CHOCOLATE COINS AND ERASERS

I parked across the street from Saint Michael Grade School, carefully brushing my beard, slowly securing my wallet, and eventually adjusting my knit hat before I slipped into the cold of an early January morning. The winter wind pushed me to move a little more quickly on my journey this morning. 

Had Paula Foster not reminded me, I may have forgotten about the commitment I had made several weeks before Christmas. Before I wrapped my first present or even helped Mom bake this year's cookies, Paula had asked me to visit her transitional kindergarten class after the holidays.

"I saw your post and your wonderful white beard (and) thought it was a sign," Paula said, perhaps trying to flatter me. I don't know if I was flattered, but I succumbed to Paula's enthusiasm as she detailed the great activities she planned for her five-year-old students. Of course, I would help out.

I rang the doorbell of Saint Michael Grade School, experiencing one of those "full circle" moments. As I waited for someone to open the door, I stepped backward to gaze into the adjacent parking lot, where the wind blew little remnants of snowflakes between the school and church. As a child attending "St. Mike's," I played games at recess in that parking lot, relegated to the outfield during kickball for my inability to make accurate throws as many of my classmates could.

I looked back through the glass of the front door, recalling the short rise of steps I walked as a first grader over half a century ago, being scared to death of what awaited me. Little did I know of the stories I would be able to tell one day. The door clicked, and as I entered the familiar lobby, the foyer air warmed me immediately. Didn't a pen and pencil machine stand there once upon a time? To a child, it was a steel monstrosity that clicked out cool plastic pens with Saint Michael Grade School etched on the casing, a rough, gray eraser at the top, one which did nothing but tear the paper instead of erasing the multiple mistakes I tended to make. 

"I am so glad you are here, Mr. Bucon," Paula Foster greeted me from the top of the stairs, where she waited to usher me towards a classroom. I smiled and told her how happy I felt here, but my gaze continued to travel elsewhere rather than where she wanted me to go. A rolling refrigerated cart dispensing red and white half pints of whole milk once stood beside the water fountain in the front hallway. Excited students who rushed through lunch just to run outside would place leftover PB&Js or fruit from brown bag lunches atop the doors that slid back and forth, where someone would retrieve them to transport to the less fortunate in the world.

I stared into the cafeteria in front of me, a place I once struggled to find a seat where I could eat nervously by myself. Nothing is more exhilarating and mortifying than the sound of a chaotic grade school lunchroom, so I did what I could to survive. Even today, the little kids were yelling and screaming, filling the empty spaces of the blue-walled cafeteria. "Mr. Bucon, we need to get you in your costume. The kids will be back from lunch soon." Mrs. Foster's undeterred enthusiasm ushered me from the confines of my childhood memories into the first room of the school, where she prepared me for my visit to her class.

Sometimes, we can step outside ourselves on our journeys to witness moments as they happen. We are more present in these moments, shuffling off our daily worries and haggard agendas as we see more clearly and understand the world more deeply. Intent has little to do with this experience; our souls simply flip a switch inside each of us, leaving no choice but to embrace the feelings as they envelop us. 

We quietly paraded down the hallway at Saint Michael's in colorful robes. We were Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat adorning three nervous individuals who garnered the seventh and eighth graders welcoming grins and their "oohs" and "aahs" as we walked past the open doors of their classrooms. "Look! It's The Three Wisemen!" one person whispered as he pointed at the green, gold, white, red, brown, and silver pageantry. 

Dressed in a dark green gown with a gold crown atop my head, I was Balthazar, the Wise Man from Arabia, bringing myrrh to the Baby Jesus. Long ago, as a first grader, I had waited outside this exact back hallway classroom, wondering what I would find once the door opened. And now I stood here again. I could do nothing but smile and absorb the energy of this moment. I felt my soul flipping the switch when we all entered the classroom to the paralyzed excitement and wonderment of a small group of five-year-olds who stopped to watch the magical entrance of the Magi, bearing gifts for them on their journey to the Baby Jesus.

We stood before the children, no longer anxious about what we had to do or say. The Wise Men had little time for those concerns as the genuinely curious young minds of five-year-olds posed numerous questions about where we were from and how we traveled across the ocean on camels. Innocent energy warmed the classroom as each Magi met every student, kindly sharing small gifts of golden chocolate coins and erasers in the shapes of farm animals and the Holy Family. Each child glowed as they announced their gifts to the class and then turned to the Magi to offer a heartfelt "thank you." Laughs and chatter soon filled the room as the students eventually returned to their coloring and continued chatting with us and one another. 

Earlier than I wished, we said our goodbyes and told our new friends we were heading out to find Baby Jesus. We returned to the classroom at the front of the school, where we removed our colorful costumes. The reality of life began to creep back for me as the moment had already ended. It seemed as if my soul had flipped off the switch inside me as quietly as it had turned it on. Try as I might, I wanted to hold on to something from this short visit to the class. Nothing but appointments, shopping lists, and the cold awaited me outside. I wanted to slow down again. Did I miss what I was supposed to have learned?

That may be why certain moments remain with us for so long. We long to stay in the moments, keeping them with us despite a world that so quickly wants us to let go. Sometimes, life does not spell out the greater understanding for us, and we do not fully comprehend why certain moments matter more until all of the pieces finally come together days, months, or even years later.

Thank you to Paula Foster and her excellent class!

 

LIFE ON THE HORIZON

Whenever I travel, whether I take a long drive down I-95 or fly on a plane, I always become anxious, worrying about the traffic, gas prices, delays, and even my patience and endurance. A long trip is challenging enough, but I also want to arrive safely and of sound mind. So, as I embark on a lengthy trip, I find my old white woven rope rosary in the box atop my dresser at home and drape it over my neck as I am about to leave. I just feel as if I do this, I carry with me an extra bit of divine protection. Nothing provides comfort like a good spiritual ritual.

Even up on my visor, I have a guardian angel clip my Mom gave me long ago for my trips back and forth between West Virginia and North Carolina. The angel clip remains constantly, transferring from one vehicle to the next. I don't receive literal protection from the rosary or guardian angel. They are just objects made of thick, white string and embossed metal. Neither the woven rosary nor the guardian angel clip carries much comfort without the faith and understanding that must accompany both of them.

Recently I took a trip down south to Wilson, North Carolina, to enjoy a nice, long weekend between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It's one of those yearly trips I love, touching base with my son, Robert, and his wife, Emily, and the grandkids to check in and see how they're doing. This year, I decided to head down because it was Kaylee's birthday party weekend, and I had never had the opportunity to be there for one of these birthday extravaganzas. This year was a Neon Glo party, and I simply could not miss that.

Like many people, I have a love/hate relationship with driving on a trip. It is a serious, body-altering grind to drive 500 miles in one day. It is what it is, and I do not mind the physical repercussions of driving it since it takes me somewhere I want to go. We have all made trips like this; they are something that we do, particularly around the holidays. This time, though, I discovered something interesting during the drive.

I was on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when I noticed the light snow that had accumulated on top of some of the mountains in the higher elevations. It was so beautiful to me, almost new. How often have I driven these roads throughout the years? How often have I sped a few miles above the speed limit but never really looked at the horizon in the manner I did at this moment? During this trip, I didn't know what it was, but I illegally grabbed my phone, and put two hands on the wheel to snap a picture. I shouldn't have been this reckless, but I was so careful. The traffic was calm; hardly anyone was around me, and I slowed down. I just had to capture these mountains in a picture.

Interestingly enough, as I continued to drive, moving from Pennsylvania to Maryland and then down into Virginia, I noticed how the horizon changed constantly. Where I had once seen beautiful mountains of snow in Pennsylvania, I began to see a different type of sky in Virginia: beautiful, billowy clouds with streams of sunlight shining down onto the roads. Absolutely gorgeous. I took another picture.

I drove down Interstate 95, which was actually quiet and uneventful, particularly since I was driving on an early Thursday morning. I embraced the opportunity to continue my observations of the horizon. I still carefully took pictures because I wanted to revisit these images again when the entire journey was finished. I took pictures in Northern Virginia. I took pictures driving I-295 around Richmond. I took pictures as I entered North Carolina. I had gone from mountainous regions full of hills and valleys to the curves of 95 through Virginia to the straightaways of North Carolina.

The horizons were my obsession not only driving down but also on the long journey home to West Virginia. Days after I returned home, I revisited the pictures and the sequence in which I took them. I'm trying to understand why. Was I searching for a message? Is it possible that God was speaking to me through the horizon he had laid before me?

I started to think about what these different horizons meant to me in my life, as they all seemed to trigger different feelings. Driving across Pennsylvania with snowcapped mountains, I felt the times in my life that were quiet but sadly alone. As I hit Virginia, I saw the billowy clouds, the ones that were keeping away the light. I thought to myself about times when my life was full of clouds, challenging times when I didn't always see the light until it forced its way through. And then, as I drove through North Carolina, I saw the clearness of a horizon that went on and on, a world wide open to me. It is a horizon that I chase but never quite reach. And yet, I still enjoy the journey of searching while never quite arriving.

Each horizon offered a different story on this cathartic journey. I don't know if it was the woven rosary that hung around my neck or the guardian angel that was clasped on my visor, but I felt a calmness that I had never felt on other journeys, a quiet companion who accompanied me on my journey, one who has always been there.