Theodore and Taylor

The Bride & Groom

Tonight, we come together to celebrate a truly special occasion—the love and commitment of two remarkable people: my son Ted, and his beautiful fiancée, Taylor. As we gather for this rehearsal dinner, I’m overwhelmed with joy and gratitude.

I’m deeply thankful to the Kewleys for raising such a wonderful daughter, and for the warmth and kindness with which they’ve welcomed Ted into their family—as if he were their own. I’m also grateful to Ted’s mom, Amy, for helping raise a young man who has become not only compassionate and full of integrity, but someone capable of loving with his whole heart. And I’m thankful to all of you—family and friends—for being here to honor and support Ted and Taylor, not just tonight or tomorrow, but throughout the beautiful life they’ll build together.

From the moment Ted introduced Taylor to our family, it was clear she was someone special. Her warmth, grace, kindness, and unshakable patience have brightened our lives in ways we never imagined.

As a proud parent, I could tell you countless stories of watching Ted on the baseball field—like his first Little League hit (an RBI triple off Nate Rousey—I still remember Nate cried…), his first home run the next season, or his no-hitter in high school followed by a championship-clinching homer at Arcadia. Later, I watched him pitch the final innings of his college career at LMU during the WCC tournament—moments that filled me with pride.

And there are stories off the field, too. Like the time Amy and I were summoned to the principal’s office in sixth grade—his teacher had accused him of plagiarism. I was indignant—I knew he didn’t plagiarize because I was the one who edited the paper. Unfortunately, I’d used a word that wasn’t yet in his vocabulary. Lesson learned—for both of us!

When Ted decided to move to the East Coast, we spent a memorable week driving across the country—visiting national parks, battlefields, museums, and catching a Cubs game. I’ll always treasure that time. But what stood out most was how eager he was to get to the destination—because Taylor was waiting.

Through all of life’s highs and lows, I was never concerned about Ted finding his way. But that didn’t stop me from worrying all the same. He came to New York without a job or a clear plan—but with Taylor in his heart. That’s when I realized she wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was something more.

Later, when they visited me in California over Father’s Day weekend, I had the chance to really get to know Taylor. Ted, in his infinite wisdom, decided to take one of his groomsmen, Max, to the U.S. Open at Torrey Pines… on Father’s Day. He brought me back a button that read, “My son went to the U.S. Open on Father’s Day and all I got was this button…” But the truth is, he gave me something even better: time with Taylor. And in that time, I saw firsthand what a thoughtful, genuine, and extraordinary young woman she is—and how lucky Ted is to have found someone so special.

As I look at Ted and Taylor together, I’m reminded of love’s power to transform our lives. Their story is a testament to what it means to find not only a partner, but a soulmate—a confidante, a best friend.

Tomorrow, you’ll exchange vows and begin the incredible journey of marriage. As you do, remember to savor each moment, stand beside each other through life’s inevitable ups and downs, and never lose sight of the magic that brought you together. May your love deepen with each passing day, and may you always find comfort, strength, and joy in each other’s arms.

So tonight, let’s celebrate the love that Ted and Taylor share, and the light they bring to all of us. Let’s raise a glass to the beautiful journey ahead.

To Ted and Taylor—may your marriage be filled with laughter, joy, and endless adventure. May you build a life rich in love, understanding, and shared dreams.

Please join me in a toast:

Here’s to a lifetime of happiness, to love that never fades, and to the beginning of forever.

Cheers!

Liberty in Three Acts: My Fourth of July Tradition

There are fireworks, there are flags, and there's always something grilling on the Fourth of July—but for me, Independence Day wouldn't feel complete without a familiar duo of movie musicals, now made into a trio. Each year, like clockwork, I settle in for a binge that spans the centuries of American spirit and song: 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and now, Hamilton.

It all starts with 1776, the spirited (and yes, dramatized) story of the Continental Congress and their march toward independence. I first saw the film in college, but its roots in my heart go back even further—to 1976, when I was in middle school and the country was awash in stars, stripes, and a very particular kind of patriotic fervor.

Living in Pennsylvania in 1976, I was surrounded by history—not just the kind in textbooks, but the kind etched into buildings, monuments, and local pride. That year, our social studies lessons were laser-focused on the Revolution. We didn’t just learn about 1776—we practically lived it. Our classroom projects involved hand-drawing the Declaration of Independence on parchment-style paper. We staged mock debates about taxation and liberty. Field trips took us to Independence Hall and Valley Forge, places that felt suddenly alive with meaning.

And it wasn't just school. The Bicentennial bled into pop culture and everyday life. Cereal boxes had red-white-and-blue logos. Gas stations handed out commemorative coins. ABC aired "Schoolhouse Rock" segments that made civics catchy, and I still remember the thrill of seeing the Liberty Bell featured in commercials and TV specials. Everywhere you turned, there was this sense that America was not just looking back, but trying to understand itself in real time.

That summer, parades were filled with fife and drum corps and colonial reenactors in full regalia. I remember feeling that I was witnessing something big—like history had its own gravity and I was standing in its pull. That Bicentennial year didn't just make me aware of America's founding; it made me curious. It made me care. And when I eventually discovered 1776 in college, it gave all those half-formed impressions a voice, a cast, and a score.

While no historian would recommend the film as a primary source, 1776 brought the story of independence to life. It showed me that history isn't made by marble statues, but by flawed, passionate people wrangling over ideals in hot rooms. Watching it each Fourth of July has become my own secular ritual—less barbecue, more parchment and powdered wigs. Even now, every time I hear the opening drumbeat and that call for "a resolution for independence," I'm that Bicentennial kid again, filled with curiosity, awe, and patriotic pride.

Then there's Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sure, it's a full-throated piece of WWII-era propaganda, but that's not all it is. In its own way, it's a tribute to a very American kind of optimism—the kind that sings and taps and waves a flag without irony. James Cagney's George M. Cohan is a showman's showman, full of brash energy and patriotic fervor. And somehow, despite the bombast, it always hits the right tone for the day. It's a celebration of performance and pride, and it reminds me that love of country doesn't have to be loud or naive—it can be knowing, complex, and deeply felt.

That’s part of what keeps me coming back to it year after year. But I think the deeper reason has more to do with how musical theater, in all its forms, became a language of connection in my life—first through my mom, and later, through my daughters.

My affection for musical theater didn't just materialize one Independence Day. It was passed down, the way the best traditions are. My mom was the one who first gave me an appreciation for musicals. She loved the genre—not just the catchy tunes and elaborate staging, but the way music could tell a story straight to your soul. While her talent for performance didn't quite make it to me (though it clearly resurfaced a generation later in Faith), I did my part in high school by working behind the scenes with the stage crew. Painting sets, running lights, helping with props—I may not have been center stage, but I was there in the wings, soaking up the energy, the teamwork, the transformation of a bare auditorium into a world of its own.

That experience, paired with a college course I took on the history of musical theater, helped me see the genre as more than just entertainment. Musicals, at their best, don't just reflect culture—they help define it. They distill big ideas into melody, character, and story. And in America, perhaps more than anywhere else, the musical has evolved as a uniquely democratic art form: built on collaboration, born from diverse influences, and often focused on who gets to tell the story of "us." That context helped me place Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1776, and Hamilton not just as three shows I love—but as touchstones of how Americans have chosen to remember, reimagine, and reclaim their history. 

Editor's Note: Here's a link to a post where I've written more about how these three films work together as a musical portrait of American identity.

Faith at the Hollywood Pantages
in December 2017 for Hamilton.

It was with this deeper appreciation for the form that I later found myself sharing these same passions with Faith. She's always been a theater kid through and through, with a deep appreciation for not just the story being told, but how it's told. So it was no surprise when she was captivated by Hamilton. Like so many in her generation, she was swept up by the phenomenon—listening to the cast album on repeat, quoting lyrics in everyday conversation, diving deep into the lives of the Founding Fathers. She knew every word, every harmony, every historical reference. Her passion was infectious, and soon I was listening too, hearing echoes of the same stories I'd grown up loving—but now pulsing with a fresh, urgent rhythm.

That Christmas in 2017, "Santa" delivered something extraordinary: two tickets to see the touring production of Hamilton in Los Angeles. She hadn't expected to actually get to see it live. The show was a cultural phenomenon and seats were hard to come by. So when she unwrapped that gift, the look on her face—part disbelief, part pure joy—was a highlight of the holiday season, and of fatherhood.

And then there was the afternoon itself. Sitting next to her in the darkened theater, watching the story unfold not just in song but in movement, light, and staging—it was electric. Even though she knew the entire score by heart, seeing how each song was brought to life within the full framework of the book gave her a deeper understanding of the story and its historical context. The choreography, the way scenes transitioned, the layering of narrative—she was fully immersed. And so was I.

Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Hamilton to hit me the way it did. Lin-Manuel Miranda's reimagining of the Founders, filtered through hip-hop, R&B, and unapologetic modernity, struck a chord I didn't know needed striking. It captured the ambition, contradiction, and grit of early America in a way that felt new and yet deeply familiar. It spoke to both our nation's promise and its imperfections. And that night, sharing the experience with Faith, I felt the beautiful convergence of our shared passions—for history, for storytelling, for truth told in harmony and rhythm.

So when Disney+ released the original cast recording, it wasn't even a question. Hamilton joined the July 4th lineup without hesitation.

Now, every Fourth, I travel through time—from 1776's congressional chambers, to Cagney's Vaudeville stage, and finally to the turntables and duels of Hamilton. It's a deeply personal tradition, stitched together from family, history, and a little Broadway sparkle. What began as a childhood fascination with the Bicentennial has evolved into a kind of secular ritual of its own—less about fireworks and more about reflection. A quiet act of remembrance, through song and story, of who we were, who we are, and who we still might become.

Each film reminds me that the American story isn't finished—it's still being shaped, sung, and rewritten by each generation.

It's a small tradition, but it connects me to family, to history, and to the imperfect, ongoing story of America itself.

A Wedding Toast for Faith and Will

Dad and the Bride

Good evening. For those of you who haven’t met me yet, I am Joe, the bride’s father. You are each here because you touched Will and/or Faith in a very special way, and I would like to welcome you and thank you for coming.

Not everyone who wanted to be here could make it tonight. Most of my extended family is stuck on the East Coast after testing positive for COVID. So, for those watching or reading this afterward—we miss you, love you, and look forward to a time when we can be with you again.

This has certainly been a heck of a couple of years, and although this is my second pandemic wedding, being together still doesn’t feel completely normal…

Preamble aside, if you are enjoying yourself, I’d like you to know that I have had nothing to do with tonight (well, almost nothing).

Really, I want to thank and acknowledge Faith’s Mom, Amy, her husband, Kent, and Faith, who have done all the hard work to plan this wedding. Thank you for making this a special night for everyone.

While I was preparing tonight's toast, someone in my office told me a funny joke that I really wish I could take credit for, but even if I didn't write it, I have decided to use it…

Father of the bride toasts and raising children have a lot in common, both are a lot more fun to conceive than to deliver!

As the father of the bride, my job is threefold:

1. Stand up here, and welcome the assembled friends and family.
2. Keep the agenda moving, and
3. Offer the bride and groom unsolicited advice.

#1, check. However, because #2 and #3 conflict with each other, and history tells me Faith won’t listen to my advice for at least a year—I’ll try to keep my pontificating to a minimum…

That said, I do have some stories to share, as well as advice for the newlyweds...

When a couple decides to start a family, they have many hopes for their children… Will they have all their fingers and toes…? Will they look like my partner or her parents? Later on, those hopes turn into: Will they ever move out of the house…?

However, chief among those hopes is that she will find a soul mate, a family-oriented person with a dialed-in moral compass and high character and integrity. Faith has found that in Will. To Alan and Vicky, thank you for choosing to raise a son with these qualities.

Life is a series of choices; some are important, and others are trivial. Besides choosing to become a parent and devote your life to another human, there isn’t a more important choice than selecting your life partner.

Our Boeke Clan

No matter how seemingly consequential (at the time), other choices pale by comparison…

For instance, Faith announced to her mother and me (at age 14 or 15) that she didn’t need to go to college and was simply going to go to Hollywood and become an “actor…” Hours and hours of family counseling later, Faith decided college was a better idea. However, she insisted on majoring in Theater… (I hope you can imagine how worried her father was that she’d be able to make a living afterward).

When she graduated last month, she received a Bachelor of Arts in History, with a minor in Geospatial Information Systems… CHOICES…

Every choice, the small and the large, seemingly consequential or the not-so-consequential, add up and lead you to the most important ones… choosing your soul mate isn’t only important, but a reflection of who you are.

I have benefited so from seeing Faith mature and grow into adulthood; her choices have made me a better person. Similarly, Will’s qualities have made Faith a better person, and I believe that Faith’s qualities will also make Will a better person. As a couple, they are more than the sum of their parts and even better still.

Saying their vows

I have seen how Will looks at Faith. He is kind to her, cares for her, and is passionately and deeply in love with her—and there is nothing more important to a father than knowing his child has that kind of love. For that, Will, I can’t help but love you too and welcome you into our family.

Faith once told me she and Will were “saving themselves for marriage.” Surprised, I was silent. She followed with, “We are good kids… would you rather it be any other way?” Well… not really… CHOICES.

Will is polite and respectful. Faith is polite (in public), respectful, and strong-willed. When she was young, she couldn’t be separated from her mom… I was her bottle-fetcher until her mom left town one night. That night, we became closer. Each choice led us here tonight.

Will & Faith, now that you have joined each other to begin a new chapter in your life, I do have some fatherly advice:

• In searching for meaningful purpose in life, don’t seek outside experiences—you will find it at home, where your family will be.
• Continue to communicate with one another.
• Continue to fight life’s battles together.
• Continue to love, and more importantly, grow your love and build your family.

Because nothing of any value or magnitude tops your family.

Now, if everyone will join me in raising your glasses…

To Faith and Will, Lieutenant and Mrs. Witherow… our collective wish is that you remember this day with these people as you build your wonderful life together.

Cheers!

Another Toast for Kailey and Matt

Kailey and Matt

First, I would like to welcome our extended families and friends. We are all so grateful to you for joining us for these happy festivities!  Thank you all for being a part of this special day and helping Matt and Kailey commemorate and celebrate their wedding and anniversary.  I’d like to say thank you to the Winklers.  Mike and Kathy, you have been so gracious and generous with our family, and the happy couple that thank you just doesn’t seem sufficient, nevertheless, thank you! 

A year ago, your immediate families gathered to wish the two of you the best for a long and happy life together.  Today, at long last, we all (your family and friends) gather to celebrate your re-commitment and the anniversary of that happy day.

At the risk of repeating myself, I told you then how you captured my heart on the day I met you (and joked about the fact that I am the person you are least likely to call to come bail you out of jail).  I told you how thankful I was to see you find this wonderful guy Matt and embark on your life’s journey together, and I welcomed Matt to our family.

I told you that the key to a great marriage requires just one ingredient: mutual respect.  Nothing I have seen in the last year has changed my mind about any of those things.  Seeing your relationship grow since last September has made this father’s heart sing...but don't worry, as long as I draw breath, I will always have more advice... 

Be always true to each other; share your joys and burdens; laugh and love much; be each other's best friend. Speak well of one another, even in private. And when things aren’t going well, remember to forgive as often as it is required. Married life is an adventure, and even though your adventure started a year ago, every day is a new chance for you both to connect and re-commit. A good marriage is a contest of generosity. 

So today, as your friends and family surround you, and every day going forward, remember your promises, keep them with all your heart, and you will have that sense of joy and wonder that exceeds all you have known. With all my heart, I offer you my congratulations and warmest wishes as you begin the latest adventure life has to offer.

Now if everyone will join me and raise your glasses to toast Kailey and Matt Winkler’s first anniversary and recommitment…

Cheers to the bride and groom!

Toasting Kailey & Matt's Wedding

Dad and the Happy Couple

We all join this evening to congratulate Kailey and Matt and wish them all the best for a long and happy life together.

Kailey, you captured my heart the day I met you, and despite the fact that I am the person you are least likely to call to come to bail you out of jail, that love has only grown deeper as the years have passed. As I look at you today, this grown woman, my daughter, I am in awe of who you have become.  But no matter what your age, and no matter what you accomplish, you are, and will always be, “my little girl,” the girl who gave herself “time-outs” when she was mean to her brother, the girl who got so mad when I prevented her from being run over by a car, the girl who became my Christmas elf, the girl who gave me butterfly kisses from her top bunk…

Today, as you marry this wonderful man, I see that my beautiful butterfly has broken free from her chrysalis, and my awe is replaced with pride and respect. You and Matt are about to embark on a breathtaking journey filled with twists and turns, ups and downs, happiness and heartbreak, and all of the love that can only come as husband and wife. 

Matt, I want to welcome you, and your family, to our clan.  I won’t pretend that I don’t have tons of advice for you about joining this motley crew or about being Kailey’s partner, but I know that you will find joy by discovering those things together with her (and Kailey made me promise to be brief…).

What I will tell you both, from my experience and from my heart, is that the recipe for a great marriage requires one key ingredient: mutual respect.

You have chosen each other, so as you move forward in life together, respect each other, value your differences, appreciate your similarities, fight fair (when necessary), make up often, and honor each other. Then, and only then, will a long life of love follow.

I know this is supposed to be a toast and not another episode of “Dad’s life lessons,” so… since we are in my native land (Chicago) and since that always brings out the Irish in me, I’ll share with you the traditional Irish family blessing:

May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings,
Slow to make enemies,
Quick to make friends,
But rich or poor, quick or slow,
May you know nothing but
Happiness from this day forward.

Now if everyone will join me for one last Irish tradition, please raise your glasses and toast the bride and the groom…

Merry met, and merry part,
I drink to thee with all my heart!

Happy happy! Joy joy!!

The Unfinished Work: Civic Understanding and the Fragile State of American Democracy

Abraham Lincoln has been one of my heroes for as long as I can remember—second only to my parents. My earliest memory of a family vacation is a cross-country road trip that included a stop at Gettysburg, not long after the Civil War Centennial. I was four years old, standing on those hallowed grounds. At that age, I couldn’t grasp the full weight of history in a place where so many had given their lives for the idea of a more perfect union. But that visit sparked a lifelong fascination with Lincoln—the statesman, the writer, the moral compass of a divided nation. I’ve been a Lincoln buff, a fan, maybe even a nerd ever since.

His Gettysburg Address, just 272 words long, remains to me one of the most powerful expressions of American ideals ever written. More than a dedication of a cemetery, it was a recommitment to democracy, equality, and national purpose. Today, as we navigate a political landscape marked by division, disinformation, and declining civic understanding, Lincoln’s words are more than a historical artifact—they are a call to action. The erosion of civic education threatens our ability to live up to them, and the “unfinished work” of democracy must remain at the center of our national consciousness.

The Gettysburg Address

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Civic Illiteracy

In just 272 words, Lincoln distilled the moral foundation and political aspiration of the American experiment: that a nation “conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal” must continually prove its capacity to endure. Delivered in the blood-soaked shadow of the Civil War, his address transcended its moment to articulate a timeless challenge—one that feels especially urgent in today’s divided political climate.

While we are not engaged in civil war, we are experiencing a profound erosion of trust in democratic institutions, rising polarization, and a drift away from shared civic understanding. One of the less discussed but deeply consequential causes of this crisis is the long-term decline of civics education in American schools. Without a firm grasp of how our government functions—or why democratic participation matters—citizens are ill-equipped to take up the "unfinished work" Lincoln called us to continue.

Lincoln’s speech reminds us that democracy is not self-sustaining—it must be nurtured, practiced, and defended. He avoided partisan rhetoric, choosing instead to elevate principles of unity, sacrifice, and shared responsibility.

Yet in recent decades, we have allowed our civic muscles to atrophy. Civics—once a core part of American education—has been marginalized or dropped entirely in many school systems. As a result, generations have come of age without a meaningful understanding of the Constitution, the rule of law, or their responsibilities as citizens.

This civic illiteracy has real and dangerous consequences. Without an understanding of the electoral process, misinformation spreads more easily and undermines confidence in election outcomes. Without knowledge of the First Amendment, Americans are less equipped to identify and defend against threats to press freedom and free speech. Without an appreciation of checks and balances, they may support authoritarian measures, misinterpreting them as strength rather than erosion.

In Lincoln’s time, the existential threat to democracy was open warfare. Today, it is disconnection, apathy, and extremism born of ignorance. Reinvigorating civic education—in schools, communities, and media—is not a luxury; it is essential to national stability. A democracy cannot thrive on instinct or symbolism alone. It demands active, informed participation.

Lincoln concluded his address with a hope: “that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.” Whether that government endures depends not only on elections and laws, but on education—on equipping every new generation with the knowledge, habits, and values necessary for self-government.

Postscript

The kids at Gettysburg, Nov. 2003

Today, the 155th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address, I found myself reflecting on a moment from years earlier when I stood with my children at the Gettysburg National Cemetery. We paused in front of the simple granite marker believed to mark the spot where Lincoln delivered his immortal words. I’ve had the Address memorized since I was a boy, and I recited it for them while imagining what it must have felt like to hear those words for the first time.

I took this photo that day—my children, much younger then, standing where Lincoln once stood, surrounded by the headstones of the soldiers whose sacrifice gave his words such meaning. That photo sits framed in my office today. I often find myself looking at it, especially when today’s civic challenges feel overwhelming.

It gives me hope—not just that I’ve passed along some of these civic lessons to my own children, but that their generation may be ready to carry forward the legacy of Lincoln’s 272 words. The unfinished work, as Lincoln reminded us, belongs to each new generation. And in that image, I am reminded that there is still reason to believe they will be up to the task.

Trains, Presidents, and Baseball

A Cross-Country Road Trip with My Daughter

Earlier this month, Kailey and I packed up a rental Toyota Corolla and pointed it East—driving from La Crescenta, California, to Philadelphia, where she would begin medical school at Thomas Jefferson University. It was a practical trip on paper, but we planned to make use of the time to hit touristy things along the road. However, the trip soon became something more: a chance to share time, places, and stories with my oldest child in a way we hadn’t for years.

We set off under the California desert sun, bound not just for Philly, but for a series of mutual passions we’d charted together—natural wonders, national parks, presidential history, and baseball among them. First stop: the Grand Canyon. A classic detour. Entering the National Park, we were greeted by the sight of a family of Moose. We hurried to reach the South Rim of the canyon in time for the "Golden Hour," where I was able to snap a photo of her with the majestic vista of the canyon as the backdrop.  We continued our drive with the intent of seeing the Four Corners Monument, but we misjudged the distance and arrived too late to visit. We continued driving to our first overnight stop in Durango, Colorado, where I talked Kailey into indulging one of my more niche interests—the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Museum. She was a good sport, smiling as I nerded out over old locomotives and track gauges. She even asked a few questions, humoring me like I must have done with my own dad at some point.

The proprietors of the hotel we stayed at directed us on a scenic route through the high desert of the Colorado Plateau, driving through valleys flanked by Colorado's 14ers, we made our way to Salida for lunch beside the Arkansas River’s headwaters, at the Boathouse Cantina. As we enjoyed our lunch, we watched as tubers and a Black Labrador frolicked in the river's gentle rapids before making our way through Monarch Pass and over the Continental Divide, down the Front Range, and across the plains via Interstate 80 to Kansas for our second night on the road. The next morning, we detoured off of I-80 to Abilene. Here we really hit our stride—at the Eisenhower Presidential Library. This wasn’t just a dad stop. Kailey and I both have a deep respect for American presidents and the stories that shaped their legacies. We lingered over Ike’s leadership in WWII and the 1950s’ transformation of America, taking it all in like two history buffs on pilgrimage.

After a couple of hours at the library, we decided to push on to St. Louis. Arriving in the early evening, I bought us two tickets to ride the tram to the top of the Gateway Arch, where we caught a few innings of a Cardinals game far below. After a quick stop in the museum gift shop beneath the Arch, we rushed to our car to avoid a thunderstorm rolling in. As we crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, the heavens opened up with some of the heaviest rain and most intense thunder and lightning I have ever experienced. Slowly making our way, we realized we totally forgot about dinner.  Kailey found a Steak 'n Shake near our hotel outside Springfield, Illinois, and we enjoyed a meal of burgers and shakes before calling it a day.

The next morning, we made another joint stop: Abraham Lincoln’s Tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery, the Lincoln Home Historic Site, and the Illinois State House. This was holy ground for both of us. Lincoln has always been my hero, and Kailey has always been thoughtful and intellectually curious, and watching her engage so seriously with Lincoln’s legacy reminded me of how much we truly share—values, interests, and a reverence for history that runs deep.

That afternoon, July 20, 2016, we reached Chicago for a highlight we’d been looking forward to since planning the trip: a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Colon vs. Hendricks. The Mets vs. the Cubs during what would become their curse-breaking championship season. It was sweltering, the energy was electric, and we soaked it all in. Sharing that game with Kailey, shoulder to shoulder in the Friendly Confines, was one of those moments you don’t fully appreciate until much later.

After the game, we cruised through the University of Chicago campus, then headed east again, spending the night in Ohio. The next day, crossing the Ohio/Pennsylvania state line, we neared my last wishlist item: the East Broad Top Railroad in Rockhill Furnace, Pennsylvania. Sadly, however, it had been closed since 2011, something I hadn’t realized until we arrived. Ever the trooper, Kailey gamely followed me to the Friends of the East Broad Top Museum in Roberstdale—but it too was closed. We laughed off the failed detour and made our way to Duck Donuts in Mechanicsburg to regroup, ice cream and donuts lifting my spirits.

Eventually, we arrived in Philadelphia. Kailey was eager to move into her new apartment and begin this next chapter of her life. Thankfully, her grandparents lived nearby and had furniture to spare. We picked up a U-Haul, conquered IKEA, and even caught a glimpse of the SS United States docked along the Delaware River—a quiet, majestic piece of history just waiting to be remembered. One last fitting tribute.

It took a long day, but between her grandparents and me, we got her settled. I stuck around just long enough to see her begin her journey to becoming a doctor. Not quite ready to finish the trip and return home, I decided to take a walk through Washington Square, Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell—sites I’d visited before, but which now carried a new emotional weight. They reminded me not just of America’s story, but of mine—and Kailey’s.

This trip didn’t just deliver my daughter to medical school. It delivered us back to each other. In between the national parks, presidential libraries, the baseball stadiums, and yes, even the train museums, I saw how deeply we were connected. Kailey may not share my passion for narrow-gauge railroads, but she shares so much else: a curiosity for history, a love of learning, and a reverence for the moments and people that shape our world.

Somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Gateway Arch, Ike and Lincoln, Hendricks and Colon, I realized the rift that had opened between us during her teenage years had quietly begun to close. Not through a single conversation or dramatic reconciliation, but through something much simpler: miles on the road, shared passions, and time.

Magic Reindeer Feed: Our Christmas Tradition

"But how will Santa know where we are?" Faith's voice carried that particular mix of worry and wonder that only a child facing their first Christmas crisis can muster. We'd recently moved to Southern California—no snow, no chimney, no clue how Santa was supposed to make it work.

Hanging Santa's Magic Key, Christmas Eve 2004

"And how will he get in without a fireplace?" she added, her brow furrowed with the kind of serious concern that makes you realize your five-year-old has been thinking this through.

At the time, Teddy was still a true believer, full of wonder and ready to defend Santa's honor to anyone who dared question him. Kailey, on the other hand, had already been quietly inducted into the fraternity of elves—that knowing, magical role older siblings step into when they learn the truth but choose to protect the magic for the little ones. That Christmas became a turning point. The questions were real, but so was our response.

So, like any good parent backed into a magical corner, I improvised.

The Solution

Kailey, Faith, Madison, and Teddy making
Magic Reindeer Feed, Christmas Eve 2008

2004 marked the beginning of our tradition of Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key. Standing in our California kitchen, we gathered around the counter. The kids stirred the oats and sparkles, the gentle sound of ingredients hitting the mixing bowl creating its own kind of Christmas music. Faith added a healthy scoop of Christmas hope with each stir.

The mixture was festive and fun, but more than that, it was purposeful. I told the kids the reindeer would be able to see it glimmering from the sky, guiding Santa straight to our home. It was a homemade beacon—one part snack, two parts signal, and all heart.

And the key? Oh, the key. Growing up, my mom had her own ways of making Christmas magic work, no matter where we lived or what challenges we faced. She taught me that the best traditions aren't the ones you inherit perfectly—they're the ones you adapt with love. Our first Magic Key was humble and homemade—an old house key we weren't using anymore, decorated with a red yarn lanyard and absolutely smothered in as much glitter as we could glue on. It looked more like a kindergarten art project than a piece of North Pole tech, but it worked.

A few years later, one of Santa's "elves" (with an Amazon account) upgraded us to a more elegant skeleton key—something shiny and antique-looking, worthy of the North Pole. But I still keep that original glittery mess tucked away with our decorations. It was the key that started it all.

Magic Reindeer Feed Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 cup rolled oats
• 1/4 cup red and green sugar sprinkles
• 1/4 cup edible glitter or colored sanding sugar
• A pinch of belief (the secret ingredient)

Instructions: Mix all dry ingredients in a large bowl until evenly distributed. The mixture can be stored in an airtight container for up to two weeks before Christmas Eve.

The kids spreading the feed, Christmas Eve 2006

On Christmas Eve, give each child a small handful to scatter on the lawn, porch, or even a balcony. If rain is in the forecast, place small piles under covered areas or on windowsills—reindeer have excellent eyesight.

Notes: Back then, we used regular craft glitter, thinking more about sparkle than sustainability. But over time, as the kids got older and more aware of the world around them, we made the switch to edible glitter—a small but meaningful change to make sure the reindeer (and the North Pole) stayed microplastic-free. Magic shouldn't come at the planet's expense.

The Ritual

The kids scattered the feed on our lawn with the gravity of an ancient ritual, whispering instructions to Dasher and Dancer and all the rest. Their voices carried across the California evening air, mixing with the sound of distant neighbors and the unfamiliar hum of our new neighborhood. I remember thinking how different this felt from the snowy Christmases of my childhood, yet somehow just right.

The next morning, we'd find the sparkles mostly gone (thanks to birds, wind, and morning dew), evidence enough that the reindeer had found us after all.

The Evolution

Now, years later, the kids are older. The questions have changed. Kailey is getting ready for medical school, Teddy is in college, Faith has taken her place as an elf, and all the kids know the secret. But the magic? It lingers.

However, I've learned something important about traditions—they're not museum pieces to be preserved exactly as created. They're living things that grow and adapt. Some years, we've added different colored sugars depending on what I had on hand. One year, we made extra bags so the kids’ friends could join in “our” ritual. The tradition became less about the exact recipe and more about the moment of connection—that Christmas Eve pause where we acknowledge wonder together.

Every Christmas Eve, I still see that first night through Faith's eyes—the worry, the wonder, and the moment I realized that magic isn't something that happens to you. It's something you create, one handful of sparkly oats at a time.

If Yes, Virginia was about believing in the unseen, this tradition was about doing something to make that belief real. And maybe that's the greatest kind of magic there is—the kind that starts with a parent's quick thinking and becomes a memory none of us will ever forget.

Merry Christmas, and may you always find just enough sparkle in your yard and your heart.

Green Beans, Chicken & Potatoes

Over the years, I have come to realize that each of my children can be a very picky eater. One often repeated conversation starts...

Dad: "What do you guys want for dinner?"
Child 1: "In-N-Out"
Child 3: "No, I hate In-N-Out, let's go to KFC..."
Child 2: "Yuck, they are both disgusting, I want barbecue..."
Child 1: "I asked first..."

       ...and so on, until:

Dad: "...Enough, we are stopping at the grocery store for TV dinners."

Most parents can relate to some form of this conversation. Having one picky eater can be challenging, but having three ends up being an argument. It has taken me lots of time to realize that I can not force the kids to like (or even eat) the foods that I think they should.

But coming to this realization was challenging, and I haven't always earned my "best parent of the year" trophies when it comes to getting my fussbudget eaters to "come around"...there was the (now) notorious episode of my oldest hiding sweet potatoes in her milk (and me then trying to force her to drink the concoction). Then there was the Tuna Helper riot of 2007, with my youngest (only slightly exaggerated for comic effect...) throwing her pasta at me, from across the table, and me responding that she could have it for breakfast too...

At the end of the day, I do realize that I can't force my children to do anything, especially eat, so I have (for the most part) just stop trying. The best I can do, is offer them nutritious, varied foods—and eat them myself. The kids can have theirs, or not, and the best I can do is model the behavior I want them to emulate.

So, I put the food on their plates, if it stays there, I don't push them (too much—but is a "no-thank you" bite too much to ask?!) . Really I try not to stress over it too much (to varying degrees of success). Unfortunately, none of them seem to like the same foods at the same time which can make family dinner time a pretty stressful situation for everyone involved.

But I finally found a one-pan meal that they all tolerate (some might even say that they like...). Presenting Italian Chicken:

Ingredients

• 6 small to medium red potatoes, cut
• 8/9 oz package of frozen cut green beans
• 1 1/2 lb chicken breasts (3-6 breasts)
• 1/2 c. butter
• 1 package Italian dressing mix

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Lightly grease a 9x13" (3 quart) baking dish with butter.
3. Line one side of the baking dish with the cut green beans.
4. Line the chicken breasts down the middle of the baking dish.
5. Cube the potatoes and line the opposite side (from the green beans) of dish with the potatoes.
6. Cut the stick of butter into small pats and layer over the green beans, potatoes and chicken. 
7. Sprinkle Italian dressing over the entire pan. Cover with foil.
8. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour 15 minutes (or until the chicken breasts reach 165 degrees internal temperature).

There isn't anything here that any of the three kids hate (in fact, they love all the ingredients, although just last night my youngest says she doesn't like the green beans with the Italian dressing mix...sigh). 

I serve this meal with a fruit salad, or even some canned pears or peaches, and voila dinner time is solved (at least two times per month).

It took time, some trial and error, and a few tears (mine and the kids), but I learned that by continually offering them choices, I was finally able to hit upon something that appeals to all of our tastes (well, for the most part)!

Saying Goodbye...

I hope you’ll forgive a detour from my usual posts. Today, I need to write about someone who was my faithful hiking companion, who loved to chase a tennis ball with unrelenting enthusiasm, who was always by my side during quiet nights, who greeted me at the door with joy, and who taught the kids, and me, more about unconditional love than most people ever will. This is a memorial for Madison—Maddie to us—our beloved Yellow Labrador Retriever.

The better part of a decade ago, we rescued Maddie with the help of the Pups and Pals rescue. She’d been found living on the streets, estimated to be around two or three years old. She was skittish—especially around men—which led us to believe she’d been mistreated in her early life. But the first time we saw her, we knew. Faith, my daughter, reminded me recently that we fell in love with that goofy Lab at first sight. There was a spark in her, a sense of joy just waiting to come out.

She warmed up to us quickly—especially to me. Despite her size (she weighed over 90 pounds), Maddie was convinced she was a lap dog. If I sat on the couch or in my recliner, it wasn’t long before she climbed right into my lap, tail thumping and tongue ready. She had no sense of scale, and we loved her for it.

A little over a year ago, we brought another rescue into our home—a puppy named Ace. From day one, Maddie took him under her paw. She became his surrogate mom and big sister, teaching him the rhythms of our household: how to play gently, where the best sunspots were, when to bark, and when to nap. Ace adored her. He followed her lead, cuddled beside her each night, and looked up to her in every way. Her absence is confusing for him now—he still searches the house, tail wagging hopefully. He misses her as much as we do.

This past New Year’s, I started noticing that Maddie wasn’t quite herself. She was slower, less playful. I chalked it up to her age. But a couple of weeks ago, she began limping on one of her hind legs. I took her to the vet, hoping it was something minor. There was no obvious injury, but the X-ray revealed a faint spot on one of her lungs. Labs are sadly prone to lung cancer, the vet said. We went home with pain meds and instructions to rest.

Over the following week, her condition declined. I knew I needed to take her back to the vet, but I hesitated. Part of me was afraid of what I might hear. By the time I finally called, the soonest appointment was Monday evening.

That weekend became a gift. We spent long hours together—quiet time on the couch, short moments in the yard, peaceful companionship. My son came home from college and had a chance to sit with her. My youngest daughter was off from school for Lincoln’s Birthday and spent the day curled up beside Maddie. When I got home from work that evening, the two of them were snuggled close on the couch. That image is one I’ll carry with me.

When I picked up Maddie’s leash for what would become her last car ride, she still perked up. She struggled off the couch, tail wagging faintly, happy just to go somewhere with me. We sat on the grass outside for a few quiet minutes. Then we headed to the vet.

The second round of X-rays confirmed what we feared: the light spot had developed into an aggressive tumor. The cancer had spread to her ear canal and leg. The fluid in her lungs made breathing difficult. Her body was failing her.

It was time.

In those final minutes, I lay down beside her on the floor of the vet’s office, holding her gently, cradling her head in my arms. I whispered to her, telling her what a good girl she was—what a gift she had been to our family. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stop time, to stay there with her just a little longer. She was calm and trusting, as always. And when the moment came, and the light left her failing body, she was wrapped in love.

Letting her go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one. She’s no longer in pain. Still, the space she filled in our home—and in our lives—feels enormous now that she’s gone.

I like to think she’s somewhere free now, unburdened and unbothered. Running through open fields, tail up, nose in the wind. Rolling in the grass, barking at nothing and everything. Just being a dog again. I hope she’s found that place. And I hope she knows we’ll meet again someday. Until then, Maddie—run fast and look for me at the rainbow bridge.

One of my favorite photos of her, taken seconds before she licked the lens, became the basis for the “Yellow Labrador Retriever lover” microbadge I created on BoardGameGeek. It’s a small digital keepsake, but now, it’s also a quiet tribute. A reminder of her presence and her joy.

Rest well, girl. You were so deeply loved.

Maddie and the kids, Christmas 2011

The Swing That Sealed It

Some memories carve themselves into your heart not because they are joyful or painful, but because they are both.

May 2013 is a month I will never forget—for all the reasons I wish I could and all the ones I’m grateful I can not.

Just a week before Crescenta Valley High School’s final baseball game of the season, I lost someone who had become like family to me. Yoko wasn’t just my assistant—she was my partner, my protector, and my friend. She was a quiet force in my life, anticipating needs before they were spoken, always steady, always there. Her sudden passing knocked the wind out of me. There was no time to process the loss, no space to grieve—only a hollow ache and the blur of unfinished days.

And then came the game...

It was May 10. Crescenta Valley was facing Arcadia High for a share of the Pacific League title. It was the last game of the regular season. We were down 4–2 in the top of the seventh with two outs. Two runners on. One last chance. And then, my son Ted stepped up to the plate.

I’ve seen him in that stance hundreds of times. The journey to that moment started the day he was born. I bought him his first glove and baseball that day—a hopeful gesture that probably said more about me than it did about him. Before he was old enough to even join an organized team, we were out in the backyard with a bucket of tennis balls, me pitching underhand and him with a toy wood bat, that looked huge in his tiny hands, swinging with all the ferocity a four-year-old could muster.

It wasn’t long before he outgrew the toy gear. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn’t just play baseball—he loved it. He studied it. He mimicked batting stances, lived and breathed Cubs baseball like me, and slept with his glove under his pillow.

When I coached him in Little League, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure—but more than that, he wanted to get better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready. And he carried that intensity forward, refining it with every season. The instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he reached high school, he wasn’t just a good player—he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments. He was ready for the big stage.

And there he was—on the biggest stage of his high school career.

He took the first pitch. Then came the second.

Crack.

The sound was unmistakable. The ball launched deep into the Arcadia night and cleared the left-field fence—a three-run home run to give CV a 5–4 lead and ultimately the Pacific League crown. The stadium erupted. His teammates mobbed him at the plate. He rounded the bases with a joy so pure, it broke my heart wide open.

I stood there, still, trying to take it in—so proud I could barely breathe, so heartbroken I could barely speak. Another parent turned to me, eyes wide, and asked, “How did that feel? Watching your son do that?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth is, I didn’t know how to answer. How do you describe something like that—something that feels like it belongs to a dream or a movie? So, I just said the first thing that came to mind: “Wow. Just… wow.”

It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest. It was all I could manage with my heart caught between bursting with joy and breaking with grief.

Because I wasn’t alone in following Ted’s baseball career. Yoko followed it just as closely. She asked about his games before I could bring them up. She celebrated his wins, checked on his bumps and bruises, and teased me for pacing too much in the stands. She believed in him—always. And she would have loved that moment. She would’ve printed out the box score and saved the clipping. She would’ve told me, “He’s going to do something special.”

And she was right.

Earlier that spring, Ted had thrown a no-hitter against Loyola High—striking out nine and scoring the game’s only run himself. He finished the season hitting .408 in league play and was later named the Pacific League’s Most Valuable Player. A few weeks after that game, he committed to continuing his baseball journey at Loyola Marymount University—his dream to play Division I college baseball, so LMU was a perfect place for the next chapter of his story.

It’s impossible to capture what it meant to witness that swing against Arcadia—not just because of what it meant for the team or the title, but because of everything it carried: the hours in the cages, the missed dinners, the long drives, the small-town hopes. And yes, the grief.

The joy of that home run will always live beside the sorrow of losing Yoko. That’s how life works sometimes—grace and loss in the same breath. That week taught me again how to hold both.

If you’d like to see the moment that still gives me chills, here it is:

And if you’d like to know more about Yoko and the extraordinary soul she was, I wrote about her here: 🕊 In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

Peeps, Patience, and the Problem with Preferences

Every Easter, like clockwork, I buy Peeps.

These neon-colored marshmallow bunnies and chicks go into the baskets—cheerfully nestled between chocolate bunnies, Cadbury eggs, and Brach's "All Reds" Easter jellybeans—not because my kids like them (they don’t), but because I do. I’ve long since accepted that, come this afternoon, I’ll be the only one finishing off the sugar-dusted leftovers while everyone else picks around them like they’re radioactive.

But I still include them. Every year. Why?

Because Easter, like parenting, is not always about efficiency. It’s about intention. It’s about tradition. And sometimes, it’s about small, ridiculous acts of hope—like believing that maybe this year one of the kids will discover the joy of stale Peeps the way I did back in the 1970s.

The Peeps Paradox

The whole Peep situation got me thinking about preferences—how strongly kids develop them, how wildly they differ, and how we as parents sometimes wrestle with honoring those preferences while still keeping a little space for our own.

Take dinner, for example. One kid wants tacos, another votes spaghetti, and the third insists cereal counts as a balanced meal. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to cook one thing that everyone will eat without negotiating like I’m at a G7 summit.

It’s the same with movies, music, road trip snacks—even the car temperature. Parenting often means navigating a minefield of opinions, all while keeping the van moving forward and your own sanity intact.

Putting the Peeps in Anyway

Sometimes, putting the Peeps in the basket is my quiet rebellion against the tyranny of consensus. A reminder to myself that my preferences don’t have to disappear completely just because I’m the parent.

It’s also a reminder to my kids: you won’t always love everything that shows up in life—or in your Easter basket. And that’s okay. You don’t have to eat the Peeps. But you can appreciate the thought behind them. The effort. The love. Even if it comes in the form of fluorescent marshmallow poultry.

The Bigger Picture

Faith and Kailey decorating eggs, circa 2005

Parenting isn’t always about creating a curated experience that hits everyone’s sweet spot. It’s about showing up. Consistently. Lovingly. Sometimes goofily. With jellybeans, chocolate eggs, and yes—even with Peeps.

This year's Easter baskets will be full. Maybe not perfectly tailored. Maybe a little sticky. But filled with good intentions, and just enough sugar to remind us all that life—and family—is messy, colorful, and best approached with a sense of humor.

And if no one eats the Peeps again this year? That’s fine. More for me.

Lessons from the Lab: Five Years of Pixels, Patience, and Parenting

Every parent knows that moment when your child's teacher sends home the volunteer signup sheet. You scan the options—field trip chaperone, book fair helper, classroom reader—and somewhere between "lunch duty" and "party planning," you spot something that makes you pause. For me, that something was "computer lab assistant."

But if I'm being honest, my motivation for volunteering ran deeper than typical parental involvement. Going through a divorce had shifted my relationship with time—particularly the time I spent with my children. Suddenly, every moment felt more precious, and the traditional pickup-and-dropoff routine wasn't enough. I found myself searching for ways to be more present in their daily world, to carve out extra hours together that weren't structured around custody schedules or weekend plans.

There was another factor weighing on my mind: balance. I was spending considerable time as a volunteer for my son's Boy Scout activities and coaching his Little League team—practices, games, tournaments, events. While I did help coach Faith's AYSO soccer team, that commitment felt small in comparison to the hours I was investing in scouts and baseball. I wanted to make sure I was showing up equally for all of my children, and that Faith didn't feel like her activities and interests were less important than her brother's.

The volunteer signup sheet represented an opportunity I couldn't pass up: a chance to spend an additional hour or two each week in Faith's world, to see her in her element, and to be part of her school experience in a meaningful way that balanced out other commitments.

Looking back now, after five years of volunteering in Faith's computer lab and classroom at Valley View Elementary, I realize I signed up thinking I'd be helping kids with technology—and hoping to steal a few extra moments with my daughter. What I didn't expect was how much the children in her classes would teach me about patience, problem-solving, and the art of rebuilding connection one small interaction at a time.

The Learning Curve

My first day in the computer lab, I arrived with the confidence of someone who'd spent years troubleshooting work systems and helping colleagues with tech issues. As a parent, a former office go-to for tech help, and someone who’d even rebuilt a computer or two, I figured I was more than prepared. How hard could it be to help a few kids log into their accounts?

The answer came within the first ten minutes. Twenty-something five-year-olds, each with their own unique interpretation of how a mouse works, their own completely logical (to them) approach to navigating software that made perfect sense until you tried to follow their reasoning. One student tried to use the mouse by lifting it off the table and waving it in the air like a remote control, convinced that if she just pointed it hard enough at the screen, it would obey.

"Mr. Boeke, my computer is broken" became the most common phrase I'd hear, usually spoken with the gravity of someone reporting a natural disaster. Most of the time, the "broken" computer simply needed the Caps Lock turned off, or the student had clicked somewhere unexpected and needed gentle guidance back to their assignment.

I learned quickly that my job wasn't just technical support—it was translator, detective, and cheerleader all rolled into one. Every successful login felt like a small miracle. Every moment of frustration a chance to build trust and patience. And every smile when something finally worked? That was the real reward.

The Unexpected Role Model

What I didn't anticipate when I first stepped into that computer lab was the impact of simply being there as a male presence in an overwhelmingly female environment. Elementary schools, by their nature, tend to be staffed primarily by women—teachers, aides, administrators, and volunteers. While this creates wonderful, nurturing environments, it also means that many children have limited exposure to male role models during their school day.

As the weeks turned into months, and months into years, I began to notice something remarkable happening. It wasn't just Faith who looked forward to my Thursday morning visits—other children in her classes did too. Kids would wave excitedly when they saw me in the hallway, ask when I'd be back, or specifically seek me out for help with their projects. They even invited me to sit with them at lunch.

Some faces became familiar fixtures year after year as children moved up through the grades. A kindergartner I'd helped with basic mouse skills would greet me as a confident second-grader, eager to show off their new abilities. Others would rotate in from different classrooms, but they'd quickly warm up, drawn by the novelty of having a "Mr. Boeke" alongside their female teachers and volunteers.

I realized I had become part of the classroom life-cycle, offering these children something they didn't often experience in their academic environment: a male adult who was patient, encouraging, and invested in their learning. For some kids, especially those without father figures at home or whose dads weren't able to volunteer, I represented a different kind of supportive adult presence.

Watching Faith Navigate Her World

Volunteering in my daughter's school gave me a unique window into her academic life—one I desperately needed during a time when so much of our relationship was being redefined. I watched her grow from a tentative kindergartner who needed help finding the right letter on the keyboard to a confident fourth-grader who could troubleshoot basic problems and help classmates with their projects.

But more than watching her technical skills develop, I saw how she interacted with her peers, how she approached challenges, and how she balanced independence with asking for help when she needed it. There's something profound about seeing your child in their element, among their friends, tackling problems and celebrating successes in a space that's entirely their own. For me, these glimpses became treasured insights into who Faith was becoming, separate from the upheaval happening at home.

I also got to witness something that filled me with quiet pride: Faith watching me interact with her classmates. She saw her dad being patient with struggling students, celebrating others' successes, and treating every child with respect and kindness. In a classroom where she was surrounded by female authority figures, she got to see a different model of male leadership—one that was nurturing, supportive, and invested in everyone's learning, not just hers.

Some of my favorite memories aren't from the computer lab at all, but from the classroom volunteering—reading with small groups, helping with art projects, or assisting during those chaotic but wonderful classroom parties. Each experience added another layer to my understanding of Faith's school community and the dedicated teachers who shaped her early academic years.

The Unexpected Rewards

What started as a way to be involved in my daughter's education became something much richer. I found myself looking forward to those Thursday mornings in the lab, not just because I enjoyed helping the kids, but because their enthusiasm was infectious. When a first-grader finally mastered using the mouse to complete their math game, their genuine excitement reminded me of the joy in learning something new.

The kids taught me as much as I taught them. Their questions forced me to think differently about technology—not as a tool I'd taken for granted, but as something magical and powerful that deserved explanation and respect. Their creative problem-solving often surprised me, and their willingness to try new approaches without fear of failure was inspiring.

Building Community, One Click at a Time

Valley View Elementary fostered a strong sense of community, and volunteering was my way of contributing to that environment—and my way of creating stability during a season of personal change. The other parent volunteers became friends, the teachers became partners in education, and the school became a place where I felt genuinely invested and needed.

There's something special about being part of your child's daily world, even in a small way. When Faith would mention her friends by name, I knew those kids. When she talked about a project or assignment, I had context for her excitement or frustration. That connection enriched our conversations at home and helped me understand her challenges and victories more fully. During a time when many things in our lives felt uncertain, these shared touchpoints became anchors—consistent threads that wove through our weeks together.

The Technology Generation

During those five years, I watched a generation of kids grow up as true digital natives. What seemed revolutionary to me was simply Thursday to them. They adapted to new software with remarkable ease, figured out features I hadn't discovered, and approached technology with a confidence that both impressed and humbled me.

But I also saw the importance of guidance and structure in their digital education. These kids needed to learn not just how to use technology, but how to use it thoughtfully and purposefully. The computer lab wasn't just about building technical skills—it was about building digital citizenship, problem-solving abilities, and confidence in learning new tools.

Lessons Learned

My years volunteering in Faith's computer lab and classroom taught me lessons that extended far beyond the elementary school walls:

Patience is a practice, not a personality trait. Working with young learners required me to slow down, repeat explanations, and find new ways to communicate the same concept. That patience became a skill I carried into other areas of my life.

Representation matters, even in small doses. Being one of the few consistent male volunteers showed me how hungry some children are for diverse adult role models. My presence filled a gap I hadn't even realized existed, and the relationships that formed taught me about the ripple effects of simply showing up.

Healing happens in community. The school became a place where I could contribute meaningfully while processing my own changes. Working alongside other parents and teachers reminded me that everyone carries their own challenges, and that showing up for others often helps us show up for ourselves.

Children need to see different examples of care. In an environment dominated by nurturing female figures, I could offer a different but complementary approach to encouragement and problem-solving. The kids taught me that there's no single right way to be supportive—there's just the way that feels authentic to you.

When Everything Changed

After four wonderful years at Valley View, life threw us another curveball. When Faith's mom moved to a new place, Faith had to transfer to a new school between fourth and fifth grades. Just like that, my Thursday morning routine, my familiar computer lab, and the relationships I'd built over half a decade were gone.

The new school was different—fewer volunteer opportunities, different systems, unfamiliar faces everywhere. I found myself at a loss, unsure how to recreate what I'd had at Valley View. The staff didn't know me, didn't understand my commitment to being present in Faith's academic life, and frankly, I didn't know how to insert myself into an established community where I was starting from scratch.

For someone who had found stability and purpose in those weekly volunteering sessions, the transition felt like losing an anchor. I'd built my identity around being "Mr. Boeke from the computer lab," and suddenly that version of myself had nowhere to exist.

The Lasting Impact of Relationships

But here's what I discovered: the relationships and reputation I'd built during those five years at Valley View didn't just disappear. Word travels in communities, especially among parents navigating similar challenges. The connections I'd made—with other volunteers, teachers, and parents—became a network that extended beyond the school walls.

Parents I'd worked alongside at Valley View sought me out in my other volunteer experiences like Boy Scouts and Little League. Teachers who had seen my commitment would mention my name when their friends at other schools needed reliable help. Even some of the children I'd worked with over the years would light up when they saw me around town, introducing me to their parents as "Mr. Boeke from my old school."

What I learned was that authentic community investment creates ripples that extend far beyond the original context. The care I'd shown, the relationships I'd built, and the reputation I'd earned as someone who genuinely cared about children's education became portable assets that served both Faith and me as we navigated this new chapter.

Moving Forward

Faith eventually moved on to middle school, and my regular volunteering days became a cherished memory. But the experience shaped how I think about education, community involvement, and the patient work of helping others learn and grow.

To parents considering volunteering in their child's school: I encourage you to take the leap. You might sign up thinking you're helping your child's education—and you are—but you'll discover you're also investing in yourself, your community, and your understanding of the remarkable work that happens in elementary schools every day.

And to fathers specifically: your presence matters more than you might realize. In a world where elementary schools are predominantly staffed by women, your consistent, caring involvement provides children with a different model of adult support. You don't need to be the loudest voice in the room or the most qualified volunteer—you just need to show up with patience and genuine care for all the children, not just your own.

Whether it's the computer lab, the library, or the classroom, your presence matters more than you might realize. And who knows? You might just learn as much as you teach.

What experiences have shaped your understanding of education and community? I'd love to hear about your own volunteering adventures in the comments below.