Author: Dr Peter Casella

I learned several years ago why the bathroom scale always spewed out numbers that were much higher than I anticipated – I have a much heavier-than-normal right foot. It’s no big deal. The only time it’s an issue is when I weigh myself. Oh yeah, and sometimes when I drive.

I don’t really drive fast. I just drive at my own pace. Which is usually faster than many other drivers. Actually, I dispute the belief that a fellow retiree and Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp fan calls me Speedy because of the times I’ve passed him on I-95 heading to the ballpark. I’m sure he’s really calling me Speidi – after the grilled chicken marinade made famous near my hometown of Syracuse.

But my speed, no matter how fast I’m going, is always “reasonable.” If not, I’d have a couple more speeding tickets than I do – just three in more than 50 years of driving. That in itself qualifies me to declare any driver who passes me a “jerk” – or any other four, six, or eight-letter epithet that might cross my mind.

One reason for my perceived road immunity is that I’m in Florida, where the official vehicle of interstate driving is the 1998 McLaren F1. Posted speed limits are actually treated as minimum speeds. Driving below the speed limit poses a real danger for being run off the road. I-4, the interstate that runs from Daytona Beach to Tampa, is the unofficial Autobahn of Florida. Anyone driving the stretch of I-75 between Ocala and Tampa had best be in the state of grace.

Recently, while driving north on I-95 in Jacksonville, I heard what I assumed was a Saturn V rocket misdirected from down the road at the Kennedy Space Center. Before I could engage my lightning-fast driving reflexes, a silver sports car flew by me so fast I couldn’t tell the make or the model. I immediately began a rapid-fire Act of Contrition but not even halfway through, I heard a second roar, followed by the flash of a white Chevy Camaro – not mine – trying to catch the first speeder.

Why is there never a cop car around to catch idiots like that, I asked myself.  Those drivers deserved to be punished, I thought, as I cruised past all the other northbound cars on I-95. That’s when I once again realized my definition of a dangerous driver was any driver who passes me.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who thinks that way. I mean, people who do things worse than us deserve to be punished. You and I don’t. For me, I always have very good reasons for my transgressions. A) I’ve always done it this way. B) I’ve never gotten in trouble for it before. C) I’m really a good person!

Somehow, when I envision making those arguments to St. Peter at the gates of Heaven, he’s always shaking his head ‘no.’ And I’m not talking about my driving habits.

Luckily, Jesus doesn’t wear a state trooper’s uniform. Unlike a cop, though, He does see everything. Still, unlike the officer with a radar gun, Jesus is much more likely to let us off with a warning – penance after Reconciliation. And, unlike a judge, Jesus doesn’t suspend our sentence; instead, He expunges our record. All we have to do is ask.

Just because Jesus has given us the opportunity to secure a free Get-Out-of-Hell card (Thanks, Fr. Ruchinsky!) that doesn’t mean we should abuse His graces. Just like a speeding ticket can cost us a fine and higher insurance rates, our earthly transgressions could mean a detour to Purgatory, delaying our ETA in Heaven – the one destination we want to get to as soon as spiritually possible.

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Now that I’m getting used to a couple of new pieces of metal in my knee, my fingers are finally getting reacquainted with my keyboard. Coincidentally, a trip I took just before this summer’s knee replacement caused me to recollect getting another piece of metal in the mail more than 50 years ago.

I had been awaiting the package eagerly. When it finally arrived, I couldn’t wait to tear open the box and inspect my new prized possession. One glance, though, and I was shocked, mortified and embarrassed all at once. My brand-spanking new, bright, shiny, 10-karat gold high school class ring had a punctuation error.

And I was responsible.

The next day back at school, I made a beeline to the office, where the principal informed me no, it would not be possible to recall and recast every ring for the Class of 1974. In other words, the mistake would be memorialized for all time.

I assigned myself responsibility for the mistake for one simple reason – as junior class president, one of my responsibilities was the design of the class ring. To be h0nest, my input was limited. It involved one meeting with the company rep to review and ratify the placement of dates and icons from previous designs. I never saw a mock-up of the final design. In other words, there was no opportunity to spot the rogue apostrophe that somehow wormed its way into my high school’s name. Still, the buck stopped with me.

The error, I believed, was especially egregious because the school, Christian Brothers Academy, is perennially the highest-ranked college preparatory school in upstate New York. A foolish mistake like that could tarnish a reputation. So when I saw the eight-letter word incorrectly spelled “Brother’s” instead of “Brothers,” I spontaneously unleashed a string of shorter, four-letter words.

I can’t remember if the screw-up ever came up with any of my classmates back then. Yet, more than 50 years later, I’m still reminded of it when I slip my ring on each morning – including the weekend of our 50th anniversary reunion.

It’s safe to assume I was the only person who thought about class rings at all that weekend. Once the preliminaries were out of the way – the handshakes and the stares at name tags of guys who looked 50 years older than they did 50 years ago – most of us found the same comfort zones we occupied in our prior lives. But with a new appreciation of what we had shared in those four important formative years.

In many ways, the culture of our high school was a cross between The Paper Chase and Animal House. As a Catholic college preparatory school, expectations were exceptionally high. So high that most of us found our freshman year in college – Ivy League and otherwise – to be a cakewalk. At the same time, CBA was a single-gender school back then. All boys. Between the ages of 14 and 18. ’Nuf said. The bonds forged in that hyper-pressurized social and academic atmosphere were built to last a lifetime – even among those of us who had little or no engagement with our classmates. The reunion only strengthened those indelible bonds. Even stronger than a misplaced apostrophe cast in gold.

The ring error did not cause CBA to suffer a fatal blow to its reputation. The embarrassment did not affect enrollment. Future generations of Brothers – male and female – established an even greater academic standing over the decades. After 50 years, the only thing that had changed was my perspective – a change my Brothers classmates significantly reinforced that reunion weekend.

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Several years ago, after our church choir sang at a funeral Mass for a fellow parishioner and good friend, I told our music director, Frank DeProspo, that I wanted him to play the instrumental “piano exit” to the original Layla at my funeral. With a twinkle in his eye, Frank responded, “You know that’s not liturgically correct,” to which I answered, “This, coming from a guy who played Margaritaville at Tom Williamson’s funeral!”

Another fellow choir member overheard us and asked me, “Why Layla?” I gave her a flippant, off-the-cuff answer. That answer felt disrespectful, and I’ve regretted ever since. But honestly, I had no idea how to answer truthfully. To me, music is a language, the language of my soul. Unfortunately, there’s no “Music to English” dictionary that can find the right words to express the meanings and emotions of a composition. It took a high school choir class to find those words for me.

One of my retirement jobs is working as a substitute teacher. Subbing keeps me in the classroom while allowing me to set my own schedule. The exception is when I get a request from Madeline Poe, the choral director at Beachside High School in St. Johns, Florida. When she texts, I’m there. She’s a phenomenal teacher, a better person, and her students are always wonderful. I sometimes even think of the kids as my own, even though they’re not. Recently, these students helped me find an accurate “music vocabulary,” and a whole lot more.

On this particular day, the students took the initiative to rehearse the showcase piece of their upcoming spring concert, a medley from Phantom of the Opera. But it was far from a traditional practice session. All discipline went out the window. Oh, the student singers hit every note dead on and in perfect balance – but all while mugging to the music! They jumped and twirled and danced and bounced and whirled each other around with not one iota of self-consciousness. Their faces glowed as they surrendered to the joy of the moment. It seemed as though they had shattered their human shells to reveal their true nature – the real nature God created within us all.

Too often, I “define” people by their appearance or their roles in relation to my life. A check-out clerk. A corporate executive. A bike-rider. I think other people – maybe even you – do the same thing. Unfortunately, when we do that, we don’t see the humanity behind the function. And when that happens, we can’t overcome the superficial, man-made differences that prevent us from seeing the dignity of each and every person we encounter.

That realization is the gift Madeline’s kids gave me. After more than half a century, it helped me understand why Layla’s instrumental coda captivates my soul. It expresses joy. It reflects finality, timelessness, and eternity all at the same time. It exposes our humanity. It’s a reminder that we’re all made in God’s image and should always – always – treat each other that way.  And that’s one heck of a lesson from a bunch of undisciplined high school kids.

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