VALADIE ARCHIVES
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‘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&rsquo