There Is No Fear in Squirrels

My favorite passage in Seventy Times Seven + a new Where Peace Begins videos + new events in Park City and Midway!

At a number of the Seventy Times Seven book events I’ve done, people have asked me what my favorite part of the book is.

There’s no question that it’s this passage in the Chapter 6: Assertive Love.

It’s called:

There is No Fear in Squirrels

I believe in the transformative power of squirrels. My faith in the furry, bushy-tailed nut gatherers happened over a summer in 1977 in the backyard of my little dilapidated pale-yellow ranch-style house on 9900 East Gregory in Raytown, Missouri.

That year, I spent my summer playing baseball in my backyard with my pitchback, attending Kansas City Royals games, and scraping together enough money through odd jobs to buy another ticket to see Star Wars at the Glenwood Theater.

I was a lonely kid living an imaginary life. My father, whom I worshipped, had been diagnosed with a debilitating disease and had left without a word, handing me his silver Timex watch as he tearfully walked out the door. My mother, a doting, nurturing soul, had to go to work to scrape together a living. My brother was never home. My friends abandoned me after a nasty bout with chicken pox left my face pocked with scars that resembled craters on the moon.

So, I created my world and friends. I made an imaginary band called the Space Cats. I invented invisible basketball players to play with me on our black tarred driveway, a ghostly BMX gang to roam the streets of Raytown with me, and a group of Jedi from a galaxy far, far away who taught me the Force. The only tangible living things I interacted with daily were the trees, the grass, an overgrown garden that took up half of our backyard, and a family of squirrels fond of a big walnut tree near a rusty fence at the back of our property.

On my tenth viewing of Star Wars that summer, an idea popped into my head that would change the course of my life.

“If the Force,” I pondered, “connected all living things, I wonder if it could invite other living things to connect with me?”

I was disconnected from the world and felt so alone. I did not understand why my family and friends had left me. What had I done to cause them to go? I felt like the people in my life had choices, and they had chosen someone or something other than me every time.

The Force offered me hope. I saw Obi-Wan Kenobi use his power to get R2-D2 and C-3PO past a garrison of Storm Troopers. Maybe those same powers could get me a friend. I spent the next week concentrating closely on the Force. I waved my blow-up, plastic, flashlight replica lightsaber. I lay quietly under the stars at night, searching for any trace of intelligent life or, if lucky, an X-wing fighter streaking across the sky. I prayed to God, who must have had something to do with the Force, to make me a Jedi. One week later, I was ready to use more Force skills to get what I wanted.

“Chaddy, eat your eggs,” my mother implored me the following day.

“You want to give me Pop-Tarts,” I said, waving my hand like old Ben Kenobi.

“I’m not feeding you Pop-Tarts. You know what sugar does to you,” my mother retorted in a strained voice.

“But you waaaaannnnnnt to give me Pop Tarts,” I said more mysteriously this time.

I spent the morning choking down eggs. Maybe younger people would be more susceptible to the powers of the Force.

“You want to pick me first for your kickball team,” I said, waving my hand toward the kid at recess who was always made kickball team captain. I was picked last.

“You want to go with me to the creek and fish for crawdads?” I said to my neighbor Gary Morris, raising my eyebrow for special effect.

I sat alone all day on the creek shore, not a crawdad all day.

“You want to invite me to your birthday party,” I said with a perfect Alec Guinness accent to Kathy Henderson, the perfect girl next door. Two days later, I stared out the window of McDonald’s as everyone in my neighborhood—minus me, old “Crater Face”—ate Ronald McDonald cake and played with prizes from their Happy Meals.

The Force was a crock. Of all the pain that I’ve felt in my life, nothing quite compared to the realization that there was no Jedi cure for the predicament I was in. I was a poor, skinny, floppy-haired, chicken-pocked kid. Imagine Luke Skywalker trapped on Tatooine, spending the rest of his days drinking blue milk and memorizing the binary language of moisture evaporators. That’s the life I faced in my unpopular, unloved, and disconnected state.

I quit watching Star Wars and spent the summer days in my backyard with my pitchback. It was the only thing that would play baseball with me, and I’d spend hours hurling fastballs at it. Religiously, it would return them over and over. Until one day, several rusted springs broke, and my pitchback was no more.

The following day, I sat in my backyard and watched the squirrels steal vegetables from the garden. Farmers hate squirrels, and I probably should’ve too. Our family needed that food from the garden now that my mom was a single mom. But I couldn’t help falling in love with them. They leaped from limb to limb, scaled trees like Spiderman, flew through the air like trapeze artists, sat up on their hind legs to nibble at the food in our garden, and did all of it right in front of your face.

There was no fear in squirrels. What I needed was more squirrel in my life.

“A Jedi lets the Force flow within him,” Obi-Wan Kenobi whispered in my ear that afternoon. Use the Force, Chad. Let go.”

And my mission in life—or for at least that summer—became apparent. I would use the Force (along with some helpful, edible bribes) to convince a squirrel to be my friend. I would let go of my fear, my self-doubt, and my anxiety. I would connect with one living thing that summer. I would become one with a squirrel.

As ridiculous as the whole endeavor appears now, it was serious business for me. I fasted and prayed, I meditated and researched both at the local library from the trusty Encyclopedia Britannica and at the Glenwood Theater, taking in Star Wars a few more times (“It’s reeeeesearch, Mom!!!!”)

I decided to condition the squirrels to the idea that I was a natural part of their environment. I observed their habits, including their propensity for walnuts and corn on the cob and their traffic patterns. Then, a week into the mission, I made my move. I found a comfortable place to sit under the walnut tree, where the squirrels loved to race up and down all day. I took a piece of corn and carefully sat it around five feet from me. The plan worked brilliantly.

About an hour into the first day, a curious, chubby squirrel kept edging closer until it reached the corn. Unlike other animals that would take it and run, this squirrel happily chowed down on it that day five feet in front of the happiest kid in Raytown. From time to time, the squirrel would look up at me. I would smile. I would stare into its eyes. And I would say, with an understated hand gesture, “You want to come sit on my lap.”

Every day, the same ritual occurred. I moved the corn slightly closer to my spot under the tree each day. Each day, the same squirrel came toward me to eat the corn. Every day, I issued the invitation using all the powers of the Force a seven-year-old could muster. Five feet became four feet. Four feet became three. Three feet became two, and then two feet became one.

I was obsessed. My squirrel project was all I could talk about at dinner. My brother rolled his eyes. My mother looked and sounded worried. I could hear her whispering into the phone at night, asking her friends whether this was normal. It wasn’t. I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be. I was now spending an hour or two every day one foot away from a freaking squirrel.

The next step in the plan was to move the corn onto my lap. From there, I felt confident I could pet the squirrel. What could go wrong?

The following day, I picked the perfect ear of corn, sat under the walnut tree, and placed the corn in my lap. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited. No squirrel. I saw them frolicking together in the garden. I could hear them leaping from branch to branch above my head. But for the first time in weeks, the squirrel did not come.

I waited from sunrise until sunset before I walked dejectedly back inside, head hanging low. I cried myself to sleep that night. Perhaps even squirrels had no interest in genuinely connecting with me.

Over the next week, I followed the same routine. If I left the corn a foot away, the squirrel came. He didn’t show up to investigate if I put the corn on my lap. I pleaded and waved my hand in perfect Jedi form. I prayed, “If You can command the wind and the waves, surely You can command the squirrels.”

It took me a long time to understand that God was not interested in commanding us. Inviting us? Absolutely. But forcing us, even squirrels? Not so much. After nearly a month of attempting to lure the squirrel into my lap, I felt abandoned once again. I was ready to give up.

The following Saturday morning I woke up early to watch one of my favorite shows not named Scooby Doo. It was a show about the life of Jesus, made for kids, that aired at six o’clock every Saturday morning. My family’s involvement in church was hit and miss, but I had a unique fondness for this Jesus guy. Before adults told me he hated certain types of people and was sending loved ones to hell, all I saw was this one singular perfect person who had a gravitational pull on my heart.

The TV lesson that week was on love, particularly the love of Jesus. It explained how perfect love casts out fear and showed how Jesus used that power to heal the sick, cast out demons, raise Lazarus from the dead, and save the world.

I realized that Jesus’s love was the force behind the Force. I had been going through the motions, but my Force had no power. Jesus used persuasion, long-suffering, gentleness, meekness, and kindness. I was waving my hand and bribing squirrels with corn.

That morning, I walked confidently into my backyard, corn on the cob in hand. I sat under the walnut tree, put the corn in my lap, and said out loud to the squirrel, wherever he was: “I need a friend. Would you come into my lap? I’ve watched you all summer. You are happy, free, and brave. I love you and want you to teach me how to live this way. Please come.”

I sat still for several hours before the squirrel finally appeared. He moved slowly toward me, his eyes moving back and forth from me to the corn. Finally, he put his tiny little paws on my legs, reached in, and began nibbling the corn. I radiated with joy. I suspect if someone had walked by in the moment, they would’ve thought the Buddha was sitting under the tree—glowing—reaching true nirvana.

For the next week, the squirrel came every day and ate corn from my lap. On the fifth day, my hand rested gently on his back, and I began to pet him. For the first time in my life, I was one with another living thing.

That was the day I started living again. My heart started thumping. I was restored to something I had always been. Indeed, “The great discovery is always that what we are searching for has already been given.”^[i]

I spent the last week of summer vacation in communion with a squirrel. I had finally found love. It was the happiest week. No, it was the happiest summer of my life. I also knew it would end soon. Somehow, instinctively, I knew every embrace must end with me opening my arms and letting go. I knew I’d return to being teased on the bus, picked last for the kickball team, and sitting alone on the playground. So, I cherished every breath that I took. Every beat of my heart mattered that much more. I knew this special thing was going to end soon enough. On the last day of summer, I cried as I petted the squirrel.

I spent my recesses inside that year, drawing picture after picture of a squirrel. On the back of one, I scribbled “My best friend.”

This is the actual picture of the squirrel I drew in 1977

When PJ Rodgers, the class bully, saw it, “Crater Face” became “Squirrel Boy.” The name stuck through most of my high school years.

Winter came, and the squirrels left to eat their stash of walnuts that they had stored. I was alone again, but the memory of what had happened that summer burned within me. Over time, the humiliation on the school buses and at kickball games would fade. My mother remarried, and we moved away from 9900 E. Gregory. While my connection with squirrels would never fade, sadly, like every other living being, I would keep getting hurt by people. The connection I yearned for often went unfulfilled. In those moments, too plentiful to count, I would go to that walnut tree in my mind’s eye and sit, my heart out there, inviting others to come. Humans are a lot harder to summon than squirrels.

Within a few years, I realized I didn’t have it so bad. Luke Skywalker’s father was Darth Vader. Han Solo gets betrayed and frozen in carbonite by his best buddy, Lando Calrissian. The Empire Strikes Back ended darkly. I got that.

As I began studying conflict, I realized that my world and the Star Wars world weren’t the world. The world was so much bigger than me. There was so much suffering everywhere. Things were hard, but they were so much harder for much of the world. Racism, sexism, abuse, poverty, addiction, poor health, and broken relationships are everywhere. Every time I stepped into a room, I could feel the pain. So much pain comes from our inability to transform conflict—both the pain that is received and the pain that we give others.

Genuinely caring and connecting with another living creature made me invincible for a summer. It made me impervious to selfishness, imbued with a sense of mission, patience, and long-suffering, and embedded with a faith in the ability of living things to connect, to truly tether together.

I was a Jedi at one with the Force. I understood the secret of its power. There is no fear in squirrels. And there is no fear in love.

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Where Peace Begins

Another Where Peace Begins video dropped this week and it’s one of my favorites.

In The Breath of God, Imam Rashied Omar reflects on his experience as a young activist and spiritual leader, showing how interfaith solidarity and deep faith can transform even the most unjust of societies.

“Justice, from a religious perspective, is affirming the full dignity of the other. To know that every human being has within him or herself the breath of God. If I offend you, I am offending the breath of God.”

It’s a moving account that show’s how a lifelong commitment to faith prepared him for spiritual leadership during turbulent political times.

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Dangerous Love in Park City

On Sunday I’ll be in Park City to discuss how understanding conflict styles helped him to resolve large group ethnic and religious conflict around the world. His talk will be followed by a Q&A with the audience.

June 1 at 6pm at Eccles Center, Park City

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The Wayfare Festival w/ Adam Miller

I’ll be joining Wayfare for theirr second annual summer festival. This year’s gathering features Adam Miller, Terryl Givens, Kathryn Knight Sonntag, Esther Candari, James Goldberg and many more.

The title of the panel I’m on with Adam Miller and Kathryn Knight Sonntag is:

CULTIVATING LATTER-DAY CONTEMPLATION

What would a contemplative practice native to the LDS tradition look like? Why is contemplation an important part of Christian discipleship?

Come and be uplifted by inspiring ideas, insightful conversation, contemplative experiences, beautiful music, and delicious food.

The festival will take place amid the sublime splendor of Midway, Utah and there will be ample opportunities to experience the peace and restoration of creation.

WHEN: SATURDAY, JULY 12TH, 2025 (9AM-5PM)

WHERE: THE HOMESTEAD, MIDWAY, UTAH

TICKET PRICE: $95 (INCLUDES LUNCH AND DINNER)

There’s only 150 seats available, so don’t delay getting your ticket if you’d like to join!