When I was a child growing up in a small West Tennessee town, much of my window onto the rest of the world was books and television. Sometimes, in the midst of a steady stream of happy children’s programming, an outside transmission would make its way onto the screen. Often it’d be tragic breaking news or a commercial for sponsoring children in another country. In my innocence I would inevitably be moved to want to take action. I’d have to do something—anything. The U.S. Forest Service used to run a series of ads that deeply affected me. They featured these raging fires that were started by some careless kids with matches. The advertisement would end with an animated bear named Smokey, who would say, “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Seeing this, I took it upon myself to throw out every match in our house. I did not want to let that bear down.

It’s a wonderful thing that as a child I didn’t have access to any money beyond what was in my piggy bank. Aside from the fact that I would’ve purchased far more Pop-Tarts than any human should consume, I’d have thrown money at any person who appeared on-screen. Every single one of the ads about sponsoring children or donating to hospitals left me scrambling to find my parents. “WE HAVE TO HELP THEM!” I’d say. In these moments I was always baffled as to why my parents didn’t seem to feel the same urgency I did.

Now, I had incredibly compassionate parents. My memories are filled with episodes of my mother and father going out of their way to help someone in need. Still, though, I can remember the confusion I felt when they didn’t agree that we should sell our house and empty our bank accounts because I saw an upsetting commercial on television.

Some might call it naïveté, but that is being far too dismissive. A powerful, optimistic spirit is inherent to children and synonymous with childhood. In spite of any darkness that might cross their paths, kids are determined that things can be made bright. This isn’t something fueled by anger or sadness. No, that would be childish. This is a joy-filled vision for how things should be. It’s a rebellion against what currently is to create what could be. To be childlike—that’s what we’re after, because that is to carry with us the best of our youthful spirit. It is to be a rebel fueled by joy. It’s a spirit I’d once known, forgotten, remembered, and then forgotten all over again.

Early in our marriage, my wife and I dreamed often of what we wanted for our lives. We had crystal-clear images in our minds of relationships that ours would be like and relationships that ours would not be like. Unwittingly, our entire lives we had both been concocting little lists in our minds of grownups we did and didn’t want to emulate. Some grownups we’d seen had made maturity look miserable. Not us.

Oh, nay nay. We would be different.

We even put words to it. We declared our marriage and our lives to be a joyful rebellion. We wouldn’t grow old and bitter. We would rebel against all that and with smiles on our wrinkled faces. We’d seen a few older folks allow life to beat them down and make them stodgy, fist-shaking “Get off my lawn” types. Not us. We would grow into vibrant, world-shaking “Welcome to our lawn” types. I don’t know that this is necessarily a type, but it could be.

The two of us got jobs. We got a mortgage. We had kids. Still, we carried this joyful rebellion into adulthood, but with a bit of a limp. Time dampened our spirits. Discouragements came. My once soft and open heart hardened a bit. Troubling world news, which once would’ve caused a lump in my throat and a desire to act fast, now piled up. There was a twenty-four-hour news cycle of tragedy and a sea of people in need. The desire to do something was often still there, but it’d all become too overwhelming. Perhaps it was compassion fatigue or a creeping cynicism, or just a numbness to how big it all seemed, but I’d begun to lose my childlike sense of endless possibilities.

Even in the brightness of the Listening Tour, darkness could sometimes seep in. On one occasion, as I connected with a group of third graders via video call, the teacher informed me they were dealing with the sudden death of their classroom hamster. This was not what we had planned to discuss during our time together, but neither I nor the teacher—nor the hamster, for that matter—could have known the circumstances surrounding this visit. “Bingo” was a beloved fixture in Mrs. H’s classroom and had been since the year before. A vote had been taken on naming the little ball of fur. Mrs. H thinks the winning name had a lot to do with the simple fact that the kids enjoyed saying “Bingo was his name-o.” Meant to help the young students learn responsibility and to nurture a compassionate, caring classroom environment, today Bingo brought a new lesson into the room: death.

The typical topics of my classroom listening visits didn’t seem appropriate on a day like this. I’d sent over some questions for the students to chew on beforehand, but now we were all sitting with a much larger question together: What does it mean to be alive in a world where there is death?

Mrs. H had given them the chance to help prepare a small memorial service to be held later in the day for the hamster. They were quick to share their ideas:

“I think he’d want us to draw him pictures,” said one young girl, to the agreement of many fellow students. “We’re also going to sing a song.”

Another student quickly spoke up, “But we don’t know what song yet.”

As I listened in on their discussion, it was moving to see how much they didn’t have figured out. They didn’t know what the memorial service would be like. They didn’t know what song would be sung. They didn’t know how Bingo died or where he might be now. It was obvious, though, that the teacher had made it okay for them to be sad and okay for them to ask questions. They might not have all the answers, but they would walk through this together.

Over the course of a year and a half, I was finding that my classroom visits, and those very classrooms themselves, were not immune to unexpected interruptions. Sometimes these would come in the form of local weather or local tragedy. Sometimes interruptions came in the shape of global events. Lesson plans might have been prepared and agendas might have been set, but what happened that day would nearly always find its way into the schools, infiltrating the hallways and setting a tone. I’d found that educators are left daily to grapple with how to discuss current concerns while also, desperately, attempting to stay on schedule.

Throughout my tour of classrooms, I discovered amazing grownups who weren’t afraid to go off-script or off-schedule. These were people who daily chose to walk alongside children even when it wasn’t easy. Like Mrs. H, who pivoted her entire day to help students deal with the death of their hamster, these were grownups who served as guides through some of life’s biggest challenges. They, of course, did this joyfully.

It takes a childlike spirit to be able to turn a problem into an opportunity. Puddles? That’s a chance to make a splash. Budget cut? That’s a chance to get creative. Death of classroom hamster? That’s a chance to let every student know how much their lives matter.

It became such a regular occurrence to meet joyfully rebellious students and teachers that I created a little folder on my computer desktop to keep track of them. I named it “JOY REBELS” and filled it with inspiring stories of people I met along the way. That folder has served as a perfect remedy for those days when I inevitably forget that goodness is still possible. It’s filled with stuff I need to remember . . .

 . . . Kids like Evelyn. She started an initiative in her classroom called Less Garbage Every Day! At a time when most people I know are either simply ignoring climate change or in a panic about it, here was a seven-year-old trying to do something. She created handouts showing how we can reduce our waste and be smarter about our trash. After passing the handouts around her classroom, the teacher then helped Evelyn put them online. Now more people have access to something Evelyn made for just her class. Only seven years old and already aware that she can joyfully rebel against how things are and create what could be.

 . . . Classrooms like Mr. Nelson’s and his remarkably creative and compassionate fourth graders. They filled a jar with names of people from throughout the school—students, janitorial staff, teachers, and administrators. Each day they’d draw a name and the entire class would do something to brighten that person’s day. Some days they flooded that person with cards. Some days they presented their celebrated person with a song. Every single day, though, they found a way to make someone else’s day.

 . . . Young people like Elijah Evans. He dreamed of throwing a party for kids in foster care. It’d be a Christmas party, and he’d make sure all those kids got exactly what they wanted. Why? Because he’d been a foster kid himself and knew what it was like not to be fully known and celebrated. His project grew from throwing just one party to taking shape as a bigger dream. Now he leads an organization called No Use for Abuse. There are young people in the world who’ve experienced pain no person should ever know. Instead of letting that sadness sit, Elijah is dancing through it and inviting all his friends into a party of possibility.

When Elijah told me about his Christmas parties, I flashed backward to being in fifth grade. Willingly dressed as an elf, I had wanted nothing more than to gather toys and help bring cheer to children I’d never meet. Now, many years removed, I’m much less likely to leap at the chance to wear a pointy hat and shoes. What happened? How could I have lost this joyfully rebellious spirit?

Part of what united my wife and me in making our marriage a joyful rebellion was the fact that we met as kids. It was at summer camp. The two of us would go on to work as counselors together at this exact same summer camp. When it came time to choose a place to get married, well . . . she suggested we get married at that camp. I couldn’t have loved her or that decision more. One sunny June day, we were married in a lovely ceremony at the place that brought us together. Surrounded by family and friends, we exchanged our vows on the same wide-open field where we’d once played soccer, run relay races, and dreamed of what life might be like that far-away day when we were big and grown.

The two of us even went on to create our own summer camp. Just as camp had been an integral force in our lives, we set out to design a special kind of experience for kids. The focus was on social good and service learning. Junior high and high school students from across the country would gather to celebrate the many ways they could make a positive difference in the world. Sessions were led by young change makers who were leading projects in their communities. We got our hands dirty working together on things that addressed local and global needs. Meals were packed and shipped across oceans. Benches were built and set up in our town. Good was spread.

For five years, we witnessed hundreds of young people tackle issues like poverty, homelessness, hunger, racial divides, and challenges I’d never known existed. Through it all, I grew more and more aware of the power that young eyes have to see old problems anew. Earnest love and deep joy were their fuel, and it seemed they had an endless supply of it. Yet I could sense my tank running dangerously low.

I had to regularly leave this planet of youthful optimism and return to the grownup world. On that planet, things were much different. There was a reigning cynicism. It was the kind of place where angry adults typed in ALL-CAPITAL LETTERS. There seemed to be a focus on everything wrong with the world. But I wanted to invite all these people to listen to kids. I’d found a world of young people who didn’t just see problems but instead were seeking to be solutions.

Like Katie and Claire. These two sisters had been collecting new and used eyeglasses for an optometrist to distribute in Haiti. While an older person might have debated back and forth the merits of whether to undertake such an endeavor, these girls had already collected hundreds of pairs of glasses. To them it was simple: Let’s help people see better.

And Brent. He’d quietly been working to build the assisted-living center in his town a better audiobook collection. I know that doesn’t sound too revolutionary, but to the folks living in that assisted-living center, it was huge. To Brent, it was special because his great-grandmother lived there and loved to read. It was something he could do for her.

In the midst of all the less-lovely grownup things swirling around me, good was happening because of kids. Soup kitchens. Donation closets. After-school tutoring. Kids all over the world believed that love could change everything, so they were out to fill the world with it. Boxes and boxes of it.

Yet we couldn’t run the camp forever. We simply couldn’t afford it. We’d tried to keep costs low enough so that as many young people who wanted to be part of it could. Though it’d been successful in many wonderful ways, we didn’t find enough support to keep it going. The tension of running the program, balancing budgets, managing logistics, and starting a family proved too much. We had to step away, and it hurt.

Listening to young people in all their varied classrooms and with all their varied experiences, I was rediscovering something I’d thought I’d lost. That little spark inside me that once believed anything was possible began to light up again.

I’d been stuck in the gap between the way things were and the way things could be. I’d forgotten I had the ability to change that.

Part of growing up is discovering your power in the world. When you see anyone, at any age, embrace their ability to make a positive dent in the world around them, it’s invigorating. Often these are not grand gestures, but small acts of caring and daring that have a direct impact on people. It’s joyfully rebelling against childishness to embrace a childlikeness. It’s trading selfishness for generosity, entitlement for compassion, fear for fascination, and anger for amazement.

We need people around us who can help us grow. As I’d see needs appear on my television screen as a child, it was my mother who helped me find ways to channel that compassion into our neighborhood. I’ll never forget the day she suggested we collect toys to distribute at a local children’s hospital. She’d heard many kids were stuck there with their families over the holidays. That suggestion nearly sent me doing cartwheels all over our house. The combination of collecting toys and doing something to help kids in need was more than my young heart could stand.

I was in fifth grade at the time and not yet too self-conscious to wear an elf costume. Dressed in green and red with a pointy hat and shoes to match, I joined my mom in delivering the toys. Friends from school and church had donated some, plus I’d gotten to make a few selections of my own to add to the mix.

We walked the toys in, walked back to our family car, and drove home.

Looking back, there wasn’t much to it. It was a fairly simple little project, but it had a massive impact on me. I remember feeling like my mom and I had just done something wonderfully mischievous. It was like we’d broken some unspoken rule that said doing kind things was someone else’s job. Dressed as an elf and looking in the rearview mirror while riding off in our family car—a.k.a. the getaway vehicle—I can distinctly remember thinking, I have to do this again sometime.

My circle of possibility had expanded. With my mother’s help, I’d gone from caring about the one person in my circle—me—to inviting the other people in my circle—friends and family—to help people in a larger circle. I could look at the people and the world around me and dream up ways to make things brighter. No longer did I have to wait for someone on television to tell me what to do. I could find the need and do something about it myself. I’d just need to find an elf costume first.

In classrooms all over, I discovered millions of tiny revolutions happening daily. Within each conversation with any class, I’d discover some magnificent world-changing ideas packaged in what appeared to be, at first glance, very modest materials. There were small initiatives fueled by big love. There were little things outside teachers’ job descriptions that were done to make their classrooms better places for humans to grow. It was a world of circles growing wider and wider.

As this project provided me with glimpses of goodness being lived out by so many different joy rebels, it had me wanting to design some Avengers-style situation. I wanted there to be an alarm that I could sound any time there was trouble in my life or in the world. I’d simply hit the button and they’d instantly all appear. Somehow, I thought, these heroic joy rebels all uniting in one place would make everything right again.

Thankfully, though, they’re not all in one place. They are each in their individual towns and classrooms, simply shining where they’re at in the universe. Just like how stars operate. Simply shining as they’re made to, right where they are. For now, all I have is that little folder on my desktop. That JOY REBELS folder represents a whole lot of people living out a whole lot of love. It’s reassuring to remember, when things get especially difficult, that millions of others are out there doing their part, right where they are.

Years ago Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, “Everyone should sweep in front of his door, and every city quarter will be clean.” A fifth grader named Sutton put it this way to me when she said, “Do your good things, and I’ll do my good things, and there will be, like, so many good things.” Like, so many good things.

Each generation rediscovers for themselves the magic of the world, but also the tragic nature of the world. How they choose to disregard this or engage with it has a lot to do with the grownups around them. Better grownups are joy rebels inviting us to grander views of ourselves and what we can do. They help everyone they come in contact with rise to new ideas of what’s possible. In disagreements, in disasters, in deaths of hamsters, they still find ways to invite people into something beautiful.

I marveled at the caring calm of Mrs. H as she helped those young students come face-to-face with death. Yes, it was “just” a hamster and they were facing a full week ahead of test prep, but she knew this was not something to brush aside and ignore. Over the course of many classroom visits, I’d see this same wise calm as teachers navigated the loss of grandparents, beloved schoolteachers, and even students. Each time I’d see that they’d always find ways to use their embrace of sorrow to let every student know they were all vital fabric in the community quilt. I guess this is what it means to be alive in a world where there is death: to love.

I’d forgotten my power to joyfully rebel against what currently is to create what could be. Now I’m finding that I may not always have the words, but I can always find the love. I might not be dressing as an elf again anytime soon, but I am reinspired to be for kids what my mother was for me. I can be that helping hand attempting to creatively channel whatever kind spirit my children bring forth. It’s my hope that my kids, any kids around me, and any former kids for that matter, all know that they can make a difference and know that I will be by their side to help. There is, after all, the way things are, the way things could be, and, most of all, us. There’s us. Knowing this will lead to endless possibilities and to many good things.

Like, so many good things.