It was a very cool November day. As the fourth and fifth graders headed out for recess, I overheard one teacher tell another that this might be one of the last days that we'd be able to have recess outside for awhile. Winter would soon be upon us in Ohio.

My friend (his name was also Todd) and I were doing our usual recess thing. Not much. Sort of walking around talking and exploring a bit. But then Mrs. Swailes, our teacher, approached us to ask us something. She pointed to the swing set. Generally, our class had gotten too old for the swing set. No one played on it anymore. Well, almost no one.

We immediately knew what, or rather "who," Mrs. Swailes was pointing at. The one lonely girl who would play on the swing set by herself each recess. She had her body sort of flopped face-down over it, the flexible seat holding her abdomen. Her feet were dragging in the dust and her face was looking at the ground as she slowly, almost morosely swung ever-so-slightly back and forth, back and forth.

Her name was Belinda O'Reilly. I really didn't know her story. I don't think that anyone did. Fact is, there was a reason that we didn't want to know her story. But then Mrs. Swailes said what I knew was coming -- "Why don't you boys go over and play with Belinda? She looks so sad and lonely."

I am sure that Todd and I were thinking the same thing. "Why us? We don't want to go play with her!"

Almost immediately, though, we were saved. One of the teachers blew the whistle which meant that recess was over. While most kids didn't like the end of recess, this day at least Todd and I appreciated it greatly. We were able to get out of this conversation with Mrs. Swailes ... and we didn't have to go play with Belinda.

As I mentioned earlier, there was a reason that no one really wanted to know Belinda's story. She was a nose picker. At almost any time during class, you could see her picking her nose and, well, eating her boogers. I had seen her do this ... we all had seen her do this.

And Belinda didn't "look" quite like the rest of us. She didn't dress as nice. Her clothes looked like they must have been hand-me-downs and they didn't always seem as clean nor as neatly ironed as the rest of the class's clothes. She was a below average student, didn't really participate in anything and, if you ever did hear her speak, you couldn't help but notice a sort of lispy impediment.

I went home from school that night wondering how things would go tomorrow at recess. Was the teacher going to bother us again about playing with Belinda? Fortunately, we had been saved by the whistle that day but what would tomorrow bring? Why had Mrs. Swailes asked us? Why, we were even still at the age where boys and girls didn't play together much. Didn't she know that? Playing with a girl bothered me as much as anything about Mrs. Swailes' suggestion. But had Mrs. Swailes seen something inside of Todd and me that made her think we would be good at reaching out to Belinda ... at perhaps even changing this sad girl's life? I didn't know.

Today, I no longer remember exactly what happened at recess that next day. But I do know this. Todd and I never played with Belinda. Not the next day nor the day after that nor the day after that. Not ever.

When I look at my son, I wonder if kids still behave the same way we did back then. Are certain kids still completely ostracized because they just don't quite "look" or "act" like the rest of us? I suppose that, overall, things have not changed much but, sometimes, I see glimmers of hope that kids are more tolerant, more accepting, even more loving than we were 35 years ago.

And then I look at my adult colleagues. How often do we still set out to not only ignore but sometimes even damage other adults because we don't like them, or because we don't understand them? In reality, it is usually because we don't take the time to understand them. We never take the time to understand their stories ... stories that could take us from dislike or even hate to acceptance or even love. But we don't want to do that. Apathy is easier than action. Hatred is easier than love.

Worst case ... wars are started this way. Best case ... we miss out on opportunities for life-enriching relationships.

I am hopeful that, today somewhere on a fifth grade playground, there are kids -- even boys -- reaching out to the Belinda O'Reillys of the world. I am hopeful that the future will be brighter.

But yet I also know that, if that is going to be ... if it is going to really take root ... then it must be modeled by me and my contemporaries.