BACKPACK HIDER
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN A BACKPACK HIDER or a “I WILL MAKE SOMEONE’S LIFE BETTER WITHOUT THEM KNOWING ABOUG IT” kind of person. . dare you think the following story might change you just a tad. . . ?
I’m seventy-two. My name’s Harris. I used to be a high school history teacher in Ohio.
Now I hide backpacks.
Not in schools. Not in libraries. Not in food banks with lines around the block.
I leave them where kids disappear.
Behind the bleachers at the football field no one uses anymore.
Beside the boarded-up convenience store that still smells like spilled beer.
Under the bridge where spray-paint tags scream louder than adults ever do.
People ask why.
Because that’s where I used to find my students.
When my wife died, the classroom was the only place that kept me standing. Then the district closed my school. Budget cuts, they said. Fewer kids “worth saving.”
I drove around those first months like a ghost, parking in old lots, remembering faces. The boy who used to doodle in the margins. The girl who never took her hood off. The one kid who sat through three funerals in a semester and still turned in his essays.
I started noticing where kids hid when they had nowhere else to go.
And one night, I remembered something: the way my students’ backpacks told the whole story.
Worn zippers, missing straps, heavy with secrets no curriculum could carry.
So I bought a few used packs from Goodwill. Filled them with small, stubborn things.
A peanut butter sandwich wrapped tight.
A notebook and a Sharpie, with my scrawl inside: “Write it down. It matters.”
A pair of headphones and an old MP3 player loaded with free audiobooks and a playlist I called “Stay.”
A bag of trail mix. A bottle of water. A cheap phone card.
I didn’t put in Bibles or pamphlets. Didn’t tape motivational quotes to the straps.
Just pieces of normal life. Things that say: you still belong in this world.
The first time I left one, under the bleachers, my hands shook like I was committing a crime.
Next week, it was gone.
In its place? A folded piece of paper: “Thanks. I ate the sandwich. I’m still here.”
That was enough.
Week by week, I left more. And the backpacks started talking back.
A hair tie, left for the “next girl who forgets hers.”
A library card, taped to a thank-you note: “They reopened. Go check it out.”
A Polaroid of a dog with “He’s waiting at home. So am I.”
Last winter, a backpack showed up on my porch.
Inside: a sandwich. A notebook. A pair of socks.
And a letter.
It was from a boy who used to linger behind the gas station. He’d planned to join a gang that night. Said the backpack stopped him. Not because of the food, but because of one scribble in the notebook:
“You deserve to see another season.”
He wrote, “I chose life. I got a dishwashing job. Now I’m leaving backpacks too. With your list.”
I sat on the porch until my coffee went cold, holding that letter like it was oxygen.
Now my neighbors help. A retired nurse slips in first-aid kits. A baker leaves muffins with a note: “Still good. Still loved.” Kids from the neighborhood ride their bikes over and toss packs into the trunk of my car. Nobody signs their names. Nobody takes credit.
It isn’t politics. It isn’t charity drives or photo ops. It’s just one quiet thing in a loud, divided country.
The world talks about walls, borders, crime rates, and statistics.
But when you stand under a bridge at dusk, you don’t see numbers.
You see a kid trying not to cry where nobody’s watching.
That’s who the backpacks are for.
My grandson asked me once, “Grandpa, why don’t you just hand them out?”
I told him, “Because shame is loud. Kindness has to whisper. Sometimes people can only pick up help when no one’s looking.”
I don’t know how many backpacks I’ve left. I don’t keep count.
But I know this: in a world that makes so many feel disposable, something as small as trail mix and a Sharpie can turn a night around.
You don’t have to save the country.
You don’t have to fix politics.
You don’t even have to change a life.
Just leave something soft where a broken soul might land.
Sometimes all it takes is a backpack—forgotten by the world, but found by the one person who needed it most.
And that, I’ve learned, is still teaching.
Kind of makes you want to go out and buy some backpacks or. . .hide a few, huh?
You are somebody’s front porch to God.
You are someone’s doorway to mercy.
You are the world’s threshold to
kindness.
You are my entrance to letting go of regret.
No pressure, but…
Your life is a gateway to peace
for both strangers and friends alike.
Whether you realize it our not…
Empathy has chosen you to turn your
heart into a welcome mat for others.
This is purpose of your life…
To let your existence become a candlelit
veranda of hope for the rest of us to
gather on during the long night.
~ john roedel
JUST A MOMENT: MORE THAN A POTHOLE
We always do our best to avoid potholes. . .Wait a second, aren’t we a whole lot like them? Sometimes, don’t we avoid people that are like the divots, the potholes of our lives. . . wait a second, oh no, do people avoid us and treat us like a chuckhole in their lives? You know, in either case the fix-ability of a pothole is right in front of us. We all have patch-abilities to us normally to receive, but to give. . .
Now will we? Because that may be the biggest pothole that we need to avoid of all, and usually the one that does the most damage, especially when we don’t even see it. . .
We avoid potholes~~much like we do imperfections in others and even in ourselves because of the damage we think they may cause instead of the patching we may bring. . . .
PIROUETTE
ALLOW ME TO EXPLAIN WHAT YOU JUST SAW:
Pirouette” by Ciara Borgards – The film shows how a misfortune can be the necessary force to transform our lives for the better. A metal ballerina is standing on a turning platform supported by a frame inside a music box. But suddenly her support breaks, her music box closes, and the ballerina finds herself in a strange world. . .
M E A N I N G:
We are shattered; sometimes utterly broken. We are all nicked up and chipped; Imperfect
We do not live undefeated and yet there’s a power in us that. . .that we often mistake and even less notice and recognize that so very often, it’s our Super Power
Sometimes out of our shattered brokenness comes a dance that would’ve been impossible to conceive, let alone achieve as the jaggedness,
the incompleteness of us
made something whole
that couldn’t have been otherwise~~
DANCE ON
THE RAPTURE
ARE WE ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
LOOKING OVER TO SEE WHAT’S NEXT
OR IS IT. . .
HOW FAR ARE WE GOING TO FALL. . .
WAIT. . .WHAT
ARE WE EVEN HERE
OR HAS THE END OF THE WORLD
ALREADY TAKEN PLACE. . .
There is no factual or theological basis for the prediction of the Rapture in 2025; rather, it is a modern viral prophecy originating from a South African individual named Joshua Mhlakela who claims to have had a divine revelation that the Rapture would occur on September 23 or 24, 2025, coinciding with the Jewish holiday of Rosh Hashanah. This prediction has spread widely on social media, creating a trend called “RaptureTok” where believers and skeptics alike are participating in discussions and creating content related to the concept. However, the Bible itself states that no one knows the day or the hour of the end times, and the concept of the Rapture is a relatively modern evangelical belief.
Poetry prescription: Take a minute today and read William Wordsworth’s “The World Is Too Much With Us” out loud:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
In a lecture called “The Distracted Public,” Saul Bellow said Wordsworth’s poem was his introduction to the subject of distraction, and addressed the problem of living in “the apocalypse of our times,” or what Wyndham Lewis called “the moronic inferno.” Being a novelist, of course, he made the case for reading novels:
“The writer cannot make the seas of distraction stand still, but he can at times come between the madly distracted and their distractions. He does this by opening another world…. When you open a novel–and I mean of course the real thing–you enter into a state of intimacy with its writer. You hear a voice or, more significantly, an individual tone under the words. This tone you, the reader, will identify not so much by a name, the name of the author, as by a distinct and unique human quality. It seems to issue from the bosom, from a place beneath the breastbone. It is more musical than verbal, and it is the characteristic signature of a person, of a soul. Such a writer has power over distraction and fragmentation, and out of distressing unrest, even from the edge of chaos, he can bring unity and carry us into a state of intransitive attention. People hunger for this.”
Any novel would probably work, but the older the better — it’s good to break bread with the dead.
MAYBE THE REAL RAPTURE
ISN’T THE END OF THE WORLD
SO MUCH AS A SPECTACULAR
NEW BEGINNING:
When I came to Westlake, Ohio in 1987, it was to replace the founding minister of Westlake Christian Church, Al Kean who had been there for 27 years. He made it very clear to me that it was now “MY CHURCH” and no longer his and so don’t bother to ask him to perform weddings or funerals. I did coerce him into coming back and doing a couple of Bible studies with us. One of those Bible Studies talked about THE END TIMES and I’ll never forget what Al taught us that night: “The world has ended countless times before, not just in the Bible but also with the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, WWI, WWII, the Korean and Viet Nam wars, Desert Storm and yes, TODAY and yet. . .HERE WE ARE
LET’S DO SOMETHING ABOUT OUR BEGINNINGS
N O W
JUST A MOMENT: BESIDE STILL WATERS
The phrase “He leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul” is a beautiful reference to Psalm 23:2-3 from the Bible.
In other world religions, similar concepts of spiritual rejuvenation and peace can be found:
1. Buddhism: The idea of finding peace and restoration in nature is reflected in Buddhist teachings on mindfulness and interconnectedness. For example, the concept of “dependent origination” emphasizes the interconnectedness of all phenomena.
2. Hinduism: The Bhagavad Gita speaks of finding inner peace through devotion and self-reflection. Krishna says, “One who has control over the mind… attains peace” (Bhagavad Gita 2.56).
3. Taoism: The Tao Te Ching emphasizes living in harmony with nature and finding balance within oneself. “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished” (Tao Te Ching 27).
4. Islam: The Quran describes paradise as a place of peace and tranquility, where the righteous will find rest and rejuvenation (Quran 56:89).
5. Sikhism: The Guru Granth Sahib speaks of finding peace and solace in the divine. “The Lord is my shepherd; I have everything I need” (Guru Granth Sahib 85).
These examples illustrate that many world religions value the idea of finding peace, restoration, and spiritual rejuvenation through a connection with something greater than oneself.
they become stagnant so even in the stillness, even if you can’t see it, there is a small stream a current underneath that provides everything that’s needed not just for rest, not just for regenerating, not just to save us and stave off burnt out; But to keep us moving, energize us, and to make sure that what we are still about, we are still becoming about. . .in just a moment
FEAR Khalil Gibran It is said that before entering the sea a river trembles with fear. She looks back at the path she has traveled, from the peaks of the mountains, the long winding road crossing forests and villages. And in front of her, she sees an ocean so vast, that to enter there seems nothing more than to disappear forever. But there is no other way. The river can not go back. Nobody can go back. To go back is impossible in existence. The river needs to take the risk of entering the ocean because only then will fear disappear, because that’s where the river will know it’s not about disappearing into the ocean, but of becoming the ocean.
(My thanks to the poet, via Tenneson Wolf.)
☀️ Today’s Ask: Do you have a place or time in your past that you sometimes want to go back to because it seems safer than what lies ahead?

And even now as we begin to
MOVE ON
past the
STILLNESS
let us each in our own ways
C R E D O
t h i s:

THE LIFE LIST: THE TRUE LOVE TEST
THE LIFE LIST is a beautiful little Rom-Com that is kind of the opposite of THE BUCKET LIST with Jack Nicohlson and Morgan Freeman but even though this features two young people trying to not so much as complete a ‘Bucket List’ as to create a LIFE LIST based on a simple list a girl of 13 composed in all of her “THIRTEEN-NESS” of what she wanted to accomplish, be, become. . .(worth your watch and pondering as you look back while even now, fearlessly, endlessly looking ahead, no matter what your age)
HAVE YOU
COULD YOU ANSWER
THESE FOUR QUESTIONS TO
THE TRUE LOVE TEST. . . ?
Erin and I have been married for 39 years and have known each other another 3-4 years beyond that and we probably answered these questions without formerly asking them way back on June 8, 1986 but they bear asking again and again and intimately knowing the answers, no matter what relationship you are in or for how long.
Every Heart gets bounced around and needs reminding where it BEATS the best. . .
SOMETIMES
the answers don’t mean as much as the
Q U E S T I O N S
asked and asked and asked again
not because you need
validation or reassurance
so much as you need to
S H A R E
it