Requiem
Some fragmented thoughts on a beloved teacher, Bad Bunny, belonging, and koalas
Tuesday, February 10
Grand Rapids, Mich.
There’s a stage in life when it feels as if you’re attending weddings all the time. Then, nearly imperceptibly, a shift happens, and suddenly, funerals begin crowding the calendar.
Last week, I dragged my jetlagged self onto a Texas-bound airplane to bid farewell to Claudia Springer. The mom of a childhood friend, she was also the high-school teacher who had the most significant effect on me.
Mrs. Springer embodied an ethos of lifelong learning. A scholar of both French and English, she received her PhD in English literature from the University of Miami at the age of 55. (Her dissertation was entitled “Hearts Knit Together: Models of Friendship in the Novels of Charles Williams.”)
But like all the best teachers, Mrs. Springer taught more than mere knowledge. Some afternoons, I’d linger in her classroom long after the last bell had rung, and we’d talk. One day, I confessed my deep loneliness, which I linked to my weirdness. She chided me, somehow in a way that didn’t make me feel small or ashamed. She said I needed to get used to being weird. “You are,” she said. She also wondered what was so great about being normal. What if, rather than trying to conform, I could find the goodness in being different, in being me? Could I recognize God’s delight in me and love for me? “That,” she said, “is where you’ll find your belonging.”
From another person, those words might have felt like some annoying platitude. From her, they pierced the armor I’d put on and lodged somewhere tender in my heart, though I didn’t entirely understand what she was saying immediately.
To be honest, I’m still learning. I know now that finding belonging—really, forging belonging, not just for myself but for others, because it isn’t a personal possession—is the work of a lifetime. In my writing, I can glimpse something that goes beyond reluctant acceptance and might even approach gladness. You can see it in how I write with gratitude about my heritage and in the Chinese narrative techniques I often use in my writing. Though the silken threads might be invisible to those from other cultures, foreigners’ understanding isn’t the main goal. I weave my “weirdness” into how I try to honor my parents despite our vast disagreements, in the way I cook, in how I try to feed others.
I thought back to Mrs. Springer’s counsel as I flew home from her funeral. A day later, it came back to mind as I reflected on Bad Bunny’s mesmerizing Super Bowl halftime show. It’s not that I understood all his words—I took a year of Spanish in high school, but I’ve forgotten most of it (lo siento mucho, Señora Fraser). But I think I got the vibes: Celebration of heritage, culture, and story. Creating belonging, not attempting conformity. Above all, joy.
Others received Bad Bunny’s performance as “protest” and “resistance.” Ahead of the show, though, he emphasized different goals. “I want people to feel happiness and joy,” he said. “I want to make people dance. I want to make them feel proud and think that everything is possible.”
In other words, his purpose was not to react to others’ ugliness; it was to honor the beauty of Puerto Rican culture, his people’s rich traditions, and their homeland’s complicated history. If you know, you really know. He emphasized the hearts that need lifting up, not the egos that deserve bringing down. He didn’t shy from hard things: Humans costumed as grass brought to life the fields in which bitter and sweet coexisted, and flickering lights and electric poles alluded to Puerto Rico’s neglected infrastructure. All these served to magnify the moving truth of his people’s perseverance.
“Seguimos aquí,” he said. We are still here.
In that phrase, spoken in Spanish, not English, I heard a fierce determination that reinforced the resilient rhythm of the drums and the insistent shimmies of the dancers. Rebuke was implicit. And the joy? It wasn’t mainly joy as resistance, which still centers the powers that be in the narrative, but joy for joy’s own life-giving sake—joy in and for his people, and radiating through their story, and resounding in their music, and come alive in their dance, and resplendent in their inherent worth.
Bad Bunny stood on that stage as his people’s cheerleader, as their friend. He was our teacher too, because in the particular, there’s also something universal. From the communal revelry to his trust fall from a rooftop, he demonstrated how to forge belonging. Then he widened the welcome. He deployed the flags of many nations, and he underscored his expansive vision with the words printed on a football he spiked at the end of the show: “Together, we are America.”
In a season of grief and anger in our country and in the world, and in the face of a culture of death, Bad Bunny spoke healing and sang life. Amidst it all, there was even a wedding, to which he bore witness.
Loathing, however righteous, will never be our salvation. Only love.
I’d love to hear a story about one of your teachers or your reflections on who is teaching you now about hope, possibility, and belonging.
What I’m Listening to: After I wrote you last month about the psalms, my friend Chris sent me a link to a Tom Waits song called “Mr. Siegal.” I didn’t know the song. I’m not a Tom Waits fan (I find his voice grating). Unlike any psalm I know, “Mr. Siegal” begins with a visit to “a Mexican whorehouse.” Ignore that part. Another section of the song goes like this:
You got to tell me brave captain,
Why are the wicked so strong,
How do the angels get to sleep,
When the devil leaves the porch light on.
“Why are the wicked so strong,” Chris told me. “That is what I will remember from 2025.”
Me too—and that wondering persists into 2026. But I will tell you that the testimonies I’ve heard and the work I’ve seen recently, particularly from friends in Minnesota who are rising up to help their neighbors, testify that the good are pretty strong too.
What I’m Thinking About: We just returned from Australia last week. In a first, I was there both to work on a story for Travel+Leisure as well as to preach and teach, at the invitation of my friend Jeremy Greaves, the Anglican Archbishop of Brisbane. It was a wonderful trip, but confess I felt both guilty and conflicted as the news unfolded back home. And as I told a group gathered at Baroona Farm, which is basically the Farminary’s Australian cousin, “Hasn’t the world had enough of Americans bigfooting their way in and offering opinions?”
Again and again, the Australians Tristan and I met brought up the news before we did, offering their solidarity and condolences. So much kindness and hospitality!
Then, partway through the trip, I got a note from a friend: “Flowers and birds are calling your name right now,” she said. “Flowers and birds.” Well, and koalas.
When I saw this koala, on Raymond Island, my heart swelled with wonder. I’d never seen a koala in the wild before, and the sight of one boosted my spirits. So much beauty exists alongside devastation, and we’ll need plenty of reminders of the former if we are to navigate the latter with courage and care.
What I’m Grateful for: A special note of thanks to Library Journal for naming Good Soil one of its best audiobooks of the year. Editor Sarah Hashimoto picked just four nonfiction audiobooks, so it’s a little wild to me that Good Soil made the cut.
A reminder that if you’d like a signed and personalized copy of Good Soil, they’re available to order online from Schuler Books here in Grand Rapids. Just put a note in the comments box when you place your order, and I’ll swing by the bookstore to take care of that for you. The folks there are happy to send them anywhere.
Housekeeping notes: You might be wondering why I’m not writing to you every single week. 1. Life happens. 2. I’d rather not write you unless I have something half-decent and potentially useful to say. Nobody needs more content just for the sake of content. I do my best to write you regularly, but I won’t send something out just to maintain a schedule. I don’t want to waste your time.
This Sunday, I’ll be preaching at Crosspointe in Cary, N.C. On March 8, I’ll be at the First Presbyterian Church of Berkeley in California. On March 14, I’ll be visiting the Cranbury Public Library in Cranbury, N.J. And on March 15, I’ll be at Burke Presbyterian Church in Burke Centre, Va., just outside Washington—both preaching in the morning and doing a talk in the evening. All are welcome! Hope to see you somewhere on the road.
As always, I’m glad to remember you in my prayers. Feel free to send me a note or put your requests in the comments.
May you find rest as dreamy and shelter as secure today as that of this koala.
With gratitude and in hope,
Jeff
Jeff, thank you for the gift of your story about your beloved teacher, Mrs. Springer. That you remember her words of acceptance, belonging and recognition of who you are - that is a true gift of beauty and love. Thank you also for reminding us that our job is to help others find their belonging also 🙏🌈😻
Gosh this was beautiful. Thank you for sharing your gifts with us - and the larger world.