When we first got to Wal-mart, we expected to see her sitting out front like people do when they are giving away kittens. She was nowhere to be seen. We went inside and inquired about her. Wal-mart employees knew who we were asking about and had already done several things to try to help the woman. The customer service rep said she had called the Salvation Army about the woman, and Wal-mart had let her stay overnight in the parking lot. Another Wal-mart employed told us to look for her under a tree down by the road.

Once we knew where to look, the family was easy to see. They had put a blanket out under a tree by the opposite entrance from the one we had used. A not noticeably pregnant woman sat on the blanket with a three year old boy, a one year old girl, and a puppy while a man (presumably her husband) held a “we will work for food” sign near the road. The woman spoke Spanish better than she spoke English, but she was really Romanian. Her husband spoke a little English. He had recently lost his job, and was trying to get to New York where he had the promise of another job. They had a van, but no gas.

While we were talking, two men from the Journey church showed up and bought the family a tank full of gas. My friend from My Father’s House collaborated with the Salvation Army to get the family a free night in a hotel. And car after car stopped to hand over some cash or carefully chosen groceries. A construction worker who had stopped by to get his groceries after work dropped off a bag of sandwich stuff and commented “it ain’t much, but it’s something.” A former My Father’s House resident pulled up with another bag of food. Several moms stopped after picking their kids up from school and made sure to include diapers in their donations.

People clearly had seen the family on the way into the store and bought things on purpose to pass along on the way out. I am very proud that when we Miami Countians had a chance to look after strangers in our midst, we brought them food, shelter, and gas. We said by our actions, “we know you don’t belong here yet, but you could if you wanted to.” In the not too distant past, homeless strangers in Miami County were driven to the county line and dropped off with only our good wishes. But this week, we got a chance to become the generous, giving, inclusive community we all would like to live in.

Going to watch fireworks on the 4th of July, eating fried chicken with family, and swimming at the lake, these are all 4th of July week traditions people enjoy. My own family engaged in several of our favorite traditions this week, too. We rented a car, drove to St. Charles, Missouri, and stayed at our favorite hotel along the Katy Trail. On the second day of our trip, we got up early and drove to the St. Louis Zoo. Once there, we made sure to see the penguins, the elephants, and the giraffes. That night we ate dinner at the same Bob Evans we always stop at in St. Peters.

These traditions make us feel safe, and they bring back good memories. Other traditions, like walking the dog on Sunday morning and then eating cinnamon rolls, help us to know where we are in time. On the other hand, if we let our lives become so cluttered with traditions, we won’t have time to try anything new.

In order to not get stuck in a rut, we also tried a few new things this 4th of July week. We repaired all of our bikes and took an inaugural family bike ride along the Flint Hills trail. We tried a new restaurant in St. Charles called Lewis and Clarks. And in the heat of the day on Friday afternoon, we stopped in at the St. Louis Art Museum to enjoy works by Matisse, Degas, and Monet as well as a stunning display of arms and armor.

Traditions are great, but at some point we tried something new in order to create the tradition. Life seems sweetest when it is a balance between honoring tradition and trying new things.

Volunteers had already started cleaning up when my son, Israel, finished swimming the 800 meter freestyle last Friday night. By most people’s standards last place is a terrible spot to end up, but Israel took four minutes off of his previous time. In fact, if there was a prize for the most improved swimmer at the meet, he would have won it hands down. Israel didn’t let the fact that he wasn’t going to win keep him from getting in the pool.

I’ve noticed that people often use not being the best at something as an excuse not to do anything. For example, I have a friend who wanted to be able to run a 5K, but because he got winded walking around the block, he just quit trying. He wanted the results right now or not at all. Israel, on the other hand, has a different goal. He wants to see improvements in himself. If those improvements don’t lead to winning, that is okay too. He has achieved his personal goal regardless of his place in the race.

A road race in Kansas City, Hospital Hill,

recognizes that people at different fitness levels have very different goals. Most of the people who run the race will not “win” or even “place,” but many of them will achieve personal goals like completing their very first half marathon or beating their time from last year. To support those at the back of the pack, Hospital Hill chooses two special people to walk the half marathon and to intentionally come in last. As a result, anyone who chooses to attempt Hospital Hill instead of staying on the couch will not have to finish on their own. I love the way Hospital Hill respects the goals of anyone who has the courage to start the race.

Don’t let your skill level keep you from doing something you really want to do. If something brings you joy, then you should do it. Change your objective from winning to improving yourself, and get in the pool.

A few days after Mother’s Day, I got a card in the mail. It was a thank you note from my mom for the steak dinner we made her on Mother’s Day. It occurred to me that my mom and my friend Amanda are good at writing thank you notes to people, but I need to work on it. I tend to assume people know I am grateful, or that just saying “thank you” will be enough. Yet, often a written thank you would express my thanks better, so I would like to take this opportunity to thank a few people.

First, I would like to thank Elizabeth Trigg and the Osawatomie Library staff. Last week I brought my son Asher in to sign up for the summer reading program. The staff both upstairs and downstairs greeted us with a smile. Downstairs a knowledgeable volunteer explained how the free pool pass worked, how to earn points by reading pages, and what the Zombie Apocalypse and the Silent Library would entail. My son left excited to spend his summer reading, and I left excited that the library had invested so much energy and creativity into their summer reading program. Thanks for your enthusiasm Osawatomie Library.

Next I would like to thank Brandon True, the Writing Center tutor who worked in my classroom this year. Not only did he do a great job as a tutor, but he also wrote out a list of software and books my sons would need if they wanted to write their own video games. I took the list home, and my boys downloaded Game maker. Now both of my sons have built video games that are so hard they can’t beat them. They are inspired, and I am grateful to Brandon for giving them good advice.

I also need to thank Jeff and Jeremy Gulley for allowing me to write a column. I enjoy the opportunity to share my thoughts with readers every week. I am proud to tell my students they can read my column in the Osawatomie Journal. Thanks, Journal staff, for the weekly opportunity to express my point of view.

On a lighter note, I would like to thank Casey’s for making the best coffee in America and for selling ethanol fuel. And maybe I should thank my car for holding up after all these years.

Also I would like to thank my friends at the Y for encouraging me when I work out, and my friends Tony and Sheri for making tasty food and putting up with me. I always need to thank my friend Amanda and my pastor Jay for their love and support.

I can’t forget to thank my boss, a former Osawatomie High School teacher, Andy Anderson, for encouraging me to be the kind of teacher who cares about her students and about her teaching regardless of what sort of class she has.

Finally, but not lastly, I would like to thank my husband Jeremy and my children Israel and Asher for transforming our family into a team that verses the world together. And thanks mom, for reminding me that a written thank you means more than a phone call.

Her name is Aisha Khan, and she was in my class last summer. I remember many things about her like her laugh and her smile. However, the first thing anyone noticed about Aisha was the head scarf she wore to show modesty, so she would be protected in public space.

But on Friday, according to police reports, Aisha sat studying for her final exam, and a crazy man did not care that Aisha had her head covered. We don’t yet know what happened to her, but according to globalgrind.com that in her last desperate cell phone call to her sister she left this voicemail. “Oh my gosh it was so scary. My heart is like pounding. I’ve never got this scared in my life. Pick up your phones. I am freaked out right now.”

As I am writing this, Aisha is still missing. We don’t know the rest of the story. But we do know that her modesty and her head scarf were not enough to keep her safe in a public space. If that is not enough, then what is?

Ten years ago

Josh Anderson bore witness

to my deepest shame

when he called out to me

while I was quickly pushing my baby stroller

away from the homeless.

So intent on pretending not to see

that I didn’t see him just sitting there

among  the rejected

respecting the humanity of others.

Ten days ago

Josh Anderson bore witness

to our nation’s deepest shame

when as a graduate student

at U.C. Berkley, he called out

to the Board of Regents

and the Riot Police could only see

a  mob, and they beat him until

he could not get up,

for peacefully protesting an 81% tuition increase.

But like most people, I have several high school teachers who really mattered and made high school matter for me. One of those people is Rob Quiring, my honors English teacher and the director of Breaking the Prairie Wolf Code, the play I was in my ninth grade year.

Well, my twentieth high school reunion is coming up this May. I have spent the last ten years in the same house in Miami County, and I have stayed at the same job since 1998. As part of my job, I frequently do presentations at conferences. Just last week, I went to the National Council of Teachers of English convention in Chicago to present on “The Transition from High School to College” during a larger session called High School Matters.

You will never guess what happened. My high school English teacher, Mr. Quiring, was attending the conference for the first time, and he actually came to my session. The whole thing was a bit surreal for me. Interestingly, Mr. Quiring arrived a bit late to the session because he was getting Billy Collin’s autograph, which is what I would have been doing had I not agreed to present. It was nice, after all this time, to still earn my teacher’s approval.

At the store, I picked up a copy of The Help by Kathryn Stockett.  My sister told me it was a good book, and the reading teacher whose office is across the hall from me had it on her desk several months ago.  I looked through the book and realized it was almost 500 pages, so I would probably not finish it on the first leg of my trip.  (This is a problem I sometimes have.)  The cover propaganda compared the book to Kill a Mockingbird which is a fairly strong endorsement.  When I laid the book on the checkout counter, the girl ahead of me in line could not stop herself from squealing and then telling me The Help was her favorite book ever.

I had a similar experience when I presented my ticket to the gate agent on my return trip.  “I just loved that book,” she said.  Something about The Help makes readers want to talk about it, just like they might talk about The Office or Survivor.  For those of you who have not read the book, it is set in the early 1960s in Mississippi.  A young white woman gets a group of maids who are black to tell her what their work lives are like.  Along the way, the young white woman realizes her perspective is skewed.

The book has made me think differently about my interactions with others.  Today I went to Walmart, and I got in the checkout line where my favorite checker was working.  I love the way she almost sings when she scans the groceries.  I have sometimes waited extra long to be in her line instead of going through someone else’s shorter line.  Today, though, I wondered what our exchange might be like from her perspective.  Did I keep her from taking a break?  Do I come across as rude or lazy?  Is it annoying when I bring fruits and vegetables to the counter  that are not labeled or familiar?  Every exchange has two sides, and thanks to The Help, I am paying more attention.

When I was ten I flew in an airplane for the first time. I had never been in an airport before that day. When I was eleven, I experienced another airport related first. My family took someone to the catch a plane early in the morning, and we got to eat breakfast in the airport. I could see planes landing and taking off from the window, and my mother let me order French fries for breakfast. My romance with eating in airports must have started that day.

It continued in my teen years. I lived in a medium sized city, and my friends and I would take the bus out to the airport when we were bored. Inside the airport we would people watch and goof around. Then we would go out on the roof and watch the planes come in, or try to win at “first person to see a star in the sky.” Of course, before we took the long bus ride back into town, we had to at least get a coke in the airport restaurant.

So when I moved to Miami County, I really had it made. Someone put a perfectly good restaurant in the airport. In fact, people fly in just to eat breakfast on Saturday morning. Instead of flying, I drove to the airport after my Saturday morning run on the Flint Hills Nature Trail. Even so, I got to watch at least two planes take off while I drank my “just finished running” coffee.

Those of you who have been following my column knew this would lead to coffee eventually. And yes, they bring piping hot coffee to the table at We Be Smokin Barbeque at the airport. The waitress, who is quick with a funny comment, will refill your cup as often as you need her to. In fact, she will even bring a to-go cup, so you can take their coffee with you in your car or airplane.

I do have a few words of caution for anyone who is uninitiated into the world of breakfast at We Be Smokin. First, get there early if you want to eat biscuits and gravy, or they may run out of biscuits before you get there. If you do get there in time though, you can have biscuits instead of toast. Secondly, if you have a small appetite, then don’t order the short stack of pancakes. The three pancakes make a stack that is bigger than my head. And of course, a side order of bacon is the perfect addition to any cup of coffee.

Do you remember the story of Stone Soup from your childhood?  A weary, hungry traveler fills a cooking pot with water and a large stone.  Then he places it over a fire in the town square.  Eventually everyone in town contributes to the “garnish” and flavors the soup with carrots, potatoes, onions and other vegetables.  In the end, the whole town enjoys the soup.  This week, we had a coffeehouse night at My Father’s House, and it came together because all of us contributed what we had to give—just like stone soup.

A young poet named Levi shared some of his poems with Jeremy and I, and we were so inspired we imagined a night where people from the shelter, our church, and all of Miami County could share their talents.  Jay Preston gave us the space.  Then musicians, writers and comedians came out of the woodwork to add their creative work as “garnish” for our stone soup.  Friends set up the sound equipment, ran the controls during the performances, set up tables and chairs, brewed coffee and hot water and videoed the performances thus adding more flavor to the soup.

My son Asher got up to do a comedy routine he wrote himself, and people laughed.  A middle-school girl named Draven told me she wanted to sing, but she was too nervous.  However, an hour into the performances she found the courage to come on stage and blow us away with her sweet singing voice.  An old friend walked in the door midway through the evening, and three guys formed a spontaneous band around him, so he wouldn’t have to play alone.  The Kansas Monkeys danced across the stage.  And Jeremy played a Bach song for his mother to thank her for all the years she took him to guitar lessons. I would have paid $30 a ticket to see the final act: Jeremy, Ian and Jeff.  All in all, we had a great soup.

I probably drank 10 cups of coffee that night, and I was told we ran out of hot chocolate because people enjoyed it so much.  I counted about 60 “soup eaters” at our coffeehouse night.  They were a beautiful blend of people who came to contribute their own talents to make something wonderful, just like stone soup.  Maybe it was all the coffee (I did get carried away), but I couldn’t sleep when I got home that night.  I felt so much love from my community.