Allen Reding 
Growing up, I thought my father was just being cheap—no air conditioning, a black-and-white TV, and hand-me-down clothes that set me apart. At the time it felt like nothing but frustration. With years and distance, I see every choice for what it was: a quiet act of sacrifice. The things that once confused me and embarrassed me became a clear lesson in love.
As a child, I idolized my father; as a teenager, I resented his endless penny-pinching—no air conditioning, a black-and-white TV, and store-to-store coupon hunts. I felt only the confusion and frustration, aware that our home lagged behind the comforts my friends took for granted. I didn’t understand his methods at the time. Years later, though, the picture became clear: the grocery trips, the careful budgeting, all painted a portrait of a man shaped by hardship, quietly giving everything he could. What once seemed stingy was, in truth, love in disguise.
Thirty years of teaching taught me that shame doesn’t fade easily. Hardworking kids absorbed correction like wounds, while others brushed it off without a thought. Years later, I realized I was living out that same pattern myself, carrying old mistakes long after everyone else had forgotten them.
When Hurricane Harvey swept Houston’s Bay Area, I didn’t lose everything, but the storm unsettled me. Returning to class two weeks later, I faced students carrying grief far heavier than mine. Had I suffered a major loss like so many others, maybe the words would come easier. Monday couldn’t just be about economics—it had to be about steady ground and hope.