Running for Them

This might be premature, but I find it interesting that what has motivated me to take up running is teaching.  More specifically, my students.  "Take up running" means I've gone for four runs in the past week.  It could all fall apart very soon (definitely has happened before), but I think this might be here to stay for the time being.

A couple weeks ago I came to a realization: I don't sacrifice for my students.  They come up in my prayers and I hope the best for them.  However, I don't often find myself tangibly offering things up for them, other than allowing them to keep living after a particularly trying class period.

I've realized this lack of sacrifice before.  This time I was compelled to do something about it.  Running is something good for me and good for them.  I find myself thinking about them as I run and offering up my labored breaths for them.

Yet the more I run (think: slow jog), the more reasons I find to keep doing it.  I've run twice through my neighborhood and while I don't like it as much, I think I might keep it up because it gives a new perspective and new prayer intentions.  I run past a home and I hear the muffled sound of a man and woman arguing.  Or I run around a bend and see two kids in front of a house, a larger pre-teen girl slapping the head of a smaller pre-teen boy.  The girl looks belligerent and the boy has his defenses up but is angry.  She glances at me and there are no more blows while I run by the house.

I find myself praying for peace as I meander the streets of my neighborhood.  This little heart inexplicably finds itself aching for situations I will never know about, fights I will never see, hurtful words I will never hear, but that are happening in these places so near to me.  I prayed for peace to flow through these houses.  For homes to be places of peace, not places where we take up arms against our flesh and blood.  For parents to show their children how to love.  For people to experience the love and peace of Christ that I have experienced.

It is not that much, and I should in all rights probably be doing far more.  But for now, I am running for my students.  For their addictions, depression, relationships, struggles, and hearts.  When I nearly convince myself to not go for a planned run, I remember them and realize I'm not doing it for me, but for them.  And it makes me run.

On being alone when it's disconcerting

The hardest part of college for me was always the going back to it.  It wasn't that I didn't like school, I loved school.  It wasn't that I didn't have friends, I did and they were amazingly wonderful people.  It wasn't that I had bad roommates, really awful food, or difficult situations with which to deal.  The reason it was hard to start a new school year was the feeling I felt at the beginning of the new semester.  It would be exciting, but I had this fear that I would be forgotten.  With new classes, I didn't know when my friends would be going to lunch or supper and I would have to establish a new routine for myself.  The fears weren't particularly overwhelming, but they were real.  My heart would feel like it was caged in a bit the first few days of school.  Contrary to my natural introverted temperament, the first days of the semester I didn't want to be alone.  Being alone made me a bit anxious and nervous.

The fear always faded quickly.  Within the week, I would study alone in my room and be completely fine with it.  I would call up a friend and we would go get lunch.  It was all fine.  As the years of college passed, the fear was less and less prevalent, although always subtly present.

I felt that little fear again when I moved into my first new home post-college.  My parents and sister helped me move the stuff into the house and then they drove home.  None of my housemates were home and for a little while, I began to question why I moved.  I felt isolated and alone.  That fear of being alone that is strangely so frightening to a natural introvert was again present.

I would like to say that since that point I've never again felt this disconcerting anxiety.  That, of course, would not be true.  It was the inspiration for this post.  At times I am able to feel overlooked when I come home and can't find someone to talk to, when everyone I seem to know has plans each night of the week, or when I see other people's lives moving forward while I think mine is standing still.  There is just enough truth in each of these events to make my little mind wonder if I'm not being forgotten or overlooked.  It is then that the anxious feeling returns and I don't want to be alone.
So this time, when it happened, I laid on my bed and I asked the Lord what was going on in my heart.  I asked Him to tell me the truth because my heart is getting tangled in half-truths and full-lies whispered by the evil one.  The anxiety I feel at times, isn't desired by God.  He desires peace for me.  He desires not a spirit of comparison, but a spirit that is directed toward His unique love for me.

The fears that plague our heart are not foolish, but they are not necessary.  God desires to hear about these troubles and aid us in our response toward them.  Through that conversation, our fears and anxiety will necessarily subside and peace will reign.

“Dear young people, like the first disciples, follow Jesus!  Do not be afraid to draw near to Him, to cross the threshold of His dwelling, to speak to Him face to face, as you talk with a friend.”     -St. John Paul II 

Pacem in Terris

This September 11th is one of sifting back through old memories and reliving as an adult the stories of my youth.  The feelings have a strength fourteen years after the fact that is surprising.  As an 11-year old, the gravity of the situation was not lost on me.  Yet what was unknown or scary to me then has been replaced by a deeper empathy, sensitivities that are born through maturity and growing more into a woman's heart.  Even at the time, the events of September 11th, 2001 impacted me greatly because of my father's profession.

I live in the Midwest and before that day, I didn't know what the World Trade Center even was.  Nobody I really knew even lived on the east coast and so my feelings were based on the stories I heard, wondering what was happening in our country, and recognizing that if I had lived in New York, my life might be very different.

For all of my youth, I was proud of the fact that my father was a firefighter in a nearby city.  On September 11th, as I saw firefighters respond for their duties, I felt a kinship that is born of knowing your beloved firefighter would race into that building right along with them.  The stories of firefighters climbing dozens of flights in full gear, directing people to the exit, telling them they were going to make it out as they continued to climb higher, reduced me to tears.  It didn't take too much of an imagination for me to picture the same being true of my father.  Fire engine crews being absolved by the department chaplain before entering the burning building.  With hearts beating wildly in their chests, a brotherhood of firefighters carrying out the wounded.  That would have been my dad, too.

This year I didn't just recall 9/11, I returned to the news footage, I heard the confusion in people's voice, I re-read stories of heroism.  My heart felt again that ache and my patriotism was again aroused.  Because I remember after 9/11 how the country was bonded together and how "God bless America" was not uttered as a passing comment but as something we infused in our very marrow.  In a country that now daily bleeds division in terms of political party, religious creed, color, and wealth, it was refreshing to go back to a day of devastation and remember the unity that is forged through suffering and pain.  The 11-year old Trish wept for people she had never met, for families she never knew.  It was not anger that drew us together, even though there was a decent amount of that, but it was a mutual love of our own country and the experience of communal woundedness.

I watched most of the CNN live coverage of 9/11.  Story after story, I read about firefighters who offered themselves for those they had a responsibility to protect.  For my students, this is an event they learn about in history class, something foreign to them that they are told is important.  Yet for me it is a defining moment of the age I grew up in.  It is one of those memorable historic events that makes an impression on young and old souls alike.

Despite my love for my nation, conflicted and tormented though it be at times, I cannot simply stop at recalling 9/11.  I must extend this awareness of suffering and warfare to those around the world.  The Syrian refugees who are fleeing, the conflict in the Middle East, the impact of radical Islam on their neighboring Christians.  September 11th is but one of the instances of humanity willingly inflicting pain on humanity.  On that day of national remembrance, I led a prayer with my students, pleading for peace for the whole world.  It isn't as though there are just wounds that are fourteen years old, there are daily wounds being made, blood still pouring out, "the voice of your brother's blood is crying...from the ground." (Gen. 4:10)  And the Lord is asking, "What have you done?"  It is not enough to recall, we must respond.

Peace is fervently needed.  Our world is aching for peace, our country's deep-seated tension is pleading for peace, our families are battle-weary, and our very souls are hungry for internal unity.  Global peace is only attained through the soul-peace being achieved by each person.  When we experience honesty and integrity in the most difficult areas of our life.  When I cease to battle against the Lord of my soul and seek to understand my very self in way that may seem frightening or off-putting.

As we sift back through the memories of old hurts, of the traumas of humanity, may we also experience a renewed desire for peace and hearts of compassion to encounter those in their war-torn moments.  May our yearning for union override our wanting to win at all costs.  May the Queen of Peace pour grace and mercy upon our world that will bring us to unwavering peace, starting with our own souls. 

Peace Begins With a Smile

"How do you do it?"
"What?"
"How do you not respond to all of our comments?  You just smile."
Unconsciously, I smile as I consider my response.
"See.  Like that!" she says to me.
"Sometimes," I say, "that is the best response."
"Really?  You are supposed to just smile?"
"Well, sometimes smiling is the best response for me.  I'm not always certain what I would say would be good.  You guys definitely make me grow in patience."

That is entirely true.  Teaching forces me to grown in patience in a way I never really considered.  My first year of teaching found me horrified at myself as I realized that I had picked up a behavior from my students I didn't want: rolling my eyes.  I guess I had seen so many eye rolls that I just began to mirror their behavior back to them.

My students probably view me as quiet, gentle, and "nice."  They have experienced little of my sarcasm and sharp tongue.  Perhaps they would be surprised if they had a glimpse into my mind, a taste of the quick retorts my mind can come up with when faced with their behavior.  I like to think of myself as "long-suffering" and attempt to wade through their comments, ignoring many and responding to a few.  My goal is to have the best response for the given situation.  Sometimes it is acting like I never heard their groans.  Other times I confront the student and then send them to the office when their behavior becomes too much.  I probably get it wrong 80% of the time.

Patience.  I'm slow to learn it.  Driving across town I'll get cut off in traffic and I am amazed how quickly my temper can flare.  It is as though the greatest injustice has been done to me.  On good days, I will quickly remind myself that it isn't that big of a deal and will try to regain my peace.  In a similar way, by 8th period my patience can wear thin and what wouldn't have bothered me earlier in the day is nearly unbearable at that moment.  I'm weary and ready for the day to end and instead I find myself justifying a ten minute assignment to an eighteen year old child who thinks they are an adult.  Perhaps the Lord placed me here to acquire this virtue and my deficiency in patience will be overcome by teaching.

However, until my stubborn little heart learns to respond with tact and grace to complaints and criticisms, my best response may be a smile.

"Peace begins with a smile."  -Bl. Teresa of Calcutta

Sacrificial Love

The headlines and news broadcasts are filled with images of the families and friends of those affected in Newtown, CT.  This is one of those instances when the media and technology is both a grace and a curse.  How wonderful to know that people around the nation and world are joining together in prayer for a community most people have never been to or even heard about prior to this past Friday.  Yet the images and constant replaying of the stories leads one to wonder if this is all done truly out of compassion or perhaps out of a desire to have a big news story and our insatiable desire for excitement.  When is a breaking news story shared because of a desire to enlighten others and when is it the desire to be the first to hit the airwaves with the shocking news?  I wonder at times if we aren't simply living from one drama to the next. 

I saw this not to downplay or dismiss the losses felt by those in Newtown, but simply to re-evaluate our constant desire to know more about it.  I, too, have watched news fragments on the Internet and desired to weep over what was being shown.  There is something about the death of the innocent that evokes strong feelings within each person.  It is a greater sense of injustice, a greater wrong has been perpetrated.  The grief we feel would be of a different caliber had the victims all been adults.  But when we see the ages of 6 and 7, we rightly feel that justice was not done.  Every time something like this happens, I internally link it back to abortion.  Not because I want to diminish the tragedy and say, "Something bad happens every day, get over it."  Far from it.  I desire to simply say, "Yes, this is a tragedy.  But there is another tragedy that doesn't get the news coverage, that doesn't get the recognition it deserves because it is considered to be a 'hot button' issue and that people have conflicting feelings about it.  Or because it is a choice.  That is a tragedy that we should all be weeping over."  The death of the innocent does evoke a heartache in us that speaks to our very desire to defend that which is weak and vulnerable.  Rightfully so.  But let us not forget the accepted deaths that occur daily.  Let not familiarity breed apathy.  We hear about abortion and so we are accustomed to the horrors of it.  Yes, it is bad, but could it truly ever be stopped?  I don't think that is the important issue, really.  Each parent would greatly desire one more of those children to be spared, even if the child was not their own.  As such, I desire for each child that is being carried into the abortion clinic to be spared, to be carried out once again, living in the womb of his mother.

As a teacher, I find it especially touching to hear the stories of the teachers who sacrificed their lives or put themselves in harms way for the sake of their students.  It makes me wonder if I would have the same resolve.  My students had asked me about the morality of a very hypothetical situation over a month ago.  I had been telling them that it was wrong for the biblical Saul to commit suicide and that while we can never judge the fate of one who committed suicide, that the act is always intrinsically wrong.  Being sophomores, they wanted to find a circumstance in which it would be acceptable.  Who better to put on the stake then their teacher?  So the situation went as follows: say a person came in with a gun and said that either I killed myself or he would kill all of my students.  They looked at me, thinking that they had stumped me. 

"Which one would you pick?  Would you sacrifice yourself for us or would you just watch us all be killed?"

They thought I had to choose one of their options.  I was firmly convinced that there were other ways that they had not thought of.  So I presented my "game plan" to them, should this event ever actually take place in real life.  I said that I would throw myself at the man--knowing that I would die--but that when I did that, all of the men in the classroom were to jump up and charge him also.  They seemed a little surprised by my response, and while I wasn't, I was left wondering if this was really a matter to be discussed with my students.  A while after I heard about the Newtown murders, I re-thought what I had told them and decided that I wouldn't really alter anything I had said.  The vastly hypothetical situation seemed a little less out there and closer to home.  I thought about how I would be shaking and terrified, but I prayed that God would give me the necessary strength, should something like this actually happen.

Perhaps this is inappropriate to put in a post that also speaks about Newtown, but I don't think it is.  I often refer to my students as "my kids" even though I know they aren't really kids, but they do feel in a way like they are mine.  They may never know the affection I harbor for them, even the ones that also drive me up the wall.  For the most part, I can never tell them I love them, because they would never take it as seriously or as deeply as I mean it.  They are each too deep to know in such a short amount of time, yet I feel like I know quite a bit about them, simply from their behavior and class work. 

From the fragments of this blog, perhaps what can be redeemed is this fact: that the ultimate sacrifice is never made without smaller, seemingly insignificant sacrifices made prior to it.  The sacrifices would largely be chalked up to "my job" by most of my students and those around me.  But I think there is something deeper involved.  I do not claim to be the best teacher or the most sacrificial.  Yet I think that despite the incongruent images, spending two hours to make bon-bons for my seniors, staying in my classroom until the sun has gone down again, listening to their stories and ramblings, grading their countless assignments, and taking them in prayer to nearly every Mass I've been to since I got the job--all of these will be the tiny sacrifices that make it possible for me to make the "ultimate sacrifice" should it be required of me.  Sacrifices like these and the ones many other teachers make will generally not gain the headline on the newspaper, but they are what makes it possible for one to lay down one's life for a friend. 

May God grant peace to those who have died, peace to those who survive, and peace in our hearts and the entire world.  May He also grant us the grace to sacrifice, regardless of the personal cost.