An unlikely connection, as COVID set in, takes on a wonderful life of its own

During COVID-19, in an otherwise dark time, a candle of hope flickered for me in the spring of 2020: I made a connection to a sixth-grade teacher and her 23 students at St. Mary School in Taylorville, Ill. Students forced to learn remotely, in front of screens, and miss out on their sixth-grade graduation ceremony and celebratory dinner in St. Louis.

Now, six years later, I’m going to Taylorville to meet Cathy Schaeffer and not only those students, but those from six other Schaeffer classes who I’ve given commencement addresses to and let interview me over the years.

Actually, I’m going to do more than meet them. We’re going to honor them at a banquet May 14. We’re going to hand out 10 $1,000 scholarships for further education — funded by readers of my Eugene-based Substack column. And in a world sprinkled with greed and ingratitude, we’re going to exalt the message of generosity and community in the movie that brought us all together: “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

The banquet’s purpose? To celebrate the wonder that blossoms when, at first, we connect with each other as human beings — rather than as this label or that — and work for the greater good rather than for selfish gain. To celebrate the best in each other. To build bridges, not walls.

Let’s face it, the Eugene-Taylorville connection isn’t based on similarities.

The students are young. I’m old.

They’re Catholic. I’m not.

They live in the conservative Midwest. I live in liberal Eugene.

But our differences only underscore the wonder of the adventure.

It will be a team effort. St. Mary is doing the work to put on the banquet, which, in a town about the size of Junction City, will be catered by a local Italian restaurant.

My wife, Sally, and I are paying our own travel expenses. And my “Heart, Humor & Hope” Substack subscribers — most from the Eugene-Springfield area — stepped up to pay for the event, for scholarships and for each student who shows up, a crisp $50 bill.

Just to say: You matter.

Our original goal was $5,000 to fund the banquet. Just in case, we told would-be donors that money beyond that needed for the event would be used to give scholarships to those in that “COVID Class” from 2020, kids who are now graduating from Taylorville High.

More than $20,000 has been donated, $1,000 from a legally blind Vietnam vet in Sutherlin.

I see the Eugene-Taylorville relationship as a cultural transcontinental railroad — and the banquet as our Promontory Summit, Utah. In 1869, what allowed rails from the east to meet up with rails from the west — two geographic sectors burdened by great geographic, social and political differences — was common purpose, the idea that a quest to benefit both sides of the country could overcome the differences of each. And it did.

Likewise, out of the dark days of COVID has come one of the strangest, most serendipitous and satisfying relationships I’ve enjoyed. All because in 2020, one person reached out for help and another responded, the beneficiary being 102 students.

Let me explain: It is March 2020. COVID has just been declared a world pandemic. Across the U.S., schools close and teachers and students must connect remotely with computers.

“They sent us home on March 13 — Friday the 13th — with no indication when we’d be coming back,” remembers Cathy, who was 57 at the time. “We’d heard it could be up to two weeks. At our school, sixth grade is the end of the road, the year when kids are treated to an array of experiences, such as field trips. But not that year.”

Cathy is nothing if not imaginative, resourceful and full of good humor. But despite her efforts, the remote connection created a social and educational chasm that, to her, initially seemed impossible to bridge.

“Honestly, my first official Google Meet class with them was terrifying,” she says. “Instead of having 23 kids in front of me, I had 23 kids, their parents and some grandparents, along with some adorable dogs and cats. The critters weren’t a problem, but it was intimidating to realize that my teaching was now being observed by so many human eyes — kind of like teaching from within a fishbowl!”

What’s more, she realized the “slip-through-the-cracks” kids had become even more vulnerable.

“As a teacher, I can tell when a student is struggling with a new concept just from body language. I no longer had that to rely on, since the kids’ faces were the size of postage stamps on my computer screen. I could no longer tell when a student just didn’t get the new math concept or understand the reading skill I was teaching. My students were playing with their dogs, eating lunch, playing with siblings — and I could not reach through that computer screen to give them a ‘gentle reminder’ to pay attention.”

She was desperate to find ways to keep some sort of connection with her class. Keep the students thirsty to learn. Keep them feeling part of something instead of drifting away in pandemic outer space.

Amid this craziness she reached out to me, a total stranger. Me.

Years earlier, while searching for a gift to honor one of the school’s priests who loved the Frank Capra movie, she had come across my book, “52 Little Lessons From It’s a Wonderful Life.” Back in 2013, she began reading bite-sized chapters that offer life lessons extracted from the movie. For example: “Underdogs Matter,” “Sometimes You Just Gotta Dance” and “Don’t Wait to Tell Someone You Care.”

She had read 17 of the 52 chapters to the 2020 class each day after lunch; now, she emailed me for permission to video-record herself reading the remaining 35. Students could then access that day’s chapter and offer a video response in return.

“Your book has been such a valuable tool for me to teach so many important life lessons to my students,” she wrote in an email. “I sincerely hope that you will allow me to continue to share your wonderful book with them in this way.”

My archive shows her “ask” arrived March 19, 2020, at 8:03 p.m. Less than three hours later, I told her I’d be honored to do so; it’s not like people are beating down my door with such requests.

The more Cathy and I exchanged emails, the more I appreciated her heart for others. I loved her email signature, quoting Anne Frank: “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”

I also realized how desperate she and her class were to find some sense of normalcy.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” I asked.

Later, she wrote: “Would you be willing to let the kids interview you — on Zoom?”

“Of course,” I said.

A few weeks later, I did my first Zoom with her 23 students.

Then Cathy asked if I would be the class’s commencement speaker in May; they were going to have a virtual online ceremony to honor their last year at St. Mary, which has no middle school or high school. I was honored. It just so happened that I would be in Yachats that week, so I gave my talk — entitled “What Would George Bailey Say?” — with crashing waves in the background.

“They were blown away by that,” Cathy told me. “What other sixth grade class in the Midwest gets to hear and see a commencement speaker talking live from the Pacific Ocean 2,000 miles away?”

Within a week, a packet of thank you cards from the students arrived. Taylorville’s newspaper, the Breeze Courier, did a story on our budding relationship, complete with the entire interview between the kids and me. The Catholic Times did a story, too.

Cathy kept reminding me of how inspiring this had been to the kids.

“It’s a two-way street,” I said. “I’m an anonymous author. Your kids are an encouragement to me.”

My 93-year-old mother, Marolyn, died just eight days before I gave that 2020 commencement address. I mentioned her passing in my talk. Within a week, students from the class had sent me crayon-written-and-illustrated sympathy cards.

“Dear Mr. Welch,” read one. “I’m sorry for your loss. I could not imagine losing my mother. It would be very hard. Your mom will always be with you. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers. Sincerely, Rye.”

I’d received dozens of such sentiments from friends and family, but none touched me in the way this one did. From a little boy. My eyes leaked.

Each year that followed, Cathy would read to her class from “52 Little Lessons From It’s a Wonderful Life.” Each year, I would let her students interview me in the winter and share my George Bailey wisdom with them at graduation in the spring.

Now, our journey is coming to an end. But I’m excited that I’ll get to meet Rye and many other students I’ve had the privilege of speaking to. And humbled to show what can happen when people look for the best in each other.