.
    Thankfully, Nancy was a princess. Rather than being eaten up with anger, she had spent the morning laughing to herself, knowing I’d remember her sooner or later. She knew I loved her. But she had definitely enjoyed the thought of my freaking out.
    Later, we enjoyed a dinner together where she openly laughed about it. Gracious, loving and forgiving, she asked when I actually did remember. Which was when I felt comfortable enough to tell her about the doctor and the date thing.
    Oh why couldn’t I stop myself there? I assumed the evening had been going well enough that I could now confess to her that I had actually recalled the feast of St. Joseph long before I ever thought about her birthday.
    And I had almost survived the day!
Dear God — Thank you for people who love – and forgive. Please make me one. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

`Parts of Scripture confound me’
By George Valadie
March 12, 2010
     I’ll be the first to admit that there are parts of Holy Scripture that confound me.
     I struggle with understanding some of the passages, particularly those letters written to the ancient communities. I just get lost in the language. The words are certainly poetic, just difficult for me to comprehend at times.
     That being said, I much prefer the Gospels. In spite of the frustrating challenge of hoping to emulate our heroic lead character, they very much grab and inspire me.
     He died for all of us but spent so much of his days advocating for the least among us.      I’m so far from being him, but I think I’m generally an underdog kinda guy, in a weird sort of way.
     I pull for sports upsets every weekend. For those who can recall it, I loved the “A-Team,” that long-ago TV series in which the plot wasn’t all that great but it always concluded with some serious revenge for the guys who deserved it.
     In my daily life, I give a little bit of money to the people who don’t have any for the very simple reason they just don’t have any; even if some are scamming me. At school I enjoy seeing our struggling students achieve what they never thought was possible as much as watching the brightest shine ever brighter.
     I really struggle with arrogance, recoiling in fear when I’m accused of it. And I love it when hypocrites get caught in their hypocrisy. When Christ said, “Go ahead and cast the first stone,” I wish I’d been there. I would have loved to have seen their faces though I can’t tell you I wouldn’t have been right in the middle of that gang, the same hypocritical gang I detest.
     But I have to admit I’ve always hated those few verses we read each year about the Prodigal Son. Even though just a parable, it long bothered me and my senseof fairness. I mean it really bothered me. Which I suppose is exactly what he intended.
     It’s interesting how that chapter begins. There’s Christ doing what he always did, sitting and teaching among all sorts of people. But on that day, the Pharisees attacked him for having reached out and eaten with the sinners.
     As for the parables with which he responded, it appears he agreed — these folks really were sinners, just in need of some help. First he told of the shepherd who faced losing one of his sheep. “What man among you … would not leave the 99 in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it?”
     I get that. I’m sure they did too. I’ve gone frantically searching for our lost dog running loose in the neighborhood. And just like he said I would, when I got home with him nipping at my heels once again, there was a bit of a celebration.
     “I tell you, in just the same way, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over 99 righteous people who have no need of repentance.” Our other well-behaved dog didn’t seem to mind all the fuss not in the least. Maybe that’s why I could be OK with this particular story.
     Then Christ moved on to the next parable of the woman who lost some of her money. I definitely get this one too. Have you ever left home with a $20 bill and then later couldn’t find it. I have. Can there be a sicker feeling?
     True story — as embarrassing as it is to admit — I once dropped an envelope with $400 cash inside at a Krystal hamburger parking lot. We drove 45 minutes down the highway, realized our stupidity, and in spite of the impossible odds, drove 45 minutes back. And found it right where we dropped it. Imagine that celebration!
     “What woman having 10 coins and losing one would not light a lamp and sweep the house … and when she does find it, she calls together her friends and family (to rejoice.) In just the same way … there will be rejoicing among the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
     But the final tale of the three, the prodigal son, just rubs me the wrong way. Same theme, different details. Son A messes up, Son B is a saint. Son A returns in humiliation. Dad is tickled, throws a whopper of a party and Son B acts like a … well, he acts like I most likely would have.
     “But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.”
     Somebody tell me the difference in these three parables. Because to me, this story feels so much differently. Initially I arrogantly imagined myself as Son B, the good kid who got the bad deal. That was a big part of the problem. I did a little better when I empathized with Son A, but not much. Though I could feel thankful to be home, I still felt sorry for my brother. He’s right; he got cheated.
     And then I pretended being the Dad. Well, actually, I became the Dad and the words of our Savior became so much clearer. And what if you’re the father of all humanity? “He was lost and has been found.” Even just one. Imagine that celebration!
     Dear God — Thank you for everything that shakes us up. We don’t like it, but we need it. More than we admit. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Sometimes we get chance to make it right
By George Valadie
February 26, 2010
     We bought our first Toyota in 1999. And I loved it, still do, actually.
    Like most, I think I just loved the smell. And the fact every square inch of the sleek new interior fabric was actually still attached to the sides and the roof. Because we once owned a big red bomb where the back seat was more like a tent.
    Imagine a cross between Lawrence of Arabia and the bed sheets you used to hang over your dining room chairs on a rainy afternoon. That was the Valadie car back seat.
    We tried to sell the kids on all the imaginary adventures they could be having back there. But you know it’s bad when your six- and eight-year-olds are embarrassed by your car. We ultimately resorted to push pins when the rear-view mirror could no longer produce a view of the rear.
    We used to drive another old clunker – before clunkers were cool — that fell apart on the outside. We didn’t use our trunk space all that much because it was there we were storing all the various pieces that had come off at one time or another. A little chrome siding here, an emergency brake handle there.
    Needless to say, I loved that new Toyota. She’s grown on me even more because she survived the years even though there’s not a soul in our house who understands a single thing about cars. Give me the keys, somebody else has to handle the rest. Including that little red “Check Engine” light that’s been lit since 2004.
    This love affair has grown because she lasted long enough for us to pass it on to our youngest who drives it still today, even with all of its 230,000+ miles. As for cars, Sarah knows less than we do but still, it continues to safely get her where she needs to go.
    All of that inspired us to buy another new Camry last summer not long after my two oldest daughters had each bought one for themselves.
    So I really don’t know what to think about this whole recall thing. Sticking accelerators are a life and death issue though I’m not worried nearly as much about a floor mat I can remove whenever I want.
    There’s an interesting and frightening history of product recalls. You know the news.     There are those that could have killed us even if used as intended. Peanuts with salmonella and heart pacemakers with defective batteries. Or those others that are never supposed to make it inside any of us but sometimes do such as lead paint toys or tiny little pieces that choke tiny little people.
    Regardless of their companies’ reasons, these consumer products were all recalled. A do-over so to speak. A chance to get it right. A “surely we can do better than that.”
    As we wonder whether these were the result of accident or oversight, laziness or greed, it begs a related question. Is there anything we’d like to recall in our own lives?     Maybe not so much product related, but are there any decisions for which we’d gladly welcome one more chance? To try to do better than that?
    I know I have more than can be counted. We let our girls skate by way too easily in their youth. Now one won’t cook, one won’t eat vegetables, and one has always thought her parents should be recalled.
    We did take our kids to church, but I don’t think we helped them see the importance of our faith nearly enough. Those occasional Sundays we skipped didn’t help all that much.     And though it’s one thing to have faith, I don’t feel I’ve grown in mine nearly enough.
    I’ve given away too many hours to my job and not nearly enough to my family. There are people I can’t seem to forgive. And don’t even want to try.
    I haven’t volunteered enough, or donated enough or any number of other not-enoughs that I could have done.
    It’s a struggle trying to raise children and who among us ever gets that just right? We all help our kids but when exactly does it cross the line to where helping becomes doing?
    When should we allow them to experience the reality their actions have consequences?     Or when should we save them from themselves? And how does marital strife ever become more important than the children born from that marital love?
    On the other end of our decision-making spectrum, would we like to re-think any of the decisions we’ve made about our parents? Did we take them for granted? Presume they owed us? Move out? Move in? Move away? Just to get away. Do we simply fail to call them as often as we should? Or as often as we hope our kids will someday call us?
    The thing about product recalls is that those companies don’t just remove products and regret decisions, but they re-start. They innovate with improved production processes and then – they get back out there. They fix it. “We admit, that one was a failure, please try this one. We’re better now.”
    We should be honest. They recall stuff to avoid lawsuits and save lives; but they sell what’s new so their business will last.
    Souls last through eternity. So it seems like something we should try as well. And it seems like Lent’s the perfect time.
    Dear God – Our today exists for a reason. Please help us see it and use it and share many more than that with you. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Valentine’s Day not about heartache’
By George Valadie
February 12, 2010
     Last week sometime, just to tease and torture her, I asked Nancy, “What would you say if I told you that I’ve already gotten your Valentine’s gift?”
    “You’d be lying,” she fired back. “But I’ve bought yours.”
She’s telling the truth – on both counts. I know she’s already gone shopping. This is her favorite holiday. But I’m no dummy. Me just mentioning the day drew a smile because she knows that most of the time I don’t even think about it much more than a few hours in advance.
    It’s hard being married to someone so romantic since I’m definitely not. Heck, I lived in fear of talking to girls until I was a senior in high school. And even then, I didn’t do it very well.
    “Romantic” is not how I was remembered in the yearbook of 1971.
    Our own daughters were over at the house last week when I told them I might write about Valentine’s Day. And they all chimed in together, “Dad, don’t be gooshy, you should write about all the miserable Valentines’ Days we had. Write about heartbreak and stuff because some people hate this day.”
    I must have struck a chord. Mostly, they’re afraid I might write about them. So this was quite enlightening. Heck, when they were teenagers, they never told me much at all, much less disclose their heartaches.
    I’m guessing most parents want their children to be happy. I was no different. But on Valentine’s Day, I was secretly happy when they weren’t. That would have meant boys and boyfriends. So I’ve been quite OK those few times they’ve had this particular void in their lives.
    Sarah said, up until fourth or fifth grade, she was just fine celebrating with those little heart-shaped candies and the really cool decorated box she took for collecting her classmates’ cards. Her mom and I had no worries then because we could count on other parents to make sure no one ever got left out.
    It must be somewhere after that when kids begin to feel the hurt.
    While our girls were recalling the guys who had broken their hearts, I couldn’t help but think back to the heartbreaks of my youth. Is it possible that all calamities of the heart can be divided into two distinct classifications? The people with whom we had a date — and the ones we only wished we had.
    There were several girls during my high school years who I really, really liked. The problem was I never asked any of them on a date, much less told them how I felt. I lived in fear of rejection.
    So I tried all the goofy “please-like-me” tactics that have never worked for anyone. I’d stare at her in class. I’d walk past her locker when she “happened” to be there. I’d park near her car, but not next to it.
    We’d walk to class together – sorta. I’d let her go in front of me in the lunch line. I’d tell her she played a good game. Most pathetic of all, I hoped my good grades would wow her.
    And when all of that failed (why was I surprised?) I’d turn my attention to another hoping she might like me like I liked her.
    One year, I steeled my nerves, drove some 20 miles to her home on a Sunday afternoon and knocked on her door unannounced. I can’t imagine what reason I gave her for being in her neighborhood, but I amazed myself when I asked her if she’d like to go with me to get the only thing I could afford – a Coke. She amazed me when she said yes.
    I had worked up the courage to invite her, but not quite the courage to tell her how I felt. So I drank as many refills as I could hold trying to stretch out my very lame visit until … well, until I don’t know what exactly. I had all the words formulated, but I couldn’t find the guts. Not then, not ever.
    And she broke my heart.
    I felt a different sort of pain when my first real girlfriend called it quits. At least I felt we were that close. I’ll never believe it wasn’t love, but I’ve long wondered if I was in love with love or with her.
    It seems to have been that same way with each of the females in my family, including my wife. There were guys they had hoped might be in their lives and there were those that actually were.
    Nancy added her own confession. There was a nice guy on whom she had a crush. But unlike me, they’d actually had a date or two. One evening after her wisdom teeth had been pulled, several of her friends dropped by to check on her but he couldn’t.
    But he did call later, and in teenager fashion, that convinced her they were destined to be together. Until they weren’t. And he liked someone else better.
    Her problem was complicated because her very best friend with whom she had shared her every secret was now “the other woman.” Ouch! It seemed to her as if she had lost two friends.
    Valentine’s Day is not about heartache. Though I guess we’ve all got one of those sorts of stories. But if we’re alive to read this (or write it), we survived what we thought we never could.
    And more importantly, the love we celebrate today would not have come to be — a heartache that would be much, much worse.
    Dear God – We sometimes forget that all our happy moments have been a gift from you. Thank you for each one. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Extraordinary caregivers at work in Haiti
By George Valadie
January 29, 2010
    “Hey, honey, have we got anything for a headache?”
    “Yeah, it’s in my purse.”
    Well, I’d rather do anything than go looking into that dark hole of whatever lives in there. But sometimes, you just have to.
    Among many other bottles of medicine I don’t think a man is supposed to be taking, I found one bottle of ibuprofen and one of aspirin.
    “Which of these am I supposed to take?”
    “Take the orange ones.” She likes to keep it simple for me.
    After she reminded me, I did recognize those little yellow aspirins. “Low-dose,” she calls them. Those are the same ones that she lays out on the counter for me each Monday thru     Friday workday while telling me these will help prevent a heart attack.
    I haven’t done any studies on how many hearts give out on the weekends, but I wonder about that every so often. And I know I’ve made her really mad when I see no pill lying there at all.
    My doctor wouldn’t be at all happy to know I never read the directions on these painkiller sorts of things – I just always pop four.
    But he won’t know, he’s gone to Haiti.
    I’ve never thought twice about the pills she buys or why she buys them until the horrid news about their earthquake hit.
    Until we came face to face with all those make-you-cry-like-a-baby stories relating one catastrophe after another.
    The orphans, the untold dead, the soon to die, the mass graves, the starving, the as yet un-found and the searchers who won’t give up. And that was before we learned how little they had before their island even ruptured.
    Take your pick. It’s all horrid. And it’s all news we Americans can hardly stomach without a stiff dose of Pepto.
    Of all the news I’ve heard and read, what disturbs me most are those accounts of the medical care that’s been delivered – sort of. The unthinkable surgeries, the unimaginable amputations, the sudden need to perform procedures that no medical school teaches.
    With the eight Port-au-Prince hospitals all pretty much decimated, temporary field hospitals were set up wherever they would fit.
    One arose in a couple’s front yard because the Haitians knew they were both doctors, a     new sort of “house call” I suppose. But most of these medical facilities arose — not from the ashes — but right in the middle of them.
    When my doctor says, “… this is gonna hurt a little bit, but you’ll feel much better after while, … ” I’m thinking this isn’t what he normally means.
    There are the doctors who were forced to buy their surgical saws at the street market – just a few booths down from the fruits and vegetables. And other ones borrowed pocket knives from a CNN crew.
    Vodka became a sterilizing agent. And when the patient’s belt snapped in half that had been serving as his tourniquet, they turned to the next best thing – a garden hose. Of course they did.
    One doc needed some surgical pins so he did what miracle workers do. He dismantled the carry-rack off a nearby bicycle, constructed an orthopedic splint, and screwed pieces of it into the patient’s bone. Primitive? Absolutely. Life-saving? Absolutely.
    You’d say it’s all inconceivable, except these magicians not only conceived it, they did it.
    When that one doctor said they were delivering a quality of care similar to what soldiers received back in our Civil War, I think he was trying to make it sound better than it is.
    Nancy’s had two hip-replacements requiring a similar sort of cutting. Both surgeries occurred in an operating room akin to a walk-in refrigerator while everyone there had to wear an outfit resembling a NASA space suit. No rusty old pocket knife, no dusty old field.
    And when it was over? I know they didn’t just give her a Motrin.
    I started thinking about all of that.
    I have a tree saw out in our garage. And we keep some bourbon in the kitchen cabinet. These are the tools they used to save a human life and the rest of the details just make me queasy.
    Since that’s all they had to offer, I googled exactly what my bottle of ibuprofen can do. It’s apparently recommended for headaches, muscle aches, back aches, dental pain, arthritis or athletic injuries. And it can even relieve aches and pains due to the common cold.
    But the list doesn’t include any sort of ache even closely resembling “arm cut off while still conscious,” even if you took the whole darn bottle and that other bottle of aspirin too.
    Once, I remember taking a day off when I had a “bad cold,” excessive sniffles I guess you’d call it. I’ve also been known to gripe about an hour in a waiting room. To get some non-life saving prescription that made me all better.
    I’ll never say another word.
    Dear God – We can’t all amputate, and we can’t all even go there. But help me remember them long after my $20 has been used. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Bless couple, not chaos’
By George Valadie
January 15, 2010
     And so the happiness begins! Oh boy! If that sounds a bit sarcastic, it is. I know the days ahead will be joyful, but I’m also pretty sure there will be moments (that seem like years) when we’ll all just have to pretend we see the bliss.
    Because Meg, our middle daughter, got engaged over the holidays. She was super excited — as were we. But if the next months are anything like the last few, this will be a crazy ride.
    The whole thing has been sort of surreal anyway because she accidentally saw the ring Jeremy had bought – quite some time ago. Well, not really the ring. They’d been driving along last summer and suddenly, for no reason, out of the blue, she opened his glove box.
    To discover a much smaller box.
    Let’s pause here to say books could be written about that alone. Why does a girlfriend go digging through a boyfriend’s car? Why does a boyfriend have a girlfriend’s engagement ring anywhere near where she might snoop? But that’s for another day.
    Like many couples in love, they had openly discussed their possible lives together. As well as weddings and honeymoons, kids and kids’ schools. They’ve even negotiated whether the Irish or the Hogs will get to be on their Saturday TV. The important things.
    But suddenly, all of their dreams resided inside a tiny velvet 2x2 square package that would now go into hiding.
    Shocked and staring, she cried, he laughed and they had no choice but to make an agreement. They would go on acting as if nothing happened. Yeah, right! Both said they would. Both lied.
    “Let’s pretend none of that just occurred,” he said, “where do you want to go for dinner?”
    “Oh, Wendy’s sounds good,” she played along, “and what have you been up to lately?”     I wish I’d heard the rest of that.
    Fast forward to this past weekend and the aforementioned joyfulness that’s been awaiting us. I found myself with Meg, her mother and her two sisters in two wedding dress stores. We were having fun while the boring old playoffs were on our hi-def TV back in the warmth of my living room.
    At our first stop, I was surprised to find one other father. Since we were kindred spirits,     I hoped we might strike up a conversation about the craziness of weddings.
    But there he was, stiff and erect, you would have thought the weather had frozen him there. He just sat fixed on a stool, staring.
    The man never gave up his vigil, he never smiled, he never seemed to be feeling the joy     I was having. He just gazed at the door of Dressing Room #6. No family member chatted with him. No one stepped out to ask his opinion. You could almost sense he would have been happy to see any girl come out of that room – even if it was someone else’s daughter. The more I observed him, the more I worried about him — and what awaited me.
    There were no dads at the next stop, which was scarier.
    Somehow, I’d escaped all of this when Katy got married, but here I was. To have been engaged barely a week, Meg seemed to have some very definitive ideas of what she wanted. It was almost as if she’d been thinking about this for quite some time?
    Some part of the dress, though I’m not sure which, had to be sweetheart. Some other part needed to be mermaid. There couldn’t have been many parts left but something needed to be vintage. I think.
    I’m an educated guy who was totally lost. Everyone in the room was nodding and smiling and seemed to understand what we were discussing. So I just nodded, too.
I exhibited one proud moment of coherence when I bragged that I knew what a train was.     Though utter confusion would have been better when I discovered she wanted two different lengths for hers – one for the church, one for the reception.
    No more nodding, I had to weigh in. Why would we pay for a sizeable amount of what appeared to be very nice fabric only to have it stuffed up under there somewhere later?     Not to mention paying for the hooks and nooks that must be attached to facilitate the stuffing-up-under-there?
    I was sent back to the nodding section of the store.
    All that being said, as a dad, I have to admit your breath is taken away when your own daughter finally does step out of Dressing Room #6. She was glowing, as were her mother, her sisters and the other customers nearby – though they may have just been excited to get their turn.
    It’s beautiful, it really is.
    And the best thing of all is that the store throws in free classes for how to put the darn thing on her. Seriously. There’s a class someone will need to attend to learn corset training. Thankfully, I’ve been excused from that.
    Before this is over, I hear Nancy and I will also be providing table cloths and tea lights, finger foods and flowers. But I’m hoping we’ve already given her the gifts she’ll really need. A sense of humor, a depth of love and some compromise for the conflicts that lie ahead.
    Oh, and some patience for when her own little girl gets married.
    Dear God – Please bless the couple, not the chaos. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Jesus hammered on people like me’
By George Valadie
December 18, 2009
     My Advent began without me actually knowing it.
    I know the season has an official beginning, but I can’t say that particular Sunday jump-started me into being a much better person, though that surely needs to happen.
    My personal Advent began on a Tuesday afternoon when I was running late for an off-campus meeting.
    Picture a right turn onto an Indy 500-type four-lane major highway. That’s not usually tough. But because of the left-hand turn that awaited me next, I needed to cross over the first three to get to the fourth. That’s not only tough, it’s usually impossible.
    But I caught a break – I saw what seemed like a manageable opening for a skilled driver such as myself. “Seemed like” are the key words here. I miscalculated my skill, the opening and how much space awaited me in that last lane if I safely navigated over the first three.
    No crash but there I was, the front half of my car in #4, my back half in #3, blocking both really. With beads of sweat on my forehead, the sort you get when you’re sure the world is staring at you, I turned to check who and how many I had inconvenienced.
    First in my backed-up line was a policeman. I couldn’t decide if he was glaring at my car, my driving or the cell on which I was talking. His lights began flashing; my sweat began pouring.
    I expected the worst but not what I got. He floored me when he said, “Sorry to pull you over, but your tag’s expired.”
    I’ll admit, this isn’t the first time. But not so much lately. So I feigned being a more responsible citizen than that. “OK, normally I would just give you a warning, but it expired in August. I don’t have much choice.”
    “August!” Now I really was stunned. “I can’t say a thing. What do you think it’s gonna cost me?”
    “Probably nothing, just show up with your tag and they’ll probably toss it out when you go to court. Have a good holiday.”
    Oh Lord. Court. The courthouse. The downtown city courthouse. The place where all the bad people have to go. Where I now had to go. And though security is everywhere, I haven’t met a soul who wants to go anywhere near the place for any reason.
    My appearance was set for 1:30 p.m. but I got there early in hopes of a quick in and out. Me and every other Memphis criminal. Imagine a line for free Super Bowl tickets; I was at the back of it.
    I had no idea how many courtrooms were in the place but turns out everyone in my line was headed into the same one, all scheduled for the exact same hour. With enough time to read the book I hadn’t thought I would need, I had plenty enough to take in my surroundings – and the people who were in it.
    Though I didn’t think it at the time, my arrogance had begun even before I had left home that day. I knew I’d be going to town and I knew the sort of people I’d likely encounter there, so, in spite of the biting cold, I chose to wear less than my best.
    Nancy had given me a really nice overcoat, I mean really nice. And I decided if I wore it, my appearance would suggest to the poor perhaps I could help them out with some pocket money. Though I try to be helpful, I just get really uncomfortable when approached by those I commonly think of as beggars.
    How embarrassing – and sinful — is that!
    I also had time to wonder what each of my fellow law-breakers had done. I guessed most of us had violated one traffic law or another. But there were so many others who passed us in the hallways – all headed to other courtrooms for other offenses.
    Proudly (which would be much better described as self-righteous), I just didn’t see myself as being as bad or as guilty as any of these people. Even those whose tags had expired just like mine. Embarrassing to admit, but I assumed what I assumed based solely on how they looked.
    I studied their clothes and their shoes, their coats and their haircuts. Some were ratty and rumpled, a good many were unkempt and unclean. The majority didn’t look as if they had the money to buy food, much less settle up for a traffic ticket.
    It was obvious times were tough for quite a few. And face-to-face with such need, I committed the most arrogant sin of all. Instead of reaching out to help, or even considering if I could, I spent most of my time in that line proudly convinced I wasn’t just better off … but that I was just better.
    Some Advent, huh?
    I can’t recall what inspired my revelation. Perhaps the Holy Spirit swooped in to slap me in the head – or the soul. But suddenly, while standing in that same line, I was overcome with a shameful embarrassment for the things I had been thinking.
    How did I get so self-important? When had I lost all sense of humility?
    Christ chose to be born into the meager home of a carpenter. He preferred to be a king without a castle. He embraced the poor and the downtrodden who walked among him. And more importantly, he came to walk among them.
    He hammered on the advantaged – not because they were – but because they understood nothing. Not what they had, not what mattered and certainly not from whom their blessings had come.
    He hammered on people like me.
    Is there any chance we can start this Advent over?
    Dear God – I’m a little late getting things ready – getting me ready. Please send your son anyway. Thank you. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘God, you are reason we do what we do’
By George Valadie
December 4, 2009
     I’m hoping your holidays prove to be everything you want them to be. Who doesn’t want our own moments to be as memorable as those in a Rockwell classic.
    Each year, we all plan so long and we work so hard to get ready. Sometimes they turn out just as we had dreamed and sometimes we make an incredible mess. Silly or sensible,     I suppose what matters is that we care enough to try.
    We had been looking forward to this Thanksgiving weekend. We were blessed enough to have our girls home and two of their three significant others. Since we’re all still speaking, this one turned out to be one of the better ones.
    Nancy has been so excited. She couldn’t wait to show off our new living room acquisitions. I say they’re “ours” because my name is on the checking account, but they’re really hers.
    Almost a year ago, she had received a gift certificate for a complimentary hour by a come-to-your-house home-decorator. Apparently, my wife had long been envisioning our transformed holiday home. While I had been thinking our stuff was just fine.
    Nancy said, “Oh, don’t worry, I just want her to make a few simple suggestions of how to move this trinket here and that doodad there. I’ve seen this on Oprah, these folks can make all the difference with items you already have.
    “Don’t worry. I just want to get the house looking good for the holidays. I get it, Christmas is coming and I know we don’t have any extra money.”
    Now — we have less. And Christmas is still coming. But I’ll admit, our trinkets and doodads do look better sitting on all the new furniture we weren’t going to buy.
    During one of our pre-holiday evening chats, Nancy talked about her day. “George, today I was getting a head start on the grocery shopping and can you believe it? They’re already out of whole-berry cranberry sauce.”
    I thought I was remarkably calm when I replied, “Honey, I don’t care how much you spend on the house, but you darn well better find some cranberry sauce.” A guy can only take so much.
    Turns out she’d been saving some secret project money for a while. When this discovery came to light, causing me to raise my eyebrows one too many times, she blurted out, “Don’t tell me you don’t have any secret money.”
    She was right but how did she know? Of course, it took me four months of clandestine hoarding to gather the $11 in quarters I thought had been hidden in my dashboard console. How did she save enough for new furniture.
    I woke up Thanksgiving morning in mid-drool from the aroma of a big old Butterball already in the oven while the ladies of the house had already been drooling over the Black Friday sales flyers in the morning paper.
    Nancy had actually begun her culinary efforts the day before when she tackled Mamaw’s version of turkey dressing. It apparently requires chopping, dicing and pre-cooking the stuff that makes the stuffing that she never really stuffs anywhere. But I don’t ask.
    As has become our own little Turkey Day tradition, I went ahead and made my annual suggestion that perhaps she didn’t really need to go to all that trouble.
    She fired back with a glare and her own annual comeback, “Well, if I had two ovens I wouldn’t have to start so darn early. We don’t have two ovens. Did you even know that?
    “We’re having potatoes and rolls and those green beans that everybody likes – you have to cook those in an oven too and we only have one. And I guess you’ll want me to heat up the dressing, I bet you won’t want it cold, will you?
    “And then there’s the cheesecake, you have to bake that too. We really need two ovens! Any other comments?”
    I had one forming in my head (“Hey, Betty Crocker, don’t two ovens seem a bit much for one day a year?”) but I decided to keep it right where it was. No sense bleeding on a holiday.
    The other Valadie holiday tradition – shopping with the crazies — commenced the next morning. Two daughters had to work but Meg and my wife planned, mapped and strategized though neither had pressing need of anything in particular.
    Still, they joined the insane and headed out at what reasonable folks would consider an unreasonable hour.
    Meg came and went from our house on four different occasions that day – each to tackle another set of stores. And with each drop-in to drop-off she proclaimed, “You’d be proud of me, Dad, I can’t tell you how much money I’m saving.”
    First, she had saved $100, which later became $400, which swelled to $700 on the third trip which became all the proof I needed that she is her mother’s child.
    There they were, each getting ready for the holidays, each making the effort, each wanting someone else’s days to be special. Both in need of therapy.
    I asked her only two questions, “Meg, how much money did you have to spend to save all of that?” and “Did you happen to buy your mother a stove with two ovens?”
    Dear God – You are the reason why we do what we do. We are the reason why we usually forget. Please forgive the dumb part. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Make list of things, people you’re thankful for
By George Valadie
November 20, 2009
     Education is the only career I’ve ever had. My primary role began as classroom teacher, with an opportunity to coach on the side and a dab of some extracurricular activities thrown in for fun.
    And believe me, every day of it was fun.
    As times and roles have changed, so has the size and location of the pulpit from which I get to preach. And what teacher doesn’t also preach.
    Our students now have been kind enough to invite me to write a little sliver of text for their student newspaper. But at this time of year, they can almost predict what I’ll say. I know they can because they tell me they can.
    As corny as it may sound to them – and my family — with Thanksgiving on the horizon, I actually do think all of us should take some time to make that list of things and people for which we can be thankful.
    We all love to eat the food and celebrate the day; we should at least have a reason. And how much time can it take really?
    There – that was it. That’s what I’ve been encouraging students and teachers to do – year after year. And I imagine a few have even given it a try. But if I’m being honest, I have to tell you, I never have. Not even once.
    I’m confessing a bit but I’ve never actually taken the time to write out a pen-on-paper sort of list for which I have long preached the need. If you want a classic example of hypocrisy, you’ll never find one better than me.
    Needless to say, it’s way past time. Of course, mine won’t look anything like theirs or yours if you get to make one. I don’t have nearly enough space and some are just way too personal. But I have been blessed and I never mind telling people. Maybe some of mine     might look like some of yours.
    Dear God – Thank you. I’m 56 years old, reasonably healthy and absolutely tickled to be on the high side of the grass. I know so many who should be a lot younger than I who are not.
    Dear God – Thank you. How great is it that we get to donate food to the food bank rather than ask for it.
    Dear God – Thank you. I keep a secret list of friends who – no matter where they are and no matter what they are doing – they will come if I need them. I’d trust them with my life, not to mention my secrets.
    Dear God – Thank you. I’d be more thankful if, because of how I’ve lived my life, I knew I had earned a spot on their list too.
    Dear God – Thank you. My mom found a way to send me to good schools and then … she made sure I did my part. I don’t know that these would have been on my list way back when – but they sure are now – both parts.
    Dear God – Thank you. I’ve never had to know what it is to fear a bomb or face a gun.
    Dear God – Thank you. Our family – both near and not so near — gets to gather together fairly often. Not everyone’s does — nor do they even want to. Our holidays usually see us eating, teasing and laughing around the same table. It’s always chaos, and always fun.
    Dear God – Thank you. Not only is my mother still around, but she’s happy and healthy and knows me when she sees me. I never used to think about that last part all that much.
    Dear God – Thank you. Some search for years and some never get so lucky, but I found the love of my life a long, long time ago.
    Dear God – Thank you. I not only found a wife that loves me but in-laws who did the same. When all I could provide their daughter was a car that wouldn’t go in reverse, they never said a word. When the two of us travelled with a quarter in our collective pockets (before debit cards), they never said a word. When our kids ate candy corn as a vegetable, they never said a word. We miss them both.
    Dear God – Thank you. I’ve never had lots of money, but I’ve always had a job at which to earn some. Forgive me for the times I thought that was all due to me.
    Dear God – Thank you. When we were growing up, I thought Mom let us get dressed in front of our open oven door because it was fun. I thought she was mixing french fries with scrambled eggs to be silly. I thought broiling American cheese in a split hot dog was high-on-the-hog eating. I thought we had what all the other kids had. How did she do that?
    Dear God – Thank you. Each of our girls has a guy in their lives that we think the world of. If you know much about our kids, then you’ll understand when I tell you that each of those young men has at times leapfrogged our own to have a turn as our favorite child.
    Dear God – Thank you. We can afford to care for two crazy dogs who like to eat their stuff (from the treat bag), our stuff (from the pantry) and stuff nobody wants (bricks from the yard).
    Once I sat down, set aside the time and actually got started, this list and much more just poured out of me. And I realized the obvious.
Why would we do this just once a year?
    Dear God – Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And not just today! Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Who wins in food drive competition?
By George Valadie
November 6, 2009
     Since my entire professional career has been spent with teenagers, there’s not a whole lot they can do that surprises me anymore. So why would I be shocked when I encountered a few of our students in the hallway dressed like cows. I kid you not.
    For humans, they were pretty good looking cows too. Then around the corner came a few student “farmers” to join them. This group had pieced together, very proudly I might add, a quite respectable farm for kids who have likely never seen one.
    Turns out they were heading to a pep rally – though I never quite understood the theme – that was being sponsored by the area food bank to kick off their annual fall collection drive.
    Several years ago, that organization decided to reach out to our city’s many public and private high school students in an effort to hopefully stir their competitive juices.
Intrinsically, most students know there’s a value in and a need for donating to the poor.     They’ve always been good for a few cans of beets or asparagus. They hate to eat those anyway.
    (Years ago I can still recall donating my mom’s cans of hominy. Didn’t know what it was (still don’t) or why we had it (still don’t) but I was sure others would enjoy it more than I.)
    But extrinsically, it doesn’t take much. We’ve learned if you throw in a six-inch trophy and some potential bragging rights most kids will clean out their pantry if mom’s not watching.
    I’m OK with that. But some are not.
In my first year of teaching at my old Catholic high school, we had a holiday food drive too.     As it kicked off, I learned that all donations were to be collected in each homeroom and I had been assigned one.
    I was OK with that until I discovered the whole thing was to culminate in a school-wide assembly at which each homeroom would process in, one at a time, and “deliver” its basket – or baskets – depositing them on the gym floor for all to see.
    To add to the fun, each homeroom was allowed to dress up its basket and its presenters depicting any theme from the holiday.
    This is when I began to sweat. My immediate concern was that all my kids were just freshmen and their concern was that they were being led by the new guy. They could see it my eyes.
    Honestly, we had never covered food-basket-decorating or dressing-up-your-high-school-students-for-thematic-holiday-parades or anything like that during my teacher education courses. I never even liked dressing up for Halloween. I was petrified.
    But the only thing that scared me more was that absolute fear of being humiliated in front of my peers and the student body. These were now my kids. What if we didn’t bring in as much as others? What if our baskets looked stupid? What if everyone laughed?
    I couldn’t leave this up to just me. I needed advice so I sought out my more veteran peers to see what they were doing. How serious were they about all of this anyway?
    And that’s when I discovered a huge gap in educational theory. It was true then, it remains true today.
    Some teachers were offering “bonus points” on a quiz or a test to inspire their students’ generosity. Some were dealing in “homework passes,” not just for their homeroom students, but for all their students.
    You get the idea, some of the faculty were in to “Sure, you have a duty to your own homeroom, be sure to bring them a few cans, but your grade in history comes from me.”
    Not only were their baskets going to be loaded, but they were going to be impressive.     Some had plans for sleighs with elves and reindeer, while others were opting for the three kings bearing gifts. This was getting serious.
    But then I also found a much different sort of advice. There were other members of the staff who vehemently opposed such bribery. They would be offering no points and no motivation. The idea offended them. If their students weren’t inspired to give for the right reasons then shame on them.
    It was up to me to choose.
    I thought about it, I really did. Both had their very valid points. What are we saying to these kids? What lessons are we teaching? What will stick? What will be forgotten by week’s end?
    I took it all in — and I chose the hungry people.
    Short of giving away the farm, I offered bonus points. I bribed, cajoled, preached and even resorted to some good old-fashioned guilt. We decorated a tree and decked out our baskets. We even had a little fun in the process. We traded in some good history time for the much less valuable nonsense time.
    Nonsense, I suppose, unless you were a family who received one of those baskets.
    I couldn’t tell you – even today – if I chose correctly. I don’t know what, if anything, stuck with those kids. But I can tell you that debate still rages on some 30+ years later. Those same arguments will be repeated up and down our halls next week.
    And sadly, there’s also a new generation of people who are just as hungry.
    The needy don’t go away, do they? We’ll encounter all of them soon. Drives for food, new toys, used toys, clothing, warm-coats, pet food. Add one dollar to your grocery bill, two to your power bill. Come ring a bell, serve some soup, wrap a package.
    They may not know why we do those things, but our kids never fail to notice that we do. Consider that a seed well planted.
Dear God – “I meant to.” Please help us not leave it at that. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Humans give technology its shape
By George Valadie
October 23, 2009
     It seems somewhat trite to even mention this – but have you noticed how much and how quickly our lives are changing?
    Seldom does a day go by when you can’t read about, hear about or actually experience some unbelievable innovation that’s no longer unbelievable. And if it hasn’t happened yet, they tell you it will be here soon.
    Nancy makes fun of me when I return from the grocery store having been astonished by some new product that I didn’t know you could buy. “Seriously George, they’ve been selling that for 10 years. If you went every so often, you’d know that.” Oops.
    True, so much has been around for more than a few years. But when you take a breath and take it all in, life truly is amazing.
    My daughter can get a college degree and seldom step foot on the campus that confers it.
    I’ve written this column for over 10 years and have yet to pick up pen, pencil or paper to “write.”
    I haven’t actually seen my paycheck since I don’t know when. There were some years when Nancy took it and then they just quit issuing one altogether.
    I don’t carry cash anymore either. I used to blame that on Nancy too but who really needs it? Our church is even open to automatic bank drafts.
    Experts say it won’t be long before all our credit cards are condensed into but one. And when that happens, will embedding the chip under my skin be far behind? And what exactly is a chip?
    My entire health history is on a disk in my wallet in case – well, just in case.
    We don’t have one yet but they say toilets exist that can not only dispose of your waste, but analyze it first and then transmit the results to your doctor. Which I suppose will end up on my disk.
    Is there anything your phone cannot do? I read about a college band somewhere in which all of the musicians play nothing but their phones.
    Doesn’t it seem odd that we can gain and lose friends but never meet them?
    There was a day when satellites used to do something – though we didn’t know what — for NASA. Now they talk to my car radio.
    Doesn’t it seem as if something just as complex should be required to control my heat and air, my lights and television – at least something more advanced than the clap of my hands.
    My cable, DVR, pause-live-action, two-pictures-in-one, high-definition, unnecessarily large television has 999 slots for channels and most are already filled.
    Not five minutes ago I saw an advertisement on it for a key-punch front door lock that – once opened — will send an immediate text to a parent who needs to know Joey’s home.
    Crock pots cook, dishwashers wash, ovens clean and vacuums vacuum – all without you. Cars can locate how to get you where you’re going, park you, see behind, beside and in front of you – you don’t really need you.
    Here are some futuristic sounding ideas coming our way.
     Infra-red scanners that can be placed at the entrance to a business or school that can identify anyone who enters carrying a higher-than-normal fever.
     Shoes that think and are able to adjust how much or how little support to provide the wearer.
     Plants that can play music if placed in the right type of vase.
     Medication that can be delivered to the patient by sound waves that part the cells of your skin.
    They would all sound futuristic except for the fact that each was invented some five years ago. In fact, every single thing I’ve mentioned came to life in the space of my lifetime.
    Life is definitely different, but is it better?
    We still have wars. We still have hunger and pain and suffering. I suppose it comes down to how we choose to use these advancements and all they have given us.
    Facebook and MySpace, Twitter and e-mail, you name it. Each gives us the opportunity to reach out to so many more people. Are we really reaching out or are we just bringing them in? To come hear all about … me.
    I love TiVo. We seldom watch any of our favorite shows at their actual times. We prefer to watch them later so we can skip through all the commercials. Saving hours of our time.     But have we done anything worthwhile with all of it? Any of it? I’d be embarrassed to tell you.
    My daughter can know the gender of her child to be. We couldn’t. Her co-worker might have said it best. “Katy, don’t do it, don’t do it!” he pleaded, “There are so few true surprises left in the world. I promise I’ll come paint the baby’s room myself the day it’s born. Just let this happen.”
    Katy? Not a chance. Will she be wrong to find out? Or just wrong to overly obsess about the room and the paint and the endless decorations that her baby will never comprehend.
    Think back to all that someone else has invented. Now think ahead to all that we can do as a result.
    To borrow someone else’s phrase, What Would Jesus Do – with all this stuff. Yes, life is and can indeed be better.
    Dear God — Technology isn’t good or bad. Humans give it its shape. Please bless the shapers. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Grumpaw’ trying to figure out how he feels
By George Valadie
October 2, 2009
    I just can’t believe it. We’re expecting. A baby.
    No, no, no … I don’t mean Nancy and me. That’s the sort of news that would land us on CNN.
    No, I was talking about our family. It’s actually Katy, our oldest, and her husband Clint who are pregnant. Well, technically, Clint’s not pregnant. Just Katy. And this will be our first grandchild.
    We’re all excited for them but Nancy, her mother, is super-so. We’ve been talking about them having grandchildren since they got married four years ago. And as much as my wife tried, she had to finally admit this was one of those things she just couldn’t control.
    And that’s hard for Nancy. So this is great fun for her.
    I think it’s great too, I really do. I’m excited because they’re excited. But I have to admit, it’s a very strange feeling.
    I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that I feel and I think I’ve finally hit on it.
    I’m not aging all that gracefully. Don’t want to really. I’m 56-years-old but on any given day, most every day actually, I see myself as 30. And that is just way too young to be called Grandpa. Or Gramps. Or Pops. Or what my girls tell me it will most likely be – Grumpaw.
    Along with my strangely distorted view of me, seldom am I able to tell anyone the actual ages of our girls either. Sarah, our youngest, turned 23 this summer and I was just sure we were celebrating her 19th.
    In my world, I try to keep each of them frozen at just a year or so out of college. Not too young to be a mother, but way too young for any daughter of mine.
    I can still remember so vividly when Katy came home with us from the hospital to our one bedroom apartment. There she lay in her little crib a good six inches from our bed where we heard each little gurgle and every little squeak. And neither of us knew what any of them meant. Though we were pretty sure that they meant something that any good parent could interpret.
    When she was but one month old, trying desperately to get her to quit crying, I vividly recall giving her a late-night walking tour of our brand new larger two-bedroom apartment.     The one where we had moved so we wouldn’t hear the crying that I now found myself trying to pacify.
    “This is your new room,” I cooed, “we want you to be sure to keep it clean. (Never happened.)
    “This is your new dresser. Lots of nice people gave you all of these pretty little clothes. For free. See if you can wear them the rest of your life. (Never happened.)
    “This is our bathroom. I know you’re new to the whole idea of sharing, but I’ll need to get in here sometimes. (Never happened.)
    “And this is our clothes hamper. Here’s a little tip, don’t put anything in there that you actually need to get back anytime soon. I’m not sure where they go.” She apparently took my advice because she never put anything in it. Ever.
    And now that same little infant will have one of her own.
    Just this week, I had an opportunity to travel back to our hometown and enjoy a mini-reunion with the five guys with whom I had spent so many of my high school weekends.
    Back then we were blessed to get to hang out at a hunting cabin that belonged to one of the guy’s parents. Odd really, as I think back, because I never owned a gun, never shot an arrow, never spent one minute hunting in my entire life. But they invited me to hang out and it was a great place for us to be teenage boys.
    And that’s where we re-unioned, way down on the banks of the Tennessee River, and the crazy crooked drive to get there that took me back through time.
    Time does indeed march on. One of them remains my best friend today. But the rest had fallen through the cracks of my life. It had been almost 35 years since we had last gathered there.
    But there we all were. The traditional shaking of hands that melted into big bear hugs that never would have happened so many years ago. Some wrinkles here, some extra pounds there, gray hair everywhere and not a 30-year-old in the room. None of them had stayed that way and certainly not me.
    As is true at most re-unions, we summarized the missing years in the first hour, re-told tales and lies in the second and spent all the rest talking about our kids. And their kids.     Turns out I wasn’t the only gramps in the group.
    It was a blast.
    And now, don’t ask me why, I’m as excited as Nancy is. I think it’s because we’re going to have a grandchild and I realized I’m just 56.
    Just 56. With plenty of years to watch them cry and grow out of their clothes and hog their mother’s shower.
    Grumpaw is super excited.
Dear God – Each new life is a blessing and a gift. Please help those who can’t see it, don’t want it or treat it as anything but. Please cure their blindness. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Mark’s words still confound us to this day’
By George Valadie
September 25, 2009
     Have you ever had a “miracle” happen for you?
    Whether we use the literal term or the figurative term, has it ever happened to you? Or someone you love?
    Perhaps it may have been one of those real sent-from-heaven, never-be-the-same-again sorts of events you just know could only be the handiwork of God — a medical recovery from the edge of the afterlife or survival of a car wreck from which no one ever should.
    Or perhaps it wasn’t nearly that soul-shaking. Maybe it just seemed that way — family members making peace after too many years at war. Or coming upon a little extra $$$ when both the food and money cupboards were bare. Or even better, finally finding that job to provide the cash to fill the cupboards.
    Now think back, when this particular good fortune came your way, whom did you tell?     How many did you tell? How quickly did you get the news out? How many methods did you use? That’s exactly why good news travels fast.
    So how is it that Christ expected anything more from the people of his day.
    “Yes, I know, you’ve been deaf and mute your entire life and I realize I just fixed all that, but be sure not to tell anyone you know.” (I’ve always wanted to read that excerpt when the guy replies, “You know they’ll probably ask, so what do I tell them?”)
    Or there are those other passages when he says to the Apostles, “I know y’all saw me heal that guy’s leprosy but don’t spread it around.”
    The last several weeks of Gospels tell of Jesus going out of his way to make that odd and seemingly contradictory request.
    “Give up all you have and come follow me so we can change the world. But let’s do this thing quietly.”
    With that frame of mind, it doesn’t seem like the message would have travelled all that far. But I have noticed he did say it quite a bit; I’ve just never really understood why.
    Scripture scholars through the centuries have weighed in on the topic again and again. But none of them actually said those words nor did any of them write them. So their interpretation of the Gospel is indeed just that. A guess. A pretty educated guess. A far better guess than one I might give. But a guess all the same.
    Mark is the gospel author who most commonly references these clandestine-sorts of comments of Christ. Some have called this the “Messianic secret.”
    In an effort to understand his words, many believe it was the Lord’s attempt to help the people “get it.” Yes, he was here to save humanity, yes he was the Messiah, but not the sort of savior for whom they had been hoping, waiting and praying. Focusing on these miracles just clouds the issue.
    There’s that view for sure. But it’s just one of many.
    The words of Mark still confound us to this day. Especially what with all the other miracles that Christ performed but didn’t ask anyone to hide.
    I asked my mom what she thought.
“If your best friend asks you to keep a secret,” she said, “wouldn’t you do it? I would never, ever tell what my friends asked me. I can’t believe any of them did.”
    Someone else weighed in on the same question, “If this man had the miraculous powers he had, and you didn’t really know him all that well, wouldn’t you be a little intimidated thinking he might un-do what he just did. I’d have kept quiet for sure.”
    Well, we’ve all got our theories why he asked. I have some really goofy ones at times.     So here’s another. If the people of 30 A.D. were anything like those who live here 2000 years later, then they weren’t all that good at keeping secrets either. In fact, the more you need people to guard what’s important, the more likely it will get out — not by everyone, but more than a few.
    So, here’s my way-out-there theory. Do you think Jesus might have actually been counting on the failures and frailties of the men with whom he surrounded himself?
    Surely he knew they would tell. Heck, he even knew they would betray and deny him. He just had to have known they would never be able to keep these sorts of secrets to themselves.
    Did he tell them knowing they couldn’t? Did he emphasize the need to keep things low-key because that generally insures the word will get out? Make any secret a bigger deal and that virtually insures the world will know.
    When your mission is to change the entire world – without the benefit of mass media, or any sort of media for that matter – you’d need lots of voices spreading the good news.
    Right or wrong – had I seen and heard the incredible man they got to see and hear, I’d have blabbed it to everyone I ever knew.
    Why aren’t we quite so eager to do that now?
Dear God – You sent your Son for all of us even the ones who never got to meet him. Thank you for all those who have helped us learn about him. Please help us take our turn. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

`Every year we revisit crisis plans’
By George Valadie
September 4, 2009
    When will heaven get its own crisis plan?
    With the start of school comes our staff’s annual revisiting of the crisis plans. Honestly, you couldn’t remember all of them if you had to.
    In today’s world where parents trust us with their most prized possessions, we pray for the best but prepare for the worst. Should the bad stuff come, I’m hoping knowing what to do will make the worst a little less so.
    This year, we’ve had to add another topic to the list. We’re getting ready for the swine flu.
    I’ve read emails, memos and press releases from government and church officials not to mention just about anything I can get my hands on from media outlets. I don’t know nearly enough but I do know more than I wish I did.
    Prior to this, we watched a film on blood-borne pathogens and how to survive them whether they result from a cut finger or a caved-in wall. It includes an exposure control plan to help our teachers jump into a mess, possibly save a life and still avoid hepatitis. Elsewhere, we have defibrillators, emergency bags and instructions for handling seizures.
    And we have drills, lots of drills. We discussed what to do during fire alarms that happen in the middle of a normal class on a normal day as well as one that might happen while we’re eating at lunch, celebrating at liturgy, or screaming at a pep rally.
    We have drills for tornados and earthquakes and the worst fear of all – at least for me – the lockdown procedures that we’ll rehearse for when some gun crazed intruder decides we’re the school in which they’ve chosen to make history.
    This year, we’ve now added the discussion of H1N1.
    I was dissecting my 40-page briefing memo from the CDC (Center for Disease Control) just before the media announced the worst-case scenario. It seems well-respected someones are suggesting the infected numbers might reach as high as 50 percent of U.S. population.
    If the “infected” number reaches that high, the “affected” number will be everyone else.
Since we have over a thousand walking our halls every day, with virtually all of them in the defined “most likely” age range, the math’s not hard to do. Half would still be a lot of sick folks.
    We are reminding them to wash their hands, but heck, we’re dealing with teenagers. I didn’t coin the phrase but a good many teenagers suffer from what is sadly and tragically known as “terminal uniqueness” – that common but deadly belief that “it will never happen to me.”
    We’re always looking for ways to reach into the teenage brain. I read a school nurse in New York is telling students, “If it’s wet … and it isn’t yours, don’t touch it.” We haven’t put it on a poster yet. But gross can get it done sometimes.
    We’ve armed the teachers and classrooms with hand disinfectant that is at least 60 percent alcohol.
    This year the emphasis seems to be on trying to keep schools open rather than closing them for the random cases that do appear. Still, should we be victims of the widespread, our doors will close as others have done. And we’ll teach via the internet.
    When I discussed the long-term shut-down possibility with our cleaning company I was relieved to know they are in fact well prepared. Should we be forced to close, I had been envisioning spending that week or two in my office – keeping tabs and catching up on the files that need some uninterrupted time. But not now.
    The cleaners told me they’d be coming in space suits to do what they will do. Rather than monitor them, I’ll just trust them. But protective space suits suggest a place I’d rather not be. And it turns out my file folders are all portable.
    Every bit of it – the soap and the scenarios and the space suits – it’s mostly a reaction for when a crisis hits us smack in the nose. Helping the horrible seem bad and the bad seem not so much.
    I was thinking about my own life and how I want it to end. And where. Not so surprisingly, I must come to terms with the fact that – in and around my own heart and soul — I’m woefully lacking in disaster plans. And there are surely times when it’s been a disaster in there.
    Sadly, I must admit I don’t have any such drills or contingencies in mind for when I am my own disaster. For when I’ve blown up my own soul with sin and selfishness. For when     I’ve given in to temptation. When I’ve fallen down, let someone down or worse, when I’ve let them go.
    I don’t think I’ve been planning thoroughly enough. What with my “If I’m a disaster on Monday, I’ll hope to do better on Tuesday” idea. Seriously, that’s all I’ve got.
    How about you? When will heaven get its own crisis plan?
Dear God – Please protect all those who have and will suffer from that for which we’re just not ready. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Today we buried a really good man’
By George Valadie
August 7, 2009
     We said good-bye to a really good man today.
    It was one of those final good-byes. And even though he was 80 and everyone knew his cancer was winning, it was still that kind of sad good-bye in an eerily quiet cemetery where you can almost hear the tears running down their cheeks.
    But it was also the kind of farewell that was tenderly punctuated with treasured stories of love and laughter remembered by a family who will never forget.
    I might be wrong but I don’t think he’ll never be famous. Nor are you likely to ever read about him. He probably wouldn’t have liked that anyway.
    Nancy and I aren’t in his family – except by marriage, though it would have been an honor to have been so. He was our son-in-law’s grandfather with whom we were lucky enough to get to share a few meals over the last few years. That was pretty much all I knew of him really.
    We all know folks you meet whose personality leaps out at you. That was John. He could tell a great story, he could tell a better joke. He was comfortable teasing folks he had just met – that would be us. And God gave him that rare twinkle that made you actually enjoy it more than he did.
    We are Catholic, he definitely was not. His deeply engrained faith caused him to question how difficult it was going to be for our family to even get to heaven.
    But what I admired most about him was that he actually cared about whether or not we would.
    Those few meals are about all the time we needed to tell he was a good man.
    Turned out he was a really good man.
    That’s what we came to appreciate when we were privileged to sit in and among Papa’s family as they recounted the life he had led and the lessons he had taught them.
    There was a memorial at his church where he had volunteered to be a greeter. In the Catholic churches we have known, we’ve been more accustomed to the concept of ushers who help us find seats.
    And I’m OK with that.
    We don’t really seem to have greeters as such, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. But if they do what I think they do, his church should have hired him full-time.
    Can’t imagine they had anyone better.
    I much prefer the theology of our funeral Mass. But truthfully, I’m not yet comfortable with the evolving tradition our church is embracing that allows family and friends to add some final and personal “remarks” before the liturgy ends.
    In fact, Nancy is under strict orders to make sure that no one speaks at my funeral but the celebrant priest (though I’m not entirely sure how I’ll enforce that).
    But in this case, and because it was a memorial celebration more than a funeral service,     I walked out as the one enriched by the wealth of their memories.
    Papa’s son recalled for us having been a young boy of about 10, riding along with his father. Stopped at a traffic light, both father and son noticed the blind gentleman standing at the corner, waiting to cross.
    Without hesitation, he told his young son to get out and help the man cross the street.     Are you kidding me? What 10-year-old anywhere is up for all of that?
    A kid’s natural fear of a handicap? And walking right up to a stranger? Your dad staying in the car? Speaking to the man? Grabbing his elbow? Or maybe worse, him grabbing yours?
    Think about that in today’s world. It’s just not happening.
    Over the years Papa may have forgotten all about it. That’s what dads do. But never did the son who was forever changed for the better.
    A few years later, Papa and Meemaw, who back then were just mom and dad, decided to share their family Sundays with a teenage kid whom they invited to join their family of five.
    Born into a family that could have invented the term “dysfunctional,” this kid had virtually nothing — not materially, not emotionally and certainly not spiritually. So Papa decided they would step up, pick him up, take him to church, and then back to their home for what was most likely his solitary bath and most surely his finest meal of the week.
    He got some of their food, more than a few of their clothes, and a huge chunk of Papa’s Sunday afternoon time.
    “Really? Who is this guy? And why does he get what’s ours?” I don’t know about their family, that’s just where my heart would have been. Fully understanding that he doesn’t have, but struggling to understand why we should give him some of ours.
    Today, they lovingly treasure every ounce of those life lessons that might have weighed so heavy at the time.
    Tell me the last time we put faith into action like that. I never have. I sat there listening to his life and realized even now he was still teaching – only the student was me. He was teaching his lessons from a grave in the ground, from his seat in the heavens.
    Honestly, I like to think of myself as a good man. But today, we buried a really good man.
    Dear God – Your gift is always life. Ours is what we do with it. Help mine be as good as his. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘God does indeed take care of children, fools’
By George Valadie
July 10, 2009
By George Valadie
    Sarah turns 23 tomorrow.
    I can hardly believe it. Doesn’t seem possible that she has gotten so old so soon.
    I still feel too young for our youngest to be that age, though that’s a matter of perspective I suppose. She reminds me often that my upcoming 56th birthday is closer to 60 than it is to 50. She’s still a joy.
    Some dozen years ago when I began writing this column, she was in elementary school just learning that nouns have case and verbs have tense. Back then she was shaping sentences; now she writes a blog.
    If there’s a writer in the family, it’s Sarah. I may have written much more, but she writes much better.
    I’d like to tell you she’s exactly where we thought she would be at this stage of her life, but nothing could be farther from the truth. It’s not at all where she had planned to be either.
    Sarah’s college route has been circuitous at best – disastrous at its worst. Some of that — not all – but some was our fault too.
    In spite of an anxiety we discovered which led to a few academic disasters, we pushed and cajoled and encouraged her to stay with it because we thought that’s what parents were supposed to do. She went along because she thought that’s what our daughters were supposed to do.
    If I were to be soul-baring honest, I’d probably have to admit that we wanted her to finish school like all the other kids would be doing partly because we wanted our family to be thought of as just as normal as all the rest.
How’s that for insane parenting!
    If you ask her, I think she’ll be the first to tell you that she’s piled up more than a few questionable decisions in her 23 years in school and out. And the results have been predictable – all have been difficult, some have been deserved.
We all laugh – though sometimes it’s not so funny – that her tombstone will simply say, “But I meant to!”
    She meant to do her homework and she meant to mail that payment. She meant to pick up that towel and she meant to renew her license.
    One morning, she found herself in her car on the way to work when she looked in the rearview mirror and noticed the wet towel still wrapped around her head. I want to believe she had meant to dry it.
    All that being said, still, we’re really proud of her.
    Not for the mistakes, but for the growth.
    She holds a full-time job in a bank, has slowly but surely knocked out a few more nighttime college hours and has come to the conclusion – on her own this time – that she wants to return to school on a full-time basis.
    Both of us being in education, we’re thrilled about the degree thing. But I’m learning it’s not all about that.
    Katy, the oldest, was different. Aren’t they all? She criss-crossed several divergent paths on her way through school – choosing some all at once. But her largest sin was of a different sort.
    We discovered – or should I say she finally admitted – that she had buried herself in financial misery. First it was hers, then it became ours.
    In another salute to parenting wizardry, we somehow let her get away to school without any solid understanding of money, credit or financial responsibility.
    Today, years later, she works at a bank and has the credentials to plan your financial life. And believe it or not, we’re letting her plan ours. She’s pretty good at it, too.
    I know she’ll do well for us. We face our retirement future with not much; she fears she’ll face it with us on her door step.
    Meg, the middle Valadie child, just turned 29 last month. She lived her high school and college life on the outer edge. It’s not like she was a terrible kid but she definitely knew how to take advantage of having dad as your principal.
    She found a way to roam the halls and irritate her teachers. Once, we left her home during an out-of-town trip (yet one more tribute to our parenting genius) so she promptly threw a party that concluded with the police descending on our cul-de-sac.
    Today, she finds herself with an office full of her own employees. And she’s learning to insist they tow the line. I love it, I know her old teachers would.
    Please don’t read this as any sort of ego-filled boasting about the wonderful Valadie children. It’s anything but.
    Yes, we’re proud of our kids – just as you are proud of yours — but this has nothing to do with accomplishments. It’s more about the journey – the one that all of our kids must travel.
    I once worked for a great man who said, “You can never give up on your kids.” It’s not like it was Shakespeare quotable or anything, but we’ve never forgotten it.
    They don’t all travel the path we would want and it never seems to happen in the timeframe we would hope, but God does indeed take care of children and fools. Enjoy the ride.
Dear God – Thank you for the gift of parenthood. Please give us patience for the trip and keep us mindful of the wonder. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Someone out there please pray for me’
By George Valadie
June 12 , 2009
By George Valadie
    Well, she surprised me a week or so ago.
    That doesn’t happen much after 32 years. But there it was, sitting on the kitchen table.     I came home to find she had written a letter. A real letter. I knew immediately it was hers because of the handwriting. After 32 years, that doesn’t change much either.
    No one writes letters anymore. I receive them all the time, but what I mean is that seldom does anyone ‘hand write’ a letter. I know I don’t. I get lengthy e-mails, word-processed prose, texts and tweets. But nothing from an old-fashioned Bic pen.
    I do write notes of congratulations, brief lines of thanks and an occasional paragraph of sympathy. Not enough and never on time, but I do write them. Still, I never take the time to write a real letter. Not anymore.
    And as best I can tell, Nancy doesn’t either. At least not that I’ve seen.
    I thought for just a moment that perhaps she had written it to me. Was she that irritated? Surely not. I couldn’t think of anything I had done. (Though it says something about me that I would assume the negative before the positive.)
    On the other hand maybe I had done something that had inspired her to take pen in hand and express her undying love for me? But sadly, I couldn’t think of anything there either.
    I approached with trepidation and got close enough to see it said “Dear somebody” and the somebody wasn’t me. It wasn’t mine to read but what can I tell you — she wasn’t at home. So I sat down to eaves-read.
    “Dear Nikki – Thank you for coming to stay with our dogs. I have a few things I want to tell you ….” Really? A few things that go on for two full pages on a legal pad? I had to read more.
    She told her where the food is (though she’s been at our house before), which dog gets which dish (as if they don’t know) and what time they normally eat (though they’ve never seemed at all unable to communicate their hunger to us.)
    OK, I buy the need for all that. But still she continued.
    “They love their treats. It’s OK to give them the regular ones whenever they’re acting crazy, driving you crazy or if you just want to win their love. They get so excited about those cute little heart-shaped crunchy treats but not so much the little round ones. Please give them their peanut butter treats at nine o’clock sharp, that’s what they’re used to – oh yeah, for this, they really like the creamy kind much better.
    “Maggie likes to lay on the ottoman in the evening, Charlie likes to lay on Maggie.
    “Their bedtime is about 10:30 p.m. but not until they go out for one last opportunity for nature to call. Don’t worry if they don’t, because nature doesn’t always call to them. We’re not too strict about that. (It was here that I wanted to pencil in – “or any other part of their lives.”)
    “They sleep in the pink room with the futon. Maggie likes to sleep up on top of it with one pillow and Charlie prefers the comforter that we’ve got on the floor. He probably won’t lie down until you fluff it for him – he’s kinda used to that.
    “They prefer the Animal Channel on TV but some nights they like Jay Leno and since it’s his last week and all, why don’t you turn that on for them. They’d probably regret if they missed his last shows.
    “Please turn on the television timer for 45 minutes before it shuts itself off for the night.     They like to stay up longer than 30 minutes but I think an hour gives them bad dreams.     And please don’t forget to turn on the ceiling fan in their room. With summertime and all,     I’m pretty sure they’ve been getting stuffy at night.
    “Thanks for doing this for us; we’ll be home Monday night. Call my cell, George’s cell or the vet’s cell if anything happens. Tell him you’re keeping our dogs and he’ll understand completely. We’ll be back soon.”
    OK, I may have exaggerated a tiny bit in there about what she wrote but not about the two key points. (1) Her hand-written letter was two-pages long. (2) Our vet might not know what’s wrong with the dogs, but he absolutely understands my wife.
    Seriously – is this normal or should I be worried about this woman?
    I don’t know, maybe it’s the empty nest syndrome having some delayed effect. Perhaps there’s a desire – or should I say a need – for her to have a grandchild – and soon.
    But I do know this. She never – and I do mean this literally – never, never, not once, did she leave a single written word of instruction for even one of our baby-sitters.
    I only recall a few words left hanging in the air as we bolted out the door to the movies, “… food’s in the kitchen, diapers are in the bedroom, any problems? call Grandma. We’ll be back soon.”
    Nancy asked me how my writing about her silly puppy concerns could ever be turned into something with a spiritual perspective. I told her that was easy, “Someone out there, please pray for me!”
    Dear God – We too often forget that the wonders of nature are your creation as well. Bless all those who work to protect them. Amen.
(George Valadie is principal of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Do you think they’ll try to kill us?’
By George Valadie
May 22, 2009
     How do you envision Jesus Christ? Not now, I don’t mean that one. Not the Jesus in heaven, not the one at our almighty’s right hand.
    I’m talking about the boy and the man who walked this same earth we now walk. None of us can understand his divine side. And I don’t believe any of them who were there then could either. I don’t know how to imagine that part of him.
    Yet he came here to accomplish a massive overhaul of humankind and our ways. How could he inspire that unless he could walk among them? And talk to them – and their hearts?
    That’s the Jesus I try to imagine. The man who got hungry and angry, the one who cried and the one who laughed.
    I like to think of him as a guy who enjoyed a good joke and could tell a great story. As a man who could just as easily be worn out by the heat of the day or the hard-headedness of those who wouldn’t listen. But kinder, gentler and more inspiring than most.
    With his Resurrection now passed, and his time here drawing to an end, he needed to call his apostles all together. What would he have said in that one last set of instructions?     How would that one final “go get ’em” sort of pep talk have sounded?
    It helps me if I imagine him talking to them the way I think I would have best understood him. It helps if I imagine him talking to me.
    “OK, guys, here we are. It’s game time. We’ve been gearing up for this for three years now. Think of all the hard work and preparation you’ve put in. I’m proud of you men. And I think you’re ready.
    “But one thing I’ve got to tell you is that I won’t be able to be here. So you guys have to try to win this thing without me.”
    “You got to be kidding, we can’t do that! We tried that for just those few days without you and you saw how that went.”
    “I know, I know … let’s consider that a dry-run of sorts. But that’s why we do them. Think back. I’d been telling you all along I’d be leaving but you didn’t want to hear me.
    “You freaked out and forgot all I had taught you and all we had worked on. You scattered like dogs and hid like cowards. I picked you guys – but I didn’t pick you for that.
    “But now, now you understand what it’s going to be like. And it won’t be any easier this time. Those guys on the other side take this stuff seriously.
    “When it gets down to it, they’re going to look you in the eye to decide how serious you are. They’re going to want to know how badly you really want all that we’ve been about this entire time.
    “They’re gonna stare you down, try to intimidate you, and try to get a grip on how willing you really are to go to war against most everything they’ve ever known and believed.
    “Don’t underestimate them either. They’re every bit as serious as we are. But I believe you’re ready.”
    “Yeah, but they tried to kill you over it. Do you think they’ll try that with us?”
    “They didn’t try to kill me. They did it. That’s OK though, people needed to know how much it meant to me. Heck, I needed you guys to know that, too. Judas wasn’t on board, Thomas is coming around. Peter tripped all over himself. But I feel better about it now.
    “But I won’t lie to you, you’ll face some rough and tumble guys out there who will make you earn everything you get.”
    “Come on please, no more parables, Jesus. You didn’t answer the question. Do you think they’ll try to kill us?”
    “I won’t lie to you. We’re the underdogs here. At least for now. Just hang in there, we’re going to win this. When things start going our way – and they will — don’t let yourselves get the bighead. That never helps. Because I guarantee they’ll be followed by trials so disheartening you’ll seriously consider giving it all up.
    “But I didn’t teach you that.
    “And keep your eyes open for those folks who try that sneaky stuff. Some will use our words against us, even pretend to be on our team, but they’re not. Not really. You’ll be able to tell.”
    “Will you be able to send us some occasional ideas if we get behind?”
“Honestly, I’ll be able to watch. And as tempted as I’ll be to call the occasional ‘time out,’ I’m not going to. You guys are ready and I’m counting on you. And don’t forget, you’ll always have my Spirit with you.
    “Don’t try to do it by yourself though. Keep me in mind. My Father started this, keep him in mind too. And don’t get too rushed about all this. Chances are you won’t actually get to see the end of the game. There will come a time when you have to sit down on the bench and let the young guys take over. Just teach them what I taught you and it will be fine.
    “Time to go. You’ll do great.”
    “My God, this is scary … if we get confused and strung out, or strung up, do you have any last words, something that will keep us focused when we lose ours? Anything to keep it simple?”
    “Love one another.”
Dear God – Who could teach this better than your son? Who could mess it up better than us? Help us understand the simple. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Race, age, gender – none seem to matter’
By George Valadie
May 8, 2009
     Thankfully, it’s been quite a while since we had gotten one. It was always what we feared. We might still actually.
    But if he’ll answer my prayers, I won’t ever have to get it again. The phone call, that is.
    The “There’s been a wreck” phone call “and you need to come.”
    Yesterday, Nancy and I were driving home from a fast food lunch. We had slept late and were treating ourselves to a sort of a celebratory “thank goodness” because the prom had been this weekend and we hadn’t received any such bad news calls.
    Officially, it had ended at midnight. Unofficially, I always wait until sometime the next day to declare it a success.
    We were in the left lane of one of the busiest highways in the area when I noticed drivers in the middle lane trying to forge their way into ours. Not the one you’d choose unless you’d be turning. Or unless the one you were in was clogged.
    You just knew there had been some sort of collision up ahead. When we drew close enough to rubber-neck, the strange but human reaction from which most of us suffer, Nancy noticed one of the kids lying on the side of the street attends our school.
    We arrived on the scene of a decent-sized mess, made by just one car and one truck that had blasted into each other virtually head on. All total there were three of our teenagers who had been in the car and a fourth — whom we didn’t know — had driven the other.
    There was plenty of metal left in both, but neither pile would be driven again.
We didn’t see it happen, but we didn’t miss it by much. Our three and the other young man seemed physically fine. All were a bit beaten up, shaken up and “scared to death” to borrow that commonly used phrase. But thankfully, none seemed to actually be flirting with the after-life.
    Of our three, one had already called his mom, one was getting her on the phone and one said she was waiting a bit. When I looked at her a bit questioningly, she said, “I need to get it together before I call her because she’ll freak out if I don’t.” I wish our daughter had done that.
    For it was right then that I was carried back to when our own three had been teenagers and the calls we had received. Yes, I said “calls,” that’s a plural word.
Sarah’s called more than once. Nancy answered the phone the first time, it went something like this:
    “Hello?” (no answer)
    “Sarah?” (no answer)
    “Is this you, Sarah?” (no answer)
    “Sarah?” (and then we got what sounded like irregular breathing, possibly tears, followed by … )
    “Wre-e-e-e-e-e-e-ck!!!!!!!”
    She wasn’t all that intelligible, but at least we could hear her voice. You run with the small things at times like that.
    When Meg had hers, it was different. Nancy took that one as well.
    “Hello.”
    “Is this Mrs. Valadie?”
    “Yes, who is this?”
    “This is the sheriff’s department and your daughter’s been in a wreck.” (pause)
    Now it was our turn to do the irregular breathing.
    “She’s going to be fine but we need you to come.”
    I don’t know, maybe they should begin this sort of call with that last part first. Thankfully, all we said goodbye to were the cars.
    I don’t know if I was surprised or amazed at all the wonderfully thoughtful people who dropped by this latest scene. Race, age, gender – none of that seemed to matter.
    One lady took turns, grabbed the hands of each of our girls on the ground and prayed with them. Sadly, I have to admit I hadn’t thought to do that.
    One grandmotherly lady contributed an eye-witness account she offered to the police and some Kleenex she gave to our girls. She offered what she had.
    Another stopped to actually get involved in the legal matters. “I saw it all. I’ll be glad to help if they need me.” You don’t see that every day.
    Our students had been on the way to a weekend school event. A teacher and other students there had heard the news and arrived back at jet-like speed, admitting they had no jet.
    And the EMTs, they were phenomenal. Professional. Efficient. In charge. And able to calm and convince these teens that – in spite of everything – in spite of who hit whom – in spite of who lost what — the important thing and the only thing that mattered was that all were alive. The rest, they said, was just stuff.
    You have to love the perspective of those who have seen those other times when so much more than that was lost.
    Eventually, there they were. Four parents at the same scene, thinking the same thoughts, having received the same call.
    This has been our fear. And it always will be.
Dear God – We pray for all those families whose greatest fear came true. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Just maybe, he was praying for us’
By George Valadie
April 10 , 2009
     Well, looking back, it might not have been all that suitable for Lent. Having second thoughts, you might say.
    My last column, I mean. Perhaps I went over the top when I targeted two guys I’ve never met, called them both greedy thugs, jumped all over them for brazen financial thievery and went so far as to say I hated them more than I hate serial killers.
    I got fired once and didn’t get that angry.
    This past week I attended a retreat – much needed you could probably tell. And there, the facilitator brought up the topic of forgiveness and Christ’s teaching on the topic.
    With Holy Week approaching, at the very least it seems I should work on giving it a try. No doubt I’ve got a ways to go.
    I found myself taken back to John’s Gospel where he relates the story of Jesus teaching near the Mount of Olives. He was in the temple one morning, a crowd gathered at his feet to learn.
    Then, pushing their way to the front, grabbing all the attention that comes with interruption, the Pharisees dragged out a woman “who had been caught in adultery.”
    Yes, I wonder how these men had actually come upon such a discovery and even more curious why the offending male – it does take two — wasn’t part of the accused and indicted. But that discussion is for another day.
    “We got you now … in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?”
    We’re used to reading of these tricks. They were always trying to tie him up with his own words, looking for any reason to pit him against the Mosaic law because no one could ever survive that sort of heresy.
    Skip to the end of the story. Jesus embarrasses all of them with maybe his snappiest comeback, “Any of you who haven’t messed up yet, go ahead and pick up the first rock.”
    Well, that would take a bit of nerve, wouldn’t it? These folks lived in a very small town.     Everybody knew everybody. And in such a place, everybody knows what everybody doesn’t want them to know. There weren’t going to be any rock throwers here today. Or any day.
    “Ma’am, they didn’t condemn you and neither will I. Go on – and get your life together.”
    But before he got to the verbal lesson of the day, theirs and hers — Scripture says “Jesus bent down and began to write on the ground with his finger.”
    Does anyone know why? And exactly what did he write there? Anyone can guess, anyone can imagine. So can I.
    How about this? “This is gonna be fun.”
    You just know he knew they were coming. He knew they’d be trying to make him look bad. And he had to have known exactly how this particular episode was going to turn out.     These guys wanted the spotlight but today would be his turn.
    Or maybe, he was inclined to write something like, “Are you kidding me?”
    He’d been teaching and preaching for going on three years and it was obvious some people still didn’t get it. Sadly, maybe they were never going to get it. Neither the     Pharisees – nor the woman. Was anybody listening?
    I could also see him scribbling, “I’ll be back.”
    Today – this little word puzzle from these un-learned learned men — this would be a piece of cake. These jokers were never going to be the real challenge. That would come in a few weeks when he returned right to this same mount to be betrayed. That’s when things would get really hard.
    Maybe this sandbox is where we first got introduced to the age-old adage “Patience is a virtue.”
    Can’t you imagine these hypocrites had been driving him crazy? Ever since he had begun this journey. Always acting as if they were who they were not. He had to have been fed up. Who wouldn’t have? I imagine even Jesus got worn out at times.
    Maybe it was never that complicated at all. Not a sentence but just a thought, a word, the obvious word. “Forgiveness.”
    Perhaps it was the concept he was trying to teach them and the world but then again, maybe he was trying to focus on all the forgiving he himself would soon be needing to do.     How could he ever empower the apostles to do what he couldn’t?
Sand’s not the best place to write words. So maybe it was just a picture. A crucifix. Three crucifixes. His mom’s face. The face of God.
    What if he had just been doodling? The way we all do. Squiggles and boxes, circles and stars. Could he have been creating the proverbial pregnant pause giving everyone there some time to think about their own sins?
    Or was it him needing a minute. Seeking the inspiration of the Spirit. Asking for the wisdom of the Father. Praying for the safety of the prostitute he had only just met.
    Or maybe, just maybe, he was praying for us.
    Dear God – We get nauseous when we know a bad meeting’s coming our way. What must it have been like to know that death lay ahead. And just because of what everyone else had done — and would do. “Thank You” just isn’t enough. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Just how much greed can one person have?’
By George Valadie
March 27, 2009
     “Caveat emptor.”
    Yes, I took two years of Latin. And yes, I probably learned the English translation way back in high school when they were making us study our requisite two years. But I doubt I had a clue what it meant. Not really. Not like I do now.
    “Let the buyer beware.”
    Perhaps they should have made us take a course that didn’t just translate the phrase but one that made sure we understood it. What about a course entitled, “How to be smart and safe if you ever have a few bucks you’d like to invest.”
    Here during the Lenten season, I suppose we should be trying to avoid, or at least improve upon our normal human faults. But I have to admit that I hate – and I use the word literally – I hate these people who have made their living by stealing from everyone else.
    And I don’t even know them.
    I’m not talking about the petty thief who swiped Nancy’s wallet at the convenience store. Or the other one who broke in and trashed our home only to find we didn’t own anything worth taking. Though I’m not all that happy about them either.
    But I find I have really, really awful – unusually horrible — feelings in my heart about the growing list of financial thugs like Bernard Madoff and Allen Stanford.
    Their names have been all over the news lately accused of defrauding investors out of billions of dollars. Just to be clear, I’m not one of them. Didn’t lose a penny with either.
    So I can’t imagine how I’d feel. Nor can I imagine how those who did can ever forgive.
    Since I never enrolled in that “be-smart-and-safe-with-your-money” class, I’m not entirely sure of all the very specific details about what these guys did. But I know they lured people in, earned their trust and then stole most everything they had.
    Was it possible that these victims should have known better? I honestly couldn’t tell you.
    Sure, I imagine some were likely trying to grab a quick and maybe undeserved few bucks. That can lead to years of regret. But we’re also talking about some folks whom you’d think were fairly astute. We’re talking about international banks and charitable foundations that were also among the taken.
    And they’re a lot smarter than I am.
    But what angers me most and engenders my hatred is that they also stole from so many other people who were just trying to be good stewards of their retirement. The same retirement we’ve all been told to save for.
    Much has been written about these scandalous rogues already, some comparing these high finance criminals to serial killers. Can you believe that?
    And I don’t really know why, but I don’t get nearly as emotional about the Jeffrey Dahmers and the Ted Bundys of the world. And they really were serial killers.
    I’m convinced those who choose to murder over and over and over are severely disturbed. They’re deranged or psychotic or obsessed with some something that’s just not normal.
    The lives they took are more valuable than money, but those killers were sick. These guys are just greedy. And conscious choice makes it seem worse. At least to me.
    They’re not sick, but they make me feel that way.
    Turns out the guy that took Nancy’s wallet was a common thief. He took our stuff, he scared her, and he brought us and our own little piece of suburban heaven face-to-face with crime. But he didn’t lure us in and he didn’t rob us of our future.
    And even if he had stolen thousands of our dollars, I could take a pretty good guess what he might do with it.
    I can think in terms of thousands. But what does someone do with billions of dollars? How much can you buy? How much do you need? And just how much greed can one person have?
    Perhaps you’ve read the recent news notes that have been written that have tried to get us more in touch with just how large a ‘billion’ is.
    A billion seconds ago, it was 1977.
    A billion minutes ago, Jesus was alive.
    A billion hours ago, our ancestors lived in the Stone Age.
    A billion days ago, no one walked the earth on two feet.
    A billion dollars ago for these guys was just a few more investors duped and a few more futures destroyed.
    I’m angry. I’m irritated. I’m enraged and outraged and however many other words my Thesaurus can list.
    And this is also one of those times when I’m confused. When God created free-will, he also knew people like this would make choices like that.
    Theologians as well as those of us who aren’t have long debated what God was thinking. I think I’ll always be confused.
    And I think they’ll always be crooks.
    Dear God – Please help us remember that there are so many more who choose good. Why don’t we make them famous? Why didn’t I write about them? Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Does God keep a scorecard?
By George Valadie
March 13, 2009
     “Dad, I’m craving something sweet.”
    “Well, come to our house. We’ve got half a five-flavor pound cake in the fridge, some chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer, a week-old cinnamon roll we’re preserving in the microwave and some thin-mint Girl Scout cookies I hid.”
    “No, no, what I meant was — I gave up sweets for Lent. Well, except for the cake I ate at that baby shower today.”
    “Well, why don’t you finish off the day with something else sweet, and then – since Sundays are sort of a day off from Lent — trade today’s bad Saturday for a good Sunday tomorrow?”
    “Do you think God will be OK with that?”
    And that’s how we ended up here – wondering if God keeps a scorecard.
    I don’t really think so but it’s hard for us humans to imagine that he doesn’t. It’s hard for us to imagine him at all.
    We’re not able to envision the unthinkable. Nor can we fathom the concept of the almighty, the all-loving, the all-forgiving or the all-anything.
    And we probably struggle most of all with having the sort of faith that believes it’s possible that any being – even God — is able to forgive us and then truly forget what we did.
    So we humans often see him just as we see ourselves. We often picture him as the God who not only has the ability to recall our lifetime of good and bad actions, but then does it, one scorecard at a time.
    It’s not the best way to envision God, but we can all be guilty at times.
    My father-in-law was as nice a human being as I’ve ever met. He financially bailed out our young marriage on more than a few occasions. He loved his wife dearly and made sure she never had to work a day outside the home. He provided Catholic schooling, a college education and a life of unfaltering love for his three daughters. He even loved their husbands.
    And he never missed Mass.
    But Pop kept his own score about how he was doing in that regard. And he was entirely convinced God kept one too. It was in his latter years of life that our church, his church, made changes in their expectations about which holy days now included an obligation for him to attend Mass and which ones did not.
    He never was quite sure. Nor am I for that matter. But he asked all of us to help him keep track of which was which because he would never allow himself to miss if it were required.
    But he wasn’t planning to attend if it weren’t. He led an honest life, too.
    There was also that Christmas Mass when he wasn’t enthralled with the singing. So he turned off his hearing aid and went the rest of the way from rote memory. Still, he was there and expected God to count it.
    In his final months, he remained committed to what he knew God wanted him to do. When he was overtaken by Alzheimer’s, he couldn’t remember conversations.
    He could no longer recall a few friends and family. But one memory he held was the one that told him he was supposed to be going to Mass. The idea had become more a part of his soul.
    And he truly worried that missing even one would be held against him. So much so, that he asked over-and-over-and-over again about who would be driving and what time they would be going.
    To help him deal, we asked our pastor to write him a letter that he could keep next to his chair. With that, he could recall – when needed — the medical dispensation he had been given. And he needed it often
    He’s not alone. Even when we’re not sick, we all worry about some of the things we don’t do well.
    When we missed that Sunday Mass on vacation because we claimed “tourist liberties,” how would God feel if we had made it up on Monday?
    When Meg lit her devotional candles at the grotto without contributing a dollar to the cause, were her prayers and intentions heard anyway?
    When I was 12 and my mom forgot and cooked burgers for us children on a Lenten Friday, was that the sin I accused her of back then?
    When Katy dropped the ball and failed altogether in her Lenten efforts, did it make a difference to God when she got it together for 40 days in the summer?
    And what if others of us never make it up at all?
    Sadly and embarrassingly, I’m right in there too. Giving myself credit with check marks in one column, admitting a few minus marks in the other, trying to imagine myself on the positive side of God’s ledger. Do some good here, claim a checkmark there.
    Sad, embarrassing … and stupid. Perhaps it’s not that complicated at all. Perhaps our Lenten season should simply be about being better today than we were yesterday. And hoping that tomorrow is even better than that. And trying to understand that keeping score is the one thing God refuses to do.
    If he does, why would he sacrifice his own son? And why would the son forgive his traitors? Those then? And those now?
    And who among us has a score that’s earned all of that?
    Dear God – If you are keeping score, do you allow extra credit? Please? Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Today wasn’t a very good day’
By George Valadie
February 27, 2009
    It wasn’t a very good day.
    It started out headed that way though. I was excited about how I thought this column would turn out because I had a sketched-out plan for some good news to mix in with all the economic nonsense.
    But I’ll have to admit, this won’t be anything at all like what I had hoped to write. I was just an hour from sitting down to my computer when – as it often happens – life interrupted life.
    The phone call was a sad one.
    I don’t get a lot of weekend phone calls to my cell, so when it does ring and it’s not one of our own kids, I always answer with a dose of cautious curiosity.
    With good reason this time. One of our students had passed away in the most tragic manner of all – self-inflicted.
    I suppose there are those who would consider me a bit off base by my suggestion that there are varying degrees of tragic dying. Especially for kids.
    I agree, after all, there is absolutely no manner in which a young person can die that is not tragic. Accident or illness, shockingly sudden or excruciatingly drawn out – leaving this world before one’s time is just wrong.
    But if you’re 14 and you’ve come to the conclusion that you just can’t do it anymore, it seems somehow worse.
    Thirty seconds later, I was out the door and headed to the office. Because there on my desk sits a plan for what to do. Lists of how to handle and how to communicate. Counselors to call and teachers to inform. What we should say to whom and a list of comments we’d be better to avoid.
    First, how crazy is it that school principals even have such a thing! Sadly, each of our own lives now includes bits and pieces of crisis plans that tackle just about anything horrible that the horrible people have already dreamed up. Ours is some 50-plus pages long.
    Thumb through it and you’ll find multiple sections for any number of unthinkable thoughts and yes, sadly – there’s even one for “student deaths.”
    But you know what there’s not?
    There’s not a word in there to say to a mom and dad who are out of their minds with grief and shock. No suggestions for the parents who – if they’re anything like me – would just simply be out of their minds.
    So in and among an afternoon of dozens of phone calls to all who needed to know, I was also sitting alone with my thoughts.
    Thinking about a kid who won’t come to school tomorrow. And struggling to imagine a mom and dad who are now face-to-face with the realization that same kid won’t come home from school tomorrow either – or ever.
    Someone please tell me what brings any young person to the conclusion that it’s not going to get any better? Ever? Whatever their “it” might be?
    How does any teenager come to feel as if they’re now drowning, dragged down by the sort of weight for which they can see no relief? Not just a heavy load to carry around, but one to which they are forever chained and from which there is no escape. Worse, from which they feel no hope of escape.
    How does life cloud teenage perception so that they’re unable to see loving family and willing friends?
    And what of the lifetime that remains un-lived? What would they have been? Who could they have been? What would they have accomplished? What’s that quote – “The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.”
    That’s us. Shedding our tears for the kids who never get the chance to be.
    Normally, it’s easier for me to think like a parent. But not these parents. I spent the day trying to imagine the depth of their pain but honestly, I just can’t. This is the unimaginable sort.
    How many questions will they ask? How many non-existent clues will they try to recall?     How many what-ifs will haunt their dreams?
    Honestly, and this might be the wrong venue to say it, but I could see where – should it happen to me – I would be the one to lose a child and then my faith. Let’s forget for a moment it’s impossible to understand God – much less understand this – and it’s a whole lot easier to doubt him.
    Though not at all proud of it, I just might.
    Which is why I spent a lot of my afternoon praying for them too. We can discuss it and debate it, but we’ll never get it. That is not God’s way. And as a result of unanswered prayers and unexplained tragedies, we are often left wondering about what we are told is an all-loving God.
    So we pray with all we have. For parents who will feel that they’re in the bowels of hell for quite some time. For family and friends and all who grieve this loss. And for us too.
    Today wasn’t a very good day.
    I prayed for perspective, but it never came.
    But I’ve got hope for tomorrow.
    Dear God – You’ve got quite a few we’d like to have back. If not for a lifetime, at least for a minute? Please help us not waste the minutes we have. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

`God, help us remember there’s a better way’
By George Valadie
February 13, 2009
    I just don’t know anymore.
    I picked up our paper and read headlines about what seemed like one more story about one more shooting death.
    Sadly, there are more than a few to read about. But this one grabbed my attention because it landed way too close to home. Literally, just a mile or so down the road. A very wide, well-traveled road, the one I’m on every single day.
    It happened in a parking lot just off that road, another senseless killing caused by what     I was sure was another desperate thief wanting what wasn’t his.
    I was wrong. My first off-the-cuff reaction was a bit of shock because I’ve been in that parking lot and I’ve eaten in that restaurant. And it’s right next door to yet another eatery that does more business than that. So we’re talking about a pretty busy place.
    And then there was that eerie feeling that comes with the realization that the violence had now moved beyond our inner city – as if that would have made it any more acceptable. Shame on me.
    But perhaps the most incredible of all were the details of the story. Dinner was over. A 52-year-old man and his three children had just finished a family birthday and all four were headed out to their car.
    They arrived there to encounter an adjacently parked car and its husband and wife owners. The paper wasn’t quite clear about who said what to whom but it was clear that an argument ensued.
    Apparently words were exchanged and tempers were elevated. There were some almost moments of sanity followed by some almost moments of calm followed by we-just-couldn’t-leave-well-enough-alone.
    Out comes a gun, down goes a dad. Right in the chest. With his three kids watching.
    And – I kid you not – the argument was about one car being too closely parked to the other.
    If reports are accurate, no car was bumped, no paint was scraped. Nothing and no one had been injured except some feelings. Who would have imagined the results — one funeral and years of prison time?
    Whatever happened to “no harm, no foul.”
    “Excuse me, but it seems you may have parked your car a bit too close to ours. We’re having a little trouble getting in our car. Any chance you could help us with our problem?”
    “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I thought I was centered between the lines. It’s these big cars, you know. I haven’t mastered how to park it just yet.”
    “Well, you know both of us have one. It’s just harder than it used to be. Never mind, maybe I can pull out and we’ll be good to go.”
    Yeah, right. Sounds as if it was more like, “Move your car or else.”
    “Or else what?”
    Bang.
    I just don’t know anymore. Where have our manners gone? Our civility? Our sense of tact? Why do we fire before we aim? Before we think? Why do we make the dramatic leap from irritation to all-out assault on those who are irritating?
    Use any cliché you want. Look before you leap. Think before you speak. You catch more flies with honey. We know them, but we don’t use them. Not anymore.
    None of us have killed anyone, but I don’t think we have to go that far to see the problem. In the last five years, I’ve seen a remarkable increase in the quantity of communications I receive that are just plain rude. I don’t know, maybe I deserve them.         Maybe I’m not the principal or the person I used to be. I’m not ruling out that possibility.     But I’ve never received so many.
    I see people (me too) firing off not completely-thought-out thoughts. People replying with words that are intended to out-blast, not out-think.
    We speak, we write, we blurt without passing any of it through a filter. Think it? Feel it?     Why not say it?
    Though e-mail has its obvious advantages, I believe it needs improvement. It needs to be able to sense if we’re writing with our heart, our head or neither.
    Perhaps it could have a memory file of several thousand insulting words. If you type one of those, your computer locks up and refuses to “send” until such time that you come to your senses. The length of that delay could be determined by sensing the degree of force with which you were banging on the keyboard.
    Or maybe our computers could read but then re-draft, with less abusive suggestions that substitute for our thoughtlessness.
    Would a better computer stop someone from shooting someone else over an absurd argument about an even more absurd topic? I doubt it.
    So maybe that’s a really stupid idea. (I’m OK with insulting myself.) But I believe we do need some sort of help. Some sort of return to a time when we knew better. Or maybe a time when we just tried harder.
    Dear God – Every so often, we forget. We lose sight and we lose track. Please help us remember there’s a better way. Yours. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

`Be sure to convert before you go dark’
By George Valadie
January 30, 2009
     I finally did it. I went and checked it out.
     I’d been putting it off, mostly because I’m very much a put-it-off sort of person. But there were other reasons.
     First, I’ve been pretty sure all along that I was going to be fine, though that idea didn’t work out all that well when I finally looked into the whole skin cancer thing. You’d think I’d learn.
     But I was also a bit afraid that if I were wrong, it would cost me money and who doesn’t try to avoid that sort of news.
     Thankfully, turns out all is well. I can relax. My television is still going to work when D-Day hits.
     As you have likely heard, Digital Day is coming on Feb. 17. And something, though I’m not quite sure what, is going to change and some televisions are no longer going to work.
     I’ll give them credit; they’ve done a great job forewarning us. My nightly local news has been telling me – nightly – for quite some time. But mostly, they keep telling me to check their website to get all the details.
     And I’ve put that off until today. When I got to their site, I was greeted with a countdown ticker. Warning: You have 23 days … 11 hours … 27 minutes … 14 seconds … 13 … 12 . . . .
     So maybe this really is important. It eerily reminded me of when the world and all our computers flipped over to the unknown dangers of Y2K on Jan. 1, 2000. We survived that,      I suppose we’ll manage this as well.
     Three years ago, on Feb. 1, 2006, the federal government declared a final deadline when local television stations can no longer broadcast the old-fashioned way. Apparently, magnetic waves are bulky and hog up way too much space in the very scarce and valuable broadcast spectrum.
     Honestly, I don’t have a clue what any of that means. It’s difficult for me to imagine how things that are invisible can be too large. Nor does it make sense to me how these things that travel via the air apparently don’t have enough air in which to travel.
     But that was the date our government set for the deadline that is now almost here - exactly three years and 17 days into what was then the future. No, I don’t understand that either. But we’ll save the topic of government confusion for another day.
     So here we are. Televisions that work via antenna won’t work that way now. No more rooftop monstrosities. No more rabbit ears with all that foil. No more twisting, turning and holding your breath as you try to sneak away from your set, as if it knew.
     Cable and satellite folks will remain undisturbed making our house good except for a little one in our bedroom. But estimates indicate some 24 million homes don’t have a cable connection and will be going dark without the necessary converter box.
     What do we make of all of this? I’m not at all sure except to know that people much smarter than I believe this is important. Better quality, improved efficiency, greater availability – I suppose these are all worthy of achieving. However, someone deems this critical enough that it’s in need of mandating.
     Televisions were invented in 1927, taking 80+ years for the changeover. What will be next? You just gotta know that other things are on the way.
     How about cars that were invented in 1889? In the search for much needed energy efficiency, when will the future unleash that new gasoline that means our vehicles will no longer work?
     Let’s be honest, they already know how to make it, but it just doesn’t mesh with our cars. Surely the day is coming when it someone will finally pull the trigger that makes the sort of fuel we use far more important than the sort of car we own?
     “Hear ye — On Feb. 1, 2015, your gasoline powered car will no longer function without a new something-or-another that is available at registered and approved vendors.”
     But history tells us – we can do these things. If you give us enough notice, mostly we’ll be fine. I just checked. Our warning is now down to 23 days … 9 hours … 37 minutes … 26 seconds … 25 … 24 . . . .
     Tickers make me nervous. They often cause me to ponder the larger perspective. Such as, how much time do I have left before – you know – I have no more time?
     Two thousand years ago, I’m guessing Christ issued the only caution we ever needed.      I don’t know exactly what he said, but it could have sounded something like “Warning — Your eternity’s not going to work out all that well unless you have gotten everything in order.
     “Be sure to re-direct your energy. Actually, you should have changed by now. Yes, many have done so already but please get the news out to the many who haven’t.
     “I have come to announce a better way. And it’s required. Your old stuff, the previous possessions, all the acquisitions – these are taking up too much valuable space in the spectrum of your life. They are interfering with the message I’m trying to send.
     “The wrong ideas will not work when it’s time. Be sure to convert before you go dark.”
     Where do we go to check on that?
     Dear God – We keep making some things better. Sometimes, it’s actually the important things. Please inspire us to improve some people. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘We need more bar graphs in our lives’
By George Valadie
January 16, 2009
     In our little corner of the world of Catholic high schools, this is one of our very busiest seasons.
     Actually, teenagers are not ever really not busy. Think perpetual motion – on hormones.
     But currently we find ourselves in the process of receiving, organizing, evaluating – and more importantly – deciding the fate of those who have submitted applications to attend next year.
     To assist with all that, Nancy is my wife and one of our two front office secretaries. People have long questioned the sanity of such a spousal/working arrangement, wondering how it allows us to co-exist on either front.
     Truthfully, it’s never been a problem, not even once. On those occasions when a parent or a teacher thinks my decision-making has gone round the bend, her loyalty has been unequivocal.
     She listens, she empathizes, and then she always relates some anecdote of our family life that demonstrates that I can irritate her just as easily.
     During the most recent week of our admissions efforts, she had the task of stuffing and mailing. Not yet at a final decision, we still needed to return admission testing results.
     She came home one recent afternoon to report on her day when she announced, “I miss my old bar graphs!”
     Earlier in our marriage, we used to say things to each other that we understood. Not so much anymore.
     “OK, dear, I wish you could find them, whatever they are.”
     “Oh, you know. I spent the day stuffing all these test results into envelope after envelope. I didn’t have time to read a word other than just to make sure that the right results were going to the right parents.
     “I think we give a better impression to families when they get information about their own child, not someone else’s, don’t you?”
     That’s why I keep her in the office.
     “Anyway, when I got to the last one I decided to read what we were sending them.           And it turns out we mostly send them a lot of educational lingo to try to explain what their kids are good at – and what they’re not.
     “But on the last page, it all came into focus. The testing company provided several bar graphs. Those are just a whole lot easier to understand.
     “Don’t you remember them back when we were in school? I loved getting those. The tall graphs were good and I used to get quite a few of those. The little short graphs weren’t. It was an easy way to know what I had been doing well.
     “I loved those bar graphs! And I miss them.”
She’s right, you know.
     We need more bar graphs in our lives. I’m not talking about then, I’m talking about now. Or at least something similar that’s official, easy to read and quick to the point. Something clear and concise that gives us a progress report on how life is going.
     We don’t much learn spelling anymore because we have SpellChek. Calculators save us from our math mistakes. And the internet provides us all sorts of information and answers to help make up for our other bar graphs that never got all that high.
     But our lives have moved on. And today we need information about these more important parts.
     How are our parenting skills? What does that graph look like? Did the girls learn independence, responsibility, how to handle the good times, how to survive the ones that aren’t? Are they ready to be good partners in marriage? Are they ready to be good moms?
     What sort of graph would measure my friendship? Or my citizenship? To those I like? And those I don’t? What about the people who need me but aren’t the ones I invite to dinner? Am I thoughtful? Can they count on me? Will I tell them the truth?
     What does the bar graph for my workplace look like? Would I be the first one the boss hires and the last one she fires? Would my colleagues vote the same way? Am I ethical? Non-gossiping? Do I make the place better than if I worked somewhere else?
     And what of my spiritual life? Is there more to it than church on Sunday? Is my faith growing? Or is it still a lot like it used to be? Most importantly, will God really welcome me home if I came knocking today?
     Thankfully, it’s another New Year. Undetermined. Wide open. Not a word has been written.
     No notes on the page. No unmet promises. No unfinished projects.
     We have nothing but opportunity and dreams, potential and possibility. But wouldn’t 2009 seem much easier if we could take advantage of where we excel and tackle the parts that we don’t.
     But it’s incredibly difficult. Mostly because we’re too close to all of this. Too close to ourselves. Who wants to guess? And who wants to flounder about?
     We just need a good set of bar graphs.
     Dear God – It was easier back then. Go here, go there. Do this, do that. Free will should come with a report card. Or is that our conscience? Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Who doesn’t have a great Christmas tree story?
By George Valadie
December 19, 2008
     Well, we did it. We crossed the great divide of wherever we were to wherever we are. We purchased our first ever artificial Christmas tree. Pre-lit, no less.
     In case anyone ever asks, I can tell them it’s supposed to have 1,000 lights and some 2,673 different tips. The directions suggested we count everything to make sure. I’m just going with it.
     There was a time when our family wouldn’t even consider it but we’ve been close to having this discussion for the last several years. Nancy is a Yuletide traditionalist at heart, so I had been trying to encourage this purchase but feeling the need to tread very, very slowly. These are things that take time.
     See, I’ve been pouting the last few years, so I’ve gotten a bit bolder.
Because you know how it is, you sweat like a racehorse just to saw off the bottom of the darn thing, because the guy at the store tried but didn’t get it quite right.
     And then there’s that part where you’re trying to balance it in the stand, tighten the four screws at the bottom, fasten the two last-chance safety strings to both corners of the nearby window frames all while standing across the room to make sure it comes together.      While they’re eating the cookie dough in the next room!
You know we’re winding it up when we get to the “OK now, does anyone want to help hang the tree lights?” which is always followed by more deafening silence.
     Per our family tradition, we conclude the tree decorating ceremony with our annual “That’s nice, dear, but there doesn’t seem to be nearly enough in the upper right hand corner. Is it too late to move some?”
     You’d think this decision would be an easy one. After 31 years, we finally sat down to talk about it when Nancy admitted, “George, here’s the honest truth. I don’t want to help you hang any lights and you don’t do it worth a darn. Can we buy a pre-lit artificial tree this year?”
     Who doesn’t have a great Christmas tree story to tell?
     The first one we ever bought as a married couple was purchased to serve two purposes. First, I felt the need to take it into what was my first classroom and set it up there to add to the students’ holiday ambience. I thought it was cool but my cool and theirs have never been the same.
     Once exams were over, I brought it home to an apartment that wasn’t nearly as tall or as spacious as a school building. There, in our little rented living room, it had the feel of a redwood, longing for the open air spaces of something more like the Rockefeller Center. But we loved it – and we laugh about it.
     Not too many Christmases later, I was serving in my first year as principal of the elementary school where my two older children were attending. Our Home & School Association parents were tackling their first-ever Christmas tree fund-raising sale.
     With hundreds pre-sold and seeming to be quite the success, the trees were to be delivered on a Saturday morning from a tree farm in the north.
     It turns out they had been cut, tied up with rope, and loaded on the truck only hours before freezing weather blasted the whole batch of them. Still, with an anxious crowd of parents and little grade-schoolers waiting, the tree truck arrived right on schedule.
     I wish you could have been there. The trees were unloaded, un-tied and stood there frozen vertically rigid in their pencil-shaped forms. Kids were crying, parents wanted refunds, and the organizers were in shock.
     Our kids were no different. But being the dutiful principal, I supported the cause and loaded up our tree to the horror of my children and the scowl of my wife. A tree that would have easily fit into a phone booth, ornaments and all.
     But we loved it – and we laugh about it. Thankfully, you can thaw out a frozen tree and it looks OK … the second Christmas miracle if you ask me.
     The next year, a dear friend invited us to take our young girls on a drive into the nearby countryside and actually cut down a fresh tree from our friend’s woodsy property. Seemed like the perfect Christmas tradition to begin, though I admit, the four of us and a tree would fit snugly in our Ford Pinto.
     As best they could tell, at ages 6 and 8, there wasn’t a single tree out there that looked like any they had seen on television. Throw in the cold weather, the tromping through the woods and Nancy hollering, “Don’t you cut one of my babies with that saw,” and well … you get the picture.
     Trying to help them get a fresh new sense of the season, all I could hear was “Why don’t we just buy one like everyone else gets to do?” The kids felt that way too.
     Sadly, or gladly, depending on who you talk to, we never went again. But we loved it – and we laugh about it.
     It’s never about the tree, is it? Not really. It’s not about the stuff that merely decorates this holiday.
     It’s much more about the stories and the people and the love that surround us.
I’m not sure who said it, but they didn’t miss it far, “Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening the presents and just listen.” May this Christmas add one more precious memory your family will re-tell forever.
     Dear God – We think of all sorts of strange things to honor your greatest gift. We mean well, we do. Thank you for understanding when we get it right in our hearts. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Maybe holiday thing starts too early’
By George Valadie
December 5, 2008
     OK, I give.
     Maybe the holiday season does begin too early. But I’ve never been one of those that ever really thought so. True, we can all get a bit stressed, trying to get here and there, trying to buy this and that.
     But for the most part, I’ve always believed the holidays make us a happier sort. I see more smiles, more patience, more effort to share with others.
     Answer honestly now. How many other times during the rest of our year do we bake cookies for the mailman? Or buy a gift for an orphan? Write a check for the homeless? Or any of the number of things we do when we’re better at life than usual.
     And – sad as it is — how many other times this year will we reach out to some family member that we’re not all that crazy about? Maybe we’ll share a meal. Possibly a gift. Sometimes it’s just a card. And though it might be a bit awkward or uncomfortable, none of that’s bad. Is it?
     So I never could see how those sorts of things can actually begin too early?
     But maybe we’ve finally hit the wall. Can we possibly be taking this giving thing too far?
     No doubt you’ve heard or read about the tragedy that occurred the day after Thanksgiving in New York. We killed a man. In an effort to get a jump start on spreading holiday cheer, we handed out a big old dose of anguish and death. On Black Friday.
     Two-thousand people lined up outside a Wal-Mart to be the first to benefit from their 5 a.m. sale. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. I don’t think anyone lined up at all.
     And as a result, it sounds as if those two thousand shoppers tried to get through the same door at once. They rushed the door, mangled the frame and then, unbelievably, trampled the man whose task was to let them in.
     I don’t know that I want to see any video but I almost need to so I can understand it.      If you can actually understand such.
     I’m finding it difficult to imagine how people stampede a fellow human being for a bunch of stuff in a store – any stuff, any store. Knock him down … maybe. Kick him in the shin while running by … I get that. An elbow in the gut … at the worst.
     But to step on a fellow – again and again and again – my brain won’t process that.
     Think about it. This wasn’t a boatload of grain being delivered to a malnourished nation of walking skeletons. These folks weren’t rushing to gather food that might save their lives. This mayhem was about high-def and blue-ray. Is there any irony in wanting to see your TV more clearly while you cannot see the hand in front of your face? His hand.
     Some reports say this gatekeeper weighed in at almost 270 pounds so you’d think that someone would have tripped over him and hit the floor themselves.
     But then someone else would have tripped over those two. And on and on and until there was an unmanageable mountain of humanity clogging up the doorway. Doesn’t it seem like we’d step back, get up, brush off, issue our apologies and move on?
     Oh no, they used this falling man as nothing more than a tiny little bump on their road to the falling prices.
     On the same page of newspaper, I read an equally disturbing report. Apparently there exists such a thing as a Campaign for Commercial-Free Childhood. With 1,400 members, they have embarked on a letter writing campaign to the nation’s toy manufacturers asking the industry cut back on their marketing to children.
     If I may, let me quote one of the parent letters from this coalition, “Unfortunately, I will not be able to purchase many of the toys that my sons have asked for; we simply don’t have the money … by bombarding them with advertisements … you are placing me in the unenviable position of having to tell our children that we can’t afford the toys you promote.”
     To which I say, welcome to the world of parenting.
     To which I say, you better not let your boys play with friends or visit their homes or watch television or be normal.
     To which I say, don’t let their school counselor expose them to private colleges.
     To which I say, use this moment to teach what other parents teach. “Santa has many children to help all over the world,” or “We want to leave some for the other boys and girls,” or maybe the best of all, “We don’t always get everything we want.”
     Because if you don’t help them learn that, perhaps they’ll grow into adults who will believe they must get their own kids whatever it is they will want – no matter the cost. Be it money or life. Yours or someone else’s.
     I don’t know. Maybe the holiday thing starts too early. Maybe not early enough. But it doesn’t matter if we can’t find the part that matters.
     Dear God – When you decided to send the gift of your Son, did you ever envision the insanity of our celebrations? Of course you did send him to save us, apparently from ourselves. Thank you. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale High School in Cordova, Tenn.)

At least one person dies from
hunger every 3-4 seconds
By George Valadie
November 21, 2008
     Strange as it may sound, I recently got invited to be part of my first famine.
     It wasn’t much of one really, especially when you think of the definition of the word.           “Famine — a drastic and wide-reaching food shortage.” My thesaurus offers synonyms like dearth and destitution, drought and misery.
     Usually, there’s a lot of death, too. We can’t forget the death.
     This particular famine was only 30 hours long, so perhaps a “fast” would be a better word. No one starved, no stomachs suffered, no one lost an ounce.
     But I’m hoping there was learning. At least I think it may have been a start.
     You never can tell what will excite our students. Maybe that’s why I like being around them – everyday is different.
     They turned out in record numbers for our Homecoming Dance but could have cared less about a costume dance for Halloween.
     They attend football games in droves but none of our springtime sports ever get that sort of attendance. They devour chicken tenders and fries at lunch but don’t have much taste for chicken salad and chips.
     They get beamingly excited about a good report card but not nearly as energetic about the preparation that produces one. Their weekend body clocks can handle some pretty late hours but their weekday clocks run slower, much slower. Or so they tell me. They’re a kick, for sure.
     So who would have guessed there would be much interest in attending our school’s first 30-hour famine.
     Hear ye, hear ye — come and be hungry. Actually, we had to turn them away.
     They were told they couldn’t eat, they were told it would cost them money, they were told they would go home tired. And still they came.
     To be fair, the idea was not ours. It is an educational activity from one of the many world-wide organizations educating people and raising funds for the suffering souls around the world who know what famine and hunger are really about.
     I had never been in a fake famine, much less a real one but the conversation inspired me to learn more.
     Google a famine, any famine.
     The first to pop up was about Ethiopia, which is reported to have lost one million of its citizens in the famines of ‘84 and ‘85.
     Apparently, there were two famines, back-to-back? Can you believe that?
     And one million dead people. Can you imagine that? Both stretch my mind beyond where it can go.
     I don’t know how anyone anywhere can accurately measure such things, but the rate currently being reported states 25,000 people die from hunger daily.
     Let’s do the math … at least one person leaves us for good every 3-4 seconds.
     One-thousand-one.
     One-thousand-two.
     One thousand-three.
     One-thousand-four.
     I can’t imagine that either.
     If you excuse the expression, hungry people eat at me.
     I don’t know how they get that way, especially here in this country. But I’m entirely sure some are in their disastrous state due to lousy decisions they’ve made. And I don’t mean their retirement investments.
     Drugs, alcohol, foolishness and waste, whatever, they are where they are because they put themselves there.
     Should we help them? I don’t know. Should we feed them? I don’t know that either, but as irritated as they make me, no matter how many consequences they have rained down upon themselves, does anyone believe they’ve earned death by starvation.
     Not to mention their children who didn’t make even one of those decisions.
     And then there are the many, many – millions, I guess – whose only sin is having been born in the wrong part of the world. No food, bad water, lousy climate, criminal despots … some or all of the above. Hungry people everywhere.
     But I feel like I’m preaching to the choir. The majority who read this publication are likely members of the church, believers in, if not disciples of, the man who said “Whenever you have done this for the least of my brethren, ....”
     We’re already organizing donation drives at our churches and food drives at our schools. We’re already volunteering at food banks and serving at soup kitchens.
     So what else can we do?
     Mother Teresa said, “If you can’t feed 100 people, then feed just one.” Perhaps we can add to that. “If you can’t recruit 100 volunteers, recruit just one.”
     Inspire one more human and you’re responsible for one less hungry one. Let’s do that sort of math.
     Dear God – Are there not enough workers? Or not enough food? Neither seems like a place you would create. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Power of prayer both amazes, confuses me
By George Valadie
November 7, 2008
     To this very day, I am both amazed and confused by the power of prayer. Often, one follows the other. And sometimes both feelings happen at once.
     My personal prayer life began long, long, ago. I guess I was four or five.
     My memory, much less accurate and a lot less vivid than it used to be, allows me to picture myself kneeling down every night beside my bed. I don’t remember the bed or the room, but I know it was there that I dutifully recited the “Now I lay me ….” though I was never sure – and I’m still not — if that was its real title.
     It was a recitation for sure. Did I actually pray? I know I didn’t have a clue about what I was saying or to whom I was saying it, but I knew Mom smiled when I did.
     A bit later, when I could comprehend all the words of that prayer, I quit using it. I guess it’s because I’ve never liked thinking about my death, especially one that might happen in the dark of night. Not then, not now.
     I also recall wrapping up each night’s prayers with the requisite addendum of “God bless my mom, my dad, and my three sisters.” I doubt I knew exactly why I was doing that either. I had never worried about them being gravely ill or getting hit by a car. And there were days I didn’t even like all of them.
     So though they didn’t seem to need me, it was what my mom taught me. I still do it today.
     In the interest of full disclosure, prayer has probably not been the most devout or consistent part of my life. There have been stretches when I pretended it wasn’t all that important. Those were the stretches when I was stupid.
     As most young people do, I began my prayer life by praying mostly for me. Well, not so much for me really, but more for the things I needed.
     I remember having lost my baseball glove and begging for its immediate return. Not that it was in danger, but more that I was if I couldn’t find it.
     My guess is that it eventually turned up – just where I had left it. And thus realized I had only been forgetful, not in need of any real miracle after all. Sadly, I’m sure I gave myself the credit and doubt that I offered even a word of thanks.
     Is it possible that was God answering the call of a scared little kid in need of what he thought was a miracle? There’s no reason he wouldn’t or couldn’t. Or was he just amused at a 10-year-old’s messy room and a way messier view of what God was all about?
     I’m guessing he enjoyed the latter.
     Still, have you ever seen or heard about some thing or some event that has occurred for which there was absolutely no human or earthly explanation?
     In other words, do you know of a miracle from God?
     The curing of cancer. The recovering of an alcoholic. The melting and mending of what seemed like a frozen and un-thaw-able heart. Maybe our own.
     Lourdes. Medjugorje. Calvary.
     One more chance. One last chance. Just one chance – period.
     Years ago, we needed $67.25 – I kid you not – to get a physical for our oldest daughter so she could get into kindergarten. Burdened with no savings and too much pride to ask for help, we decided to have a garage sale.
     When day was done, Nancy tallied the profits and we had earned exactly $67.25. To this day, she believes it was a miracle. I’m not so sure it wasn’t.
     But then there are those other times, when – in spite of all the prayers, not just mine but those of hundreds of people so much holier than I – in spite of all that, there are those times when my prayers and your prayers do in fact go unanswered. Or at least the answer is an emphatic “no.”
     I don’t get it. How does he choose from among the pray-ers? And how does he choose from among the prayed-for? I know one thing, I wouldn’t be good at being God.
     Currently, my nightly prayer list includes two people, both of whom have been suffering from a disease that has the potential to end their time here.
     Actually, I’m just one infinitely small piece of a massive network of inter-connected people who are praying for them.
     Thus far, one seems well on the road to recovery. And he has said over and over again that he is so thankful for the bounty of prayers that he knew had been offered for him. He said he could actually feel them wrapping around him. That it gave him serenity.
     And the second young lady – well, she has lost hope. She’s had the same number of praying and prayerful people working her side of this battle. But her prognosis is grim and depressing. And in my opinion, most unfair.
     Prayer. Amazingly powerful and incredibly confusing.I will forever believe in it, I just don’t get it.
     Dear God – At times, we get frustrated with our human inability to understand. And yet you know our frustrations are just another form of prayer. Thank you for hearing them. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Which neighbors should we love greatest?’
By George Valadie
October 24, 2008
     Lately, I wish I could ask him just one more time.
     But this time, in the spirit of the oft-seen press conference, I, too, would ask my own “follow-up” question. No tricks intended, I just need a clarified answer.
     “Teacher, I have a question and then a follow-up. First, can you tell us which commandment in the law is the greatest?”
     I need a review because I think his answers would help me decide what I have decided is my most undecided vote. I really am flustered and looking for advice. Well, not really, I’ve had plenty of that. I’m looking for some expert advice. A real expert.
     Maybe it’s because I’ve paid more attention to this presidential election than any other in my lifetime. Maybe it’s because this one is so groundbreaking in terms of race and gender. Or maybe it’s because the darn thing has gone on and on and on.
     But whatever the reason, I’m really in to this one.
     I’ve seen all the nasty ads and though no one ever admits to actually being nasty, they all seem to end with someone approving the message. I’ve read quite a bit and I find myself with little more than a personal struggle to decipher the lines between reporting news, commenting on it and trying to create it.
     I’ve also tried to siphon through the noise of the TV talking heads, none of whom seem to want to use theirs. And all the spin makes my head, well … spin.
     I’ve watched the debates where no one answers any questions, and gotten a robo-call where no one lets me talk. I’ve even gone on the internet to one of those sites that asks me questions and then tells me who I’m really for. And I’d never even heard of that guy.
     Nancy and I try to discuss it as best we can. But it’s one topic we don’t do very well. For our entire lives, she has favored one political party, I mostly align with the other.
     She tries to explain me to her friends by saying I have a good heart but I’m just mis-guided. She laughs at it, but believes it to the core.
     These haven’t been the only sources of information I’ve received. Not that long ago, my Sunday church bulletin came complete with a foldout flyer of additional literature we were obviously being encouraged to read.
     It seems I’ve seen more essays and position statements on the rights and duties of voters – and in particular Catholic voters – than ever before.
     Honestly, these might be the same exact pieces of church information that have come out in every other previous election. I easily could have missed it, I’ll admit that.
     Or maybe our church is more involved in this one as well.
Put it all together and I’m left struggling with which lever to pull.
     Two thousand years ago, the Teacher didn’t mince a single word answering that question. From what I can tell, he went straight to the heart of the matter.
     Though I could never say it as eloquently, it went something like this: “The first and greatest (commandment) is to love God with all your heart and every other piece of you too.”
     But he didn’t stop there, adding “And don’t forget the second one. Love your neighbor as yourself.”
     No one had asked him to name the top two. So it must have been important to him.
     If I recall, the Jewish people had grown up with several thousand laws of their own, not to mention the 10 that God had supplied.
     And of all those many dictates from which he could choose to answer that question – some issued by his own father — he up and delivers two brand new ones. And for a little dramatic effect, he says these are the two most important anyone could ever follow.
     Somewhere in those holy words of Scripture, is, I think, a message about how to vote. I think.
     We received yet another priestly commentary at last week’s Sunday Mass. We were encouraged to not only vote but to do so in a way that meshes our spiritual lives and our civil ones.
     I’m on board with all of that. But confused as to where that actually takes me. Or even where it’s supposed take me?
     “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
     And here is where I wouldn’t let him off the stage until I could inject my follow-up question.
     “Teacher, OK, now, can you tell us which of all our neighbors should we love the greatest?
     “The unborn? Those who are born but not to anyone who knows what they’re doing?      The hungry? The homeless? The imprisoned? The sinners? The people trying not to? The people inside our country? Or do you even care about geo-political boundaries that were never part of any creation of yours? The abandoned kids? The abandoned elderly?      Orphans? And what’s the word for old people with no family? The ailing? The dying? Those who want to? And those who don’t?”
     No one here seems to agree.
     Dear God – Once again, free will is never the gift we think it is. We’d hate it if we didn’t have it – and sometimes – we hate it when we do. Please send some wisdom with it. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Family visit evokes intensive house cleaning
By George Valadie
October 10, 2008
     I love Jane and Buddy and I love when they come to visit. I really do.
     But if they came any more often, I’d be dead.
     Jane is Nancy’s oldest sister and Buddy is our brother-in-law and they’ve lived in Oklahoma City since before I knew them. So we’ve never gotten to visit with each other as often as we’d like.
     We’re excited because they’ll be here soon to spend a stopover day on the way to their vacation in the Smokey Mountains. Well, it won’t really be a day, more like 15-16 hours. And for a third of those, they’ll be asleep.
     But we’ll be ready. From my point of view, it seems more like we’re getting ready for something akin to the pope’s recent visit to D.C.
     Without the security.
     You know how it is. Everyone cleans for house guests. They’ll get clean sheets and towels and a new bar of soap. I’m not talking about that sort of cleaning.
     Though I will say this, if they do look in some of those places we have cleaned, both of them have serious issues that a vacation cannot fix.
     What I’m really talking about is that we’ve been getting ready in other more let’s-re-decorate-the-house sorts of ways.
     I know it’s gonna be bad whenever she makes a duty roster. She doesn’t throw it in my face, but she does leave it clearly in view.
First, there was a list for the inside.
     We began by hanging curtains and the requisite curtain rods in the room where we watch TV. We’ve lived here nine years and I was sure we liked it as it was. Not so surprisingly, not all of us did.
     We’ve also painted the pantry door and changed its doorknob. Apparently we were going to be embarrassed by the out-of-style shiny gold finish. I’m not sure why the other cabinet doors get to stay gold-colored but they do.
     We’re looking so much better now with something called brushed nickel.
     There’s also the outside of the house. She wanted the bushes in front to be trimmed which was fine, and the garden on the side of the house to be weeded, which was not.
     We’ve also got some of those outside spotlights aimed toward the front windows which Nancy just loves. One had bitten the dust – in 2006 – and we had refrained from spending the money to replace it. Until now.
     Nancy also wanted the front door painted a different color which I had finished in the summer. But apparently the storm door didn’t match the new color all that well, though I remain convinced that is very much a matter of opinion.
     So I tried to tackle this project with a good heart, honest I did, until we discovered that they didn’t make any sort of paint that adheres to our storm door.
     There’s a solution to everything and Nancy felt like we should solve this particular one before they arrive. So now we’re priming and painting and saying bad words.
     In the backyard, our two dogs have a habit of digging holes. And I’ll be honest, there are quite a few. But we now have one less that I’ve filled in with dirt – just one, though.      And somehow she’s happy about that.
     If I were a betting man, I’d risk a salary and a half gambling that neither Jane nor Buddy will step one foot into our backyard. But if they do … we are sorta ready.
     We’re not finished either. Buddy called to joke about whether or not Nancy has gone to buy her annual pot of mums yet. He knows she always buys one for each of their visits.
     “Tell her she should wait until the last minute to get it,” he laughed. “They’ll be fresher this way and you know we can’t stay there if they’re not fresh.”
     That’s why we love their visits. They’re both hysterical. They’re both down home and home spun. They’ve known what it’s like to pinch pennies. They understand us when we lament the craziness of our kids. And they understand when the craziness is our own.
     They love church like we do but understand it’s an institution full of imperfect human beings. They like dogs, Krystal hamburgers and college football.
     They get excited about a few days in the quiet of the mountains – just with each other.      And they can laugh at each other’s flaws.
     Family is always loved, and sometimes they can even be fun. The cleaning’s not, but the family is. They’ll be here tonight; come join us, it’ll be a blast. Just don’t trip on the mums.
     Dear God – Family is one of the hardest concepts on the planet. We love them the most, so why do we let some of them get away from us? Can anyone explain it? Anyone here, I mean? Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘This Gospel’s not about wages’
By George Valadie
September 26 , 2008
     Just last week we celebrated a school-wide Mass as part of our homecoming tradition.
     It’s a bit of a chaotic arrangement, because like many Catholic schools, we have to use our gym to fit everyone in. One moment we’re using it as a prayer space for the sacrifice of the liturgy, only hours later it hosts the insanity of a pep rally.
     Out of one-thousand teenagers, I can’t say for sure but there’s a prettygood chance that at least a few allowed themselves to get distracted, at least for some portion of the hour.
     Thankfully, our teenagers are especially well-behaved given the rock hard bleachers, but I won’t ever vouch for all of them being especially focused. In what     I’ll referto as a bit of a “Call to Worship” just before we began, I reminded them that minds can roam and thoughts can wander. Stay here if you can.
     Just three days later, in our parish church, without a single basketball goal or pep club sign to distract me, I failed to heed my own advice. On a Sunday morning, my mind roamed and my thoughts wandered. Yes, I was there, but not all of me.
     Figuratively speaking, I left not long after the Gospel.
     You remember the one. It included that always-hard-to-agree-with parable about the land owner who paid all the workers the same wage, no matter how      long they had labored.
     He had promised nothing more than a “just wage.” But when he paid equal sums for unequal hours, thus began the much-to-be-expected whining from the day-long laborers. And to be honest, from me too.
     Didn’t seem fair to me either. It never has and I’ve heard that parable for quite a few years now. But each time I can’t help thinking that several of those poor workers seemed to be getting the raw end of that deal.
     And don’t you just hate that part when the owner fires back on them with      “What? Did I cheat you? We made a deal, I paid up. Are you mad because I’m generous?”
     It makes them look petty. And it makes me feel that way, too. Because, I’m — well, I guess I can be petty too. I just don’t like having it pointed out. Not even by God.
     So it was somewhere right after that excerpt of Scripture when my brain left the sanctuary.
     As fast as the mind can travel, I was suddenly sitting in my office, remembering my job and appreciating the landowner’s point of view. Thinking about the many people who have worked for me through the years.
     Among many things, my job means I must pay each of them. Deciding people’s salaries is relatively simple when you rely on a predetermined scale. But set amounts don’t exist for everything. And I’m not sure they should.
     Should every coach make the same? Should every Key Club sponsor earn an equal sized stipend? For that matter, does every teacher really put forth equal quality work? Equal effort? Do they have the same passion? Do they all even love kids the same?
     And what exactly is a just wage? Is it the same as a fair wage? Does it mean everyone and everything has to be equal to be fair? In this office, I’ve never thought so.
     And – if I ever decided to help one poor struggling teacher more than another – would that be so horribly wrong?
     Just as quickly as my brain had arrived in my office, I was swept away to our living room of several years ago. There sat three daughters arguing about who in their teenage years had gotten to drive the best car and who had been forced to drive the worst. Not to mention the debating, re-living and re-hashing of “You never wore the re-cycled dresses; I always got those, you always got the new ones.”
     Some of that is true. What could we say? Fair is not equal. All of them can quote it, but none of them agree with it.
     Floating through time and space, I arrived back in my pew just in time to get the real point.
     This Gospel’s not about wages or cars or dresses. It’s about heaven and hell and who gets to go where. And more importantly, who gets to decide. And it’s not me.
     Left to us, it would likely be a much different crowd who walks through the doors of eternal happiness.
     Be honest. Do we think it’s really “just” that we live a life of goodness only to find ourselves in the same heaven with all those who lived a life of sin? Will it be fair that someone gets to “see the light” only hours before they actually see the light?
     Should these people get to go to heaven too? With all of us. I’m being petty again, aren’t I? Maybe even presumptuous.
     In one moment I was off somewhere agreeing with the perspective of the generous landowner, the God who gets to decide who and what and how much.      Yet, in another split second, I was finding him not only unfair but just wrong.
     And there it is. I guess I’m one of the reasons that parable was written. Me – maybe you – all of us seeing the world with our human “fair is equal” eyes. Thank      God – he’s the landowner and we just work there!
Dear God – In our saner moments, we know that Father knows best. We just need to pray for more of those. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Young mind ‘a very scary place’
By George Valadie
September 12 , 2008
    I’ll be honest. I wasn’t planning to watch one bit of the Olympics. But I did and I watched a lot.
    It wasn’t the swimming, the gymnastics, the Redeem Team or even the beach volleyball uniforms. I’m even more shallow than that. As goofy as it sounds, the only reason I got into it at all was my daughter’s boyfriend’s high-definition TV.
    From the opening moment on the opening night, I was amazed. Not just at the picture, but all that was being pictured. I was struck by the incredible – yes, that’s the right word — the unbelievable synchronization of those Chinese performers.
    It went far beyond two high divers trying to impress the judges. They offered the precision of a thousand people which impressed millions more. Honestly, I struggle to get all our seniors lined up in the same place at the same time to march in for their graduation.     These people took my breath away.
    And before that first evening was complete, I was cheering for the little nine-year-old     Chinese guy who marched in at the front of their country’s delegation.
    Perhaps you heard his story. He was a student inside one of their public schools that collapsed in the country’s deadly spring earthquakes. How does a country lose 70,000 of its people and ever recover? 70,000 humans.
    The boy found himself under block and brick, buried with the desks and the dead. But he crawled out to safety, then turned right around and climbed back in. Climbed IN to the rubble to look for any classmates he could possibly help. This kid is just nine.
    When he was asked why he would have done such a thing, he said, “I’m the hall monitor, that’s my job.” That got me started and I was hooked for the next two weeks.
    And boy, I got into it. I cheered for every one of our teams that I watched. I got teary eyed when our medal winners won and sometimes when our losers lost. And I even wished – but only momentarily – that I could have had the discipline to have trained my body like they have done.
    But the Olympics also taught me about the Chinese government and a little bit about us. And not all of it was as good.
    There were all the rumors of the gymnasts who were impressive enough, but maybe not old enough. There was the usual list of winners who were stripped of their medals because they had a heart but they also had illegal drugs flowing through it.
    And there were all the stories of how the host nation was able to put on such an impressive display. Foreign protesters were denied visas. Native protesters were required to file a permit and then arrested for doing so. And the awesome opening night display came after a 51-hour dress rehearsal, 51 consecutive hours.
    But it’s all over now and we’re back to doing what we do. So wouldn’t it be great if somehow this year proved to be an Olympic medal-winning sort of school year for the children in your life. I mean without the cheating, the jail time and the illegal drugs.
    I’m not so much talking about the academic part of school, though that is the most important part. I’m talking more about the rest of the stuff that makes up their year … friends and activities, the lunch table they choose, the birthday parties that choose them.     Isn’t it always the unimportant stuff that seems to matter most?
    The young mind is a very scary place. Students, especially as they get older, begin to worry about how they look and how they sound. Some get the school stuff easily but don’t want peers to know it. Others struggle to get it but don’t want anyone to know that.     Some get it and brag; some don’t — but they brag too.
    Mostly, they just try to fit in. Except the hole they’re trying to fit in is ever changing, ever evolving, a moving target made more difficult because well, first of all, there is no real hole.     But they think there is. So they keep trying to be whatever that is.
    To make matters worse, it’s not a hole of their own making. Other kids – and us parents — shape it, mold it, decide who and what and how.
    Perhaps most challenging of all, they think it keeps moving. But it’s not the hole that ever moves … it’s our kids who — no matter what we say — think it keeps moving. (I told you it was scary in there.)
    I can’t help but think of Michael Phelps, not the Olympic superstar, but the big-eared kid with ADHD who couldn’t get it together. The one they made fun of. How popular was he back then?
    Or worse, how would you like to be Yang Peiyi? She’s the seven-year-old the Chinese government more or less publicly declared wasn’t cute enough to be on TV. They loved a little piece of her, just not the crooked teeth and a pudgy face. If her own government insulted her looks, imagine what her classmates might do.
    I suppose the bottom line is that no school year and no kid is perfect. Not mine, not yours, not theirs. Not the cool kids, not the smart kids, not the all-time Olympic medal-winner nor the kid whose voice was chosen to represent 1.5 billion people. On the largest world stage imaginable.
    So we parents are left doing what it is we do. Helping them be who God wants them to be. And no one else.
    Dear God – The world comes together on occasion to shake hands with the defeated, not to bury them. Please grant us many more days like that. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘We’re there for each other’
By George Valadie
August 22 , 2008
     Well, I’ve discovered one really good thing.
     I know she can’t live without me … I think. At least not as long as the planet has bugs and frogs and stuff.
     Recently, I had the opportunity to attend a week-long out-of-town conference at my old alma mater. I had been telling Nancy I really needed to go; but she knew it was more that      I really wanted to go.
     I wasn’t actually lying but she does know me pretty well.
     Honestly, in our 31 years of marriage, we haven’t spent that many days or nights away from each other. Our careers have never caused either one of us to live that travelling sort of life.
     We do it some, but when the daily household chores were divided, I got bug duty. And I was gone.
     While I was away, we spoke daily. I told her about the 81-degree days and the even-cooler nights. She kept me in the loop about school happenings, our daughters and the latest antics of our two dogs.
     And then one evening, not too long after we had said our good-nights and I-love-yous, I answered my cellphone to hear her screaming. Literally. That will make your heart stop.
    “There’s a fro-o-o-o-o-o-o-g.” It was hard for me to make out just what she was saying at 500 decibels, but the standard English, normal volume translation is “frog.”
    “Did you say there’s a frog, honey?”
    “Y-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-s-s-s-s!”
    “Did it come in the house, honey?”
    “No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o! It’s on the patio-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!”
    “Is it trying to come in the house, honey?”
    “No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o! It’s dea-ea-ea-ea-ea-d-d-d-d-d-d-d!”
    “If it’s dead, then what’s the problem, honey?”
    “The do-o-o-o-o-o-o-g-g-s-s are trying to bring it i-i-i-i-i-n-n-n the hou-ou-ou-ou-ou-s-s-s-s-e! To ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-t-t-t-t-t it-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t!”
     If you’re having trouble staying with this conversation, that’s sorta where I was. Only she was making her point with 9-1-1 intensity.
     Looking back now with the advantage of much clearer hindsight, I think I made my biggest mistake when I chuckled a little bit. Or it could have been all the “honeys” weren’t helping. Or perhaps when I offered this tidbit of long-distance advice, “Honey, you’re just going to have to buck up.”
     No matter, it was quickly apparent I had made a mistake of some significant magnitude.
     To which she replied, “I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I ha-a-a-a-a-a-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-e-e-e-e-e you-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u!”
     Loud or not, I heard all of that absolutely perfectly.
     Still I hated to end the conversation – or our marriage — that way. So I mistakenly offered yet another dose of what I thought were very practical suggestions and handy tips.
     She followed with, “You’ve left me in this jungle. Goo-oo-oo-oo-oo-d-d-d-d Bye-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!”
     Just to be clear, the jungle to which she was referring was our neighborhood. This is the same house she didn’t want to buy several years ago because there were no trees anywhere in sight.
     Thankfully, she called back just a few minutes later with the problem resolved. The marriage was tenuous, but the problem was resolved.
     She relayed all the gory details. She had fought off our two puppies. Singlehandedly, and with extreme bravery, she had scooped up the deceased frog with our puppy pooper-scooper (my idea). And then, venturing into the backyard portion of the “forest,” she tossed it.
     At the time, I couldn’t tell if she had tossed the frog or the $14.99 scooper, but I knew better than to ask. It was clear though that the frog was still intact, still dead, over our fence, and into someone else’s unsuspecting world.
     Nancy does a lot of great things, but she doesn’t do spiders, lizards, little bugs, big bugs, or apparently frogs. Never has. And that’s OK. It gives me hope for a long life together.
     It’s how we make it through.
     It’s how we all make it through, isn’t it?
     Through life, through stuff, through things, bumps, bruises, and hard times. We all make it through with and because of others. We have people to pick us up (or the frogs) when we’re struggling.
     But sometimes, they can’t. On those occasions, it’s them being in our hearts and minds with nothing but their encouraging words or prayers because sometimes the realities of life mean no one can be there for us — except us.
     As humans, we know the truth. We will not and cannot make it very far – or very well — without someone. It’s why he put two of us in the Garden.
     We’re there for each other.
     At least we ought to be.
     Dear God – Most of the time, it’s not that easy. People need us for far more than that. They need our strength when they have none. Please help us share the best of who we are. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘And now she’s rubbing it in. Mercilessly’
By George Valadie
July 25 , 2008
    My wife is a wonderful woman, a devoted and loving wife and mother, a dedicated, professional employee but honestly, she’s been kinda hard to live with lately. Rubbing it in at most every turn. If she were bragging about anything I just listed, she’d be entitled. But not about this. This travesty of justice.
    There can’t be many families who haven’t been bitten by some aspect of the current economic stress. And of course sitting at the top of the predatory food chain is the gluttonous gobbling being done by gas, food and almost any other price on the market.
    At our home, we’re blessed. And believe me, I know it. Yes, we’ve had to cut back. But we haven’t lost our house or our car. We still got to go on a bit of a vacation. Our fridge isn’t empty. We’re not frantic yet.
    But some are. In addition to an increase in prices, our society has seen a parallel increase in folks who aren’t just distressed, they’re desperate. And they’ve decided there’s only one way to solve their problems.
    Illegally. Shoplifting and stealing – people’s stuff or their identities or both. And we have not been immune.
    Not that long ago, Nancy stopped at a convenience store to pump some gas. She stepped outside her car, used her card, but never went inside. And amazingly, while she was watching the dollar dials roll by, someone reached through our open passenger side window and swiped her wallet from the front seat.
    She was on one side of our car, the thief on the other. She was spending our money, they were stealing it.
    So recently, even though we’ve been talking about doing it for years, we decided to research our credit history and credit scores. Who knows if some unknown someone had messed it up?
    And now she’s rubbing it in. Mercilessly.
    In our 31 years of married life, I can’t recall having purchased a single major item that we don’t co-own. The house is in our names, the cars are in our names, the college loans for our kids are in our names. But still we were advised to check each of our histories separately.
    I was stunned. Thankfully, there wasn’t anything listed we hadn’t put there ourselves.     We own it all. But it turns out we not only have different credit histories, we have different credit scores and – this is the very worst part – hers is better than mine. And she’s rubbing it in.
    I’m not sure how this happened really. Apparently I got stuck with the big ticket items and her credit is responsible for a $79 weedeater we bought four years ago with our Lowe’s card.
    It’s not fair. It’s not right. I would protest except I have an irrational fear of credit bureaus. Honestly though, I wouldn’t care nearly as much if she wouldn’t keep rubbing it in.
    Me: “Honey, look at that bumper sticker on the back of that car over there.” Her: “I can’t see what it says.” “Really, even with your glasses?” “No, but my credit score is better than yours!”
    “Honey, do you know what happened to that cash that was by my wallet?” “Yes, I spent it.” “You took all of it?” “Yes, my credit score is better than yours.”
    “Honey, do you want to watch the Cardinals or the British Open?” “How about the Lifetime channel?” “Are you kidding me?” “No, my credit score is better than yours.”
    You get the idea. It’s been that way ever since.
    I will say surveying our credit history was like strolling backward through time. There were memories of our first home, our first new car, my first teacher’s salary.
    There were two babies when we had very little and a third who came along later when we were doing better and had a little more little.
    There was the stuff of our young married lives, little pieces of our youth we thought we just had to have at the time. All gone from our lives now — the irrelevant, the unimportant, the desires of the immature.
    But it wasn’t all like that. Some were much wiser choices, such as when we dug in deep to provide for our children, especially their education. Nancy even stayed at home with our babies – I recall those days so well – when she likely had no credit rating at all.
    No matter the sorts of choices that we parents make, who hasn’t sacrificed for our kids?     Less savings, fewer vacations, down-sized retirement. I’m OK with all of it, and I wouldn’t want a single dollar of it back.
    Today, years later, our children are grown up and moved out. Our home is much too empty and far too quiet. And in a story that’s directly related, our financial world is back to right-side-up.
    But I have to admit those early days seemed like a lot more fun. More stressful, but more fun. And with Nancy’s new score thrown in my face, well, they now qualify as the good ole days.
    Dear God – Some have lost their homes, others their cars; some can’t feed families, some can’t feed themselves. They’re the ones who need our prayers – and you – the most. Today. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

`Let’s pray for them all’
By George Valadie
June 27 , 2008
     Gloucester, Massachusetts.
    My guess is I don’t have to say much more than that and you already have a sense of where this might be headed.
    You’ve no doubt heard the news stories coming from this heretofore mostly unknown oceanside fishing town of 30,000. They’re learning what it’s like to be deluged with the tsunami-sized waves of unflattering national media attention.
    TIME magazine was the first to report the story of 17 girls (now 18), most ages 15-16, who all became pregnant through the course of the past school year.
    That by itself ought to be enough to get most folks’ attention. But the uproar seems to be much more focused on reports some of these girls agreed to get pregnant together. Or maybe “be pregnant” together. Or at least “raise children” together.
    And I’ll admit it, that’s exactly what caused me to read on. (From my own experience, I’m amazed that many teenage girls could agree on much of anything.)
    There is any number of interesting facets to the entire story. This was four times the school’s annual average. The area’s citizenry is predominately of the Catholic faith. The public school they attend offers pregnancy testing. More than a few had displayed noticeable dismay when previous tests proved negative.
    The same school offers a daycare for any girls who are trying to be both mother and student. Not one of these 18 dropped out of school. Thus far, none plan to. Many of the fathers-to-be are not fellow students, including one now very famous homeless 24-year-old. The list goes on.
    The headline was crazy. The details make it more so.
    These young girls – and they are nothing more than girls – face a difficult and sizeable chunk of their upcoming lives without the benefit of a husband to make the task easier.     Not that they should make a new pact to find one of those.
    If it “takes a village” to raise a child, and it often does, starting with just one more person would be a plus. And these kids don’t even have that. In addition to not having a partner to love and cherish, there’s also no one there to help with the practical things – paying the bills, feeding the baby, stopping the tears, hers and her baby’s.
    Yes, single parents tackle it all the time and with incredible and amazing successes. And some did jump in when they were but 15 years old, but the odds aren’t all that good.
    Though there are days when you won’t find anyone in my own house to back me up, I like to think my kids and my wife have had a better shot because there were two of us.
    In the principal world, I’ve known several young ladies who have faced pregnancy while still in our school. It’s a challenge for everyone. Once you’ve moved past the emotions of her and her family, you then have to tackle those of everyone else, a lot of everyone elses.
    Thankfully, every Catholic school with which I’ve ever been associated expects these young people will stay in school, our school. But not everyone sees it that way.
    “Just kick her out. Can’t you make her study at home? You’re not gonna let her win any awards, are you? She’s going to look stupid in that cap and gown, you should tell her that.”
    And yes, I’ve worried about the mother-to-be and all she will likely endure from those classmates who won’t even try to silence their disapproval. And yes, I’ve prayed about what might happen to that unborn child if our school can’t find a way.
    Lastly and most importantly, I’m a dad and I hurt for those little girls, and for their moms and dads. It’s not hard to imagine how dramatically all of their lives will soon change – forever. And it’s not hard to imagine how each of these fathers and mothers is questioning themselves. That’s what I’d be doing.
    Take that, you horrible moms and dads. Why didn’t you love your children any better than that?
    Maybe there’s some truth to that. Some parents just aren’t very good at it. But all 18 teenagers? As many as 36 parents? I’m not buying that. For sure, something went awry.     But throwing parents under the bus isn’t fair.
    There were bad decisions everywhere, enough to last them a lifetime. Well actually, they will. So let’s pray for all of them.
    Dear God – How often do we mess things up and then turn to you to bail us out? You don’t always fix it all but you do always hear it all. Please help us give you less to listen to. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Gotta love my wife for trying’
By George Valadie
May 30 , 2008
     How do I say this politely – and smartly. How about – my wife is a control freak. OK, maybe that’s not so smart. And maybe she’s not quite that extreme.
     But there’s no question Nancy has some control issues. It took a few decades of marriage and family life before we dared bring it up, but now we can talk and laugh about it openly, though carefully.
     She’s on my mind because we recently spent eight hours in the car together. And among the many topics we discussed, one was our eventual retirement. Or should I say our hoped-for eventual retirement.
     I acknowledge we lack some of the fine-tuned details for our plan. Actually, we lack most of the details; and none of the ones we do have are tuned much at all. And it’s the she-can’t-make-it-happen-her-way thing that’s bothering her.
     We have some close friends who talked for years about their plan. They knew the state where they wanted to move and the lake they wanted to overlook, the porch where they wanted to sit and the sort of house they wanted attached to that porch. And today, that’s exactly what they’ve built and where they sit.
     You could say our own plan is a bit up in the air. We used to talk about a downtown condo where we could walk everywhere. But now we dream of acreage where our dogs can run everywhere. Not that it matters, neither us nor the dogs have a nickel.
     But she’s always been locked in to one very unshakeable part of this plan. She hopes for – no, she’s very much expecting we’ll all end up in the same city.
     Imagine that. Thinking the two of us, all three of our daughters and their families would all move to the same city to be there for our retirement years. A city, I might add, where not any of us currently resides.
     And that was the car-ride topic of her most recent uncontrolled – and uncontrollable – issue. “I can’t believe they’re going to mess up my plan. I don’t think one of them is going to cooperate. I used to think that, but not now.”
     By “used to,” she means when they were still wee ones and used to say things like “Mommy, we love you, we’re going to live with you forever. We hate boys.”
     Over the years, she’s tried to control other aspects of their lives – with equal non-success. She’s wanted all of their boyfriends to be perfect, and they haven’t. She’s wanted all of their degrees to be earned in four years, and they weren’t.
     And she’s wanted each of them to be independent women who marry independent men who somehow mutually and miraculously agree to live, work and bear children in the specific place and timeframe Nancy desires. And I’m pretty sure they won’t.
     But the truth of it all exists on a much different level. She doesn’t just worry about them. And she doesn’t have any real desire to control them. But she most definitely is bothered that she can’t save them. Not from the pain of a broken heart, a failed class, or those bad decisions that reap even worse results.
     It’s not all about our daughters though. On occasion, she’s suggested my shirts haven’t matched my ties, my ties haven’t matched my suits and my suits haven’t matched the occasion. Not too long ago, I had enough. And I told her that. Sort of.
     “OK, dear, that’s it. You try to control everything. You know you do. And I’m tired of it. I’m taking charge from here on. I’m exerting my manhood. And you’ll just have to get used to it. So, will you please make me a list of the few things you’d be OK with me controlling.”
     There’s a huge difference between actually controlling people’s lives, an overbearing and demeaning trait which she knows nothing about, and a mom who wishes she could help make her children happier.
     There’s a huge difference between people who ruin others’ lives for their own gratification and those who just hope for others to have better because they know there’s a better to be had.
     There’s a difference between watching power go awry and watching children go away.      And recalling all too well how much you couldn’t wait to do the very same thing.
     Nancy’s never really wanted to micro-manage them, however, she does want control of the bad stuff that awaits them. Nor does she want control of me, … well, yes she does.
     How many parents want the exact same thing. At this time of year, how many moms and dads are saying good-bye to one phase of their kids’ lives and hello to the unknown that awaits them next.
     There are kindergarteners moving on to the big bad world of grade school; eighth graders simultaneously facing high school and teenage hormones; and high school grads moving into a dorm perhaps never to return.
     And for every kid looking forward to and excited about skipping through the land mines ahead, there are twice that many parents who would gladly go first – or instead. Or who wish they could at least suggest, if not direct, each step along the way.
     My wife has control issues and a family – and she can’t control either one. But you gotta love her for trying.
     Dear God – We often pray for “serenity” and “courage” and “the wisdom to know the difference.”’ But we’d also prefer your timing to be on our schedule. I bet we make you laugh. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Holtman, Wallace, send me resumes’
By George Valadie
May 16 , 2008
     Mallory Holtman and Liz Wallace.
    I’d like to meet them. I wish I’d taught them. I wish I could hire them. More than all of that, I wish I were like them.
    They’re my two newest heroes. Heroines, I guess. Try not to forget their names.
    Anyone who knows me well would know I really like sports. I’m a pretty big fan. They would also know I’m not any good at any of them. Not now, not ever.
Sometimes, I admit though, it’s hard to be a fan of everything that happens in this world.     These are all games played by human beings and thus subject to human foul-ups. Scandals. Poor sportsmanship. The crazy kid driven by the crazier parent. Coaches can be the craziest of all.
    I googled the phrase ‘poor sportsmanship’ and came up with 735,000 entries. Most anyone can rattle off a list of the sadness. Steroids in baseball — high school thru professional — make the big news, but it’s not unknown in the Tour de France.
    The National Basketball Association has been trying to recover from an unseemly referee and the fact their players’ sexual exploits are nightly late show fodder.
    The best team in the National Football League is suspected of videotaping against the rules. And the best player on my favorite team hasn’t played for a year because the league got tired of his being arrested. I did too.
    It’s not just the participants. NASCAR fans throw garbage at the victor when he makes his winning lap. College pep bands have been banned from travelling and suspended from playing because they no longer make music, they make fun. The organizers of the Olympics were scourged for taking bribes.
    In my own state, our high school athletic association has implemented a “mercy rule” in several different sports. When Team A gets far ahead of Team B, the clock rules are modified to make the games go faster. It’s a great idea, but made a necessity only because some coaches couldn’t restrain themselves from pounding the opposition into an embarrassing humiliation.
    And then, there’s Mallory Holtman and Liz Wallace.
    Perhaps you’ve heard. I wish I’d been there. They play softball for Central Washington University. Recently, their team was locked in a doubleheader duel with Western Oregon University. Both had a late-season shot, but neither had ever earned a spot in the NCAA tournament for Division II teams.
    In a scoreless game, Western Oregon’s Sara Tucholsky came to bat with two runners on base. For the season, she had a total of three hits.
    Surprisingly, she cracked a three-run homer, the first ever of her high school or college career. You can just picture her excitement. And you can imagine her trip around the bases, head and feet in the clouds. At least her feet were there, because she actually missed first base. That can’t happen and she knew it.
    So she turned around and headed back to make sure, her body going one way, her knee going the other. She dropped to the dirt in pain, unable to go forward, hardly able to crawl back.
    The rules of the game are simple. If her coach or teammates touch her to assist, she’s out. Substituting another player is acceptable, but the home run becomes a single because the sub must begin where the injured player finished. Either way, her first homerun would become no homerun. And that’s the moment where Mallory and Liz gave me hope.
    Both were playing defense in the field for the opposing Central Washington team. Mallory played first base, Liz was at short.
    And as the umpires and the coaches discussed the options that did exist, Mallory stepped in to offer one for the ages. “Is there anything that says our team can’t carry her around?”
    Are you kidding me! The umpire admitted nothing in the rules prohibited such. So Mallory hollered at Liz, both picked up their opponent, and all three headed toward her first homerun. Stopping at each base, they gently dipped her down so she could touch each with her good leg.
    They dropped her off at homeplate into the waiting arms of her teammates and then headed back to the field to get ready for the next batter. As a result of their Good Samaritan act, which they couldn’t have known at the time, they had hand-delivered the game winning run to the other team, eliminating any hope of their own team advancing to the playoffs.
    This wasn’t the pros — no huge budget for advance scouting. Mallory and Liz likely had no idea that Sara was a senior, a bad hitter, and had never hit a homerun. But they did it anyway.
    Best of all, they had no idea that there was any other way to handle the situation at hand. “Honestly,” Mallory said, “it’s one of those things that I hope anyone would do for me.”
    No, Mallory, they wouldn’t. But you did, and it gives me hope. That games are still good.     That competition isn’t absurd. And that what actually matters is ‘how you play the game.’
    Mallory Holtman and Liz Wallace.
    Dear God - To those to whom much has been given, much will be expected in return. And that includes your physical gifts. Thank you for each one of them, please re-send perspective, it was not included in the previous shipment. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Graduates: Let friends know your feelings
By George Valadie
May 2 , 2008
    My family was abuzz last week.
    Our eldest daughter got an exciting new job opportunity, and though it should have been, that wasn’t the reason. And it seems like the youngest will pull an A in her night class, but that wasn’t it either. Nancy was the target of a really nasty phone call at her job by a really insulting jerk of a human being. I came home to find her choosing between a glass of wine or a shot of blood pressure medicine but that wasn’t it either.
    We’re a much shallower family than that.
    “Grey’s Anatomy” was finally coming back to Thursday night TV for five new episodes. I could say it was all those females in the clan – but I’ll admit I’m right in there, too.
Every May, the TV networks dedicate quite a bit of their advertising time to promote their own shows. It’s that time of year when the words “Season Finale” get repeated again and again. With the best of the best, the writers find a way to leave us hanging.
    On rare occasion, we’re even blessed with a television classic. We’ve all known those few successful shows that have remained entertaining for an atypical number of years (more than one). For whatever reason, these storylines and characters have been engaging enough to have survived an ever-changing culture, our evolving taste, the flood of cable and the drought of writers’ strikes.
    But – as do all good things – even the masterpieces come to an end. And when they do, the networks devote more energy to turn the annual “Season Finale” into an even more blockbuster “Series Finale.”
    Recall the final episodes of “M*A*S*H” and “Seinfeld,” “Friends” and “The Sopranos” – the list goes on. By all counts, these rank among the most watched TV programming in history.
    In a way that’s hard to describe, we hate when these shows go away because we feel like it’s not just the show that’s leaving, it’s the people, as if they were real.
    Think back to your own favorite. Admit it, we’re right in there with them. We curse at the set when they’re stupid and we grieve the character who shockingly dies. For the greatest writers, it begins with us watching with our eyes; but it always ends with us relating with our emotion.
    So when they no longer drop by for their weekly visit into our living rooms, for a while anyway, we’re left with that feeling of needing to know more.
    Where did they move and who married whom? Were they successful, did their relationships work out, did their lives work out? Did they stay close friends or have they even stayed in touch? Will they ever get together again? And if they do, can we come?
    So here we are – kicking off this month of May endings when so many in our nation will celebrate a different sort of “series finale.” Graduation.
    This is the sort of student finale where the story’s end actually is hanging and, in much the same way, many of us won’t ever get to know how it does. Their families (the writers if you will) will have access to how it all turns out. But many of us will not.
    Through the years, they’ve woven their way into our hearts and now we’re going to miss them. And we just have to know more. The unanswered questions are much the same. As teachers or friends, alumni or onlookers, mostly, we’ll just wonder.
    But perhaps worst of all, it’s the students themselves who get left out of so many of the endings. Not their own, those of their friends.
    As much as I love presiding over our yearly procession of very proud and deserving graduates, it’s as if I can also feel the sadness they don’t yet know they will someday have.
    Though I watch them hug and hear them promise, I wonder – no, I worry – if they actually will stay in touch. We get to have so few friends in our lives, how can we let them, even one of them, get away?
    Every year, I hope they’ll be better at it than I have been. Every year, I hope they can avoid the stuff of life getting in their way as I’ve allowed it into mine. For myself, I never imagined so many of those very good friends would or could fall out of my life.
    But truthfully, most all were allowed to slip away. Last week, my mom told me about the recent death of a high school classmate’s mother. It’s getting easier to imagine so I felt compelled to reach out. I sat down to pen a brief note and realized I hadn’t seen, spoken to or even written to her in some 15 years.
    I encourage each class of grads to reach out. Do it now. Find some way, any way – to let your friends know your feelings.
    The spoken word doesn’t come easy, it never has. Teens may find themselves tongue-tied and stumbling and it might even come across more embarrassing than sincere. But I believe it’s worth a shot. Or, they could write it all down. Make it the best thing they’ve ever written, pour it out from the heart and say what you hope they know, but you never said.
    Is it too late to work for us old folk too?
    The series may end. Do the friendships have to?
    Dear God – Of all your greatest hits, it’s the gift of friendship that’s the #1 best seller. May our collection just grow and grow. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Consumers should place more value on education
By George Valadie
April 18 , 2008
    I suppose I’m here to gripe.
    That’s not very becoming, is it? I realize such an approach doesn’t usually help things all that much. I’m OK when people come into my office to do the same, but it’s so much easier to endure when they also come with at least one reasonable suggestion to make life better.
    But I don’t think I have one.
    I guess it was an odd confluence of random events and thoughts that brought me to this frame of mind.
    Thinking back over the last several weeks, I believe it began when our bookkeeper reminded me we needed to prepare new employment contracts for the teachers who would be returning next year. She brings the drafts, I smooth out the details.
    Somewhere in that same week, Nancy was telling me she had delayed working with our personal taxes as long as she could. She knew we were going to owe more and had been trying to postpone the pain.
    Part three penetrated my thoughts because we’ve both been keeping pretty close tabs on the excitement of this whole election process. And details were recently published about the various candidates’ tax returns.
    Stay with me, because as strange as it may sound, opening day of major league baseball season played a huge part as well. I’ve been a huge Braves fan since they first moved to Atlanta. I loved Aaron and Niekro. They morphed into Murphy and Mahler, who turned into Chipper and Andruw, Smoltz and Glavine.
    I get excited every spring, hoping for two things – that this will be the summer they win another World Series and that somehow I’ll get an opportunity to see a game in person.
    Lastly, I teach economics where we discuss how consumer demand can drive up prices – be it for gasoline, Iowa corn or tickets to Hannah Montana.
    Blend all that together into the various recesses of my brain and here I am. Griping.     Voicing my irritation and exasperation about the disappointing financial realities that face teachers in general, but most especially those who choose to ply their trade in the Catholic schools.
    It’s never been a secret to anyone who’s ever considered the profession. No one does it for the money. There isn’t any. There never has been and there never will be. The rewards come in another life.
    Though I can’t speak for every diocese across the country, teachers in Catholic schools seem to have the shorter end of that stick. Don’t get me wrong, there are some really nice advantages to working here. We have but one student fight a year. The rogues of the school are guilty of having too much sass, chewing too much gum, and trying to slip by with their non-uniform belts. And maybe I’ve just been incredibly lucky, but in my 31 years of Catholic education, I’ve never been threatened by a student and I don’t know a single teacher who has.
    But as great as all that is, none of it can be traded for anything at Kroger’s. It won’t buy a gallon of gas. And it certainly won’t feed their families.
    Apparently, President Clinton gets paid an awful lot to step before the microphone. Miley Cyrus earns her fortune doing almost the same thing. But the proverbial “straw” for me was the baseball salaries.
    In a recent edition of USA TODAY, the 2008 contract amounts of all the current pro players were revealed. If I understood what I read, they will make – for their baseball efforts this one spring and summer — a combined total of $2.5 billion. One season, 30 teams, 858 players, $2.5 billion. That is not a mis-print.
    I’ve had the privilege to work in four different Catholic dioceses in my educational career. In round numbers, they represent a total of some 75 elementary and high schools being served by approximately 1,850 teachers.
    Given what I know about the salaries in these places, for all of those teachers to earn their $2.5 billion, it will take all 1,850 of them combining for – not one year – but for 50.
    A thousand more teachers than players, one mission, 50 years. And that’s not a mis-print either.
    The most important stat of all — how many students will they touch in that same period of time?
    Who or what’s at fault? Honestly, I don’t even know if there is any. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think any of these people are in any way wrong for making what they can. No one forces consumers to pay.
    Honestly, if I can afford the travel and the tickets, I’ll go. And I’ll probably pay some really stupid prices for peanuts and hot dogs. In a way, if I do, I suppose that would make me part of the problem as well.
    As many have done before me, I just wish consumers would place the same sort of value on the education they consume.
    Maybe they’re not supposed to be paid more. I don’t know, after all, didn’t he say, “Give up all you own and follow me.”
    But does it really have to be all?
    Dear God – Sometimes, we temporarily lose sight of the big stuff. And sometimes we just go blind. Please rub mud on our eyes. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Mom keeps silly tradition so kids stay forever young
By George Valadie
April 4 , 2008
    There they were, all lined up on our mantle. A collection of cute little Easter baskets complete with springtime colored eggs, tasty chocolate rabbits and lots of that green, plastic grass.
Easter Sunday hasn’t changed all that much at our house over these many years.
    I’m proud to say we at least kicked off this year’s celebration by making it to Mass together, putting first things first, and looking pretty darn good for our crew of eight. Only afterward did they dig through the goodies the Easter Bunny had delivered as he has every year since 1978 when our eldest was born.
    Don’t get me wrong, that order of events wasn’t always how it happened. Used to be the ceremonial digging through those baskets came before church. Heck, they were just kids, I couldn’t blame them. Who cared as long as we could get them clean before they came anywhere near their Easter outfits.
    In the worst of our parenting days, I’m pretty sure we traded jelly beans for bubble baths.
    That was a long time ago. Over those many years, two things have changed dramatically about the people who were now plowing through this year’s baskets.
    First, not all of them are even related to the Easter Bunny. This group has now grown to include not only our three daughters, but one son-in-law, and two boyfriends all of whom feel part of the family.
    The other significant change is the ages of these candy consumers, they are now — in order — 31, 29, 28, 27, 26, and 21 years old, but every bit as excited as they’ve ever been.
    Part of our Easter Bunny basket tradition has been to also include some small gift for each. In bygone days, that meant little surprises for the girls like pantyhose (before they quit wearing them), make-up (before they were picky), or maybe a wallet with a crisp dollar bill (before they earned more than we do). You get the idea.
    And there they were this year as well – six little gift-wrapped nuggets. Something for each of our girls, as well as golf shirts, Sudoku puzzle books and March Madness chocolate candy basketballs for the three guys who were following the brackets. If nothing else, the Bunny has kept up with the times.
    None of this, though, is about the recipients – it’s about the very disturbed Easter Bunny, their mom.
    I suppose I could throw a fit and tell her what an unnecessary waste all of this is. But I dare not. To begin with, I’m not crazy. But most of all, I get what she’s doing.
    This is just a mom who is trying with all her might to hold on to some of the silly little traditions that might magically keep them forever young. As if she could.
    But she is trying. So none of this is for them. Never has been. It’s for her. She has much more fun shopping than they do opening. She always has. Don’t most moms.
    Imagine this scene. Without an individual bed for all of our guests, some found themselves on the couches. She always waits until they fall asleep to sneak in because to do otherwise would be to acknowledge in their presence that there might not be a real Easter Bunny. And that would be unacceptable – only to her – but unacceptable to be sure.
    So there she is, slinking through the dark, stubbing her toe, knocking her knee, moaning words you shouldn’t say at Easter, waking up both dogs, everyone in the room and anyone within earshot.
    She was the most bruised person in that Sunday morning room. And the happiest.
Just trying to hold on.
    As you can imagine, the insanity runs throughout the year. Santa still visits our house bringing stockings and gifts. And yes, only after all have gone to sleep. Or so she wants to believe.
    One year, our family was on the road, all in the same hotel room. There we were, in one corner of this 10 X 10 room, trying to be Santa’s secret helpers. And there they were, lying in bed, backs turned to be polite, giggling at their mom, trying to humor her.
If it all seems comically absurd, it was every bit of that and more.
    If they could still lose teeth, she’d be right there, trying to sneak something under a pillow. They don’t wear Halloween costumes anymore, but it’s not for her lack of suggesting.
    As much as it costs us in uneaten eggs and unwrapped candy, I admire her efforts. I suppose we could save it for our retirement but she wouldn’t have nearly as much fun. I suppose you could say she was spoiling them, but we messed that up a long time ago.
    It’s certainly not sensible but it’s never been complicated.
She’s just hanging on.
Dear God – We won’t ever be able to make their time stop. Is it possible that maybe we can just remember better and longer? Please. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘You don’t get many best friends in your life’
By George Valadie
March 21, 2008
    She came into my office early one morning and said she needed to tell me something.     When students “need” to tell me something, I’ll be honest, it’s never good.
    Why is it they never “need” to tell me they got an A. Or they were happy with how their teachers taught them today. They do tell me those things, they just don’t “need” to.
    I was right. She had come to report she had been in a text messaging, MySpace, FaceBook war of words with a fellow female student. And this most recent message from her adversary seemed a bit threatening. Not in the physical sense, more in the “I-can-make-your-life-miserable” sense.
    Personally, I don’t ever text anyone, I prefer to call; I don’t have a MySpace page, I have a resume; and I just don’t see myself ever writing on somebody’s FaceBook wall to send them a message, I’ll probably just e-mail. I don’t like any of them, though I wish I had invested in all of them.
    By the time I had worked my way to the bottom of what had become a pretty nasty trash heap, I was sitting in front of two young ladies who – and this is the amazing part – who had once been the very best of friends.
    And now they weren’t.
    Sadly, neither could recall when things first went sour — and worse — they couldn’t remember what actually caused their first spat. But as usually happens, one unkind word led to another. One mean message devolved into a series of meaner ones.
    As the story unfolded, it was actually worse. Teenagers never argue in a vacuum. It’s never about just two people. Friends have friends and they choose sides and more friends are lost. Collateral damage is not just limited to real war.
    I learned long ago that I can’t make kids like one another. I don’t even try. My world is more about insuring peace in the hallways. I knew they were never going to fight, but they were going to hate. And that takes its toll on a school as well.
    We had gotten to the point in the conversation where they understood they were allowed to dislike but they could not disturb. Still, before I let them get away, I couldn’t help but take a stab at my kumbaya homily.
    I used a lot of words, more than I’m sure they wanted to hear, but my message was simple. When it’s all said and done, you will only have a few best friends in your life. How could you ever intentionally decide to walk away from one?
    To my amazement, it seemed to work. Before they left, both had apologized. Both agreed others enjoyed their sniping more than they had, they had been stupid and that life would be better as soon as they could sit down by themselves.
    I sent them on their happier way with me feeling pretty darn happy about my mediation skills.
    But as time has moved on, so has all that happy stuff. It lasted about a day. They never speak in the hallway, they never eat lunch together, so I’m pretty sure each has indeed said good-bye to at least one of their very best friends. Mission failure.
    That was six weeks ago. I had forgotten all about it until Sunday. That’s when I listened to the Gospel of the passion and was reminded that Judas and Peter and all the rest of Christ’s best friends walked away as well.
    He even called them out on it beforehand, offering one last chance of sorts to re-think it all. “Someone’s going to betray me.”
    “Surely, you’re not talking about me, right?”
    All 12 of them said it right before all 12 of them bailed. Judas did it for the cash, Peter did it in the courtyard, and the rest ran like dogs to the upper room. And these were indeed his very best friends. They lived with and traveled with him. They saw him melt hearts with his words and multiply fish with his Father.
    But looking back, I’ve at least got to cut these guys some slack. They feared for their lives. Given the chaos of the crucifixion and the mood of the crucifiers, they had reason to run. There were three dead men hanging on a hill already, and it’s not like these executioners couldn’t have geared up for a few more.
    But here’s where it hurts. I don’t know about you, but I must admit there have been times when that list of traitors has also included me.
    We’ve done the same thing to God. Has anyone been a better friend than he has? Still, we’ve left him, forgotten him, moved on or moved away. We’ve traded Mass for our own version of 30 pieces – work, golf, rest, whatever. And I’ve surely denied knowing him or what he wanted — not to the world maybe, but certainly to myself.
    And never once was I in danger of losing my life.
    Now I hope I’m not in danger of losing my eternity.
    You don’t get that many best friends in your life.
    Dear God – Please don’t give up on us. Yes, I know, why not? No one would blame you. Thank God you are God. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Who else but children would mistreat a mother?
By George Valadie
March 7, 2008
    My mom turns 75 years old next week. That’s if we don’t kill her before then. We decided — the four of us kids — to throw her a big party she would never really want.
Of course that was right after we decided to get her a gift she wasn’t all that excited about. In our wisdom, we had guessed that she’d just love to have her house of 38 years deep-cleaned by someone she’s never met.
    I mean who among us wouldn’t want a couple of strangers rummaging through your bedroom, looking behind all your furniture, digging through your every cabinet? That almost finished her right there. Not to mention the days of hurried cleaning I’m sure she felt she needed to do before they arrived.
    I can’t wait to see this big shindig myself. Two of us siblings live out of town, so we’ve been co-arranging the details via e-mail. It’s an internet debate over fried chicken vs. barbecue, cookie cakes vs. cupcakes, balloons vs. candles.
    I’m pretty sure we’ll end up with some of all of it. As crazy as this sounds, I think part of it’s supposed to be a surprise — but part of it’s not. She apparently knows we’re having a get-together but she thinks it’s only for family.
    Who else but children would mistreat a mother and not tell her about the 100 other people that were invited. You know why we haven’t told her? Why else. Because we’re still the children and we still think we know better than our mom. You can imagine how that’s worked out most of the time.
    Of course we also didn’t tell any of the guests it was supposed to be a surprise so I’m pretty sure that whole secret thing has been out of the bag for a while.
    It’s all because we owe her so much — each in our own way. And we realize that the four of us are collectively responsible for dumping enough stress on her to kill any normal person — or any battalion of normal persons. Thankfully, my mom’s never been normal.
    We’ve strained her head and heart, drained her savings and retirement. She was never going to be a “have,” but we’re most definitely the reason she’s a “have-not.”
    And we know we can never really pay her back. So we’re having a party. Not for her, it’s for us, to re-pay a bit of our debt and relieve an ounce of our guilt.
    Our father died when I was 16 and I’m the oldest. She’s had the helm of the ship ever since. Honestly, she had it long before then. We’ve run aground a few times but whenever we did, it was because she left the steering to one of us.
    I’m proud of who we have become though — but like most families — we’ve all taken a circuitous route to get where we are.
    I give my mom — and a merciful God — all the credit. All four of us owe who we are to the gifts she has given us. I’ve got room here to share only two.
    People say I’m remarkably calm when crisis hits our school. I thank her for that — she trained me.
    When I was 14 and a freshman basketball player, I twisted my ankle at a practice. She worked for the family doctor, which is where they took me.
    An X-ray revealed it was no strain. In fact, I had five broken bones. When the doctor decided to set them back in place without numbing me, my leg, or my bones, I let out a whelp.
    She stuck her head in the room and said, “George, we’ve got other patients out here and you’re scaring them. Now you’re going to have to keep it down.”
    She was always that way — the three times I broke my collarbone, the time my sister wrecked and nearly killed herself, and the moment she came face-to-face with the idea of raising four children by herself.
    I owe my composure to the queen of cool. Her second gift was of a much different sort. She fed my family in the days when I couldn’t.
    I was a young man trying to be a dad, a husband and a Catholic school teacher. Sometimes it all merged really well, and sometimes it was an embarrassing struggle.
    I’m not sure where we had gotten them, but Nancy and I had a bag of pecans in our freezer. And not much else.
    As all good mothers can, mine had sensed that things could be better. And she offered a trade, saying she had been wanting to buy some pecans just like those. To save a trip to the store (or so she said), she’d gladly swap ours for a few cans of beanie-weenies. To tell you how desperately we needed them, you have to hear the end of the story.
    When Nancy returned, I was in the back yard. I came running when I heard her screaming that scream that only a mother can make. I was sure that our two-year-old had wandered in front of a car. Turned out it was the beanie-weenies. They had fallen out of the car, rolled to the street and were murdered by a passing car.
    I’m not the only one of her children who’s been in such need. As years passed, she just dropped the charade and asked us outright, “Do ya’ll need some food?”
We love her. I love her. There are no real words.
    But she’ll have some fried chicken and a clean bedroom to show how much. Who else but children think like that?
    Dear God — We know she’ll be there with you. Our prayer is that we might get to be there with her. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Honestly, God confuses, confounds me’
By George Valadie
February 15, 2008
     It was a crazy couple of days.
    We began the week by practicing a “lock-down” drill in the middle of one of our afternoon class periods. We were interrupting math and science to tackle a different subject that won’t prepare a single one of them for college.
    But it might keep them alive to get there.
    Let me begin by saying that even having to think about — much less rehearse — such a possibility should automatically qualify as “crazy.”
    But it’s not. The reality of 2008 is that “crazy” is the school that doesn’t practice.
    And not three days later, we were on pins and needles trying to figure out the weather.     Do we get in the hallways? Do we stay where we are? Possible tornados were in our forecast and we were in their path.
    For whatever reason, it all caused me to think back to my own school days which never seemed to involve much more than a few fire drills. The only thing that ever resembled hysteria was the day Joey Thomas threw a cherry bomb in the toilet and caused a flood in the boys’ bathroom. It’s such a different world.
    A few of us were gathered in my office to talk about the upcoming drill and I asked them, “Have you ever thought about how you would react in that very moment? Have you ever envisioned yourself in the middle of a Columbine?”
    I wasn’t talking about preparing for who goes where and whom do we call first. And they knew it. I was talking about whether or not any of us had ever pictured that very moment. And did we see ourselves ducking for cover … or actually running toward the fool, hoping to talk them down or knock them down. Thinking about that will make you “crazy.”
    Within 72 hours we were discussing the next potential disaster. Luckily, the wildest of the weather wasn’t due to arrive in our area until dinnertime so most of our kids would be home long before then.
    At our house, the sirens were wailing, the news reported funnel clouds and Nancy was a nervous wreck.
    So she herded us into the bathroom.
    We have two but she decided the smaller, the one that Sarah uses, would be the safest. On any normal day, there’s hardly room for Sarah.
    But there we were three adults and two 50-pound puppies, neither of which seemed happy to be a part of our 28 square feet that includes the tub.
    I love Sarah, she’s been blessed with a wonderful heart and hysterical sense of humor, but I wasn’t getting in that tub. She said she hadn’t been expecting guests and well, we all just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
    By the next morning, the deaths and the damage – and the miracles — were all the news.
    A baby was ripped from her mother’s arms and was launched into a nearby field. The mother died but her baby had a scratched up forehead.
    A family of four gathered in their own bathroom, and while there, dad said he felt the house lift off the ground. Before it was over, they and their home had somersaulted twice in the air and landed quite a distance from the foundation to which it had been attached.     All walked away.
    A nearby college had damage to 32 of its 33 buildings including several dorms that were demolished. On the TV news, with no sound or captions, you would have sworn you were looking at footage of Baghdad. Kids lost their stuff, but no one lost a friend.
    I mention it all because no one is immune. You can be blessed, you can be lucky, you can be a lot of things – but you can’t be immune.
    But here’s the part I don’t get. I really don’t.
    Many of the survivors who made it into the news were grateful and appreciative of the fact that they were still here. Their flirtation with death had been closer than most. And they openly thanked God for his miracle that had spared them.
    And I guess he did. But I’m really not sure.
    If some were spared by miracle, why were the dead denied one? If a shooter attacks our school, I’m pretty sure all of us will be praying. Will some students get their miracle, but some not?
    I’ve always been one of those people who truly, truly believes all prayers are answered; it’s just that some of us get a “No!” I get that.
    But in my own personal theology, I also believe that’s more about those requests for things like winning lotteries, passing exams, and hoping our children’s spouses will love them forever.
    Not about people’s prayers to live and die. Can it be that simple?
    And yet, my confusion grows deeper because I most definitely believe miracles are real and he can indeed do anything, anytime, anywhere. And I’ll never stop praying for the people who seem to need them.
    Honestly, God confuses and confounds me. Maybe that’s what my Lent will be about. Trying to move closer to him so that I accept more and question less.
    Dear God – How do you hear the billions of words that come your way all at once? And how do you choose? Thank you for listening. What more can anyone ask! Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Grandma didn’t cry this time, but I did’
By George Valadie
February 1, 2008
     Honestly, it was a first for me.
    I’ve been around high schools, the young people that attend them and their parents all of my adult life, not to mention my sisters, my friends and I lived through a few of our own years at that age. You see and remember a lot. But this was a first.
    When I think about it, I guess that’s why I love this job, this vocation and why I have been forever grateful that I felt called to it.
    Everyday is something brand new. Some crazy, some wonderfully rewarding.
    At the conclusion of some days though, I head to the house just shaking my head confounded by the latest I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that! creative venture into yet another dimension of teenage idiocy.
    Lately, I’ve started each such inquisition by asking, “Were you drinking when you did that?”
    And they quickly reply, “No, sir, not at all,” realizing they were definitely dumb but not wanting to make it worse.
    Most of the time, I know they haven’t been drinking, but I hope it makes them think that much more about my next question.
    “Well, that’s good to hear,” I continue. “But what you’re telling me is that this was your good brain, your sober brain that came up with that idea? Is that what you’re telling me?”
    Thankfully, the good days are even better – and much more frequent.
    That’s not to say I haven’t met with some moms and dads who have lost a little perspective as well. I can appreciate that quite a bit since Nancy and I have both lost a bit of ours on occasion.
    Things that aren’t really important sometimes can seem that way. Getting that first C (being average like most of the world). Getting a B (much better than most of the world), but not an A. Or getting an A (you’re at the top) that’s not an A+ (just not on the top.)
    Then there’s not making the team, or making the team but not getting to play, or getting to play but not winning enough.
    Not every individual who comes in my office needs to take a time out. Some cause me to do so. Because there are those really tough meetings that aren’t trivial at all. This was one of those.
    It really wasn’t a parent, it was a grandparent. I had met Grandma before when she came to plead her case for admission and financial aid.
    She and her husband had gotten custody of their granddaughter because her real parents were divorced and neither seemed to want her. Whenever they did, they treated her as if they didn’t.
    Late in their own years, living on savings and Social Security and not much more, still they did what family does anyway. They took her in and were working religiously to make her life better.
    The transition had only taken place in the recent past so in a bit of very sad irony, they were inheriting from their children. They opened their arms to a very sad and angry young lady whose upbringing had been more like a downfall. They weren’t just feeding her, they were raising her. They weren’t just clothing her body, they were molding her spirit.
    And like most angry teens, there were quite a few days when she fought them. Schoolwork wasn’t the highest priority on the girl’s list and I couldn’t really blame her. She just wanted to be wanted.
    Grandma cried and I cried. She promised to pay and I promised to help her do it.
Unfortunately, the real world often delays the right world, if you know what I mean. So I had to let her know that paperwork and red tape were going to slow me down but we got her started anyway and agreed that we’d work out the details.
    Grandma cried and I cried. She promised to pray for me and I promised to pray for them though their place in heaven was already a lock. Still, they had a bit of rough sailing to navigate before getting there.
    Fast forward a few months to the other day. And the first time it’s ever happened to me.
I called her to relay the good news — finally — but needed her to come meet me to clear     up the final paperwork.
I had excitedly begun to fill in the details when she politely said, “Can I interrupt you for a     minute?”
    “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you and your school have done for us.     Things are going better but she’s still not doing her part. I know she can do better. She knows she can do better. But we’re not there yet.”
    How many of us have ever said that about one of our children?
    And then she dropped it on me, “So, thank you for the offer, but I can’t take your money. There must be a lot of needy families here whose students are working to deserve it. It’s not right and we can’t, no, we won’t take it. Thank you.”
    And then she walked out.
Grandma didn’t cry this time, but I did.
    Dear God – Who turns away from what the giver gives for free? Oh yeah, you might know something about that. Please help us use our good brains a bit more. Amen.

We’re tackling new resolutions as a team
By George Valadie
January 18, 2008
    A belated Happy New Year! I’ve never been much for resolutions, though it’s not for want of things I should probably tackle. Or maybe that’s why I don’t … too many to tackle.
    I have made them before. Good ones, reachable ones, goals that would make me a better human being. But, as we all know so well, they require us to be different, do different and most importantly stay different – for a year. A whole year.
    Now that I think about it, I can’t recall a single one of mine that has ever lasted much past mid-February. The stuff of life and the comfort of the old way always take over.
    This year though, Nancy and I have decided together that we should make an effort to eat more dinner-time meals at home around the table.
    To be honest, we have allowed ourselves to fall victim – way too many times — to the appeal and convenience of the restaurant and fast-food world. I’m not sure it’s a sin exactly, but giving in to this temptation sure has been damaging – to our pocketbooks and our waistlines.
    Turns out she’s never really minded cooking if I’d only do the shopping. And to be honest, I’ve never really been opposed to stopping by the store. We’re a perfect match.     And so we have crafted a New Year’s Teamwork Resolution – of sorts.
    Why not? We’ve pulled it off in other areas – peacefully I might add. She washes the clothes, I wear them. She picks the paint; I put it on the walls. What’s one more addendum to the wedding vows?
    So, three weeks in — how’s it going thus far?
    Let me say, I’ve been to the store many, many times in our marriage. But I’m usually just the “pick-up-a-few-things-on-the- way-home,-honey” kind of shopper. So my first full-cart adventure sent me to buy among other things the ingredients for taco soup – a tasty little cold-weather concoction that’s also good for the calorie counters among us.
    Turns out if you don’t know what you’re doing in a large supermarket, you could spend a rather lengthy portion of your day there.
    The onion was easy to find. And for reasons I don’t even remember, I happened to know where the taco seasoning was. But after that … the recipe also called for, among other things, 11 oz. of dark red kidney beans.
    Let me interject that, as irritating as they sometimes are, my cell phone provider could not have picked a worse time to temporarily fail me. There would be no checking in with the chef.
    If I could not find the perfect can, which didn’t seem like that was really gonna happen, I was left to wonder. What exactly is the important part here? Does it need to be 11 oz. worth (most cans in the bean neighborhood seemed to be weighing in at 12?) Or was it more important that they be dark red (most seemed not to brag all that much about their particular shade of red)?
    And can anyone tell me why some kidney beans are in aisle 6B but some are in 5A? Still, I found it.
    Next came a 12 oz. can (not 11 oz.) of ranch-style beans I had never ever heard of. Found it.
    On to “shoe-peg” corn. Until that moment I had only heard that corn could be creamed or kernels or on the cob. And if this too is not findable, what is the relevance and meaning of the term “shoe-peg?” Does it represent size? Taste? Texture? Or a brand name? Wait, found it.
    The soup also needed Rotel diced tomatoes. To my surprise and intimidation, there are also chunked, sliced, pureed, pieces, whole, sauces, paste and the real round thing – tho’ those are 10 aisles over.
    I was overjoyed (and I use that word with all the feeling I can) to locate cans with the actual Rotel brand name but quickly saddened (and I use that word with equal feeling) to find that some have onions, some have green peppers, and some have onions and green peppers. None were just plain and none were on the list as acceptable. Never found it, taking a chance here.
    I was not the only man there who was lost in the bean aisle – and I’m not too vain to admit that I was. He was reading from his list, I was reading from mine. But neither of us seemed to be doing much scratching through on the list. Like most lost men though, we just wandered aimlessly.
    In the end, I was victorious. But I concede there is much to learn. Prices. Brand names. Health content. For sure, I’ll be quicker next time – if we have taco soup again.
    Gotta finish here, they’re honking the horn; we’re having dinner at Chili’s tonight. Soup’s all gone.
    Dear God – Parts of the planet don’t have what we do. Sadly, they may never. Except they’re not parts, they’re people. Please help us find a way to share. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Who was sent to remind you of season?
By George Valadie
December 21, 2007
     I was there just shopping for a bag of doggie snacks.
    Two growing puppies can go through a bag of those pretty quickly, especially since I just can’t resist those faces.
    I don’t know if they were born knowing how to look pitiful, but they’re good at it.
    Our girls could look that way, too. They’re not quite as cute as the girls were but I swear these dogs have mastered that same expression.
    Some owners use little treats as rewards to shape good animal behaviors and eliminate the bad ones.
    I don’t. I just feed them because it’s fun. And because of those faces. If I’m buying their love, so be it.
    I’m pretty sure I did the same with the girls.
    I saw that look again today at the pet food store, when I was shopping for those treats. Only it came from a human.
    There they were, two of the cutest puppies you’ve ever seen. They were in a shopping cart being pushed by a mom and her four little girls.
    I was drawn to peak in and pet and she was quick to notice my interest. I was searching for dog treats, she was searching for an interested face.
    “Do you want to adopt one of them,” she almost pleaded, and I swear she had that very same begging face. “No,” I replied, “we’ve already got two at home.”
    “So do we,” she said, “so do we.”
    “My husband brought them home because they had been dumped out at this old store near our house and the manager was kicking them to get them away.”
    “We brought them today because the store is offering these low-cost shots and we just knew they haven’t had any.”
    I’m just guessing here but I’m pretty sure she also brought them to a pet store in hopes of finding another pet lover, someone – anyone – who might be interested in taking a new Christmas puppy off her hands.
    She had told me she talked to an animal shelter where she could drop them, promising they didn’t euthanize. But she couldn’t do it. I don’t think she could even imagine herself doing it.
    “Then what are you going to do with them?” I asked.
    And then her four young girls answered my question in loud and harmonious unison as if they had been rehearsing for days, “Mommy, we’re keeping them!”
    I could tell they weren’t yet celebrating as much as they were begging too, hoping their loudness and enthusiasm might talk her over the cliff she was quickly approaching.
    Their burst of excitement got my attention. It was then that I actually noticed the faces of these four young girls. They had been there the whole time, all over these two puppies — petting, rubbing, loving.
    But now they had my attention. To my surprise, one was African American, one was of Asian heritage, and two were white like me and their mom.
    I could be way off base here but it appeared as if this family might well have been a collection of all sorts of adopted creatures in need. “Good luck,” I offered, wishing I could help her out, but knowing Nancy would push me off my own cliff if I did.
    I don’t know anything more about her and her family than that. It was a brief, one-time encounter of two fellow dog lovers. But she struck me as being what Christmas is supposed to be about.
    She obviously loves people – all kinds – even those that aren’t really her own. You could see it probably carries over to all living things. Those that she chose and those that just appeared. Isn’t that what we’re called to do? To care for everyone and everything – and not just the few who live in our home. To accept the Lord’s challenge to take care of the “least of my brethren.”
    I’m not comparing her to the Virgin Mary, she was just taking care of a darn dog, but I could see the same loving face. Called to accept God’s creatures into your life, even those that are a surprise. Not knowing where it all will go, just knowing that it would feel wrong to do anything else.
    Don’t get me wrong. No one needs to adopt a child or a pet to accept his challenge. You can have people in your life you’ve never even met. The kid who’s on the other end of the angel tree gift. The family who needs the food basket. The cancer-filled child at St. Jude’s, the uncertain elderly in a home they don’t know, or the hungry, dirty, indescribably unwanted at the shelter.
    We can’t invite them all to our home, but we can invite them into our heart. We’re limited with dollars but not prayers.
    I crossed her path again in the check-out line.
Her face had changed. She had morphed from begging to beaten then on to resolved and maybe even to relieved. “I guess we’re keeping them,” she said. Almost happy she had found no takers.
    She was excited about it. I could tell. She didn’t want to be. She didn’t think she was supposed to be. And I imagine her husband had likely insisted that she not be. But she was.
    And in some strange way, I think she was sent to me. To enter my life – if only for a few seconds – to remind me about this season. And what it can be about. Who was sent to you?
    Dear God – We usually get it at this time of year – true, we lose it from time to time because of all the craziness and chaos – but we generally get it. Help us keep it the rest of the time. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Do you have a living will?
By George Valadie
November 30, 2007
     I thought it was just a mole on the back of my ear.
    Turns out I was wrong.
    My mom had been nagging me for the last several years – and I had been ignoring her for just as long – to get someone to look at it. Then my family joined in. And my doctor.     And when my daughter’s boyfriend suggested it, well, it was time.
    Turns out they were all right.
    I waited for some six months to get an appointment for the initial observation. But it only took a week to move from test result to under-the-knife. And even less for the vocabulary to change from mole to melanoma.
    As it turns out, cancer speeds up the medical process considerably. And I’m smart enough to figure out their haste was probably proportional to the seriousness of it all.
    As a result, I was facing my first true surgery that would involve that full-blown, knock-me-out kind of anesthesia. No local numbing, no funny gas, no staying awake. But in spite of having to temporarily pass from the land of the conscious, I found myself remaining remarkably calm. Until I got there.
    The pre-op nurse, the anesthetic intern and the anesthetist all asked me the exact same set of questions. It struck me as excessively redundant.
    But if it made them feel better, I was OK with it. I wanted them feeling at their best. And if it helped them un-do what they were getting ready to do, I’d answer as often as they needed.
    Do you have any kidney problems?
    Do you have any heart problems?
    Do you have allergic reactions to any medicines?
    I fired off the repetitive “no - no - no” without much thought at all. And then she got my full attention.
    Do you have a living will?
    My first thought was “I know they’ve done this before and that question must have been relevant to some patient some time.”
    And now it was relevant to me.
    Turns out it was all good though. The mole, the cancer and a little chunk of my ear are all gone. The worst result is that my surgeon needed to move some skin around and left me with one ear a tiny bit shorter than the other. That and the rest of my life will be all about sunscreen.
    It’s a trade I’ll gladly make. But I was unnerved about the living will question. I don’t have one. Neither does Nancy but we do have the regular kind that neither of us have looked at since the day we had it drawn up – in 1988.
    So I came home and decided to do some research. We keep it and all our important stuff in one of those fireproof boxes that many families have tucked away in the back of the closet.
    Ours is jam-packed, overflowing actually with all of our critical, we’d-just-die-if-we-lost-that paperwork. So I took this small bit of a life-changing experience and the recent     Thanksgiving vacation to assess what we have locked away.
It’s much of what you’d expect. The house loan papers and our social security cards.     Certificates for births and baptisms, insurance for cars and life.
    And then there was this other stuff you might not expect.
    We still have Katy’s kindergarten report card (she’s 29 now) that reminds us she apparently wasn’t all that good at tying her shoes or knowing her address when she was five. She’s gotten better, she still finds us when she needs something.
    We kept Meg’s three-year-old medical permission form (she’s 27 now) that allowed her to attend Mothers’ Day Out. The doctor documented she was “uncooperative” with her eye and ear tests. If only he knew how right he would be.
    We have the hospital bill from when Sarah was born (she’s 21 now). A three-day stay cost us $133.30. She’s cost us considerably more since then.
    We also have a Xerox copy of all three of their infant medical records given to us when our pediatrician retired. You’d think we’d had triplets. All three report the exact same thing.
    “One month. No teeth. Not sleeping well. Taking in Similac, breast milk and cereal. Apparently still hungry.”
    The man was a genius – and a prophet.
    We have memorial sorts of things. There are papers that prove our dead dog was full-blooded. There’s a 1978 Vatican postage stamp with a picture of Paul VI. And a 1964 JFK 50-cent piece.
    I have proof that I paid a speeding ticket in Illinois in 2003. That I donated to the church in 1993. That I was licensed to teach in 1977. And proof that Meg was a Girl Scout in her fourth grade year.
    As is always the case with such a box, whatever lies on top is what we placed there last.
    And there it was, a copy of Mammaw’s recipe for the Thanksgiving dressing. Passed down to Nancy and maybe beyond. It might be the most important thing we own.
    Dear God – There are times we just surely must make you laugh, especially when we go about deciding what’s important. Like when we hold on to the past more than we worry about the future. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Think back, were you really good?’
By George Valadie
November 16, 2007
     The memories came rushing back.
    We were on our way home Saturday night and I needed to stop by a convenience mart sort of place for some gasoline. The credit card gizmo wasn’t functioning all that conveniently, so I had to step inside to pay.
    So I asked what I should have never asked, “Does anyone want anything?”
    “I’ll take a Rice-Krispie treat if they have one.”
    “Yeah, that sounds good, me too.”
    “Do they have Diet Coke here? Maybe we could share one of those too.”
    So there I was at the cashier with my stack of stuff. Two treats, a diet-coke and my usual (yes, I’m guilty, too) – a pack of fat-free Fig Newtons.
    And that’s when it hit me. I was swept back in time to many Sunday mornings when all of them were little.
    Nancy and I would beg and plead — and bribe — before we headed off to church.
“Please be good. Use your quiet voices. Don’t climb under the pews. Remember last time – color with the crayons and eat the cheerios, don’t color the cheerios and eat the crayons.     Try not to wake up Sarah. And let’s all please go to the potty before we go.
    “And if we’re good — we’ll all get a little treat when it’s over. How about that? Can you do it? Can we all get a treat?”
    Mostly, they could. And mostly, we did. I’m not sure how God values the bought-and-paid-for sort of reverence, but that’s what he got back then.
    “Can we go now, daddy, can we?”
    “Were you good today?”
    “Yes-s-s-s-! Didn’t you see, we covered our mouths when we laughed.”
    “Think back now, were you really good?”
    “Well, I really did need to go to the bathroom, but she didn’t. She was just copy-catting me.”
    “I did too need to. Take it back.”
    And before the good moments got bad, we’d head off to the store where I’d stand with five treats, five drinks and five smiles.
    True, the parenting experts probably cringed. I know my dead father did. Rewards were not why you behaved. He operated more from the fear-the-belt side of the debate. I must admit, that worked pretty darn well, too.
    Fast forward back to the present and 12 hours later. I was leaving Sunday morning Mass walking just in front of a dad with two little ones of his own. I knew they had been well behaved because they had sat in the pew just in front of mine.
    “Daddy,” the four-year-old asked, “do we get to go to Mommaw and Poppaw’s now?”
    “Were you good today?” he asked.
    “Yes-s-s-s-s.”
    And off they went for what I imagined to be a wonderful Sunday dinner that Mommaw had been cooking for hours. It’s what we do. It’s what we did.
    I’m not sure that we should have. But then I’ve never been sure about any of my parenting skills.
    Psychologists — and parents — have long debated the advantages of positive reinforcements (treats) versus negative ones (belts.) I suppose both have their place.
    I would have loved for my children to do the right thing just because it was the right thing. I wanted them to learn to feel that feeling you feel whenever you choose good over not good.
    I really wanted all of that. But then … they did what children do. They grew up and messed up. More times than I’d like to admit.
    Don’t you wonder?
    Will there come a time when we will meet our maker and those very questions will be repeated?
    “Can we go in, Father, can we?”
    “Were you good?”
    “Yes-s-s-s,” we’ll say.
    “Think back, were you really good? For all of those years I gave you down there.”
    And it’s at that moment we’ll remember this father knows all, sees all, has known all and has seen all.
    “Did you use your kind voice when someone gave you reason to get even? Did you sit in the pew like you should have – as often as you should have?
    “Did you color the world of the sick with happiness and hope? Did you share your food with those who had none?
    “Did you flush the bad and useless stuff out of your life?”
    “Were you good all those years?”
    I don’t think I’m ready yet.
    Dear God – If only we could have someone here to keep us focused, reminding us of the joy that lay ahead. We miss those days. We need those days. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘These are souls for whom I will pray’
By George Valadie
November 2, 2007
     I can remember all of them.
    But I must admit – though I wish it weren’t so – the passing of time has diminished many of those memories.
    In my 54 years I have experienced the passing of 10 people who are family. For many, I’m sure that’s probably a very small number in comparison, but maybe not. Though we all know it must happen, losing even one is too many.
    The first to go was Uncle Rusty, the only true shock of the 10. It was one of those here-today-gone-tomorrow heart attacks that took a life far earlier than anyone expected.
    We saw him at Christmas, Easter and a few family birthdays. I don’t know why, but I never picture him without a smile. If that’s what you leave, you’ve done a good thing.
    And then several years later, a brain tumor took my Grandma Daniels. Thankfully, I recall much more about her. I remember her fried chicken and potato salad Sunday dinners at their house so my mom could use her washer and dryer to clean clothes for a family of six.
    Once when things were particularly tough for my mom, our grandparents took us in – me and my three sisters too – all five of us living in their only extra bedroom.
    Not too many years later, both my Grandpa Daniels and my own father passed away after lengthy illnesses.
    While my sisters played elsewhere, my Grandpa and I bonded on his TV-room couch where he introduced me to his favorite — Ed Sullivan.
    He was like so many other southerners of his generation, unable to appreciate the equality of the races. His irritation was reserved for the civil rights newsmakers that he felt were just troublemakers. And yet I never once saw him be disrespectful to anyone.
    He taught me that respect and how to scratch a back. We took “equal” turns with each other though I’m pretty sure he rubbed my back for 20 minutes while I lasted five.
    He struggled and lingered and finally passed away. My father wore down as well, his body succumbing to a rather short life he had filled with a lot of bad stuff.
    When all was right, he had a heart of gold. But seldom did life ever seem to be that way for him. His family – us – we struggled hugely when it wasn’t. He taught me much about fatherhood but none of the good stuff.
    His parents left us next. Papa Valadie was the first of the pair. He lay in his bed, in and out of consciousness for what seemed like several days. Then one morning — and I swear this is true — his wife, Grandma V, told God she could have him, she was finally ready to let him go. He died that very day.
    They both had that immense sort of faith but they never had much money. Whenever we’d visit they would find the little things we liked — a fried pie or a stick of gum. And they’d call when we hadn’t been by in a while. I remember them wanting us there. That might not have always been true, but it’s how I think about them.
    My mother’s great Aunt Tim (Mary Timothy) lived with us for several years. Single all her life, we were her family when she retired. Amazingly, she survived my three sisters and me and all our teenage years — without ever butting in.
    She used her retirement dollars to help my mom feed our hungry clan and absolutely glowed whenever we walked in the house, hormones and all. Most importantly, I’m pretty sure she was the only voice of sanity for my widowed mother of four.
    My wife recently lost her parents, one to Alzheimer’s, one to cancer. They were a huge part of our lives, leaving an equally huge hole. I miss them, but she still grieves for them. There is a difference.
    Number 10 was a brother-in-law who, though divorced from my sister, was still a dad to my two nephews. Sadly, he was found, the victim of his own bad decisions.
    Thankfully, all families have been blessed with some wonderful people who have taught us much and loved us more. And just like yours, I have fond and heartfelt memories of that precious time spent with them.
    In our Sunday parish bulletin, it announced on Friday, Nov. 2, All Souls Day, our two Masses would be said for the intentions of the “faithfully departed.”
    I’m glad we do, because though I believe they are in heaven, who can ever know? If our combined prayers help them get there, well, I know they would do it for me.
    But something struck me as I thought about all the people who have left me. I’m sure “faithfully departed” is just a phrase, printed and re-printed without much thought of what it seems to say. But I’m guessing we all have some family who die, and though they depart us, they’re not really all that faithful at the time that they go. For some, they may never have been.
    I think I knew some. And I think we should pray for them, too. Young and old, good and bad, missed and missed more – these are the souls for whom I will pray this year.
    But I’ll also pray for yours if you’ll pray for mine.
    Dear God – You probably chuckle at all the stupid things for which we pray. Thank you for knowing that family — all of them — means so much more than stuff. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Oddly, pain seemed to move around’
By George Valadie
October 19, 2007
     It hurts like the devil. Still.
    And I can’t seem to find anyone who can tell me what it is that’s actually hurting. Or why.
    The first shooting pain was about 10 weeks ago. I was brushing my teeth one morning, barely awake, head bent over the sink, when it stood me up straight and woke me right up.
    I had obviously touched some tooth that was no longer as peace-loving as it had been the night before.
    We’ve got a daughter dentist in the family now and she owes me. But she lives out of town. So I made up my mind I could be tough enough to endure this until we could get over her way. That and the fact we cancelled our dental insurance the day she graduated.
    In the next two weeks, it became ever more painful. Eating anything was horrific.     Talking was worse. Being a teacher and a human being, I needed to do both.
    Oddly, the pain seemed to move around. Chewing affected my top teeth, drinking hurt the back. Sometimes, I could feel blood pounding and other times it felt like a knife slicing my jaw. (As if I could know what that felt like.)
    It would come and go — and come. More coming than going really, so we made the cross-state trek to my favorite dentist.
    After an e-mail collaboration with a much more veteran doctor, their diagnosis suggested I needed to repair a barely cracked tooth that I didn’t know had been cracked.
    She drugged me and set to work. My very first root canal.
    When she was finished, I felt great – until the numbness wore off. And we were back to where we had begun.
    My root canal had pretty much been for fun-sies.
    She didn’t mess up my teeth, but she did mess up my head. She taught me that a bad tooth can actually hurt in other parts of your mouth. Apparently, a bottom tooth can hurt on the top and left teeth can hurt on the right. Who thought that was a good idea!
    So I spent the next month trying to locate the cause of the roving pain.
    She also had me try a few prescription medicines but I finally returned. Mouth in hand.     Having taken 30 days to think about it – and not much else — and with no relief coming,     I (imagine this) suggested she pull my front tooth – 100 percent convinced it was the source of my problem.
    And so she did, reluctantly though, replacing it at my request with a very nice new bridge of which she and I are very proud.
    But I was wrong.
    She hadn’t been convinced I knew what I was talking about but reluctantly gave in to her sad-looking dad whose pain she could no longer stand.
    She referred me to a local dentist who has seen more and done more than she. But just like her, he had no firm answers nor did my regular doctor who checked all the non-teeth things.
    Both have given it their best shot. Neither has hit anything.
    Thankfully, these people of medicine are not without hope, they still have other ideas, other tests, other treatments. Some don’t sound all that much fun but I’m game for just about anything.
    And then yesterday, I had one more gigantic dose of hope enter my life.
God.
    I was at Sunday Mass and listened to the Scripture about the 10 lepers who asked Jesus to have pity on them. And right there it occurred to me that during all of these 10 weeks, I’ve never once asked God to intervene on my behalf.
    I pray daily. I pray for my nephew who is stationed in Iraq. And my sister, his mother, who likely lives in fear of every phone that rings. I pray for my two other sisters, whose lives are equally stressful, but of another sort.
    There any number of people and things that get my attention, but I had never actually prayed to be healed.
    For those lepers, it all happened so quickly. They asked, he answered. And “… as they were going they were cleansed.”
    Why couldn’t that happen to me? So I raised my eyes up to the crucifix and prayed that he would heal my pain. I waited for a moment, began to slowly move my jaw, hoping he had wiped it all away.
    He didn’t. And perhaps it was because I didn’t really expect it to happen that it didn’t.     We often apply human emotions to our thoughts about God. But I don’t know what divine emotions are like. So it’s all I have.
    I knew why I hadn’t prayed about this. I could imagine all he would be thinking as soon as my words reached his ears.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me, right? Take a breath, think of all the stupid things you’ve done – in my name – and in spite of it. Miracle cures are for the deserving. It’s not cancer.     It’s not life and death. Oh yes, I heard you, and yes, I’m sorry it hurts, but this one isn’t happening. At least not today.”
    If God in anyway thinks like I do, or feels like I do, I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m still taking one gray pill twice daily.
    But I didn’t leave hopeless. In fact, just the opposite. I am actually quite full of hope because I realized God is not like us. He may not even have need to think, but if he does, he surely doesn’t do it like we do.
    Dear God – Please heal those who just can’t bear it. I can, many can, some cannot.     Theirs is a cause in need of you. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘We’d been cautious, careful, smart
– and so very wrong’
By George Valadie
October 5, 2007
    I wasn’t exactly “scared to death,” but I was very, very uncomfortable. Maybe you’ve been in the same situation.
    Nancy and I were spending the weekend with our daughter, sharing her one-room apartment in the middle of downtown. She takes the couch and we get the bed. We buy her food, she acts like she doesn’t mind us being there.
    She was lucky enough to land on the top floor with a deck and a view that overlooks the city’s skyline, the river next to it and the bridges that cross over it.
    It really is breathtaking. Her parents can’t afford such a view, so we just visit.
    Yes, we have our concerns about all those dangers you hear about “downtown” – and especially for the females that live there alone. This one’s no different.
    Be it good or bad — she’s in one of those artsy sections of town, where you see anything and everything. People wear the strangest stuff, and sometimes act the strangest ways. It adds both charm — and concern.
    We felt a bit better when we found out that it takes one of those coded access cards to grant entry into her building. When your arms are full of groceries and dry cleaning, she says it’s a pain. But it’s safer and I have no problem with her being in pain.
    One early Saturday, it was my chore to run down to the main street and buy a morning newspaper and our daily diet cokes. The convenience store was across the street, no more than 30 steps from her front door.
    Before I set out, I had momentarily thought about dressing a little differently – you know the vain old adult worrying about what people might think — but I decided I looked just fine.
    Bad – but just fine.
    As I crossed the street I noticed the old guy who seemed to be hanging out on the property of the store where I was headed.
    He looked bad too. Not all that different from me really.
    In my 30 steps, I ran through at least that many judgments of the man.
    “He’s probably safe, likely a bum. His clothes were a bit more wrinkled than mine, but probably all that he owned. It seemed early to be out for a walk so I guessed he’d spent the night. Homeless for sure. With a drinking problem to boot.”
    I glanced his way, he glanced mine. So I just knew he was going to ask for some of my money. Or worse.
    There weren’t a lot of people around. Did he want my wallet? My credit cards? Did he have a gun?
    I walked past him, trying not to look while noticing everything I could. He didn’t say a word, but he did decide to follow.
    So I picked up my pace and hurried into the store. As did he.
    He never said a word. I bought my stuff, he bought his. And I felt like an arrogant fool.
    Walking back to her apartment, I laughed at myself for my unfounded fears. And felt guilty for my better-than-thou criticisms.
    My arms were loaded down with the paper, a box of drinks and a bag of bagels.     Searching for the access card while trying not to drop it all was proving to be every bit the hassle she said it was.
    To my good fortune, a young woman resident hit the door just before me. She’d been out jogging carrying nothing but her card.
    She didn’t really hold the door for me, but I did slide in before it closed behind her. There we stood together in a very intimate 6x6 lobby waiting on the elevator.
    And then – in one very revealing look – I had become the old man across the street.
    She didn’t say a thing. She didn’t have to. But she was every bit as nervous as I had been only moments before.
    I knew she was safe. But she didn’t. She didn’t know me. She’d never seen me. And because of my armload, I was unsuccessfully struggling to pull out my own access card which would have indicated that I belonged.
    She was scared.
    And I can’t blame her. I was wrinkled, unshaven with hair amiss. I looked bad. And maybe not nearly as fine as I had thought.
    In the seconds while we waited for the elevator, I’m pretty sure she had formed all sorts of judgments about me. None of them good. And none of them how I see myself.
    In an effort to relieve the tension, I tried a faint smile. I got nothing. If anything, I think she took it as the sickening leer of a dirty old man.
    Finally, I offered a few words, “I sure love yall’s building. I’m here visiting my daughter and this is a great place,” as I finally managed to pull out the only thing she wanted to see – an access card of my own.
    We both exhaled. Our mornings had been so similar. We had been cautious and careful, guarded and smart – and so very wrong.
    Dear God – Our world keeps us torn between being smarter and kinder. As if we must be one or the other. Please shine your light on our darkness. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘Paper Clips’ reminds us about sad history
By George Valadie
September 21, 2007
    Whenever I have a few extra bucks, I love to go to the movies.
    In spite of the ever-increasing prices, I like everything about the experience. The butter popcorn, the way the tickets come spitting out of that machine, the anticipation in the lobby, the butter popcorn, the posters and the previews, the new stadium seating, especially the ones that rock — and the butter popcorn.
    But one thing I know for sure, I’m no movie critic. If a new release piques my interest, I read what the critics write, and we seldom — if ever — agree. In fact, I can pretty much predict if they say it will be terrible, I’ll find myself loving those the most.
    In fact, I enjoy just about every movie I see, some more than others of course. I can really only remember one or two that left me feeling that I had completely wasted my money. And even they were rescued by the butter popcorn.
    What can I say, I’m easy, a producer’s dream.
    All that being said, I’ve never felt comfortable or confident using this space to recommend anything to anyone else. Enough people doubt my sanity as it is.
    Which is why in these many years I’ve taken the liberty to recommend only one other movie that I can recall – “Finding Nemo.” It is a great story about parents letting go . . . or trying to. And no matter what you think about Ellen DeGeneres, she’s hysterically funny, even as a fish.
    But now I have another. It’s called “Paper Clips,” a 90-minute documentary about a middle school in eastern Tennessee and the class project they undertook to learn a little more about the Holocaust.
    It’s been out for a while. So you won’t find it in the “new releases” section of your video store, in fact, I’m not sure you’ll find it on any shelf. If it ever was in a theater near you, I can guarantee it wasn’t there long. Not because of its quality, it just never had blockbuster appeal.
    But even if you have to ask and order and put up with that sort of frustration, I think you’ll be glad that you did. It’s worth every minute of the 90 you will spend.
    We showed it to our faculty last year and then to our freshman class just a week or so ago. Though it’s been on HBO and available for some five years, not one of our teachers had ever seen it.
    (Check out the website ww.w.paperclipsmovie.com.)
    If you get around to watching it I strongly recommend watching it with your student-age children if you have any. And if not, it’s still a moving experience.
    I recommend it – not because of its Holocaust theme – though that’s one we should never allow ourselves to forget. Rather, it’s the broader message. The one that lives with all of us, far beyond the hills of that tiny town.
    Most of us grow up just like they have though, looking at and living with people just like us. No fault, no blame, that’s just the way it is.
    That’s who we hang with and party with, talk to and travel with – and more than we’d like to admit – it’s often who we pray with.
    As much as we intellectually comprehend that we are “citizens of the world” (more now than we used to), we don’t really live our day-to-day that way. Far from it. There’s our world and a bunch of others. At best, we’ve heard or read about them. But not much of that.
    It’s just us. Spending most of our time with a bunch more of us.
    It stands to reason then that every society – and our jobs and our schools are but small miniatures of the larger one in which we live – every society has people who are not accepted.
    We don’t like to think about it, but we all know people who are different and set apart because they are.
    People who are locked out – literally and figuratively. People who are tortured in some way or another. People who look or speak differently, people who think or believe in a way that we do not.
    And for us, today, in 2007, these people are not half-a-world away … they’re just a locker away or two cubicles over. But still, as close as they are, we’ve been known to fail them as well, fail to protect, fail to assist, fail to include. It’s what we can all do better. And it seems like we ought to try.
    This is a movie that can – if we let it – be a simple reminder about some poor people’s sad history that we didn’t know and surely didn’t cause.
    Or it can be about what it is about – us. Seventy years later – in another place and time – we can be the liberation forces of someone else’s holocaust. And we should.
    Who knows how different their history might have been. Who knows how different the history we might write.
    Dear God – What’s harder for you to watch – people being evil or people allowing people to be evil. Help us be neither. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

‘I lead a life of wanting to be good’
By George Valadie
September 7, 2007
    It happened to me just today.
    Well, actually, it didn’t happen to me, it happened because of me. I did it to myself. Or should I say I said it to myself.
    Yesterday, Nancy sent me on a mission to rent a carpet cleaning gizmo.
    Our puppy awoke in the middle of the night frantically needing to go outside. In the 3 a.m. darkness, he went left instead of right. In the light of day, turns out we needed a carpet cleaner.
    I’ve rented cars and tuxedos, hotel rooms and one for a wedding reception, but none of those people seemed to want as much identification as the folks who sit in charge of carpet cleaners.
    I signed a form that was written – not in duplicate nor triplicate – it was written in “quinplicate” or whatever it is when there are five carbon copies.
    And before I left the store, they had also reviewed my driver’s license and “one other reputable credit card” though they didn’t know or care if it had any charging room on it.
I guess I passed.
    When I got home, Nancy, our home business manager and tracker of the funds, asked me what it had cost on our debit card. But amid all the investigative paperwork, they had failed to give me a receipt, and I had failed to ask for one.
    Today, less than 24 hours later – the legal limit for keeping a carpet cleaner – I returned it and asked for my missing receipt. To my surprise, my customer service rep didn’t seem to be able to produce any record of my having paid – and just for a moment – I wasn’t sure that I had.
    She didn’t want to argue and though unsure, she was fairly confident that yesterday’s clerk would have never let me out of her sight had I not paid. They do, after all, guard these things with their lives.
    So off I went, carpet cleaned, gizmo returned, receipt in hand.
    But here’s where it happened.
    Right there, right then, I didn’t actually know if I had paid. I meant to. I think I did. Heck, it was only $24. We can afford it. I would never do that.
    But for one brief moment today, when the storekeepers weren’t quite sure themselves, I thought to myself, “You know, amid all that stuff, maybe they never did ask for my debit card. Maybe I didn’t pay. How great would that be?”
    Seriously, that’s what I thought.
    “How great would that be?”
    And as quickly as that passed though my mind, so did the next embarrassing thought.     “That’s stealing, George. Sorta. No, it is. I know it is, sure it is. Definitely. I mean it would be if I did it. But it is their screw-up, not mine. So it’s not me, it’s them. I would have paid if they had asked. But surely, now that you know, you wouldn’t just walk out of here and not offer to pay, would you, George? No. I don’t think I would. I don’t think. Oh, I know what, I’m going to see if the charge hits my account. If not, that’s when I’ll come back. Yeah, that’s when I’ll come back.”
    And here I sit, trying to convince myself that’s when I’ll be the sort of person I know I need to be. Then.
    There have been other times I was not so good – and I could have been.
    Once, I noticed the waiter at the pizza place left off the three $1.79 soft drinks we had ordered. But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I felt fortunate.
    Another time I remember buying some paint and thinking it hadn’t cost as much I had thought it might, only to realize the clerk had given me an extra five dollar bill in my change. I could have gone back because I discovered it while still in the parking lot celebrating my good fortune.
    I don’t like thinking about that sort of stuff for the obvious reasons.
    I don’t like seeing myself as a cheat and a thief. But I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.
    I don’t like to recall that I actually thought about being better – but chose not to. That there were times I excused myself because not that much money was involved as if there is some defined dollar limit that separates morality from immorality and goodness from sin.
    What’s worse, I’m also the person who can be a really irritated individual when those same clerks fail to give me enough change or when the waiter charges me for too many soft drinks.
    From where does one get that sort of nerve? Where do I get it?
    Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a bunch of good days. Once, I found a guy’s wallet at the park, full of cash. It had fallen off the top of his car. Called him, met him, made his day. St. George to the rescue.
    And so I lead a life of wanting to be good all the time – while fighting the darker angels who pull and tug and sometimes win.
    Who among us would claim sainthood? Perhaps, though, there is help. From the same God who gave me the free will that causes this ongoing internal struggle. With prayer and an open heart, there will be far more good days than those I’m ashamed to remember.
    Dear God – Our humanity so often gets in the way of trying to find the right way. Thank you for believing we can. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Doggie school proves familiar
By George Valadie
August 17, 2007
Have you ever sworn that you would never do something?
I don’t mean the bad stuff or the real important stuff – like breaking vows or committing sins.
I mean the everyday stuff.
Have you ever pledged to yourself to avoid that thing – whatever it is – that others seem to have embraced as a part of their lives.
For instance, I knew someone who swore he would never get a cell phone. Just wasn’t going to do it. He couldn’t see what the hoopla was about nor could he envision that he or his family would ever have that sort of need.
Actually that was me. Before we bought the first of our family’s five phones.
There have been other such occasions for me.
I also swore that none of my daughters would ever stay out on a date past 1 a.m. Nothing good happens out there at that time. And I swore that it wouldn’t matter what the other girls were getting to do or what their parents thought or how responsible their young man was.
Well, it sounded good when I said it.
And now I’m there again – recanting yet one more oath I had made to myself.
Some months ago, I reported on our Christmas puppy, Maggie. Instead of the rough start we expected, she was a doll from the first moment and one of the very best behaved puppies I’ve ever seen.
She became house trained in less than a week. She was crate trained in one night.
She slept all night, never chewed on the first shoe, never let out the first angry bark.
But then there was the attack of this summer’s massive heat wave. It took its toll – not on Maggie – but on us as we lost our senses and decided to get another puppy friend for Maggie to help occupy her long days while we’re at work.
So now we also have Charlie, a pesty little brother, in every sense of the word.
Thus far, he has failed to master anything. He chews and he bites, he prefers pottying inside rather than outside, and he’s just a few more inches – and one inattentive parent away – from climbing into the middle of the kitchen table.
Which brings us back to where we began.
As much as I swore I’d never do this, I enrolled him in puppy obedience school.
I’ve always said I just could not bring myself to spend our hard-earned money to get one of our animals to behave – at least not until I could get my kids to. But here I am. And here we are.
Not knowing what to expect, I was actually pleasantly surprised. Turns out our first day of doggie school was so much like the first day of any other school. And I’ve been there before.
In particular, I was flooded with memories of our youngest, Sarah, and her first days of kindergarten. Just like her, Charlie was afraid to walk in the door so I had to pick him up and carry him in.
And while we were waiting for an orientation class to begin, he clung to me, venturing out a little bit at a time to meet his classmates, before returning back to the safe harbor of my leg.
There were some girls in the class – Abby, Stella and Ruby. And some guys – Charlie and Austin. And the class clowns with the funny nicknames – Smokey and Tuna.
There was crying by some. And bold strutting by others. And yes, there were some bathroom mistakes as well.
Like any good teacher on the first day, our instructor was great at cooing and coddling and bragging on each of her new little students – none taller than the top of your socks.
As she moved from new skill to new skill, she took turns calling on a different pup to come to the center and help her demonstrate.
Until it was Charlie’s turn. “Do you think he’ll come with me?” she said. “Sure,” I replied, “if you think you can wake him up.” And there he was – just like Sarah so many years ago – sound asleep while everyone else was an explosion of curiosity.
As she had with all the others, Miss Donna tugged on his leash to urge him forward to center stage. But unlike all the others, he just rolled over on his back, feet up in the air, and I swear he rolled his eyes. I’m not thinking he’ll be the valedictorian.
Though on a much, much different scale, the first day of this school year will be so very similar.
There will be new faces in new classes. Some will waltz right into the middle of the group and some will hang on the fringe, not sure about the peers they don’t know – but mostly not sure about themselves.
There will be boys and girls and class clowns. And my guess is there will be a nap or two at the most inopportune of times.
Still, I’m 100 percent sure that these students will leave far, far different than when they arrived. For some, they will learn how letters form words while others will learn how elements make compounds.
It’s easy to criticize teachers and schools and what doesn’t happen there. But it’s much easier to forget how much actually does. And how far our kids will come from those first few days when they release the grip on our legs.
I just hope it works for Charlie.
Dear God – No one needs our prayers – and your help – more than the people who will work with our children. Help them do the best they can – with who we send them. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

True wonder of world includes raising children
By George Valadie
July 20, 2007
     “Are you smarter than a fifth grader?”
     It’s all the rage, trying to beat those little guys.
     So here’s your chance … ready, set, go.
     Name the seven wonders of the ancient world.
     I was able to recall two though I’m pretty sure there was a day when I could proudly stand in class and recite them all, being a rather accomplished memorizer of fifth grade history.
     I was 10 then. Apparently, there’s some truth to the whole “use it or lose it” theorem because I’ve never ever used that bit of information – not even once since then.
     As a result, five of the seven are long, long gone from the brain cells where they had resided. For the record, I was proud of my two.
     In addition to matching wits with a gaggle of future National Merit finalists, the other reason this came to mind is the recent formal announcement that we now have seven brand new wonders.
     To make the list – new or old – it needed to be man-made, not the work of Mother Nature. But beyond that, these structures were chosen to recognize and celebrate the facets of architecture, religion, mythology, art, power and science.
     Some seven years ago (ironic I know), a Swiss entrepreneur, Bernard Weber, launched his New7Wonders Foundation believing — among other things — it was time to decide upon a new listing.
     Probably so. Since the original idea has been around since the time of Herodotus about 500 years before the birth of Christ.
     He’s got a fair point. There have been more than a few impressively constructed creations in the 2500 years since that first list was culled.
     That and the fact that six of the original seven aren’t even standing anymore – never to be wondered at again.
     To Weber’s credit, he let the entire world in on his adventure. And after seven years, hundreds of nominations, 21 finalists and 100 million votes cast from over 200 countries, we have a new list for our fifth graders to tackle.
     It’s an impressive roster of the well-known and the not so much.
     The Great Wall of China is in, so is the Taj Mahal in India. But you’d expect both to make it since each is in a country with a billion or so potential voters had they been inclined.
     But remarkably, so is Petra, a carved-in-the-rock city in Jordan that is surrounded by mountains containing mostly tombs and burial vaults.
     Not nearly as many voters there.
     Though each is “man-made,” that’s a commonly used phrase that is far from accurate.      Each of these was made by the efforts of who knows how many men and women. Some took a year, some took a thousand.
     But each one takes your breath away.
I’m not so sure that it matters who voted how. The ones that failed to make the roster are every bit as awe-inspiring. Greatness is greatness – even if it’s ranked eighth and beyond.
     It’s unlikely we’ll make anyone’s list, but in a way, we try to do the same thing everyday, don’t we?
     For us, it’s not about steel or concrete. There’s no carving, no cutting, no constructing.      And there’s certainly no engineering expertise.
     If anything, much of what we produce happens by the accident of whom we meet and decide to love.
     Our greatest work is our kids. Our children. The toddlers, the teens, the in-betweens and those who have moved on past that.
     They are our legacy. That’s what we will leave behind. And so we devote a lifetime of work and prayer to our young people. All in hopes of shaping a greatness of spirit that will stand the test of time.
Eternal time.
     And just like those massive works of magnificence, it takes hundreds of people to turn out the work of which we – and God – will be proud.
     Grandparents, extended family and those who feel like they should be. Teachers, aides and bus drivers. Administrators, coaches and counselors. Ministers, priests and pastors.           The school cook who smiles everyday, the best friend’s parent who hollers like you do, and the guardian angel who keeps them safe in the wee hours of our sleep.
     With all that stands in their way these days, raising children should rank among the true wonders of the world.
     And each one takes your breath away.
Dear God – If we can build the awe-inspiring, can’t we also do the awe-inspiring … with the poor, the hungry, the outcast? Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Have you ever tried to manipulate time?
By George Valadie
June 22, 2007
     If you ever find yourself worrying about the sanity of your family, or more specifically, the people in it, then read on and have hope. Every single word of this is true.
     We were headed to an evening dinner with what we hoped would be some new friends when Nancy said, “Oh, great!”
     You just know it’s never good when your wife says it’s great. She says it is, but it isn’t.      Rather, it was one of those disgusted, impatient “oh, greats” that seemed like things weren’t really going to turn out that way at all.
     “Just look at that clock, we’re running behind.”
     The clock to which she referred was the one on my dashboard.
     To which I replied, “Oh, you can relax, we’re OK, it’s 12 minutes fast.”
     And it is. Exactly 12 minutes. Because I set it and keep it that way.
     When she looked at me funny (a look with which I am familiar), I fired one back across her bow, “Yeah, like the clock in your car is exactly right?”
     I caught her. And she was forced to admit, “No, mine’s six minutes fast.”
     “On purpose?”
     “Yes, I make sure.”
     Then we had a good laugh because we both knew that in addition to our auto insanity — our one bedside alarm clock is set exactly 13 minutes ahead of what we believe is the right time.
     We’re meticulous about keeping it just that way but neither of us knows or can remember why we do.
     The creation of our own “Valadie Standard Time” causes us to go through all sorts of mental math whenever the other one asks, “What time is it?” Mental math that’s not all that easy to perform when you’re digging out from under a deep, sandman-powered, dead-to-the-world sleep.
     Is your house at all like this?
     And that’s not nearly the extent of our craziness.
     We have three clocks in the kitchen alone – one each on the microwave, the oven and the under-the-counter radio, and not one of them shows the same time, much less the right time.
     But for some unexplained reason, we don’t seem to care about any of them in the least.
     Our VCR reveals yet another different time. It seems like most days it shows a blinking “12:00.” On those days when it’s not eternally noon or midnight, the time it does display comes directly from and compliments of our local cable company.
     I’m not saying their time isn’t accurate or trustworthy, but I try to never forget that it’s coming from the same folks who need a four-hour window to come work at our house – and they usually miss that.
     What’s more? We both own watches, but we never wear them.
     These days I rely on my cell phone when I need to know the time. As best I can tell, it arrives there by magic.
     I bought it just two blocks from our house. Somehow the magic leaves there, travels invisibly to a satellite somewhere hundreds of miles above the earth and then back down to the gizmo in my pocket. And yours.
     True, they drop our calls, lose our messages, and seldom get the billing right, but they do seem to have figured out the whole time of day thing – even when I’m in another time zone – so they have my vote as the most accurate of all the timekeepers.
     And it’s not just a generational thing. Sarah, the youngest and most technologically astute of our daughters, has a really nice watch that currently sits on our bathroom vanity next to my toothbrush. It’s been there 93 days and counting.
     She never asks, I never offer.
     To wake herself up each morning, she uses the alarm function of her cell phone, though she prefers to keep it on silent. She says she can hear it vibrating on its overnight perch – which happens to be the top of her electric alarm clock which she never sets, but always plugs in.
     To Sarah, that makes sense. To me, it explains a lot.
     I’m not sure if there’s any deep meaning to any of this. Perhaps we’re all trying to manipulate the one thing we can’t ever change. Or it could be some undiagnosed obsession – compulsion – phobia – fixation.
     All are possible but more likely it’s that our family is just strange. And I’m OK with that, if we can limit it to just a few small areas of our life.
     What exactly are we trying to do? Minutes here, minutes there . . . keeping track sometimes, losing track a lot of the time. But always wishing we had more.
     At the school where I work, we had a good bit of sadness this year. I imagine we’re not at all unlike where you work. No one is immune.
     One of our teachers lost her spouse to an illness that wouldn’t let go, there were quite a few others among us who lost elderly parents. And some who weren’t really all that elderly.
     Luckily, we didn’t lose any students, but two of them were forced to live through death. Both lost a parent, one mom and one dad who left their families long before it seemed like they should have been out of their allotted minutes.
     And who among them wouldn’t give everything they have – all of it — for just a few more minutes of any kind.
     I know the summer doesn’t really add minutes to our day, but it always seems to.
     Maybe it’s that we let the kids stay up later or that we get to spend more leisurely time around the kitchen table. Or perhaps it’s the time we spend in the family car – traveling on vacation or teaching the newest teenage driver how to drive (I didn’t say all these extra minutes were fun ones.)
     But we should try to make them that way. When the one main clock stops ticking, they’ll be someone’s memories.
     Dear God – We all get different amounts and none of us can understand why. Down here where we are, it seems like your greatest gift and your greatest mystery. Thank you for both. Amen.
(George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)

Prepare for big things by doing little things
By George Valadie
05.25.07
     I have to admit, it was a first for me.
    Well, I really shouldn’t act like it happened to me, because it didn’t. I wasn’t even there.
    But it happened at our school.
    So I’ll just serve as your narrator about this first time it ever happened to anyone I know.
    For high school students, what could be better than having a donut shop as our closest neighbor? And because their store and our school both sit on what seems like the busiest highway in Memphis, it’s not uncommon for drivers – students and adults – to use our campus drives as a safer exit to a less-traveled road.
    And that’s exactly what he was doing when it happened.
Mr. Stanley Swenson, his wife and daughter had all just enjoyed an after-dinner sweet snack at the donut shop and were headed home for the evening.
    And that’s the exact moment when it happened. His 85-year-old body had a heart attack, right by our tennis courts.
    He did what all of us would have done. He lost consciousness, lost control; his car jumped the curb and wiped out a pretty good chunk of the fence.
    Within a matter of minutes, our night security guard was on the scene. He’s our nighttime protector and a daytime firefighter.
    Luckily for Mr. Swenson, it happened on the same night we were having our spring music concert and – among the many parents who were attending – was a mom who also happened to be a firefighter.
    Together, they laid his seat back, climbed in the car with him, and began administering CPR. He tackled the chest compressions; she tried to do his breathing.
    Perhaps the symptoms of cardiac arrest are the same for everyone or perhaps it was his own body’s reaction to dying. But the effects were nasty.
    His body started to let go and release. Not just the heart. But the bladder. And the stomach. And the bowels. You get the idea.
    Still, they kept at it.
    But as much as they tried, they really didn’t seem to be making any progress. His color was changing – far too rapidly – from pink and healthy to gray-blue and gone.
    Amid the chaos, they had enough calm to send for one of our defibrillators, attached the pads to his chest and before it was over, they had shocked his heart three different times.
    Thankfully, they weren’t the only two people to get involved. We had multiple students trying to contact 911 while a few other of our kids asked if they could talk to and pray with his family while they waited for the EMTs.
    Ambulances carried him to the hospital where in a very few short days really – he was able to recover.
    I had the opportunity to speak with his adult son a day or so later. He told me that his father’s doctors had diagnosed what those on the scene had known all along.
    Stanley Swenson died that night lying in his car on our campus. His heart stopped. His color left. And so did he.
    And he would have stayed that way except for the two people with the courage to jump in and the willingness to do what they could.
    People have said they saved his life. But in reality, they brought him back to life. And that’s a lot tougher.
    What do you say after that?
    Most of us are not trained firefighters, but still, we should all try to imagine what we would have done – had it been us. Because it’s not that out of the question, is it?
    How many times are we around other people? Because that’s all it would really take, isn’t     it? Anyone, anytime, anywhere.
    So, what do you think? Could we do what they did? I’m not talking about do we have the skill of CPR (though you cannot do what they did without it), but I’m talking about could we pull the trigger, look past the vomit and the urine, and just jump in the darn car.
    We want to think that we can, we want to believe that we can, we should even pray that we can.
    Because while we’re imagining if we could, we should also imagine what’s at stake if we couldn’t.
    For that spouse. For those children. Or for us. On the off chance that the person on the ground is … well, us.
    I believe we prepare for the big things in life by jumping in with the little things. We prepare for helping people with their life and death things by helping people with their little everyday things.
    We’ll have courage then if we have courage now. We’ll lead then if we lead now.
    So as it turns out, our test is likely not a test of the future, perhaps it begins today.
    Dear God – The miracles are all yours, but sometimes you use us to help them along.     Please help us be ready. You don’t always make it easy. Amen.
    (George Valadie is president of St. Benedict at Auburndale School in Cordova, Tenn.)