Melting My Heart

Those lovely sophomores are at it again, chipping away at the ice around my heart and melting me into a pool of gushing affection for them.  Today was student led prayer.  Do you know what they requested?  I'm not quite certain it is really a prayer, but they tried really hard to make it into one and I gave into their supplication.  Their prayer was being thankful for all of the memories made in this class and then they tried to list their favorites.

If they would have been more serious and not the fun-loving, chatty sophomores that they are, I might have been reduced to tears.  As it was, there was just enough sincerity mingled with humor to keep a smirk on my face and feel my heart ache while not letting my tears flow.  The memories they came up with focused on none of the lessons I taught or really on me in general.  Yet the student appointed leader finished the "prayer" off with thanking his classmates for being in his class and being thankful for me.  My heart nearly burst.

I followed this sentimentality up with, "That was nice---but you still have to take your quiz today!"  I love them and I never want them to leave.  A while ago some of the students joked about failing this class so they would have to take it again next year.  Now I'm thinking, would it be alright if I found a way to fail all of them?

Good for my Heart

My beloved 7th period class is good for my heart.  I was recently talking about them, and I felt my heart overflowing with a sense of gratitude.  Despite my fondness for them, I will never claim that they are perfect.  They are beautiful and they bring out my best side, which probably contributes to the warm reception I receive from them.

I have never had such a clear favorite.  This is one of the first things I will tell people before I gush about my class.  While I am far more comfortable with my classes then in years past, this is the one class where I can let my guard down.  I never feel like I'm defending myself or persuading them of something or fighting them to accept a truth.  We laugh together, have inside jokes, and learn together.  I'm not their best friend, but I am definitely one of their favorite teachers.

There is a freedom that comes with being loved.  I can give them more of who I am really am.  Each day, 7th period, I feel like I teach the best.  Sometimes we get off topic, there is chaos, too much energy--but always there is a familial atmosphere that fills the room.  I don't myself subtly battling the class in defense of the one kid that says things people roll their eyes at or repeatedly asks questions already answered.  When I was sick this week, one girl said she missed me.  Although I'm not extremely close with each student, I feel an understanding with most of them and, if nothing else, the class as a whole.

I am not the only one to appreciate my blessings.  One of the freshman teachers made a remark to me about my beloved class.  Typically nobody else sees the class as a whole but all of the classes each period met in auditorium for preparation for confession this week.  I have never sang the praises of this class to this teacher, so I was overjoyed to hear him applaud my class.  He said it was though each good student was hand-selected for my 7th period class.  As he was saying this, I realized they were.  The good Lord knew that I would need this oasis, this haven from the storm during my school day.  I look forward to them and love the time we spend together.  Professionally, I need to remain fair toward my classes, but I often feel a desire to spoil them, to give in to all of their requests.  Today that teacher stopped by when they were coming into my classroom and declared that heaven came early today.  We smiled and he told them it was an inside joke.

This class is the only reason I am not running forward with utter joy to Christmas break.  Next semester I will have most of these students again, but they will be shuffled around and students from my other class will be mixed in.  I am hopeful that next semester will be wonderful as well, but I know that the beauty of this class will soon end, never to be achieved again.  Life will move on and they will simply be the cherished favorite class of the past, the ones I subconsciously measure each future class against, sighing when they inevitably fall short.

For now, they are my precious gift.  They are blessing to me from the Lord.  Yet it is only the difficulty of my first two years that makes me so deeply relish this class.  If I had them my first year, I would have expected all classes to be like this.  Now I know, battle-weary veteran that I am.  This, is not the norm.  This is, most assuredly, a gift from the Lord, hand-selected for the good of my heart.  Another beautiful display of the Lord knowing what I needed before I even thought to ask for it.  

Are we your favorite?

"Are we your favorite class?"

I wonder if they are just guessing.  Do they ask every teacher this?  Am I that transparent?  They don't know how I am with my other classes, so I am not quite certain how they could guess this.

"Do you have the most fun with our class?"

I don't want to lie to them.  But I cannot tell them the truth.  I cannot say, "Yes.  You are my favorite class.  You are often the highlight of my day.  I look forward to this class and don't stress out at all about this class.  I love the students.  You are my favorite."  I cannot say this.  Because even if I would swear them to secrecy, it would come out.  At some point, one of them would open one of their lovely, excited mouths and spill the secret.  How would I recover from that?  While I may be permitted to have favorites, they are to be secret favorites.  Ones that are never actually discovered until twenty years later when you run into your students at the grocery store and you see them juggling kids.  Then you can say it as much as you want.  Then it is acceptable.  As much as I may want to tell them now, I cannot.

Instead, I say, "Are you guys done with your assignment?"

"She is completely avoiding our question!  Don't lie--are we your favorite?"

"I'm not going to lie.  You have five minutes left to complete your reading."

They mustn't know.  But how can I help it if they think they are my favorite?  It is hard to argue with the truth.

My Cute Sophomores

My little sophomores are so cute.  Don't tell them I said that, though.  To them, at 15-16 years old, cute isn't a compliment.  But I mean it as a sincere compliment.

A few examples to illustrate my point.  Today we had a test in Scripture.  They came in and wanted to write "Knowledge Celebration" on the board with balloons.  They proceeded to gather around the board and do that--one person delegated to write "knowledge" and the other "celebration."  Someone else wrote off to the side "Celebratory woop!!"

After prayer, a couple students begged to tell a story of their adventure last class period.  I gave them three minutes.  One of them rapidly told the story, including much animation, humor, and excitement.  The other outlined the story on the board with rudimentary symbols and signs.  In the end, the class politely applauded the adventure that had occurred.

Yesterday I wore glasses to school for the first time.  This sophomore class was the only one to mention anything about them, although I am sure most of the other students noticed.
Student 1: "Have you ever worn glasses to this class before?"
Me: "No."
Student 2: "You look like a whole new woman!"
Student 3: "You look very scholarly."
(Murmurs of assent.)

The other day one of my students gave me a back-handed compliment.  He meant it in the best way but it isn't exactly in the way a teacher desires to hear it.  (But as compliments are hard to come by in this profession, you take what you can get.)
"It feels like we never do anything in this class and yet I feel like I am learning a lot."
"Thanks,"
"No, I mean--I enjoy this class so much it never feels like work."
That's better.

They are at an interesting point in their lives.  They are in the midst of high school life.  Growing up, they are determining who they will be for the rest of their lives.  Yet there is an innocence that is found within them.  Particularly this class.  They have troubles and stresses but they are genuinely good kids.  And I love them all the more for it.  They are definitely not perfect, but they are sophomores and they give me hope in a seemingly hopeless world.

I wonder what the Lord has planned with their beautiful, fragile, so-much-potential lives.  And I am thankful to be a part of it, if only for a while.

Fr. Javier

He was easily my favorite priest that I met along the Camino.  The priest in Santo Domingo was excellent but I never spoke to him.  Fr. Javier, however, was the priest I actually spent time with and I grew in admiration for him.

The first conversation we had with him was brief but it struck my heart.

"Father?" one of my traveling companions called out to him, as he hurried from the albergue to the monastery.
"Hija?"
"English?"
"Yes," he said with a smile.

The girls I was with missed his first reply.  They simply thought he said, "Yeah?"  Instead, he said, "Daughter."  After seeing us for a mere two seconds he was calling us by our deepest identity and also responding as our father.

We asked about Mass and he said there would be Mass instead of evening prayer.  We were so excited because this was a change from his ordinary schedule due to the other monk being away.  At Mass he welcomed us in Spanish and English.  He won our hearts when he told people taking pictures after Mass that it was not an appropriate time for that because people were praying.  Typically the tourist-pilgrims are allowed to wander the churches like museums, taking pictures and chatting as they take a self-guided tour.  It was refreshing to have our post-communion prayer time respected.  The people left fairly quickly since they couldn't photograph the church.

Thankful to finally be in a church that didn't usher us out within five minutes of the final blessing, we prayed for quite a while.  During this time, Fr. Javier came back and asked for one of us to do the reading for night prayer.  He chose my sister to do it, even though she was resistant.  With a quick smile and a tender firmness, he told her what she was to do and that she would sit by him during the prayer.  It felt like we had finally found a little resting place with a lovely father to look out for us.  His simple presence around the chapel, preparing for the next liturgy, was comforting.

Outside the church was a sign that told pilgrims about the different liturgies offered at the monastery church.  At the end of that was a little blurb about pilgrims being able to spend a few days in the pilgrim house run by the monastery.  During our prayer time in the church I turned this idea over and over in my mind.  My heart was longing to stay in this place for much longer than one night.  I wanted to live there or at least stay another day.  We had budgeted some extra time into a schedule in case of injury.  I had always slightly envied the people who had such an open schedule that they would stay for a couple days at different places just because they felt like it.  Our schedule wasn't tight but we had to keep moving.  The final words written in my journal during that prayer time were, "Do You want us to stay another day?"  I wrote those words with hope but also knew that it might not be realistic.

A few minutes before we headed over to the church for night prayer, I broached the subject with my traveling companions.  The response was immediate and positive.  We decided we would ask Fr. Javier after night prayer to see if it was possible.  I entrusted it to Our Lady's hands.  If she wanted us to stay there, then she would make it possible.  If not, then we would move on.

After night prayer we were nervous.  Fr. Javier was puttering around the church, preparing to lock up.  We went outside, planning to catch him on his way out.  He came out and thanked my sister for reading before turning to go to the monastery.  One of my friends called him back saying that we had a question.  Could we stay there for a night?  He thought it might be possible but would need to check with the hospitalero.  There was another catch, though.  If we stayed, it was for a minimum of two nights.  For a moment I thought it wouldn't be feasible.  The three of us were typically very slow to decide anything and I thought we might need to ask Father for a moment to discuss our options.

"You would be here for the Corpus Christi procession..."
We all began to nod.  I didn't need to discuss it, my heart was begging me to listen and remain in this peaceful place with this lovely priest.  He smiled and went to go check on the possibility.

He returned within a couple minutes and broke the news to us.
"I'm sorry.  I'm afraid it is going to be....possible!"  We were overjoyed and exclaimed, "Father!" for leading us to believe we couldn't stay.  He introduced us to the hospitalero and instructed us to bring our things with us to morning prayer the next day and we would be able to move in.

That night we were delirious at the thought of not walking the next day.  It wasn't necessary to fall asleep as quickly as possible and for a little while I thought I would be too excited to sleep.  The only thing that was less than desirable was that all of our friends would continue on their way.  With two rest days in Rabanal del Camino, it was quite possible that we would never catch up with them or see them again.  There was one lady that had been with us on and off from the very beginning and we were loathe to part ways.  Yet I was so excited for the retreat and rest days we were embarking on.  It felt like the Lord was simply showering us with gifts, perfectly designed for the desires of our hearts.

The next morning we woke up and had breakfast at the albergue.  The hospitaleros told us to come back the next day for tea if we wanted.  Then we wished our friends farewell and raced to the church for morning prayer.  It was peaceful and calming to enter the simple church.  Over the next two days we would transition from sitting in the pews to taking our place in the monk choir at the front of the church.  Finally, we were with people who, for the most part, were walking the Camino as a way to experience God.

Second breakfast took place at the pilgrim house before a tour of the place.  It was simple but beautiful.  A small library, an enclosed garden, a conference room with a beautiful piano, a prayer room, and a church across the road open the entire day.  I reveled in the simple joy of praying and reading in the garden that morning.  For lunch we were invited to eat at the monastery.  Fr. Javier, an extraordinary cook, made the meal and served it in the silence of the monastery refectory.  A brief reading would take place and then Fr. Javier would knock on the table to indicate we could begin to pour our drinks, water and wine.  The first meal I spent watching everyone else to see that I was supposed to do and feeling like a foolish American without any delicate table manners.  The meal was served in courses and I attempted to keep pace with everyone else so as to not hold them up.

While we ate, classical music would be playing in the background.  Otherwise, we ate in silence.  Some were exchanging glances of amusement.  Fr. Javier would wink and smile at us.  But most of the time I would just ponder the reading or take in the swells of the music or turn my eyes to my interior.  The first meal was an interesting combination of peace and anxiety, hoping I wasn't messing up what seemed to be known etiquette.

The afternoons we would have to our own devices and while it wasn't required or asked of us, the three of us decided we would have a silent retreat of sorts.  The first day we spent away from each other.  Despite my love for both of them, it had been a long time since we were able to go off by ourselves for most of a day.  It was interesting that while much of my time walking was spent in prayer and silence, my heart was still longing for silence and solitude.

Mass took place in the evening and then we would go to the pilgrim house for supper.  Supper was never as elaborate as lunch, but it was always sufficient.  After supper we would have only a little time before we were off to night prayer.  I began to feel something akin to what the disciples might have felt.  I was one of the few (only six are permitted at a time) to stay in the pilgrim house.  I had been to night prayer before and knew the schedule.  I had the privilege of dining with Fr. Javier, of having a key to the pilgrim house door, of receiving the smiles and attentions of those in charge of the pilgrim house.  I loved being at once a visitor and yet more of a resident of that town than nearly anyone else who was wandering through.

The days passed too quickly but they were beautiful.  We followed Fr. Javier and Jesus around the town during a Corpus Christi procession.  Later that afternoon, as the warm rain poured down through the open garden roof, we listened with delight to Fr. Javier play the piano.  We learned that he had studied classical piano in school and that beauty is what drew him to the Benedictines.  At supper that night we heard his brief vocation story.  He said the short story was that he is a monk because Jesus wants him to be.  That every other reason must boil down to that all important reason.  Nothing else matters and nothing else is a good enough reason if Jesus does not want it.  After supper we all took a stroll around the town, a merry band of wanderers pulled from around the globe.

As we walked a French lady joined us.  She didn't say much but she seemed to just want to be in our presence.  I didn't blame her.  I was basking in the joy of following Fr. Javier, of strolling on a day that didn't find me walking fifteen miles.  The next morning we didn't want to leave.  We delayed, perhaps foolishly, for as long as we could.  Mass was finally in the morning and we stayed for that and breakfast following.  It turned into a long day of walking, but we wanted to maximize our time with Fr. Javier, our time in Rabanal, and our time in the peaceful oasis we had stumbled upon.

Fr. Javier was willing to pose for a picture with a few of us.  He had asked us earlier that day if we knew the story behind the icon in the refectory.  It was of the three angels that came to Abraham, a representation of the Holy Trinity.  He talked briefly about how three strangers came to Abraham but they were actually angels.  Three of them.  And he looked at us, telling us that we were angels that had arrived there.  Of course, theologically I was certain we weren't, but I was tickled by his compliment.

A quick hug, a couple lingering glances thrown at the monastery and church, and we were off.  That whole day I thought of Rabanal.  When it came close to two o'clock, I thought of how the little group would be gathering in the refectory for one of Fr. Javier's delicious meals.  That evening I thought of night prayer being prayed in the church, hearing Fr. Javier's lovely voice sing the prayer in Latin and Spanish.

My heart longed for Rabanal as we continued our Camino.  It began the interesting fact that when people would ask if I had a favorite place on the Camino, I would quickly reply Rabanal, and then feel funny that my favorite place of my walking pilgrimage was a place I didn't have to walk much.  It was a little like the transfiguration.  It was good that the Lord called us there but we were loathe to leave.  I wanted to pitch my tent in Rabanal and remain there for the next few weeks, soaking up the peace of the town, becoming Fr. Javier's friend, living a simple life in the pilgrim house.

Rabanal reignited my desire for Heaven.  I was longing for a place of infinite peace and contentedness but also a place that wouldn't require me to leave.  I wanted to be near the priest who was quick to smile and tease, but devout in prayer and reverence.  Yet even more so I wanted to be infinitely closer to the High Priest who understands me entirely and loves me fiercely.  If the Camino is life and Santiago is Heaven, then Rabanal was a vision along that way that pushed me onward in body and spirit.

Fr. Javier became the priest who redeemed, in my mind, the fate of the Spanish prelate.  He welcomed, with that characteristic Benedictine hospitality, all of us into the pilgrim house and provided all we needed.  The entire time there was provided on donation basis but I felt the money I left to be insufficient.  I vowed to pray for him along the Way and Fr. Javier promised to do the same for me.  What a great influence he had on my Camino all as a result of us stumbling upon that town, deciding to stay, and asking to stay longer.  The Lord certainly provided.  Greedy as I am, I hope to someday return there.  Perhaps the Lord will provide that, too.

If I picked favorites...this would be it

I had all sorts of mushy feelings today for one of my classes.  They were working on a word find (with clues from the textbook, of course) and I guess I fell in love with them.

Every class period has its own flavor.  A few people can completely change the tone of the classroom.  And I think I realized today how much I like this class.  I actually spent a few minutes just watching them and smiling.  My heart was filled with this grand protective motherly feeling.  I wanted them to never grow up and to remain just as they are.  It isn't often that I wish that for sophomores in high school.

This class interacts well with each other.  The students are young but fairly mature.  As they worked on the word find, a few of the boys were singing a song.  Another couple of boys were a little off to the side, working in a pair, and their conversation was so random but just very comfortable.  They like to talk at times, but they are respectful.  There are some really solid girls in that class--confident but not overbearing, smart but not trying to trip you up.  They answer my questions when I ask them.  When we do "contemplative time" (ten minutes of silence to contemplate a prompt I give them), they ask to do it again the next day.  I took them outside if they promised to not tell any other class and I believed they kept their promise.

Perhaps on Monday I will realize that these feelings were the fleeting result of Friday tiredness and a lucky day.  Yet I believe they will endure.  They are filled with a lovely joy, a bubbling energy, but tempered with some introspection and genuine heart.

Thank you, Lord.  May they always remain so.