‘Ber Day - September 1
We are about to enter my favorite months of the year… and they all end with Ber.
September literally kicks it off with the beginning of football season and the promise of cooler temperatures. (I know… it’s still unbearably hot here in Tennessee. Nevertheless, I still have the hope of a middle schooler who buys cute back-to-school corduroys and sweaters for the first week of school.)
October has always been my favorite month. True fall weather finally arrives, and the Smoky Mountains show off a glorious display of color. My bubbly autumn joy has been somewhat tempered now that October holds the anniversary of my daddy's death... I now treasure a more melancholy autumn joy.
November wraps up our homeschool semester and hosts big, wonderful, chaotic family Thanksgiving gatherings. With 4 sons and 6 daughters (5 of whom are married) and 16 grandkids (thus far), we rarely get everyone together at the same place… but we usually get pretty close in November.
December rounds out the Ber months with the magic of Christmas, the celebration of our Savior, and the anticipation of the new year. I also love the idea of December snow (but I’m usually over it by January).
Even though this has always been my favorite time of year, I have to thank my friend Michelle for introducing me to the wonderful concept of ‘Ber Day, which has now become an official holiday in my home! 🍂
The Wrong Direction
June 6, 2018. Arden Hills, Minnesota. A section final, with a trip to the state tournament on the line. The final inning. Two strikes on the batter. A fastball catches the outside corner. The umpire’s arm goes up.
Strike three. Game over.
You know what usually happens next. Gloves go flying. Teammates race toward the mound. Somewhere in all that celebration… the losing team quietly begins gathering their things.
That’s what happened this time, too.
…except for the pitcher.
Ty Koehn of Mounds View High had just thrown the pitch that sent his team to the state tournament. His teammates were already running toward him. His catcher came toward the mound with his arms wide open. Ty waved him off.
Then he walked the wrong direction.
Still standing frozen near home plate was Jack Kocon… the batter Ty had just struck out.
Here’s something the scoreboard couldn’t tell you. Ty and Jack had been friends since they were thirteen. They had played on the same travel team before different high schools put them in different uniforms.
Now one of them was headed to state… and the other one’s season had just ended.
So Ty walked away from his own celebration, waved off his catcher, and hugged his friend.
…for ten full seconds.
The video can show you the hug, but it can’t show you what Ty said.
“You had a great season, you’re a great player… and don’t let this outcome affect our friendship,” Ty later remembered telling him. “I told him I loved him, and he’s my brother, and our friendship will always last longer than this silly game.”
It’s also important to note what Ty didn’t do.
He didn’t apologize for the pitch.
He didn’t tell Jack there would be other games.
He didn’t try to fix the sad.
He simply went to his friend. He acknowledged the pain. He showed up.
He said what was true. He reminded Jack that he mattered more than the game. Then he stayed there with his hurting friend… while a celebration began behind them.
That hug traveled much farther than either boy probably imagined. Millions watched the video. National news picked it up. A few weeks later, Ty and Jack received a surprise ESPY for sportsmanship on Good Morning America.
But I think Jack gave us the best summary of those ten seconds.
“I had my head down, and I thought it was one of my teammates,” he said. “When I saw it was him… that just meant the world to me.”
Then he said something I wish we could tape to every dugout wall:
“In twenty years, I won’t remember the score of the game.
But I’ll remember what Ty did for me.”
That night, almost everyone ran toward the celebration.
Ty noticed his hurting friend… and he went to him first.
*As reported by CBS News, NPR, and Good Morning America.
Backup Requested…
Picture a crisp, cold afternoon in late January, and a firefighter we’ll call Bob.
Bob had worked in fire and rescue for nineteen years. But this was his day off. Today he was shoveling his driveway… and hoping against hope that the warming sun would take care of the sidewalk for him. The sound of kids’ voices was a welcome distraction from his half-finished chore, so he chose to investigate.
Bob was strong, trained, and brave. Over the years with the department, he waded through floods and walked into smoke.
Yet when Bob topped the little rise and saw the retention pond… he stopped short.
Two neighborhood boys… twenty feet out. They waved to him and called for help. As he assessed the situation, he noticed a crack spreading from the shoreline toward them.
Nineteen years of training could tempt a man to “be the hero” and hurry to them… to walk out there himself. Those same nineteen years are exactly why Bob didn’t. He knew what this situation required: an ice-rescue team with its suits, sleds, and specially trained rescuers.
So… Bob did what he was trained to do. Without a second thought, he pulled out his phone and called for backup. He knew these boys. He knew they weren’t supposed to be out there. But he called anyway… without shame. Their safety was his top priority.
While the ice team hurried toward the pond, Bob stayed. He moved to the shoreline and spoke to the boys with a reassuring presence… steady voice, first names, “Keep your weight spread. Help is already rolling.” Soon, a rope arced out over the ice.
Bob stayed close until the team in rescue suits slid out past him and brought both boys safely to shore.
Rescue departments train exactly this way. The first responder at a thin-ice scene almost never goes onto the ice; the job is to secure the scene, keep the trapped people calm, and call for backup. In fire and rescue, calling for backup is a skill… one they practice. True, real-life heroes call for backup.
This is at the heart of the Backup Rule, the piece of the Heartside Framework that relies on another’s hand:
“Heroes take care of their own hearts…
When something is too big, they call for backup—they tell a trusted adult.”
Young people find their own thin ice: A friend shares something scary. Sadness lingers for days and won’t lift. Something feels far too heavy for a twelve-year-old to carry…
The Backup Rule tells them what the firefighter knew. Calling for backup is good; it’s heroic. It’s NOT tattling.
Also note that reaching out to a trusted adult does not mean quitting on your friend. The Heartside Hero stays while help is on its way… just like Bob did.
The research on this is solid and compelling. The most consistent protective factor found in childhood-resilience research is a dependable connection to a caring adult. Researcher Ann Masten calls it ordinary magic.* It’s not rare heroics, just ordinary relationships doing quiet work.
You can help your Heartside Heroes name their backup team. One trusted adult at home, one at school, one more anywhere.
Get a free printable My Backup Team card on the Foundation Lesson page.
Finally, before a young person in your life has occasion to tell you about their “too-big” situation… there’s a promise worth making to them: “If you ever call me for backup, I will not be angry, you will not be in trouble, and your friend will get help.”
It’s always late January somewhere… Keep your radio on.
*Research memo: Masten, A. S. (2001). Ordinary magic: Resilience processes in evolution. American Psychologist, 56(3), 227–238.
Put the Ball Down
When someone we love is sad, our first instinct is usually to try to make it better.
We crack the joke. Offer the treat. Change the subject. Suggest something fun to do. We desperately want to see our friend’s smile return. We want them to have their “happy” back.
Kids have the same instinct… and nobody has to teach it to them. They seem to arrive with a built-in emergency cheer-up kit, usually containing one joke, two snacks, and a very confident suggestion to go outside.
Really, it’s a lovely instinct. It comes from exactly the right place. We see someone hurting, we love them, and we want to help.
But this week’s action from the Heartside Five asks kids (and maybe the rest of us too) to try something a little different: Put the ball down.
Here’s the idea, small enough to try over an after-school snack.
Talk with your kids about what it’s like when a friend is sad. When we try to cheer them up, distract them, or get them playing again, it can be a little like tossing them a ball.
Here. Catch.
Maybe the ball is a joke... Maybe it’s a treat. Maybe it’s “Come on, let’s go play!” We toss something their way, hoping it will make the sadness go away.
The throw is full of love.
But no ball has ever fixed a broken heart. Not even the really good ones. Not even the ones that bounce perfectly and somehow always end up under the couch.
Deep down, even young children understand that.
If you want to take the conversation a little further, wonder together about the things that make kids really sad. What happens at school? On the team? In the neighborhood? Between friends? What hurts?
Your kids probably know that list better than we do.
Naming those things is its own quiet lesson in noticing. It helps children begin to recognize that the kid sitting next to them may be carrying something they can’t see.
Then sit with the harder question for a moment: If cheering up can’t fix it, what does a sad friend actually need from us?
You may be surprised by how much your kids already know. Because the answer is simpler than most of us were ever taught… and it’s the Heartside Promise:
You don’t need to fix the sad. You just need to show up.
It doesn’t mean jokes are bad. It doesn’t mean we should never bring ice cream, suggest a movie, or invite someone outside to play. There is a time for all of those things.
It just means we don’t toss them over as a way to make the sad disappear.
Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is put the ball down and simply stay.
Fair warning, though… Once the ball is part of the conversation, you might catch yourself starting to toss one:
The quick joke.
The “at least…” reassurance.
The distraction.
The cheerful “Look on the bright side.”
…when you get the urge to make somebody feel better with a quick-fix ball toss.
Then, you may suddenly think, “Oh, there’s that darn ball.”
Put it down.
That’s not failure.
That’s the lesson working on you, too. ❤️
This seed is deliberately small. Want it fully fleshed out and ready to go... every age from 6 to 18, word-for-word language, and printables? This week’s premium Heartside Lesson Plan is done for you... and ready when you are:
One in Every Classroom
We teach children what to do if the fire alarm rings.
Stop what you’re doing. Line up. Follow the teacher. Walk calmly outside.
We practice it before there is smoke in the hallway, which is rather the point. Yet there is another hard thing almost every child will eventually face, and we mostly wait until it happens to start explaining it.
Grief.
A 2023 research review argues that we should be doing the same thing to prepare students for grief. Even before the pandemic, about one in 29 UK school-age children had already experienced the death of a parent or sibling. (American numbers tell the same story… about one in eleven of our children will experience the death of a parent or sibling by age 18.) When grandparents, friends, and other important people are included, most children will experience the death of someone close before they finish school.
The researchers aren’t only concerned about preparing the child who will grieve. Like The Heartside Project, they’re interested in preparing the children who will be standing beside them.
Because those children will be there.
One small study cited in the review found that 65 percent of teenagers surveyed turned to friends during difficult situations. Yet when a classmate is grieving, children may avoid them, ask uncomfortable questions, or simply have no idea what to say. The researchers specifically recommend teaching classmates how to welcome a grieving child back and how to be a supportive friend.
That changes the question a little.
Instead of only asking, How will we help this child when something terrible happens? We can also ask, What are we teaching the kids who will be their local support system?
That is a much more hopeful question because we can do something about it before anybody is hurting.
The researchers recommend age-appropriate grief education taught over time, using stories, fictional situations, books, and other approaches that allow children to learn without requiring them to share their own painful experiences. That fits beautifully with what we are building at The Heartside Project: giving ordinary kids simple ways to know what to do when somebody they care about hurts.
So try a Heartside lesson with your own kids. Share one with a teacher, counselor, principal, youth leader, or school board member. Ask your school what children are currently being taught about how to support a grieving friend.
There will eventually be a child in the classroom who needs those skills.
Let’s teach the children sitting beside them.
Want the whole case… every witness, every number, and the honest fine print? This week’s Research… Explored, “The Case for Grief Class,” walks through the full review in plain language.
Source: Dawson, L. D., Hare, R. E., Selman, L. E., Boseley, T., & Penny, A. (2023). “The one thing guaranteed in life and yet they won’t teach you about it”: The case for mandatory grief education in UK schools. Bereavement, 2. https://doi.org/10.54210/bj.2023.1082 · US estimate: Judi’s House/JAG Institute & New York Life Foundation (2025). Childhood Bereavement Estimation Model. https://judishouse.org/research-tools/cbem/
“I Can’t Just Let Him Hurt Like That”
This issue’s Lens: Friday Night Lights... a dinner table, a grieving quarterback, and one family showing us both halves of the framework in a three-minute clip.
In case you haven’t seen the show (I personally enjoyed it and recommend it), here’s a bit of an introduction: Matt Saracen is a teenage quarterback who has been dating Coach Taylor’s daughter, Julie. Matt’s father... a father he barely knew... has just been killed in Iraq. As the scene opens, Matt arrives at his coach’s home for a family dinner. He’s late and obviously distracted… but still gets a warm welcome at the Taylors’ table.
For a few minutes, he tries to be a dinner guest. It doesn’t hold. What comes out of him instead is the truest, least sayable thing he is carrying: he hates his father. He would like to say it to his face... “but he doesn’t even have a face.”
Watch the table while he says it. Nobody corrects him. Nobody defends the dead man. Nobody explains his feelings back to him or hands him a silver lining. The Taylors let the true thing be said in their kitchen, and they stay.
Then Matt stands, embarrassed: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.” What happens next in that doorway is why I chose this scene.
Julie... Matt’s girlfriend... does what every loving heart does first. “Matt, you don’t have to go!” She turns on her parents: “You’re just gonna let him go like that?” Then comes her sentence, and it may be the most honest line about helping ever put on television: “I have to do something. I can’t just let him hurt like that.”
If you have ever loved a hurting person, you know that sentence from the inside. It is love... in fix-it form. It is the ball.
Now watch her parents do three things at once. Tami gathers her daughter in: “Come here, sweetie. It’s okay.” That is a grown-up holding the young helper’s heart... the Backup Rule, seen from the adult side. Coach steadies the doorway: “Shh. I’ll get him.” Then he follows Matt into the dark, offering the only thing the moment can hold: “Matt. I’m gonna walk you home.”
Matt’s entire answer is one word: “Okay.”
No speech on that walk. No fixing. Just sitting beside him, at three miles an hour.
Here is why this matters at your house: the children we are raising will be Julie. Loving, desperate, certain they must do something. The fix-it urge is not a flaw in them... it is love that hasn’t learned its shape yet. What they need is what Julie had: adults close enough to catch them, comfort them, and show them what presence looks like.
Watch the clip with your teens, then ask two questions. What did Julie want to do? What did her parents do instead... for Matt, and for her?
The Taylors couldn’t fix the sad either. They simply refused to let anyone be alone in it... including their own daughter.
Scene from Friday Night Lights, “The Son” (NBC/DirecTV). Quoted briefly for commentary, with admiration.
Thank You
I want to take a minute to thank everyone who has subscribed to Heartside Magazine… paid AND free. You are helping more than you probably realize. Every subscription helps Heartside grow and makes it a little easier for the next parent, teacher, counselor, or youth leader to find us.
Sharing Heartside Magazine helps, too. Tell a friend. Send an article to a teacher. Pass along a lesson to someone who works with kids. Every time you help this work travel a little farther, you are helping spread a pretty simple idea: Together, we can raise a generation of kids who know how to show up when a friend is hurting.
Heartside is still young. That makes those of you who are here now especially important. You aren’t just reading something I write each week. You are helping this idea find its people.
I’m very glad you’re one of them. Thank you.
See you next week… We’ll save you a seat.
Jepper Lynn