**

I’m living much of my life in the dark—the Valley of the Shadow of death to quote the ancient Psalm (23). Death and the resulting grief does that to a person.

I do experience moments of light… but overall the loss of my wife Jan has me in a period of more night than light.

My therapist recommended a book: Learning to Walk in the Dark, by Barbara Brown Taylor. It’s a faith-based book but one filled with insights for all of us raised to fear the dark.

And we have all been raised to fear the dark. Danger lurks there. Monsters inhabit it. Darkness equals the unknown and our imaginations imagine untold horrors. Sometimes those horrors show up on the movie screen.

And yet… we all live in the rhythm of day and night. We may try to light up the dark with screens and artificial light, but it that doesn’t stop the night from coming.

And we all experience moments of metaphorical night: Loss. Failure. Brokenness. Dark emotions. None of us are immune to it. It’s a part of life. And no matter the sunny disposition, affirmations, and distractions, night comes… to all of us.

Darkness is shorthand for anything that scares me—either because I am sure I do not have the resources to survive it or because I do not want to find out. (Taylor)

Taylor’s book looks at how to live in the dark. How to let the night come.

Here’s her intriguing question: How do we develop the courage to walk in the dark if we are never asked to practice?

We are quick to evade the night. We are especially quick to protect our kids from it: Night lights. Flash lights. Comforting fear without at the same time confronting it. Ignoring the beauty of darkness.

James Bremner, in his essay from Let there Be Night, tells the story of taking out the garbage in his Scottish home. Living in the country, it was pitch dark from the house to the bins. Fear dogged him every single step. Every single night, he writes, took all the courage he had to run that garbage to the bins and then run back to the house.

But… he writes, as an adult, the bravery forged in facing that fear, served him well as an adult.

Courage, which is no more than the management of fear, must be practiced. For this, children need a widespread, easily obtained, cheap, renewable source of something scary but not actually dangerous. Darkness fits that bill.

Our kids will face many valleys filled with shadows and darkness. Our sacred call is to train them to face the darkness. To build in them the courage needed to keep walking in the dark.

That’s not to say it won’t be scary. Or hard. Or even at times, crippling.

But when we train for something, when we embed a mindset and skillset, those “sets” will carry us when we can no longer move.

The training ground is right outside your door. Or it’s in your child’s bedroom—with the lights out.

Welcome the dark. Face the fear. Build courage.

Your child will thank you.

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**

Animated: Showing spirit or enthusiasm.

Inquisitiveness: An eager desire to learn. Intellectual curiosity.

**

As our kids start heading back to school (my grandkids started on Monday—in 110 degree Phoenix heat!), the battle with AI will heat up once again.

Is it okay for our kids to use it?

Are there downsides to AI?

How do we help them navigate their way through the pitfalls and possible benefits of AI?

More importantly, once again we want to ask the question: How do we inspire curiosity, wonder, and a hunger to learn in our kids?

One of the greatest gifts we can give to our kids is critical thinking… especially now in a world where so much thinking is done for them (algorithms).

How do we help our kids discern what is good, noble, helpful, beautiful, worthy of consideration, in a world filled with anger, grievance, and soundbytes?

We all understand that our teachers and schools are under pressure to ensure that our students graduate with the knowledge required by the state or district. Our educators are some of the most important people in the lives of our kids! They do outstanding work.

As parents and grandparents, however, we also have the privilege of inspiring our kids with not just knowledge, but the ability to think, to learn, to assimilate what is important in life.

Animated Inquisitiveness is a gift that will serve our kids well for the rest of their lives.

Animated Inquisitiveness is the enthusiasm for learning; the joy of curiosity.

How might you create an environment of Animated Inquisitiveness in your home? What conversations might you have to stimulate curiosity? How might you challenge your kids to think? What books might you read together to create a sense of wonder and awe?

May this be a year of Animated Inquisitiveness in your life, and the lives of your kids.

**

Check out this magazine featuring The Adventures of Toby Baxter. Toby’s adventures are rooted in Animated Inquisitiveness.

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The main character, Jean Valjean, spent 20 years in a hard labor prison; 5 years for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his sister’s hungry family. The rest for trying to escape.

Once released, he finds life outside of prison even harder than life in prison. Marked as a ex-convict, he can’t find food. He can’t find a place to eat. He’s banished from village to village.

All the while, he chased by Inspector Javert, a man ruthlessly committed to the law.

Finally, someone recommends that Valjean stop by the local Bishop’s house. To his surprise, the Bishop invites him in for a meal and offers him a place to stay for the night.

While eating, Jean Valjean can’t help but notice the silverware. In the middle of the night he sneaks downstairs, steals the silverware, and runs… right into the police. When they find this ex-con running with a bag of silverware in the middle of the night, they immediately arrest him and bring him back to the Bishop’s house.

When the Bishop answers the door, he says, “Ah, Jean Valjean. There you are. You left in such a hurry that you forgot to take these two silver candle stands with you.” He then dismisses the police, much to the shock of Valjean.

Once the police are gone, the Bishop leans down and says into the ear of Jean Valjean:

Jean Valjean my brother. Remember, always remember, that I gave you this silverware to make you an honest man. Today, I am buying your soul from evil and giving it back to God.

Victor Hugo, in writing about that moment, said that:

Jean Valjean felt like a man about to faint… He was just out of that monstrous, somber place called prison and the bishop had hurt his soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on coming out of the dark. He no longer really knew where he was. Like an owl seeing the sun suddenly rise, the convict had been dazzled and blinded by virtue… One thing was certain, though he did not suspect it, that he was no longer the same man, that all was changed in him…

Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He shed hot tears, he wept bitterly… While he wept, the light grew brighter and brighter in his mind—an extraordinary light, a light at once entrancing and terrible. His past life, his first offense… his exterior degradation, his interior hardening, his release made sweet by so many schemes of vengeance, what had happened at the bishop’s... the bishop’s pardon, all this returned and appeared to him, clearly, but in a light he had never seen before. He could see his life, and it seemed horrible; his soul, and it seemed frightful. There was, however, a gentler light shining on that life and soul.

That word of grace, that word of love and hope, seared the soul of Jean Valjean and transformed his life. He went on to become the man the Bishop believed him to be.

Though he was no longer young, it was reported that he had prodigious strength. He would offer a helping hand to anyone needing it, help a fallen horse, push a mired wagon, or grab a rampaging bull by the horns. He always had his pocket full of money when he went out, and empty when he returned. When he walked through a village the ragged little youngsters would run after him with joy and surround him like a swarm of flies…

When he saw the door of a church shrouded with black, he would go in: He sought out funerals as others seek out christenings. The bereavement and the misfortune of others attracted him because of his great kindness; he mingled with friends, in mourning, with families dressing in black, with the priests bereaved around a corpse… He did a multitude of good deeds as secretly as the bad ones are usually done…

That’s the power of a word of grace. Whether that word is rooted in faith, spirituality, or compassionate humanity, that’s the kind of word that can change the trajectory of a child’s life.

You matter. You are of incredible worth and value. I see the good in you.

What Jean Valjean in your life might need the word of the Bishop in his/her life—a word that only you can give?

**

I encourage you to check out my Toby Baxter series. It’s written for middle schoolers to be one voice among many that inspires them with a vision for who they can be. You might be surprised that you enjoy the books as well. We all need a reminder that we matter.

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***

I want to turn this story on its head a bit as we think about our kids and grandkids and the kids we care about:

When someone bumps into them, what spills out of them?

It depends, of course, on what we are pouring into their souls.

There’s no denying that when our kids bump into social media, grievance, anger, bigotry, ignorance, and downright meanness splashes all over them along with a whole assortment of attacks on body image and gender.

There’s no denying that in our society today, bumping into people from the other side of the aisle often baptizes us in vitriol, accusations, crudity, and, dare I write it, temper tantrums.

It does beg the question, what are we pouring into our souls? What are we pouring into the hearts of our kids?

The good news for us as parents, grandparents, educators, uncles and aunts, and coaches, is that we can help our kids empty those cups and then refill them with a noble, good, compassionate, kind tea—a gracious tea that, as it begins to spill out of them onto others, can cause some holy anarchy.

If nothing else, that kind of tea, overflowing from their souls, will protect them from other teas that aren’t nearly as healthy for them.

May I suggest, as a starting point, this tea mixture? It comes from an ancient text that has stood the test of time:

Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.

Steep it in the water of compassion. Gently stir. Add it a bit of sugar to sweeten it up. Pour it into the soul of your child… not too fast. It needs to take hold. But keep pouring. And don’t stop. Never stop.

Our kids are counting on us. Our country is counting on us.

***
My Toby Baxter series is written to help you help your kids fill their souls with character qualities that matter. (I promise, you will enjoy the books as well!)

Here’s a five star review for book 5: The Adventures of Toby Baxter—Revenge of the RiverHome Rootabeggas.

5 out of 5 stars

Funny, Sweet Middle-Grade Fantasy With a Good Message

Reviewed in the United States on July 18, 2026

This is a lively and very kid-friendly fantasy adventure with a lot of personality. Toby Baxter is still funny, awkward, dramatic, and easy to like, especially when he is trying to deal with Rainie moving away, his first real heartbreak, and another strange RiverHome crisis at the same time. I liked the central idea of revenge as a kind of emotional infection, because it gives the silly Rootabeggas more meaning than just being goofy vegetable monsters. The humor is very playful, with lots of word jokes, self-corrections, gross-out bits, and fourth-wall moments with Author, which will work well for the right middle-grade reader.

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She was comfortable in her own skin.

That doesn’t mean she wasn’t driven. That doesn’t mean she didn’t dream and look to the future.

But she was grounded in the here and now.

Me… I’m always working on tomorrow. The next book. The next Substack. The next sermon. The next trip. If I can’t figure something out in a minute or two I lose my cool. In my younger years I couldn’t sit still. Jan could spend an entire day on the couch in the corner coloring, doing needle work, working on ancestry stuff. Perfectly content.

We were the perfect compliment to each other. She kept me grounded. I got her out of the house! :)

Her life lessons weren’t unique to her. But she actually lived them!

Here are a few of her favorite sayings:

It is what it is.

This is certainly not unique to Jan. I hear the phrase all the time. And whenever she said it, which was often during her 4.5 years of cancer, it would kick off a playful philosophical/theological rant from me on why I didn’t like the phrase. It seems fatalistic to me: That’s the way it is and there’s nothing you can do about it! So just accept and move on. It suggests that we are powerless when facing our circumstances, encouraging us to give up, to not fight, to not look for change.

She was good at blandly ignoring my ramblings.

There was nothing fatalistic about Jan. She put herself through some awful treatments to keep on living. To stay with me. Our kids. Our grandkids.

But, at the same time, she didn’t sweat things. Sometimes things are what they are and life is much better if we go with its flow.

(God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.—The Serenity Prayer)

In watching how she lived, loved, and enjoyed life, even with cancer, she made a good point. She surely had to be stressed in life. We all are. But she chose to let it go and live. To know when to fight and when to simply ride the river of life.

It is what it is was her mantra of peace. It kept her rooted in real life: In this moment life might not feel good. But give it a minute.

One day at a time. I’m only now beginning to understand this one. Grief is combustible. It splashes all over the place, shifting emotions from one minute to the next, from one day to the next. I’m learning I can’t let today be the standard for tomorrow because grief has something new, for good or ill, for the next day. One day at a time. That’s all I have.

I once asked Jan how she managed. She said she’d learn how to enjoy each day. Cancer will do that to you. You don’t know how many days you’re going to get.

But, she’d always had that attitude. Along with It is what it is, one day at a time enabled Jan to enjoy what that day had for her. And she could let go of what needed letting go of.

I can often miss the moment because I get so caught up in the next one. I hold on to things for far too long. I’m still angry at the 1970’s Vikings for losing those Super Bowls! (Might explain why I have anxiety! :))

Be grateful.

Gratitude is the anti-dote to restlessness, anxiety, and a whole host of ailments that ail us in these ailing times.

As I think about Jan, I wonder if it was easier for her to be grateful because she slowed down enough to see.

You can’t be grateful, after all, until you take a breath and look.

In the end, these simple, but hard to live, pieces of wisdom, and much more, made her the beautiful woman she was, inside and out.

I’m being forced to live this wisdom by grief.

I’m glad I have Jan’s spirit to guide me.

May you, and those you love, learn to live that wisdom now. Your lives will be better for it.

Thank you, Jan.

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Don’t Laugh at Me was written by Songwriters: Steve Seskin/James Shamblin and recorded by Peter, Paul, and Mary. As we celebrate 250 years as a country, may we become the nation we aspire to be.

[Verse 1]
I'm a little boy with glasses
The one they call a geek
A little girl who never smiles
'Cause I've got braces on my teeth
And I know how it feels
To cry myself to sleep

[Verse 2]
I'm that kid on every playground
Who's always chosen last
A single teenage mother
Tryin' to overcome my past
You don't have to be my friend
But is it too much to ask

[Chorus]
Don't laugh at me
Don't call me names
Don't get your pleasure from my pain
In God's eyes we're all the same
Someday we'll all have perfect wings
Don't laugh at me

[Verse 3]
I'm the beggar on the corner
You've passed me on the street
And I wouldn't be out here beggin'
If I had enough to eat
And don't think I don't notice
That our eyes never meet

[Chorus]
Don't laugh at me
Don't call me names
Don't get your pleasure from my pain
In God's eyes we're all the same
Someday we'll all have perfect wings
Don't laugh at me

[Bridge]
I'm fat, I'm thin, I'm short, I'm tall
I'm deaf, I'm blind, hey, aren't we all?

[Chorus]
Don't laugh at me
Don't call me names
Don't get your pleasure from my pain
In God's eyes we're all the same
Someday we'll all have perfect wings
Don't laugh at me

[Bridge]
Well I'm fat, I'm thin, I'm short, I'm tall
I'm deaf, I'm blind, in a way we are all
I’m black, I’m white, and I am brown
I’m Jewish, I’m Christian, and I am Muslim
I’m gay, I’m lesbian, I’m American Indian
I am very, very young, I’m quite aged
I’m quite wealthy, I’m very, very poor

[Chorus]
Don't laugh at me
Don't call me names
Don't get your pleasure from my pain
In God's eyes we're all the same
Someday we'll all have perfect wings
Don't laugh at me

[Outro]
My country ‘tis of thee
Oh, sweet land of liberty
It is of thee that I sing

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Today I offer this Toby Baxter short story, based on that grief, in the hope that it may be helpful some day for you, or, more importantly, for the children in your life who may experience loss.

The focus of the story is on Toby, whose Grandma Baxter passed away. The story takes place two years after book 7 in the Toby Baxter series (although books 6 and 7 are not yet out!).

(Here’s a link to the PDF in case you want a copy to share.)

**

Toby Baxter sat in the church pew, staring straight ahead. On the screens above were pictures of Grandma Baxter. Pictures from when she was young. Pictures with her parents and brothers. Pictures of her and Grandpa Baxter when they started dating in high school. Pictures of her and Grandpa Baxter with Toby’s dad. And pictures with Toby.

She’d died six weeks earlier. A few weeks after his 16^th birthday. Cancer had taken her. A week before she died she sat with him and told him that she probably wasn’t going to defeat it. She had smiled at him. She told him that she loved him. That she was proud of him.

He hugged her. He cried on her shoulder. He didn’t want to let her go.

But a week later she was gone.

He had cried almost every day since. His heart ached. He missed her.

Grandma was obviously loved. The church was full. Many of those attending were wearing lavender-colored clothing, Grandma’s favorite color. Neither Toby nor his dad had anything lavender, so mom ordered a couple of shirts off of Amazon. As did, apparently, Sid’s mom, and Derrick’s mom, as they both had the same shirt. As did several of the men.

A full band—drums, two keyboards, two guitars, a bass guitar, and several singers took their places on the stage. As did a choir of about 25 people of all ages. Years ago Grandma was the keyboard player in that band. She told Toby that when he was born, she retired from the band to be his Grandma.

It was evident from the first note that this was going to be a very different kind of funeral. The music was upbeat. It radiated joy and hope. Just like Grandma Baxter did.

The pastor told a few funny stories about her. Then a family friend got up to read some stories written by family members and a few close friends. Most of the stories in some way talked about what a beautiful, gracious, loving, supportive person Grandma Baxter was.

That she was so loved, and so highly thought of, surprised Toby. But it shouldn’t have.

Because she was all of that and more to me.

He thought back to their last Christmas, about eight months ago. Her gift to him was a special experience that the two of them would do together, something she thought that he would enjoy.

She took him to the small regional airport where he flew a flight simulator. It was so cool. He was able to fly not only around Minneapolis but also in Paris, France. Once he got the hang of it, he flew over the Eiffel Tower and under some of the bridges in Paris. He crashed before he could make his way over to Disneyland Paris.

Then she took him out to his favorite pizza restaurant.

He felt the tears filling his eyes once again.

Toby’s was the last letter read:

When I turned 13, my Grandma gave me a Sword. The Sword had belonged to my Grandpa Baxter and then to my dad. She said it had a name, Loach, pronounced Lay-uk, which is Celtic for HERO. She gave it to me to remind me of the kind of man she believes I can be as I grow up. Honorable. Enterprising. Responsible. And Original. I miss her every day. I love her.

Grandma, thank you for loving me. Thank you for believing in me. And thank you for believing me, and you know what I’m talking about.

His dad and mom smiled at him. They, too, knew what he was talking about.

RiverHome!

As did Sid, and Derrick, sitting behind him. And Rainie. Rainie! She squeezed his hand three times. Their secret code for, I Love You! He squeezed her hand back three times.

He used his other hand to wipe the tears from his eyes.

While watching the video montage, set to Barry Manilow music for some reason, he felt someone nudge his shoulder from behind.

“Your Grandma was hot back in the day,” Sid whispered into his ear.

“Gross!” Toby whispered back. But he had to admit, she was a beautiful woman inside and out. She surely didn’t look 70.

With all of the music, the stories, and the video montage, the service lasted almost two hours. But it went by fast. He’d never experienced anything like it in church, feeling so many different emotions all at once.

He didn’t really want to hang out and have people talk to him after the service so he and Rainie headed to a quiet room just off of the worship center.

He sat down on a couch and Rainie sat down next to him, putting her head on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything. She simply held his hand.

“This really hurts,” he finally said. “I’ve not felt this sad before. It kind of scares me.”

Rainie wisely didn’t say anything.

They sat again in silence for a few moments…

“I get it, Toby. It really does hurt.”

“Mathilda?” Rainie asked. “Where did you come from?”

Mathilda pulled up a chair and sat down on it. Actually, she had to climb onto it as it was a bit too high for her, as she was just under four feet tall. Her blonde hair was cut short, revealing her elfin ears. She wore her usual fantasy-novel type clothes and the furry boots that Toby, on his first visit to RiverHome, thought were hobbit feet. Her bright blue eyes lit up the room.

“Well… obviously I came from RiverHome…”

“Obviously,” Toby said. “But why are you here?”

“Because your Grandma died, Toby. And I know what that’s like.”

Toby had met the river elf Grandma on his first trip to RiverHome a few years ago. She had reminded him of his Grandma Baxter, although she was much older than his Grandma. He remembered the moment when, on a return visit, he had learned that she had died. He could still feel the ache in his heart.

“Yes. That ache, Toby. That ache,” Mathilda whispered.

Rainie again squeezed his hand three times. He returned it with three squeezes of his own.

“This ache, this grief, does it ever go away?” Toby asked. “Because it really hurts. In fact, it sucks!”

“Can you say that in a church?” Mathilda said, laughing. “But you’re right. I couldn’t have said it better myself. It sucks. And that’s why I’m here. I want to give you a gift. Something that helped me with my grief over Grandma.”

Toby knew what she was about to give him. But he didn’t know what it would say.

Sure enough, she pulled out an ancient compass. He had been given seven such compasses on his seven trips to RiverHome. And a couple of others on special occasions for short stories, as Deckor called them. Toby never quite figured out what Deckor was talking about.

He looked at it. The compass, instead of reading N-E-S-W, read, W-E-E-P.

“WEEP? That’s the gift? I’m doing enough of that without a compass!” Toby said, a bit disappointed.

Mathilda held out her hand.

“Come with me, Toby. Let’s see what the compass wants you to know about that ache in your heart.”

As Toby stood, Rainie remained seated.

“This is his journey, right?” she asked, clearly wanting to go with him but not sure she should.

Mathilda reached out her other hand to her.

“Come, Rainie. He needs you.”

Mathilda led them through a hole that suddenly appeared in the wall. A moment later they found themselves immersed in the spray from the waterfall in RiverHome.

Immediately, the compass began to buzz.

As the compass began to buzz, several things happened at once, which often happened to Toby when he was in RiverHome.

The waterfall split in two, like a curtain.

A warm, bright light radiated out toward them.

The light began to sing. The singing was ethereal.

“Something extremely delicate, light, or otherworldly, possessing a beauty so perfect it seems too flawless for this world,” Mathilda said quietly, in awe.

“Thanks,” Toby said with his own sense of awe.

The singing surrounded them, as did the light.

“Fairies!” Rainie said, hardly able to contain herself. “Fairies, Toby. They are the lights. Fairies. Look at them. They’re beautiful.”

Rainie held up her hand and watched as the tiny Fairies danced in and out of her fingers.

Now swirling around the three of them, the Fairies drew them toward the break in the waterfall.

Toby looked down. They weren’t walking. They were being carried by the Fairies across the water.

Ferried across the water by Fairies!

Toby grinned at his pun.

He reached out his hand to Rainie. She grabbed his.

“This… is…” He couldn’t find the words.

Through the break in the waterfall stood a large tree. As in really large.

It had branches branching everywhere. Each of the long, whip-like branches sprouted leaves, long, thin leaves. But they weren’t green, they were…

“Blue? Are those leaves blue?” Toby asked.

The Fairies deposited them on the ground underneath the middle of the tree.

The music shifted. Still ethereal. But a deep, almost aching sadness filled the singing.

Toby felt something wet fall onto his face. Then something wet hit his arm. Then his head.

He looked up. Little droplets of water were falling onto him. Onto them. But as far as he could tell, it wasn’t raining.

“Those are tears, Toby. The leaves are tears. The tears of people, just like you, who have lost someone they love,” Mathilda explained. “This tree is a Weeping Willow.”

“A weeping willow? We used to have one of those in our front yard. But it didn’t actually weep. Sometimes we would use the long branches as whips and run around like we were Indiana Jones.”

Mathilda smiled. But the smile was sad.

An oxymoron?

“Not really, Toby. Smiles can be sad sometimes. Our Weeping Willow reminds us that hurt happens. That loss happens. That grief happens. It’s a sad, hard part of life but it is a part of life.”

“Why would you want such a tree around like that, to remind you about pain?” Toby asked.

“Precisely, Toby,” Mathilda answered.

“Precisely what?” Toby asked.

“What does the Christmas Giant—or your Santa—remind us of?” Mathilda asked.

“Joy!” Toby and Rainie answered at the same time.

“Jinx!” Toby started to say when Rainie kissed him smack dab on the lips.

He nearly fell over.

“And how about Cupid?” Mathilda went on, once Toby was stable again.

“Love?” responded Rainie, giggling at the power she had over Toby, and how much she liked to kiss him.

“How about Halloween?” Mathilda asked.

“Fear? Scary stuff? At least originally. Now it’s about fun and candy and dressing up,” Toby answered.

“My point is, we have all kinds of images that help draw out emotions in us like joy, happiness, fear, and love, to name a few. But we tend to hide grief. It makes us uncomfortable. We feel like something’s wrong with us. We believe we need to hide it, or even worse, get over it. Quickly.”

“But… we should move on, right?” Toby said.

“Why, Toby, why should we move on from it?”

Toby stared at Mathilda for a moment. “Because it hurts!”

“But why does it hurt, Toby?”

He stared at her again. He didn’t like questions that made him try to connect his emotions to his words. It didn’t come easily for…

“Love!” It came to him in a flash. “It hurts because we love!”

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Toby,” Mathilda shouted, clapping her hands and jumping up and down.

Rainie couldn’t help herself. She grabbed him and planted another kiss on him. This time his knees buckled. Thankfully Mathilda caught him in time.

“That’s right, Toby. Love. Grief hurts because we love. And why would we want to move on from love?”

“I… I don’t want to move on from love. But it hurts. We can’t live with that hurt for the rest of our lives, can we?” Toby asked.

That’s when the Weeping Willow began to sing.

A mournful song. Sad. Hitting Toby deep into his soul, wherever my soul is!

Her branches wrapped around the three of them. The Fairies swirled around them.

Tears fell onto Toby from the tree releasing Toby’s own tears.

“I can’t… stop… it hurts… please…”

His compass began to buzz. He pulled it out of his pocket. The needle stopped on W.

Walk with your grief, Toby.

The tree was singing to him.

“Walk with it? Shouldn’t I walk away from it? Or through it?”

You hurt because you love. That love is always with you. The only way through the hurt is to walk with the grief Toby, so that you don’t lose the love on the way. Take it with you.

“But…”

The compass began spinning again, this time stopping on the first E.

Embrace the grief.

“Like, hug it? I only hug what I love…” Toby caught himself. “Ah. Okay. Good one.”

He really is a very smart one, the tree sang to Mathilda.

Yes, hug the grief. But more than that, Toby, don’t run from it. Let it come. Let it do what it needs to do.

The compass spun again, landing on the second E.

Express the ache. And it is an ache. You are right, Toby, we can’t live with that kind of hurt forever. It has to change. It has to heal while the love remains. Talk with someone when you’re hurting. Write letters to your Grandma. Talk to her. Go for walks if you feel the need to move. And, when it hits, let the tears flow.

The compass spun one last time, landing on the P.

Picture love, Toby. Hold onto those memories of your Grandma. Write them down. Maybe put a picture book together of the two of you. Find ways to celebrate her life. And tell her story to your children and their children.

Toby looked at Rainie. She blushed.

They will be who they are in part because of her. Just as you are.

A Fairy landed on his arm. Suddenly, he remembered the moment when his Grandma gave him the Sword Loach after his first trip to RiverHome. He could see it so clearly. He could feel all the feels.

A wave of grief hit him.

“Remembering hurts!” he whispered.

It will for a time, Toby. But remembering is love. Love will eventually win over the hurt.

Another Fairy landed on his head. He found himself in the kitchen at Grandma’s house. The room smelled of chocolate chip cookies. He watched as Grandma put a plate of five cookies in front of him. He could taste them. Every one of them.

He felt a mixture of warmth and sorrow.

Toby felt Rainie’s arms around him. He was sitting on a boulder under the tree. Weeping. The Weeping Willow weeping with him. Mathilda weeping beside them.

“I come here from time to time, Toby,” Mathilda explained, wiping her eyes. “To remember Grandma. And Grandpa. And my parents. The hurt is different now. I still feel it occasionally. Because the love is still there. But the love is much stronger than the hurt.”

The Fairies danced in and around them. Then they joined hands, encircling them. And there, in front of him, was his Grandma Baxter. An image of her, anyway.

“She looks so beautiful, Toby!” Rainie said.

“I love you, my dear Grandson. I love you.”

**

“Toby? Your friends are looking for you,” his dad said, sticking his head into the room… although his head didn’t actually stick to anything, except his neck, of course. Thomas Baxter opened the door fully and Sid and Derrick tentatively walked in.

“Everything okay?” Sid asked.

Rainie smiled at him.

“We’ve been on a bit of an adventure,” she said.

“Not to RiverHome? Doggonit. Without us?” Sid was clearly disappointed.

Toby noticed the redness in his dad’s eyes. He walked over and hugged him. His dad hugged him back and wept on Toby’s shoulder.

“I love her, too, Dad.”

They parted.

“Here. This is from Mathilda.”

Toby handed his dad the compass. As Thomas took it, he disappeared.

“Did he… did your dad… is he in RiverHome? I missed it again!!!” Sid said.

Toby could hear the song of the Weeping Willow.

“Say hi to Grandma for me, Dad.”

**

To Jan

Grandma to Clover, Decker, Mathilda, Phoenix, and Judah

We love you!

We miss you!

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**

I’m a man. A 68-year-old man. And I’ve cried a lot lately. A. LOT! I have cried every single day for the last eight weeks since Jan died. And I’m not done.

I’m not one who’s been afraid of tears. In fact, for as emotive as my wife was, I think I cried more than she did.

Some movies make me cry. As do emotional sports victories in Arizona (which are so few I think it happened once or twice!) Sometimes I’ll see a person and something about them moves me to weep for them.

That’s not to say that I cry often or even a lot. But I do cry (and I’m a left-brained guy!).

I don’t think I’m an anomaly.

Men cry. Some more than others.

But crying isn’t the point.

Expressing emotion in healthy ways is.

And the biological reality is that men tend… tend… to emote differently than do women.

That doesn’t make one better than the other. Nor are tears the sign of emotional health.

Disclaimer… I’m not a brain-scientist or a psychologist or a psychiatrist or a therapist, so I’m not an expert on how emotions work. But I do live close to a Holiday Inn Express.

Actually, I’ve spent the last 20 years of my life working with Dr. Michael Gurian looking at how men and women tend to be wired differently… from the brain to hormones… and how that impacts how we emote.

So here are some of what I think might be helpful insights as we lead our boys—and even our girls—into emotional health.

I want to use the article written by Eleni Varaki, quoted above, as she makes some very good points, but, as is always the case with emotions, the brain, and biology, need some nuance:

Point 1—Eleni Varaki: Girls have tear ducts. Boys have tear ducts. We ALL have tear ducts.

I don’t know any man who doesn’t cry when he’s cutting a bunch of purples onions. You know, the kind that make your eyes sting when you cut them.

There is a biological reason for why we all have tear ducts. Biologically, we all have the same ability to cry when we are feeling stressed, sad, angry, grief or happiness.

The belief that “boys don’t cry” goes against biology.

My response: Yes. But…

Several factors play a role in an individual’s propensity to cry. Gender differences in crying, for example, have been explored for decades and across the world, and all of the studies reached the same conclusion: Women cry more than men.

In the 1980s, biochemist William H. Frey, PhD, found that women cry an average of 5.3 times a month, while men cry an average of 1.3 times per month, with crying defined as anything from moist eyes to full-on sobbing. Those averages still appear to be about the same, suggests newer research, including work by Lauren Bylsma, PhD, of the University of Pittsburgh (Journal of Research in Personality, 2011).

Biologically, there may be a reason women cry more than men: Testosterone may inhibit crying, while the hormone prolactin (seen in higher levels in women) may promote it. (American Psychological Association)

And this: Males generally have larger and deeper tear ducts (nasolacrimal ducts) and larger tear gland cells. This larger “drain pipe” allows tears to clear into the nasal cavity more quickly when tearing up.

Females generally have shallower and shorter tear ducts. Because their drainage capacity is smaller, their eyes’ “banks” are more likely to burst, causing tears to spill over the eyelids faster.

My point: crying is not the be all end all of emotional health. It is a tool, and a great one. But emotional health is the key here, not crying. And holding up crying as the gold standard of emotional health, or the cure for bad masculinity, is harmful to boys and is bad science.

Point 2—EV: I am a teacher. And from the perspective of a teacher, what I see (which concerns me) is that despite having entered the 21st century, many of us are continuing to teach our boys the unhelpful, unhealthy belief that “Boys don’t cry”.

Did you know that men are more likely to commit suicide than women, globally?

Could there be a link between the damaging beliefs we teach little boys and men feeling shame and fear at being seen as weak during financial and emotional crises?

My response: There are many reasons for why males die by suicide, but the antidote is not getting them to cry more.

Males are isolated… many males are feeling devalued… mental illness is certainly the main reason. And this is where a focus on emotional health needs to take priority… not by getting boys to cry more, but by getting them to understand how they, as males, best emote.

The male brain does not connect words and emotions, generally speaking, the way a female brain does. It can take minutes to hours for a male to answer the question: How are you feeling?

Males are not typically verbal emotive.

Males tend to express emotion through action—hitting something (a ball, a pillow), moving (going for a walk or run), or even through drawing or building something.

Boys can talk about their emotions. But usually they have to be moving to help their brains engage. A walk with mom or dad, for example, can help the boy open up when the parents see behavior (anger flare ups, isolation, apathy) that concerns them.

Again, crying is good. It’s been a great release valve for my grief. But my tears aren’t the heart of soul of my emotional health at this point. I have other areas to watch, live out, and act on.

And when boys cry, or if your son/grandson cries freely, fantastic. But make sure you’re helping him build healthy ways to deal with that emotion in addition to crying.

**

In writing my Toby Baxter series, that kind of brain-science stands behind the story. I am trying to create a male character who emotes, but emotes as a male. He does cry. He gets angry. He gets frustrated. He experiences joy. But he sometimes needs the guidance of others to help his brain process the emotion. My hope is that Toby can serve as a fictional model for what emotional health looks like without kids thinking they’re reading a book about emotional health! :)

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Huh?

It may not be a concept you’re familiar with, but you’re seeing it all over in culture today:

In the UFC fighter Josh Hokit, after winning his UFC fight on the lawn of the White House, proclaiming his faith in Jesus and then disparaging the mother of his opponent and ending by calling Michelle Obama a man.

In politicians, rather than debating issues, call their opponents “women.”

In Christian denominations banning women from leadership roles because women are inferior to men.

In many, not all, facets of the manosphere focused on grievance, strength, and self-worth based on the devaluing of women.

Hegemonic Masculinity suggests that the keys to being a REAL man are emotional suppression, aggression, grievance, domination of women, competitiveness, and power.

Note: Nothing wrong with being competitive. Competition, at its best, brings out our best.

Nothing wrong with power, either. It all depends on how the power is used. (With great power comes great responsibility.)

But Hegemonic Masculinity abuses power for selfish gain and uses competition to stamp out those considered to be weak or in the way.

It’s all about posing. Performance. Strutting.

It’s insecurity dressed up as REAL Manhood.

It’s all form with no substance.

It’s the Emperor with no clothes on.

Or, as Pinocchio discovered, Pleasure Island turns boys into jackasses.

And it’s leaving our young men empty. And lost.

The story of Pinocchio (the Disney movie version) offers our boys a vision of manhood that is good, noble, and substantive.

Pinocchio becomes REAL when he embraces truth, bravery, and unselfishness.

That’s where real power comes from.

That’s the stuff of REAL manhood.

That’s the kind of masculinity that will assist in rebuilding, refining, and redeeming our culture.

That’s the kind of REAL manhood that will set our boys up to thrive and flourish as men.

How about we forge those character qualities into our boys and show them what REAL manhood looks like!

**

Check out this review of my latest Toby Baxter book—The Adventures of Toby Baxter-Book 5: The Revenge of the RiverHome Rootabeggas:

Tim Wright delivers another wildly imaginative, laugh-out-loud adventure in The Adventures of Toby Baxter: Revenge of the RiverHome Rootabeggas. Blending fantasy, humor, heart, and middle-school realism, this fifth installment in the Toby Baxter series is an exciting journey that will keep young readers turning pages while also encouraging them to think deeply about anger, hope, friendship, and resilience.

One of the greatest strengths of this series is the way Tim Wright respects the intelligence and emotional world of middle-grade readers. Toby is relatable, funny, awkward, brave, and wonderfully human. Whether he’s navigating first love, dealing with frustration, or battling strange magical creatures from RiverHome, readers will recognize pieces of themselves in Toby’s journey.

Read on:

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Last Saturday we celebrated her life at our home church.

I’m taking a break from writing this week but wanted to give you a glimpse into my life.

Jan and I were married for almost 47 years. We knew each other for 51 years. We loved each other passionately.

She was the love and joy of my life.

For the readers of my Toby Baxter series, Jan shows up in two different ways. Toby’s mom’s name is Jan. But my Jan is reflected in Rainie, the love of Toby’s life.

We showed this video at Jan’s service. It was created by my sister-in-law, Diane.

I love you, Jan!

I love you, too, bunny.

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A few weeks ago Michael Gurian and I, as a part of our Wonder of Parenting Podcast, did a two-week look at grief. Michael lost his wife, Gail, to cancer almost three years ago. So the podcast featured the perspective of one just hit by loss (me) and one having lived with it for a few years (Michael).

During the podcast on When a Grandparent Dies, we talked about the challenge parents have when they lose a parent, their kids lose a grandparent, and their parent loses a spouse.

I’ve been there a few times.

During the recording Michael used the phrase, Beautiful Obligations. In the context, these are the things the must be attended to, no matter our grief and loss, from kids to grandkids to friendships to household duties to work. At times they can feel like obligations, but because they offer life and a sense of the normal when nothing is normal anymore, they become Beautiful.

In some ways, they become a life-line.

Years ago after our beagle died, I encouraged Jan to take a while before we got a new dog. I loved our beagle (and her dachshund brother who died before her) but when you travel, as we did, it’s hard to find dog sitters for weeks at a time.

Jan waited a few days!

A few months later we brought home two long-haired dachshunds, Raifa and Roxie. Brother and sister. Roxie is the runt of the litter so she doesn’t really look like a dachshund but her brother Raif sure does.

These dogs love me. But they really loved Jan. And in the last two weeks of her life, they were by her side every moment of every day. I told Jan I was so grateful she made that decision 10 years ago.

Now, they are by my side. And they have kept me sane. They are my companions in the loneliness and quietness of the house. They are the ones I talk to. And, because they must be fed and tended to, they are my Beautiful obligations.

The same can be said for filling the bird feeders outside, a promise I made to my granddaughter because she knows how much Jan enjoyed watching the birds through the kitchen window and how delighted she was when lovebirds showed up.

Of course I have my kids and grandkids who give me the reason to get up in the morning.

And my writing.

And my walking/cycling/workouts.

These were all Beautiful obligations when Jan was still with me. But their beauty and power and normalcy have taken on a new meaning for me.

I’m guess what I’m trying to say is, cherish those Beautiful, wonder-filled, mundane obligations.

They are what life… real life… is all about.

**

Check out this new review of The Adventures of Toby Baxter-Book 5: The Revenge of the RiverHome Rootabeggas.

… What truly elevates this book, however, is its emotional core. Beneath the action and humor is a meaningful message about guarding our hearts against bitterness and hopelessness. The recurring compass themes throughout the series are especially powerful, and in this adventure the focus on HOPE gives young readers a memorable framework for facing life’s challenges…

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**

… children’s books activate a part of the brain that some adults—caught up in the day-to-day business of work or child-rearing or simply survival—may have unwittingly allowed to go dormant. (Anna Holmes)

**

Children approach stories with a flexibility that many adults lose: They tolerate nonsense and accept strange rules, as long as the story can delight them. As adults, we often replace that openness with efficiency and skepticism, flattening delight into something more practical. (Rafaela Jinich)

**

I’m big fan of Paul, the most prolific writer in the New Testament. His ode to love, 1 Corinthians 13, is one of the most beautiful, profound, and transformational pieces in all of literature.

But I think he missed the point a bit when he wrote: When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.

Even Jesus constantly called his followers to be like children; to have a child-like faith (not childish, but child-like, i.e, open, curious, filled with wonder).

**

During the Christmas season I will, at some point, turn to an old Christmas cartoon I watched as a child. One year I went all out and watched several from Rudolph to Mr Magoo’s Christmas Carol to a Yogi Bear Christmas.

Something inside of me yearned for the wonder, awe, and surprise of Christmas best seen through the eyes of a child.

When, like Paul, we move into adulthood and put away childish ways, we often confuse the childish with the child-like.

No doubt we need to act like grownups.

And yet, no doubt as grownups we still need wonder, awe, curiosity, and joy.

Those gifts are not so easy to access when the ways of adulthood close in on us.

Diving into a favorite middle school series or re-reading a book from childhood taps into something deep… something primal. Those moments lost in child-like wonder remind us of what it means to be human. To be alive.

As an adult I’ve lost myself in Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and Narnia. Surprisingly, while written for children and teens, the books, and many like them, help us see adulthood through new eyes.

And they take us on wonder-filled adventures that our minds and souls need to navigate the ways of adulthood.

**

Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. (C.S. Lewis)

**

That someday is today!

Give it a try.

**

And if you need a recommendation, may I suggest The Adventures of Toby Baxter! I’m biased, of course. But the reviews and the awards suggest that maybe it’s a pretty good series. And it was written in part to invite adults back into the world of wonder.

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The doctor’s office called 20 minutes after the scan. A really bad sign. She had cancer all throughout her bones.

The next scan showed cancer in the liver. That news was even worse.

A third scan suggested that perhaps things were not as bad as we feared.

The biopsy showed that Jan had a rare form of cancer called neuroendocrine cancer. It started in the pancreas but was not pancreatic cancer. It entered her bones but wasn’t bone cancer. It invaded her liver but wasn’t liver cancer.

The good news: it was not curable, but treatable.

And so the treatments began.

6 months of chemo therapy, two weeks on, two weeks off.

Radiation therapy on her thyroid.

Two radiation therapies on her liver.

More chemo therapy.

A newer radiation treatment back in January 2025 that hopefully would put the cancer on hold for 2-3 years.

It didn’t. 8 months later it hit the liver again.

In January of this year Jan underwent two liver procedures the doctors felt confident would put the cancer in the liver in check.

But she didn’t recover. Scans revealed a mass on her liver that the procedure could not get to.

Still fatigued, she began a daily targeted chemo pill, which would cause more fatigue. A few days into that treatment she started getting a bit foggy headed, most likely, the doctor said, the result of the liver releasing toxins into her brain. So pooping and peeing became the words of the day. And walking. Which she really had no strength to do.

Let me pause and say that in between those various therapies we won some wonderful moments. We were able to travel. We were able to go out to the mall or to dinner. Life, in those in-between times was pretty normal. And I am grateful for every moment.

Last Wednesday (April 29) coming home from my early morning walk, I found her on the floor. She didn’t hurt herself, thankfully, or my guilt would be much worse!

A few hours later the doctor called for his weekly check in. After telling him that story he said that the blood draw suggested that she was not getting better and that we had a decision to make. A radical form of chemo that has a 20% cure rate, or hospice.

We already knew the answer but asked if, by taking her to the hospital, we could clear up Jan’s head a bit to make sure she was on board with hospice (which I knew she was).

To our surprise, as a result of the CT in the hospital, we discovered that the fog was not from the liver but from a fast-growing brain tumor.

Two days later, just after midnight, we brought her home for hospice care.

She had had an MRI just before leaving and had some medication to keep her calm. She never really came out of it. She said, “I love you,” as they wheeled her off and that was the last time I heard her speak.

It was so good to have her home. We put her in a room that she had devoted to her love for all things ancestry. The walls were filled with pictures of generations of family members, surrounding her with love.

The kids and grandkids came over in the early afternoon to begin the process of saying goodbye. A hospice nurse friend stopped by in the early evening. She said that it was time to get my siblings over. They were all there in 10 minutes.

We spent the next several hours around her bed, talking, crying, laughing, talking to Jan.

My daughter, after helping Jan shift in the bed, told me that it was time. I needed to spend some time alone with her.

After talking with her for a few moments I asked Alexa to play Jan’s favorite hymn, It is Well with My Soul, sung by Larnelle Harris. Then Make Me an Instrument by the Archers, the song we used at our wedding. I can’t remember all of the songs I had Alexa play but they included Happy Man and Home Where I Belong by BJ Thomas, who had become a good friend. The Wedding Song (There Is Love) by Noel Paul Stookey of Peter, Paul, and Mary, who had nick-named Jan “Sparky” years ago. Then Weekend in New England, by Barry Manilow. That song was a hit when I had to leave Jan to head off to school in Seattle. It became our song. Whenever we heard it I would drop what I was doing and give her a hug and/or a kiss.

By now my daughter, son, and one of my grandson’s had joined me.

Her breathing relaxed and slowed.

“Alexa, play It is Well by Sandi Patti.”

To the best of my ability I kept my eyes on Jan and watched her breathe. Just as the song ended she took a breath. I asked Alexa to play My Tribute (To God Be the Glory) by Andrae Crouch, one of her mom’s favorites.

But Jan had stopped breathing.

All was now well with her soul.

**

Cancer is a bully. It batters. It intimidates. It humiliates. It laughs at life as it slowly eats away at it.

But the bully lost.

Grace won. Love won. Life won.

Those last hours with Jan… with her family… her children… her grandchildren… my siblings who had grown up with her… my time alone lost in the soundtrack of our life together holding her hand… were some of the most sacred, loving, magical moments of our 46 years of marriage.

Because Love wins. It always wins.

Take that, cancer!

The last “conversation” Jan and I had was Saturday, mid-morning. The hospice nurse said I should ask Jan, loudly, to open her eyes.

She did. For a moment. She saw I was there.

Since we started dating (over 50 years ago) we had a non-verbal way of saying I love you. We would squeeze each other’s hand three times.

I squeezed. Three times.

She squeezed back. Three time.

Take that, you bully!

**

I may not know how heaven works.

But I do know what heaven is like.

I lived with her for 46 years!

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A friend of mine did the same thing up in Minneapolis. When I asked who I should have as our first concert, he said without hesitation, Noel Paul Stookey.

Noel, and his band, Bodyworks, did many of the songs people who grew up with Peter, Paul, and Mary, love. He also did many of his own songs, including, of course, The Wedding Song (There is Love).

We had him back numerous times over the course of about 15 years and then I didn’t see him for over 20.

He was in Phoenix last week doing a solo event (at the age of 88) and my wife and I purchased tickets. Jan was not able to attend so I invited my 16 year old granddaughter, Clover. How do you sell a 16 year old girl on an old-people concert? History! I told her about the music of P, P, and M, and how they had been a part of the March on Washington, DC with MLK Jr.. (I also taught one of Noel’s songs, The Garden Song, to the kids in my church a few years ago. Clover knew that song.) She was in, until she found out she had an early morning test the next day.

So I invited my 15 year old grandson, Judah.

I didn’t really know what to expect for Judah. He’s a great kid, and like many 15 year old boys, a bit awkward, trying to figure out who he is and what he likes.

He absolutely loved the concert. As in loved it! He got a chance to meet Noel after the show. When Noel asked him how he liked the concert Judah said, “It was…” then made a few big circle gestures… “yeah!”

He didn’t have the words for what he’s just experienced. So I’ll put some words in his mouth for him (which we talked about a bit on the way home):

What he experienced, along with a room full of old folkies, was hope. And love. And joy.

There is something undeniably spiritual and sacred about folk music. It speaks to our humanity. It calls us to love. It reminds us of who we can be when we aren’t what we should be.

Concerts like the Stookey event root us in a shared experience. And, in many ways, a shared history with all of its goodness and evil.

While certainly the music can be and is entertaining, you walk away from a folk music concert feeling like you’ve been somewhere and back again. Your soul has been touched.

My point? In a country divided by politics, grievance, anger, and intolerance, our kids, like Judah, need us old people to remind them of hope. Of courage. Of goodness. Of who they can be. That in the end, while generationally we have our own stories, as humans we share one story. Rooted in love.

The next time you’re driving your kids or grandkids around, pull out that old P, P, and M 8-track, or stream some Peter, Paul, and Mary music. And when your kids/grandkids ask what in the world you are making them listen to, tell them the story of our shared humanity and drop some love into their souls.

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When I was a kid, I couldn’t get enough of the Apollo missions. I have a vivid memory of watching that first step onto the moon on a black and white TV. I was 11 at the time. (Seeing the color pictures, even all these years later, still moves me.)

Turns out he’d not really been paying attention.

So I told him that they were getting ready to land someone on the moon in 2028, and that it would take that long to get the studio ready to fake another moon landing.

He laughed and said I probably believed that the earth is flat.

So I went off on the pizza theory. The earth may be round, but it’s flat, like a pizza.

Case in point, Artemis II went to the back of the moon. So we’ve seen the front and the back of the moon, but not the sides because, like the earth, the moon is a round, flat pizza.

I admit to taking great joy in watching him laugh and yet hear him openly wonder if I’m losing some marbles in my old age.

It’s a strategic move on my part. I want to get him to think. To defend his positions. To stay curious about truth. To learn how to navigate his way through all of the noise and distractions.

Conspiracies and anti-science have been there all along, but now they are being amplified exponentially via social media and algorithms.

A couple of weeks ago Judah told me that in one of his classes they had had a good discussion on how their generation would discern the truth, growing up as they are in this world of algorithms, alternative facts, and “keep repeating the lie/conspiracy over and over again until people finally believe it.” (I’m making that a major theme in my last two Toby Baxter books.)

This is not the time to take truth for granted. This is not the time to shrug off anti-science. This is not the time give a pass to anti-education.

Education. Science. Reading. Curiosity. Imagination. Mentorship.

These are the keys to wonder. These are the keys to thriving.

Let’s bless our kids and grandkids with them!

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********

I think back over all of the lives I’ve lived through books…

Journeying to Mordor with Frodo and Samwise…

Playing Quidditch with Harry P…

Solving multiple murders with Morse, Vera, Lynley, and Gamache…

Rediscovering Christmas alongside Scrooge…

Finding grace and redemption with Jean valJean…

Experiencing the Civil Rights Movement through the eyes of MLK…

Becoming THE Batman alongside Adam West…

Rafting down the Mississippi with Huck and Jim…

One thing we can say for certain about reading books…

It’s never a waste of time. Never.

How many things can we say that about?

********

What life will you live with your kids today?

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********

Whether it’s sitting in class all day, working on a screen 8 hours a day, changing diapers, working through an illness, or consuming the news, we all need time to refresh our brains—especially our kids.

**

What happens when your brain sees a friend across the street?
“It gives a brain wave.”

**

Refreshing the brain involves boosting neuroplasticity, reducing cognitive load, and enhancing oxygen flow through targeted activities—Google AI. If you have no idea what that means, read on:

**

With spring on the way (here in Phoenix the temps are more like mid-summer!), more of us can get outside, breathe in the fresh (or sort of fresh air) and reboot our systems.

**

What do you call a human skull without a hundred billion neurons?
“A no-brainer.”

**

The human brain is a remarkably complex organ containing—86 billion neurons and up to 1 quadrillion connections. It generates 12-25 watts of electricity—enough to power a low-wattage LED bulb—and processes information at speeds up to 350 mph. While weighing only 3 pounds, it is 60% fat and consumes 20% of the body's energy..

**

Here are a few simple ways to reboot that wonder-full brain of yours:

• Go for a walk

• Sit outside with a cold glass of lemonade and take 30 minutes to drink it

• Read a book that you’ve always wanted to read but never got around to

• Meet at a coffee shop with an old friend

• Write a hand-written letter of appreciation to someone and walk it to a mailbox to mail (you may need to google: what is a hand-written letter, what does it mean to mail it, what is a mailbox and how do I find one near me…)

• Do a BBQ

  What did the doctor say to the man who had an elephant sitting on his brain?
  “It looks like you have a lot on your mind.”

• Go to your favorite ice cream place, buy some ice cream, and, if possible, eat it outside (or, better yet, find an A&W Root Beer restaurant and enjoy some of that fresh root beer. You’ll thank me!)

• Take a 24 hour screen break (if you can’t make it 24, try 12 hours… or maybe an hour?)

• Volunteer at a charity or take some food to a food bank

• Play a board game with your family

• Build a lego set

• Draw pictures or doodle (Alexa: what is doodling?)

• Pop some popcorn and play popcorn toss into each other’s mouths

• Look up at the stars

  What did the hippocampus say during its retirement speech?
  “Thanks for the memories.”

• Count how mosquito bites you get in an hour

• Take. A. Nap.

• Listen to music.

• Relax. Breathe. Relax.

And make the time to tell your brain thanks. Where would you be without it?

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The Kindle price for the next few days is… $0.00. FREE. Nothing to lose. But the joy of reading to gain!

How can a book about Root Beer not be fantastic!

If you’re the parent or grandparent of a middle-schooler and you’re looking for something for them to read, or if you simply like fast-paced, humorous, fantasy adventures, pick up a copy today. The Kindle Version is FREE!

And pass this along to any of your friends who fit the description I just… well… described.

(Book 6 is already 3/4’s done.)

Thanks for your support.

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********

The erosion of deep reading weakens our capacity to grasp complex ideas. Joel Halldorf

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Some of you who are old enough to remember a time before screens and computers may recognize the allusion to an “old” song in the title of this Substack.

Slow. Slow reading. Slowing down. Letting something breathe. These aren’t the words of the 21st Century, especially for our kids.

I admit, they aren’t necessarily my words, either. I like to move. To be doing. My mind is constantly on, thinking about the next book idea or article I want to write.

Yet, when we fail to slow down, when we fail to let ideas breathe, when we don’t give time for the imagination to dive into a story, when we jump from link to link rather than let the words sink in, life becomes shallow. We find ourselves in that proverbial “mile wide and inch deep” river of life where meaning is fleeting and we can easily become captive to every thought and whim, lacking the skills of critical thinking.

This is a particular danger for our kids.

Joel Halldorf says it this way:

The erosion of deep reading weakens our capacity to grasp complex ideas. This shallowing effect reshapes the public square, allowing brief snippets of emotionally charged content to crowd out nuance, and algorithms to reinforce preferences and prejudices. If deep reading cultivates empathy, the attention-fracturing, dopamine-hitting, scroll-spurring design of digital media often undermines it.

Deep reading, for kids, doesn’t necessarily mean reading long, hard to digest, boring books. It means engaging fully with a book or a story—a book that immerses them in new ideas, new worlds, new cultures—without the interruption of a link or ding or notification.

Think about the last movie you watched that had you so engrossed that you lost track of time and space.

That’s what books can do, only on a deeper scale.

And slow reading is really good for the developing brains and character of our kids.

I realize that posts like this can sound like dad trying to get his kids (and their parents) to eat fried rutabagas.

Halldorf is wise enough to warn us against moralizing about reading:

Anyone hoping to inspire more attentive reading must do more than invoke its cognitive or moral benefits, which reduces the act to “the intellectual equivalent of eating organic greens,” the literary scholar Alan Jacobs has cautioned. Lost in this debate is the fact that slow and careful reading is a genuine pleasure. Indeed, it is one of the activities most associated with a state of focused immersion known as “flow.”

So rather than “preach” about it (and why is preaching always used negatively… I was a “preacher” for 40 years! :)), put into the hands of your children a really good book, one they can get lost in, one that will slow them down and lead them into those new worlds, ideas, and dreams.

I hope that perhaps my Toby Baxter series may be one tool in your reading kit, especially for those of you with reluctant readers.

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5 Star Amazon Review for Toby’s Fifth Adventure:

I really enjoyed this book. What stood out to me most was how the story balances imagination, humour, and real emotional stakes, especially as Toby faces a threat that feels more personal and dangerous than before. I also loved how he questioned nearly every other thought he had, quite funny. The Rootabeggas are such a creative and unsettling idea. They are strange, angry creatures that spread a contagion of revenge, and I liked how their presence wasn’t just physical, but emotional, affecting how characters think and feel. It added a deeper layer to the story and made Toby’s challenge feel more meaningful. Toby is a very relatable main character. He’s brave, but he still doubts himself, worries, and reacts like a real kid would in impossible situations. I also appreciated the friendships and relationships around him, which give the story heart alongside the action and fantasy. There is plenty of humour mixed in with the tension. The world of RiverHome feels vivid and unique, and it was easy to get pulled into Toby’s quest. Overall, this is a fun and imaginative. Fans of middle-grade fantasy and adventure will definitely enjoy this one.

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To get a head start on Toby’s newest adventure, you can read the short “prequel” to book 5 for FREE!

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“It must be the First Gauntlet of Al-Gor,” Parker said ominously.

“Al Gore?” Toby asked. “Wasn’t he President of the United States way back in ancient times?”

“You’re thinking of Al Gore, the Vice President under President Bill Clinton from 1993 to 2001,” Parker clarified.

“Oh, yeah! The guy who invented the Internet!” Plythar added.

Toby gave him a look. “I don’t think that’s right... is it?”

“That’s Al Gore accent on the last name,” Parker explained patiently. “What we’re dealing with here and now is Al-Gor, emphasis on the first part, hyphen in the middle, no e at the end.”

“Like Igor from Young Frankenstein,” Clygon chimed in. “I-gor. Al-Gor.”

Toby and Derrick just stared at him.

“Young Frankenstein? The great Mel Brooks movie from the 1970s?” Clygon went on. “It was shot in black and white like the old horror movies, but it’s hilarious! One of the gags is that the lump on Igor’s back… ”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Parker snapped. “Al-Gor’s power is built on a rhythmic numerical code that distracts us. It takes what’s important, what’s consuming our thoughts, and links it to something shiny. Hence, the first Gauntlet—the Aisle of Hyper-Links…”

“Wait. Isle of Hyper-links?” Derrick asked. “Like a small island?”

Parker smiled. “No. Aisle as in a grocery store. But good use of a homophone, Derrick.”

Derrick blushed.

Toby gagged.

Parker grew serious again.

“Anyway, once trapped in the Aisle of Hyper-links, before you know it, you’ve wasted hours. Hours you can’t get back. It feeds on endless rabbit trails, or aisles, always enticing, never delivering. It’s a time-suck!”

“Did she just say…?” Plythar whispered to Clygon. “Isn’t this supposed to be a fantasy adventure for middle schoolers? Not sure that language is… ”

“Context!” Parker barked.

“How did you hear that…?” Plythar asked, stepping back.

“Context matters! Time-suck means exactly what it says. Al-Gor is an energy force that distracts us. It sucks the time, and ultimately the life, out of us. If we’re not on guard, we’ll keep chasing links until we can’t find our way back. And then our friends, and all of RiverHome, will be lost to the Rootabeggas.”

(Excerpted from The Adventures of Toby Baxter—Book 5: Revenge of the RiverHome Rootabeggas, coming March 17.)

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I graduated from High School in 1976, the Bicentennial of the US. 50 years later, life for teens is so dramatically different that 1976 may as well have been 1576 or 376.

When Jan and I talked for hours on the phone, it was a landline. No one else could get a hold of us while we were on the phone (unless I responded to that small beep indicating another call coming through… but what teen is going to do that when you’re talking with the love of your life?).

Our music came via records, 8-tracks, cassettes or the radio. To “curate” a music list took lots of time, recording one song from a record onto a tape and then doing the same with another song from another record and so on (think of the playlist from Guardians of the Galaxy).

Our main influences were our friends, parents, teachers, and coaches/religious leaders. There was no algorithm to steer our thinking… no thought bubbles to box in our thinking… no social media forcing us to “curate” ourselves or compare ourselves to others.

Information had to be gathered through reading, libraries, or the search engines of the time—microfilm or the card catalogue.

None of this is to say the world was better back then. Parts of it were. But I wouldn’t want to give up my computer or access to the world I have at my fingertips today, nor the ability to connect at anytime with the people I love.

But the reality is that our kids are facing distractions, choices, and challenges we never dreamed possible.

Their moods and imaginations and thinking are not being cultivated for openness and discovery, but for grievance and assent.

The important has been replaced with the trivial; reading with soundbytes; passion with the quest for fame.

I know I sound like that stereotypical old man ranting against the young, longing for the way it was.

Again, not true. I can’t believe the possibilities and options my grandkids have to explore the world. I can’t fathom how much bigger life can be for them.

But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be mindful of where we are headed.

We now have enough research to know the negative impact of this algorithmic world, left unchecked, on the well-being of our kids.

We are seeing, in real time, what happens to a country shaped by algorithms and AI and grievance, and the deep human divides they create.

This is the reality for our kids. Both the great possibilities and the great challenges.

As any parent knows, telling our kids to get off their screens or suggesting that social media may be harmful is like telling a coyote to stop preying on rabbits.

But maybe, just maybe, engaging, humorous stories can come at our kids sideways, connecting with those feelings they know lurk beneath the surface; or, at the very least, help our kids see from a story point of view some of the downsides of the upsides of tech.

Toby Baxter’s fifth adventure in RiverHome takes him through three gauntlets: The Aisle of Hyper-Links, the AI fields (Agitation Instigators), and FB Posts (FlowerBloom Posts). Our kids navigate these gauntlets everyday, often with no adult supervision. Often with no training. Often with no wisdom.

That’s their world.

I hope that Toby’s adventure can be one tool parents/educators can use to enable kids to take a moment to assess how these gauntlets are shaping them.

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The Adventures of Toby Baxter—Book 5: Revenge of the RiverHome Rootabeggas goes live on Tuesday, March 17.

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