I just watched “A Charlie Brown Christmas” again last week. It makes me literally laugh out loud every time I see it.

But what I love more than the humorous bits that fill the show is the part where Charlie Brown is trying to direct the play and no one is listening to him. Then he brings in that pathetic-looking tree and everyone laughs at him.

Frustrated, he yells, “Doesn’t anyone know what Christmas is all about?”

My man Linus steps forward and says that he knows and then proceeds to quote a passage from Luke 2:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

And then he says, “That’s what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown.”

The Peanuts gang reminded me how distracting the Christmas season can be for many of us.

The presents and shopping, the wrapping and shipping. Cookies and candies and chocolate for dipping.

The twinkling of the lights on tall and tinseled trees. Stockings and silver bells and little ones on Santa’s knees.

The parties and people, the ribbons and bows. Red and green painted elves and Rudolph with his big, bright nose.

None of these are necessarily bad things — and can even be good — but many times they come as distractions when we don’t focus on what we should.

In Charles Dickens’ classic “A Christmas Carol,” Jacob Marley’s ghost spoke to Ebenezer Scrooge about this: “Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh! Such was I!”

He continued, “Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me!”

Now, I must admit, there’s not many who enjoy this time of season more than I, with its music and movies, getting together with family and friends, enjoying goodies galore, and the like. But have I forgotten to raise my eyes, as Marley’s ghost says, to that blessed Star?

Those wise men of long ago faithfully followed that shining star, sacrificing their time, energy and gifts in searching for and worshipping the newborn child.

“Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him….When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh” (Matthew 2).

Following the star today can lead us to the Savior, just as it did the wise men. It can help us remember it is better to give than to receive, just as he gave his life for us.

It can guide us to those in need and to opportunities we may miss by other distractions.

It can help us to keep Christmas in our hearts throughout the year, just as Scrooge discovered in Dickens’ tale.

It can remind us what Christmas is all about, like Linus told good ol’ Charlie Brown.

It can mean different things to different people. And it will determine what each one of us focuses on this time of year.

Following the star, those many years ago, led the wise men to the Messiah. What will it lead you to?

Olympism, according to the Olympic Charter, combines sport with culture and education to create “a way of life” based on joy in effort, good example and respect.

Joy, sport, example, culture, respect. That’s what the Olympics are all about.

It’s the culmination of childhood dreams. It’s living four years at a time, and the realization of goals, hard work and love of sport.

And, yes, I am absolutely fascinated by it all.

I was nine years old when I watched the 1984 Olympics, a few weeks before I started fourth grade at Eugene Field Elementary.

Those games in Los Angeles are the first ones I can remember — Carl Lewis, running and jumping to four gold medals, the men’s gymnastics team winning gold, and of course, Mary Lou Retton’s perfect 10s.

Four years later in Seoul, I remember seeing Greg Louganis smack his head and then go on to win two gold medals.

The “Dream Team” of Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson and the gang hit the Olympics in 1992, beating teams by an average of over 43 points per game and easily taking the gold.

But it’s not just the athletes and their quest for gold that I love seeing — it’s also the stories.

Who could ever forget gymnast Kerri Strug at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. With a broken ankle, she stuck the landing on her second vault that led the US team to the gold medal.

At the 2000 Olympics, three-time Olympics champion and wrestler, Aleksandr Karelin, had not lost a match in 13 years and hadn’t given up a single point in six years when he faced Rulon Gardner. The Wyoming cowboy was competing in only his second major international event and upset Karelin to win the gold.

Probably one of the greatest stories I’ve ever witnessed was also in those Sydney games, when I was nine months pregnant with my daughter, Hannah.

The story is that of Eric Moussambani of Equatorial Guinea, who had never seen a regulation-length swimming pool before arriving at the 2000 Olympics.

In fact, he had only been swimming competitively for nine months.

When his preliminary 100m freestyle race was about to begin, the only other two athletes in his heat were disqualified, leaving Moussambani to swim alone.

His time of 1.52.72 is one of the slowest in Olympic history, but as he swam, and as he struggled to finish, the spectators surrounding the pool rose to encourage him. They cheered as if he was one of their own.

Eight years later, I still get emotional when I think about Moussambani.

The 2008 Olympics in Beijing are making history, just as each one has done before.

And while there has been much controversy surrounding these games because of China and their government, the games, for me, are still simply about the athletes, their countries and the world coming together.

My daughter, born during those games eight years ago, has found a similar passion in watching the Olympics. We have enjoyed watching and discussing gymnastics, diving, water polo, volleyball and the likes, loving Michael Phelps and his great teammates, Dara Torres, Nastia Liukin, Shawn Johnson, etc., etc., etc.

The Olympics not only bring the world together, but also families.

Good thing, though, that they only come around every couple of years. The boys might kick Hannah and me out of the house…we’re a little obsessed.

“The shame and stigma our society feels about mental health must stop, and our national conversation needs to begin” — US Senator Gordon Smith

During the summer of 2006, around the time I started working here at the NNL, the Nodaway County Health Department received funding to open a suicide prevention resource center.

I was assigned to report on the center, and from that initial article, other things came my way. I was later asked to be a media presence on the Mental Health Task Force, and with a husband and son who both have a mental illness, my interest in this subject matter continued to rise.

Several months ago, Sue Frizzell, the current project coordinator for the resource center, gave me some new information, part of which was the story of Senator Smith from Oregon and his son, Garrett, who tragically took his own life at the age of 21.

From there, I found a book written by the Senator, “Remembering Garrett,” which I highly recommend.

I was so deeply touched by Garrett’s story that I wanted to share it — to help stop the stigma and start a conversation here with you as readers.

Garrett Smith seemed to be an average kid growing up in Oregon, and after graduating from high school, he decided to go on a mission for his church. When filling out the health questionnaire, he marked yes on the question about depression.

First shocked, and then concerned, his parents inquired to know more, but Garrett reassured them he was fine.

Several months after returning home from the mission, Garrett finally opened up to his parents about how he was feeling.

He told them he felt his life was “hopeless and valueless, his future futile.” He said he was tired of being a burden and an embarrassment. Pain and darkness clouded each day, and “he dreaded the dawn, knowing it would only bring more anguish than the one before.” The suffering of his mind was so painful that he told them he thought he might take his own life.

Sen. Smith said, “My son, I now fully realized, was mentally or emotionally ill–I didn’t know which, or the difference. Nor did I know how to help.”

Garrett agreed to see a psychiatrist, but tragically, it came too late.

During the last few days of his life, seemingly small events – which for most us would mean disappointment or frustration – became, as Sen. Smith said, Garrett’s “death sentence” and he took his own life.

He said, “It is hard for me to fathom how anguished and tormented a soul he had become, how hopeless and alone he felt in mind and spirit…To say to someone with manic depression or bipolar disorder, ‘Come on, buck up. Get to work!’ is the equivalent of demanding a diabetic to make insulin. If you’ve never been swallowed by that infinite bleakness and hopelessness that accompanies manic depression, it’s almost impossible to imagine.”

In the weeks following his son’s death, Sen. Smith met with Garrett’s psychiatrist, who told him that Garrett had not killed himself to hurt his family or because of them, but because he was truly sick.

Sen. Smith also met with Kay Redfield Jamison, a professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University, who also suffers from bipolar disorder. She explained that suicide has the “ability to undermine, overwhelm, outwit, devastate, and destroy” people.

The Smiths soon turned their grief into campaigning to rid the stigma involved with mental illness and to the preventing of youth suicide.

In Washington, the Senator proposed a bill to the 108th Congress. And in October of 2004, President Bush signed the nation’s first youth suicide prevention bill into law, the Garrett Lee Smith Memorial Act. The legislation authorized funding to suicide prevention efforts and initiatives.

Among those recipients was the Missouri Department of Mental Health, one of only 13 agencies across the country, through which the resource center at the county health department was funded. Also, Northwest Missouri State University was one of only 23 colleges to receive this funding.

Approximately 700 Missourians die each year by suicide, or about two every day. Through the Garrett Smith Memorial Act, help is being offered, hope is being established and the stigma is being reduced.

The darkness of this disease can be unbearable, unimaginable, unthinkable. But don’t be afraid to get yourself or your loved one the help they need or to talk about it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, no more than having cancer, asthma or high blood pressure.

You’re not alone. There is help and there is hope. People like Sen. Smith are giving us all, especially me, even more of that hope.

Stop the stigma, start the conversation.

If you need help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK.

“That they might have joy” column by Jacki Wood

I was at the store last week when I saw a kid giving his mother all she could handle. He was screaming at the top of his lungs while she was dragging him out the front door with a toddler on her hip. She not only looked thoroughly frustrated and embarrassed but defeated.

I’ve been there plenty of times.

She was breathing empty threats at her kid, as I have done so many times before. Things like, “We are never ever coming back here!” or “No more TV for the rest of your life!” or “If you don’t stop that this instant, I’m going to . . .”

Seeing this young mother with her two kids reminded me of an experience our family lovingly likes to call “The Melted Cheese Meltdown.”

It happened a few years ago when we went to one of those fast food restaurants with the big indoor play places. Hunter was five, his first day of kindergarten, and Hannah was three. The destination had been chosen by my husband, Larry, because they had this new Angus burger with melted cheese on it.

The play place area was packed and loud. Kids were darting everywhere and parents were busy talking to each other and ignoring their children.

Let me interject here that this was not the first time my kids had played at this restaurant. And Hannah has always been one of those daredevil kids, no fear, always jumping or hanging or swinging from something, especially at a place like this.

So what happened next was quite a surprise.

Larry and I began eating while I watched the kids go up and down and all over the place. I had been sitting for maybe a total of three minutes and taken maybe four bites of my melted cheeseburger and a few fries when the meltdown began.

Through all of the noise, I began to hear a little cry. And then it got louder and louder and louder.

“MOMMY!”

Of our two children, everyone knows which one is usually loud. And it’s not Hannah.

But on this particular day, it was Hannah who was exercising her vocal cords. I got up and headed over to where the sound had come from, in the far corner of the room, opposite from where we were sitting. I could see tiny fingers poking out of the mesh crawl space at the very top of the play equipment.

I asked her what was wrong, but she just kept screaming at me. “MOMMY!” “MOMMY!” “MOMMY!”

Not knowing what else to do, I sent Hunter up to try and get her down. As he went over to the stairs, I noticed he was walking funny.

I also motioned for Larry to come over and help.

By now, there were other kids coming at me saying, “There’s some kid up there who’s scared,” “A little girl is screaming,” “Is that your kid?”

Yeah, she’s mine. Why do you think I’m standing here, looking up at her, trying to calm her down?!

Nothing seemed to work; she just kept screaming.

My patience went from going to gone. I asked Larry to go get her, and as he started up, I felt someone pulling at the back of my shirt. I turned around and saw Hunter.

I now noticed why he had been walking funny earlier. He mumbled a few words about what was wrong, but I didn’t need to hear them. I could smell it and see it through his shorts and down his leg.

Completely mortified, I rolled my eyes, said a few choice words under my breath and told him to go stand over by our table. I silently prayed no one would notice.

By this time, some girl of about nine or ten had Hannah by the hand and was leading her toward me. I hadn’t even noticed the screaming had stopped. I thanked the girl, grabbed Hannah’s hand and looked down to see if she was okay. She was a snotty, wet mess, but she was smiling at me, as if nothing had happened.

As we made our way back over toward the table, the packed room had gone quiet, with every eye fixed right on me. Hannah started pulling away from me and said she wanted to go back up again.

Sorry, not a good idea, I had said, with more than a hint of indignation in my voice.

She began crying – again – and so I started to physically drag her to the table. Not bothering to clean him up, I took Hunter with my other hand and pulled them both out the nearest exit to the car.

I grabbed an old blanket from the trunk, wrapped it around Hunter’s bottom half and threw both kids in their car seats. I got in, sighed heavily and started the car.

Not one word was said as we drove home. I wondered what had prompted the meltdown, but I was not calm enough to ask.

As we pulled into the driveway, I took a deep breath and uttered one of those aforementioned threats . . . that we would not be going back to that restaurant – ever again . . . and we never did.

In the poem “Ulysses” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the main character discovers many different types of people and ways of living throughout his travels. Reflecting back, Ulysses said, “I am a part of all that I have met.”

In my own “travels” during the recent ice storm, I had the opportunity to see and meet people who were staying at the emergency shelter at the Maryville Community Center.

I was reminded of this line from Tennyson as I met them. They each had their own stories of adversity, all coming together because of the same situation.

I, too, am a part of all that I met there.

A smiley-faced girl named Krista, staying with her family, really caught my attention. She celebrated her 10th birthday there and really seemed to enjoy every minute of it. She was also willing to help out any way she could. What a trooper and what a true hero.

There was an elderly man whose power was restored late in the evening but couldn’t get a ride back to his home in Parnell. He was promised he would have the first ride out in the morning. He promptly went to bed and was up by 4 am asking when he could go home. While his hands trembled and he appeared to be feeble and weak, I could tell his spirit was strong and lively.

I met several members of the Air National Guard from St. Joseph. They were the ones giving rides to and from the shelter. Two in particular caught my attention. One was a quiet, caring young man who showed genuine concern for those he was helping. Another’s sense of humor helped lighten the tense air. Also, two medics were up at all hours of the night to help those in need. They showed patience and love to people they had never seen before and probably never would again.

A young mother with her two children struggled with being at the shelter. While she cried, she also continued to care for and play with her little ones. She had such perseverance.

There was a woman named Grace, who probably had the biggest impact on me. She helped care for an elderly woman from her community, something I learned she does on a daily basis, and being at the shelter was no different. In the quiet moments, when no one was aware, I saw her for who she really is. She truly amazed me. A strong-willed woman, she had a coarse voice, and yet she was so full of patience and love for her friend. I will forever be changed because of Grace.

A mother and her teenage son, traveling through town, were forced to spend the night at the shelter because there were no motel rooms in town. The fact that they had to sleep on uncomfortable cots, in a big gym, with complete strangers, didn’t seem to faze them one bit. They were both so positive and happy and warm.

There was the woman who woke up at 3 am and said “Good Morning!” with a great big smile across her face. I thought she was kidding, that she was just up to go to the bathroom. But, no, she was up for the day and excited to be alive and well.

There was another woman there whose husband refused to leave their cold home, and so she left him there and sought the warmth of the shelter. I admired her independence, but also her great love for her husband…for as soon as it was light that next morning, she went home to check on him.

I also met a woman who came to the shelter to drop off her mother and ended up staying to volunteer. Her spontaneous willingness to help will also be remembered. Serving others doesn’t always come at convenient times. She reminded me of that.

There was the elderly man, Roy, who got up about every hour during the night, and each time, he was grinning from ear to ear. He wore these blue coveralls and that great, big, wide grin. And he was always caring for his wife.

I also met many volunteers and was re-acquainted with others I already knew. Their spirit of service and compassion for so many people was simply astonishing.

There were others, many others, who are now a part of me. I was only with them for a short time, but the impact they made on me was great.

The English poet William Davenant said, “Calamity is the perfect glass wherein we truly see and know ourselves.” The calamity of the great ice storm of ‘07 reaffirmed to me what great people we have here in Nodaway County. I saw through the perfect glass people showing the strength to endure, true compassion for their neighbors and the great faith and unity that I’ve known my whole life here in our community.

We are a compilation of all of our experiences, including the people we’ve interacted with, things we have learned and even our challenges. These things (and people) that help create who we are also show us how to deal with what lies ahead.

And when the next calamity hits us, I’ll remember these people and how they have shaped my life and the lives of others. I truly am a part of all that I have met.

Disney’s “Remember the Titans” is based on the true story of the 1971 TC Williams High School football team. The movie, one of my all-time favorites, surrounds the racial integration of two schools at a time when many people did not want it to happen.

It shows the difficulties the black and white football players and coaches had to deal with, both on and off the field.

While many of the events in the movie were embellished by Hollywood, it does follow some things as they really happened, including the scene when Coach Herman Boone integrated his players on the buses before leaving for football camp.

“I don’t care if you’re black, green, blue, white or orange…I want all of my defensive players over here and the players going out for offense over here.”

Commenting on the real event, Coach Boone said, “I forced them on each other. I forced them to learn each other’s culture. I forced them to be a part of each other’s lives.”

And it worked. They learned about each other and grew to love one another.

While I’m not suggesting that we be “forced” on other people and cultures, I think many of us forget that we live in a country that was founded on the principles that “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” (Declaration of Independence, 1776).

Unless we are Native Americans, we all came here from other countries, either ourselves personally or through our ancestors immigrating here.

According to the Center for Immigration Studies, approximately one-third of all US citizens today are people of color. We don’t see that so much in our neck of the woods, which is maybe why I feel so passionate about this subject.

I think there needs to be more of an urgency in our desire to learn about other people and cultures, for us to broaden our thinking and be more tolerant, myself included.

While I think many would say we live in great communities here and discrimination doesn’t happen, the reality is that it does happen here. I’ve heard stories of disrespect and hate, I’ve witnessed ignorance in the way people speak, and it makes me sad, and even angry, that we haven’t educated ourselves more than that.

I believe this education begins at home. We not only need to set good examples for our children, we also need to teach our kids to be critical thinkers, to strive to understand issues through examining and questioning. Asking questions does not show ignorance. Not asking does.

My husband and I have tried to provide our children with the opportunities to learn more, by making friends who are different from them, and through books, magazines, dolls, puzzles, painting, music and so on. We listen to music from all over the world, we learn about other holidays and try recipes from other countries.

One of the easiest ways we have done this is through reading. Lists of award-winning multicultural books can be found on the internet or at the library. We read to our kids and then talk about it with them.

One of my very favorite books came through this process when my kids were in preschool and first grade. I wanted to teach them about the civil rights movement of the 1960s. The book, “Freedom on the Menu – the Greensboro Sit-Ins” by Carole Boston Weatherford, tells the story of a young girl’s older brother who participated in the sit-ins.

From this book and others we have read, my children know how I feel about treating other people, especially those who are different from us. We read it, talk about it, ask the kids questions and they ask us questions.

When we take the time to get to know other people, we learn and grow. We may not like everything we learn or everyone we meet, but what is most important is that we learn to respect one another.

Baseball Hall-of-Famer Jackie Robinson said just that – “I’m not concerned with your liking or disliking me . . . All I ask is that you respect me as a human being.”

Whether we’re black, green, blue, white or orange, it doesn’t matter. Race, creed, religion, national origin, these don’t matter either.

Respecting each other as human beings, that does matter.

The 1,200 miles it takes to get from Maryville to Provo, Utah, is always an adventure during the winter months.

Whether it’s the cold, the dark, the snow, the ice or the wind, or all of them combined, I-80 has provided me with some very fun-filled and memorable trips over the years.

At any moment, the interstate can close without warning. You’ve seen the signs, the ones that say Road Closed When Flashing. Return to Evanston or Cheyenne or wherever.

Knowing all of this has never stopped me from going, though. So when my husband and I decided to head out with our kids for Thanksgiving in 2001, it was just another trip. We’d done it before with no problems – a little slowing down while driving through horizontal snow blowing amid the 40 mph wind – but nothing major.

I like to think that whenever we travel, we’re always prepared. We generally pack things like flashlights, candles, blankets, food and water, and on this trip, we had packed toys and extras for the kids.

But on our return trip home, we definitely were not ready for what was awaiting us in Nebraska.

It had been snowing all throughout Wyoming. Then it iced, and as we left Cheyenne and headed across the state line, it started snowing again. And it was blowing hard, all over the road.

We were going dreadfully slow, it was extremely dark and we were noticing more and more cars slide off into the median. We decided to get off the interstate at the next possible exit, which happened to be Kimball, Nebraska – home to a Super 8 and a Burger King. And that was about it.

We checked into the motel for the night and soon learned the interstate had been shut down.

So we were stuck. 502 miles from Maryville.

The storm was so bad and it was so cold that we didn’t venture out much, staying put in that room for three days.

What I haven’t mentioned yet is that at that time, Hunter was two years old and Hannah was 14 months. A baby and a toddler in a 20’ X 16’ room for three days. Enough said.

The interstate finally re-opened, and thankfully, we were able to make it safely home. It was an experience we’ll never forget.

None of us think that emergencies or disasters can or will happen to us, until they do. We didn’t. I had traveled along that stretch of road during the winter and had seen some pretty crazy things, but they had never been quite that bad.

Most of the time, things happen when we least expect it. Tornadoes, earthquakes, fires, power outages. No matter what the emergency, simple preparation can mean a great deal.

One year after Hurricane Katrina, a TIME magazine poll reported that fewer than one in five, or 16 percent, said they were prepared for a natural disaster or public emergency.

Half of the rest of those polled said they weren’t prepared because they didn’t live in an area at risk for disasters. The truth is, though, that 91 percent of Americans live in places at a moderate-to-high risk of disasters or emergencies.

In April of this year, a Harris Interactive online survey reported only seven percent of Americans have taken the necessary steps to be prepared.

Why not? Is it because we don’t have the time? Or do we think it will never happen to us? They can and do happen. It could be as big as a devastating hurricane or tornado. Or it could be something smaller, like a thunderstorm or ice storm knocking out your power.

Whatever the reason we haven’t gotten ourselves prepared before now, do it now, take the time. It’s really as simple as doing what the Red Cross suggests: make a plan, get a kit, be informed.

Some people laugh when I mention getting prepared for a terrorist attack, an earthquake or pandemic influenza. They think I’m crazy for believing that one of these days it just might happen.

But, people didn’t believe Noah, either, when he was building the ark.

I would much rather be laughed at now, and be dry, safe and well fed later, no matter what happens, just like Noah and his family.

I started working as a reporter here at the Nodaway News Leader about a year ago.

Several months into the experience, after I got my feet a little wet, I was given a few new responsibilities including court reporting.

It sounds a little more glamorous than it actually is. My job has been to review the list of cases after each time court is held and then record what action was taken. I never actually went into the courtroom.

In fact, the only time I had ever been inside a courtroom was at County Government Day when I was an eighth grader at Washington Middle School. And then this year when I covered it for the NNL.

That was until this past June, when I was subpoenaed to testify in a jury trial in Springfield.

It all stemmed from an incident in February of 2006 when a man wandered onto our doorstep who had been stabbed. I called 911 and my husband and I helped the guy until the police and paramedics could arrive.

A detective came to investigate the following day. After her questioning, she said she felt the victim was a stand-up guy, in the wrong place at the wrong time. He eventually recovered and visited us a few months later to thank us.

So, now, more than a year later, I didn’t understand why I had been called to testify as a witness since I hadn’t really witnessed anything.

But, being subpoenaed and all, and also a bit curious as to what actually happens inside of a courtroom, I headed to Springfield. I was hoping it would be a valuable learning experience, an education, per se, in the whole court process.

That was my hope, anyway.

Once I arrived, and after I had waited for several hours, I met with the assistant prosecuting attorney. We reviewed five pages of questions he would or could ask me while on the stand.

And then he explained that I was there to fill in the gaps of the story. He said the jury needed to hear the whole story, from beginning to end, so I was acting as a secondary witness. Even though I hadn’t seen the stabbing, I could tell a portion of the evening’s events like no one else could.

When I was finally called in to testify, I approached the judge, was sworn in and seated in front of a microphone.

As I began answering questions, I casually looked around at everyone, trying to take in as much of the experience as I could.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced toward the members of the jury, the court reporter who was typing the proceedings, the assistant prosecuting attorney and his assistant, the defense (a man I had never seen before) and his lawyer and a couple of other people in the back of the room.

I answered the questions as I remembered the evening unfolding.

And just as soon as it started, it seemed, it was over. No further questions. Thank you, Mrs. Wood, you may step down.

I walked out of the courtroom feeling good about myself – for having been a solid, although secondary, witness and for doing my civic duty to put away one of the “bad guys.”

Or, so I thought.

A few days later, as I was reading on the Springfield newspaper’s website, there it was: Jury deliberates for less than an hour and . . . NOT GUILTY.

Not guilty? I sat there in disbelief, my mind reeling.

Why hadn’t “we” won? Did the other girl, the actual witness to the crime, show the jury she was unreliable by the way she talked or dressed? Was the victim not all he was cracked up to be? Or was the assistant prosecuting attorney so overworked he didn’t have time to focus all of his attention on this case?

I went on for days, assuming this and that, and then it finally hit me. I assumedthis man on trial was guilty.

I assumed his guilt because I was called on behalf of the prosecution.

I assumed his guilt because the victim seemed like a good guy.

I assumed many things, but did not really know anything about the other events of that night in February.

All I really knew was that a man knocked on my door and said “call 911, I’ve been stabbed,” and then I proceeded to help him.

That’s all.

I should not have assumed anything about the defendant. I did not know him. I was not there.

We, all of us, assume things about people from things we hear or by the way someone looks or talks or where they come from. Many times it’s simply a gut reaction.

But those immediate reactions can then lead to rumors. We assume this or that about this person or that person without really knowing the whole truth.

In small towns like the ones we live in, we feel we know the whole truth about people because we see them everyday at the store or the post office or the coffee shop. But just because we see them everyday doesn’t mean we really know them.

My much-anticipated experience in the courtroom that day didn’t really teach me much about court at all, but it did teach me a far more valuable lesson.

A rush to judgment on my part was wrong. It usually is.

Before we speak, think or act . . . let’s pause. Get the whole story. Be the stopping point for rumors. And try walking a mile in someone else’s shoes.

It’s good exercise.