Excellent Things

During my comedy show in Spokane this weekend, a man, Mr. Wende, suffered a heart attack and collapsed while I was on stage. Instantly, the audience leapt into action—taking turns performing CPR, clearing space for paramedics, and monitoring his vitals. For over five minutes, he had no pulse, but through a miracle and the relentless efforts of those in the room, they brought him back to life. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. Strangers united, setting aside differences for one shared mission: saving Mr. Wende.
The next day, my friends Akeem Hoyte-Charles and Rachel Aflleje joined me to visit him in the hospital, where we finished the show for him. Laughing with his family for hours in that hospital room reminded me why comedy matters. In a divided world full of pain and uncertainty, we often forget how fragile life is and how, beneath it all, we’re all human. Gratitude to Spokane, the medical team, and the Wende family for showing me the power of community and introducing me to this remarkable man.
📸 (Photo: Drew Lynch)
Credit: Drew Lynch

In Katharine Hepburn’s words:
As a teenager, I stood in line with my father to buy circus tickets. Just one family stood between us and the counter, and they left a lasting mark on me. Eight children, all under 12, were dressed in clean but modest clothes, clearly not from wealth. They stood in pairs, well-mannered, holding hands, buzzing with excitement about the clowns, animals, and acts they’d see—likely their first circus ever, a moment to treasure.
Their parents stood proudly at the front. The mother gazed at her husband, her eyes saying, “You’re my hero.” He smiled, basking in his family’s joy. When the ticket lady asked how many tickets, he said with pride, “Eight children’s and two adult tickets.” Then she gave the price.
The mother’s hand slipped from his, her head bowed. His lip trembled. He leaned closer and asked, “How much?” She repeated the price. He didn’t have enough. How could he face his eight kids and say they couldn’t go?
My father, seeing this, pulled a $20 bill from his pocket and dropped it on the ground. We weren’t wealthy. He picked it up, tapped the man’s shoulder, and said, “Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket.” The man knew what was happening—not charity, but a lifeline in a heartbreaking moment. He looked into my father’s eyes, clasped his hand around the bill, and with a tear on his cheek, said, “Thank you, sir. This means the world to me and my family.”
We returned to our car and drove home, the $20—our own ticket money—gone. We didn’t see the circus, but the joy we felt surpassed any show. That day, I learned the true power of giving. The giver’s greatness outshines the receiver’s gain. To be truly great, give everything, expecting nothing. Love is about what you give, not what you get. The joy of giving, of blessing others, is unmatched—learn to make someone happy through selfless acts.

At a morning breakfast, a pastor asked an elderly farmer in bib overalls to say grace.
“Lord, I hate buttermilk,” the farmer started. The visiting pastor peeked with one eye, curious where this was headed.
“Lord, I hate lard,” the farmer declared loudly. The pastor’s concern grew.
Unfazed, the farmer went on, “And Lord, you know I don’t care for raw white flour.” The pastor glanced around, noting others’ discomfort.
Then the farmer concluded, “But Lord, when you mix them together and bake them, I love warm, fresh biscuits. So, when life brings things we don’t like, when it gets tough, or when we don’t understand your plan, help us trust and wait for your mixing to finish. It’ll likely be better than biscuits. Amen.”
Alright, carry on.

My six-year-old son, Grant, has a prominent Port Wine Stain birthmark on his face. For years, it didn’t faze him much, but this past year in kindergarten, it’s been tough. Not because of its appearance, but because strangers constantly ask, “What happened to your face?” or “What’s wrong with your face?” His standard reply, “It’s just a birthmark,” once said matter-of-factly, now carries exhaustion from explaining it endlessly. Some comments, like a medical tech’s thoughtless remark—“I thought you got punched in the face”—cut deep.
One day at school, Grant took a bathroom pass and met a boy he didn’t know. As usual, the boy asked about his face. Grant gave his rehearsed answer. But then, something different happened. The boy said, “Well, your birthmark is really cool,” and asked if Grant ever felt hurt by people’s questions or teasing. When Grant admitted he did, the boy responded, “Stick up for yourself, kid.” Grant came home beaming, thrilled that a stranger had said something “nice” about his birthmark.
Determined to find this kind-hearted boy, I spent weeks tracking him down to thank him and his parents. I assumed he was a confident fourth or fifth grader. I was wrong. His name is Tucker, and he’s a shy, gentle first grader. His teacher and parents, who were deeply moved, described him as reserved and introverted. Tucker, who’d faced hurtful comments himself, broke through his shyness to connect with Grant. He even told his parents about his new “kindergarten friend with white hair,” not mentioning the birthmark at all. Now, these two boys, who attend the same before-school care but never noticed each other due to Tucker’s quiet nature, are becoming friends. Playdates are in the works—Tucker’s excited for pool time, while Grant, wary of Tucker’s dog, is pushing for a park meetup. Seeing their budding friendship, born from empathy, courage, and genuine kindness, fills my heart with joy. Here’s to their new adventure!
Credit: A Love What Matters via Facebook
Author: Madeline Schmidt