A few years ago, my husband and I traveled through Jordan. Our tour bus visited remarkable historical sites, but along the way we couldn't avoid seeing the poverty. It was more than poverty, though. It felt like I was seeing oppression in real life. Our tour guide pointed to huge barbed-wire compounds with multi-story, windowless white buildings and matter-of-factly said, "This is where those who don't agree with the king stay." Then he added quietly, "It's a dreadful place."

After my first pickleball lesson, I quickly realized my tennis skills weren't all that helpful. But young Coach R had her own set of rules that Papa and I were expected to follow. The rules came faster than the wiffle balls we were hitting at each other. Coach R determined that I should be on the same side as she was. Together, we would take on Papa. She whispered conspiratorially, "Don't you want your husband to get in shape? Hit the ball to opposite sides and make him run."

One summer I attended a high school debate camp to refine my public speaking skills. It was an intensive week of lectures, research, writing, and many practice runs—all culminating in a presentation for our parents on the final afternoon. The best students were selected by the faculty to debate the topic, which was welfare programs for the poor—ironically, the same thing we’re still debating today. I hadn’t been selected to debate, and I was privately ecstatic. I knew I wasn’

Here's my fifty-year old high school graduation photo. Now, a half-century later, another group of graduates will be receiving their diplomas, I know they've answered their share of questions. But there’s an important question my history teacher asked me during my junior year of high school, and maybe it’s a question new graduates should ask too. It had been a difficult season in my life, and I felt I had plenty to complain about. My history teacher, Mr. Wentz, wasn't having