Allen Reding 
I spent years chasing the next season—summer break, holidays, even retirement—as if joy was always waiting just around the corner. Too often, those moments fell short of the anticipation. With time, I’ve learned the best days aren’t out ahead. Joy shows up in the ones we’re already living.
In a neighborhood of big houses, our modest starter home became the gathering spot for our boys’ friends. Maybe it wasn’t the square footage, but the warmth. Contentment isn’t in extravagance—it’s found in the quiet places that feel like home.
I can still picture the toughest teachers I ever had—not the ones who challenged us academically, but the cold, drill-sergeant types whose classrooms felt like battlegrounds. My wife tells of one who yelled time from the girls’ bathroom, warning of doom for the tardy. These teachers might have pushed for excellence, but what did they truly feel for their students? When there’s no bond, the job feels hollow. Without a connection, the classroom becomes mere routine — and teaching loses its purpose.
Tomorrow begins my 24th year of teaching, yet I still remember the first hour of my first day—hands shaking, voice thin, wondering what I was doing there. Since then, the classroom has been both a crucible and a gift: seasons of exhaustion, unexpected laughter, heartbreak, and joy. I’ve taught lessons in economics and literature, but life always had lessons waiting for me too. Students grow, but so do teachers—shaped by storms, successes, and the steady rhythm of showing up. This journey has never been perfect, but it has always been worth it.