The Page Turneth

I just threw in the "-eth" because it sounds more significant and profound that way. Or it makes me sound like a chump. Either way, it adds a level of interest.

Anyway, I'm in Indiana, settled quite comfortably into Notre Dame's campus. In my four years at the University of Delaware, I became pretty sure it was at least tied for "Prettiest Campus Ever, Anywhere", but in the last four days, I've been forced to rethink that. It's ridiculously splendid here, and it's probably the most physically and visibly Catholic place I've ever been. As I told my dad and Becca, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a saint. You know me -- I stinkin' love this. There's a twenty-foot gold statue of the Blessed Mother and basilica on campus. A basilica!

Still, I do miss my dear sisters, and I miss my obnoxious, rambunctious, hair-graying kiddos. There hasn't been much time to thing about them, but they do cross my mind as I pray and walk around, and the kids especially explode into my mind when we're talking about "things that can go wrong", "things teachers do wrong", and "things that can go wonderfully right".

Classes are long, numerous, and loaded, but engaging and valuable. So far we're still in the slightly-advance territory of what I learned in undergrad, plus a Catholic spin (is it at all necessary that I mention that I think that's wonderful?), but I'm sure that will change.

My cohorts are likewise delightful. They're such a wide range of personalities and skills, and with about ninety of us running around every meal means meeting five new remarkable people. My summer roommate is a doll, and my Brownsville house mates for the next two years are definitely folks I can spend a prolonged amount of time with.

You might be thinking, "Gee, Andie, sounds like you're being diligent and stuff. What a wonderful new leaf you've turned over!" Nay, my Dear Readers. The page turned, there has been no leaf turning. At this moment, I should be doing a 3-4 page outline of procedures I imagine I will need in my classroom (with this last year under my belt, I could go on for a lot more than four pages). Instead I'm blogging.

It is purely by the grace of God that I get anything done. Ever.

My Letter to the Sisters

[On the occasion of my departure at the end of my term of service, read to them last night after supper.]

“These desires are supernatural. They arise in a soul on fire with love. Such souls want the Lord to see that they aren’t serving him for pay. They try never to motivate themselves to serve God with the thought that they will be compensated with glory for anything they do. Their only desire is to satisfy their thirsty love. It is love’s nature to express itself through service in a thousand ways.”

-St Teresa of Avila, The Interior Castle

My Dear Sisters,

These last few weeks, as they ripped right past me, I realized that I feel no (alright, almost no) apprehension about graduate school, not even at an institution like Notre Dame – actually, I enjoy bragging about that a wee bit. Rather than having nerves about opening the next chapter, I am quite preoccupied by the pangs of closing this one.

Ever since I arrived here in August, my abilities as a word smith, meager as they were to begin with, have failed me. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve tried to put into words all the remarkable things I have witnessed and lived here in the St. John Bosco community, indeed within the Salesian community, but nothing I produce begins to do it justice. The quiet, miraculous wonders I’ve seen in the last nine and a half months are far too subtle and too extraordinary for my linguistic bumbling – I might as well be trying to recreate the Rocky Mountains with mashed potatoes.

There is something sublime about the life you sisters lead. The world is sliding further and further into a mode of thinking where selfishness if the norm. The idea that life not only can be lived for the good of others, but should be lived so, is increasingly foreign. The suggestion that there is right and wrong, even good and evil, is scoffed at. God is not ignored, he is exiled from our history. In the midst of this, you, my dear sisters, quietly love. In place of self-interest, you have self-sacrifice. Instead of material gain, you seek souls. Rather than hold grudges, you give pardon. In short, you love, truly.

I think I figured out why I’ve been having so much trouble putting words to the things I’ve seen and the lessons you’ve all taught me. It’s because what I’m seeing is no human feat. What I am seeing is Jesus, Himself, living, walking, and acting on this Earth. You are, in some sense, the Word made flesh. By your life, your vows, and your sacrifice, you make the Incarnation present and felt over and over for incalculable numbers of people. Words cannot begin to capture something so near to God’s heart.

So, finally, I get to the point of this letter. Before I fling my things into boxes and bags and move forward from this chapter of my story, I must thank you for letting me take part in your story. It’s a cliché for a volunteer to say she got much more from her experience than she gave, but it’s also a truth. I am so grateful to you all for the life you’ve chosen, and for letting punks like me join you in your work. Words, once again, fail me as I try to explain all I’ve learned and gained in my time among you. I am thoroughly and deeply changed, and equally as thankful for your support and friendship. Although I’ll be leaving you soon, it will be a long time before you leave me.

Thank you.
Love and God’s peace,
Andie

I Have Kelp in My Face

My cousins and I go to the same beach in Newport every summer and stake out the same spot about one hundred feet from the pier.  We always seem to go as the tide is rising, which means the waves get bigger and meaner as the minutes pass.

 

When we're feeling adventurous, we'll swim out a little and bob in the waves, or body surf, or sometimes be pummeled mercilessly by a particularly solid wall of water.  When that happens, to me anyway, I usually loose track of how far below me the ground is, or where "below me" is in the first place, and when my feet happen to bring me to standing again it takes a minute of blinking, wiping sand from my face, and prying hair and kelp out of my eyes before I can look around and see where on Earth I am and how far I've been pulled from our family's collection of beach chairs.

 

At the end of our half day, my kids scattered one by one in all directions.  Some took a moment to hug me and say they'll miss me, and others had their friends take a picture of us.  Odds are fifty to one they have no idea how comforting that was, what with me leaving and all, and especially after some of the days I've had this year.  I came back to my classroom, looked over our checklist of end-of-year formalities, and carted a couple boxes of stuff up to my room in the convent.

 

I walked back into an empty classroom.  It was almost startling after nine and a half months of this room being stuffed with my kids' junk and the walls covered in colored butcher paper.  The sound of the keys as I type echos slightly, which I suddenly remember it did at the very beginning of the year before I put up posters and filled my desk with paper trays and pen holders, back when there weren't squirmy junior high bodies of various sizes in here almost all the time.  My first year of teaching is over, my first students are gone, and I suddenly feel much the same as I do standing on Balboa Beach with sand and salt in my nose.

 

What the heck just happened?  Where am I?  Where'd everybody go?

 

I suspect it will be a little while before I really wrap my head around this last school year, but some things are certain: I am so, so glad and thankful I got to work with these kids, got to know them, had the chance to teach them.  As often as I would have loved to eject them from my classroom (with a rocket, preferably), more often I wanted to laugh with them and hug them.  They did a lot more for me than I did for them, that's for sure (including giving me at least three new grey hairs).

 

As they each scampered away from me (can an almost-six-foot seventh grader scamper?  Sure.), I felt a little pull at the heart, but no sadness or loss.  One thing I've learned this year is that 90% of the time, "goodbye" doesn't mean anything.  My kids left something with me, and whether they like it or not I left a little with them, and that web will last for years and years, and stretch longer than we'll even realize.

 

To say anymore, I'll need to start seeing straight first.

"It's over!"

One of my colleagues yelled that as the last student drove off.

 

I have officially finished my first year of teaching, I'm still alive, and I have retained all my limbs and faculties.

 

Wow.

Check It Out

It's good.

There is nothing we can say that equals the sacrifice made by some of our soldiers and their families, but something is better than nothing at all.

Thank you.

Memorial Day

One of the greatest gifts my dad has given me is a deep appreciation for what I have and heartfelt gratitude to those who have given it to me.

I described the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to my students, and one responded, "Who cares if they can walk a certain number of steps?" (I know, don't get me started). I replied that it had nothing to do with who cared if they could do it. They do it because they care.

As we all should.

There is Crazed Honking Outside My Window.

Dozens of cars, all bleating like sheep.

I guess the Spurs won. Go, Spurs, go!

Donuts

One year ago today. Newark, Delaware.

My roomie is all grown up and graduating soon!

Good job, Becky Face.

A Confession, or "I'm a Big Fat Fallen Hypocrite"

I've been reading this young man's blog for a couple of months now, since right after his wife received a double lung transplant in April. He's the fellow in the video giving the summary of their whole story up to the transplant. The very, very short version: his wife, Tricia, was born with cystic fibrosis. About a year ago, she was placed on the transplant list, which was when they unexpectedly found out she was pregnant. Given less than a 50% chance for either of their survival, Tricia carried the baby as long as she could before an emergency c-section (about 4or 5 months ago).

Last week, both mother and baby were discharged.



Now, what does all this have to do with me being a hypocrite?

I've mentioned that I was accepted to a graduate school program at Notre Dame. During the application process, I kept saying "I'm okay with it either way, I just wanna know!" Very at peace with the whole thing. Sure, I was anxious to know what was going to be next on my winding road, but I was leaving the direction of that path in God's hands. I was quite impressed with myself and my trust in God's plan.

Well, big fat fibber I was.

What I haven't mentioned is that I was on the waiting list for about two days. I opened my e-mail, saw "Status of ACE Application", and immediately frowned. If I was in, it would have just said "Welp, You Don't Smell Too Bad. You're In!", or something. The e-mail was very positively worded and encouraging, but it wasn't an acceptance.

After all my prattling on about accepting God's providence, my response to this was consuming adolescent annoyance. I was mad, not at any particular entity, but just because not only had I not gotten what I wanted, I didn't even know what I'd gotten. In essence, I spent two days pouting.

Compare this with Nathan's prayer as he faced down the very real possibility of loosing both his wife and daughter, and I'm a big ol' weenie.

My reaction to being wait-listed surprised me. Truly, I would have been fine with not being accepted. Evidently, I would not have been entirely okay with it, at least not to start. Is that normal? Of course, but as I sulked in the chapel the morning of the second wait-list day, I swear I could almost hear God laughing at me.

Alright, God, point taken. You're right and I'm a weenie. As usual.

In the cosmic scheme of things, neither being wait-listed nor my reaction really matter. Perhaps I needed to be reminded that I'm flawed and fallen. Many have observed how easy it is to rely on God when the going gets tough, if only because we feel we have no other option, but in every day life we want to think we're in charge. While I don't believe in a control-freak God who controls our every motion, I do think He's in every moment, and every moment works towards His big plan. I believe that, but will be the first to admit that in practice, that doesn't always show.

And so, class, what do we take away from this lesson? Well, you take whatever you want, Dear Reader. A chuckle at my weenieness, or a pensive "Hmm..", or a deep thought, it's fine with me. I would request, though, that the next time you see me pouting you feel free take the liberty of smacking me up-side the head.

The Show!

I suddenly realize that, although I've written about the flowers I got following the show, I never wrote about the show itself.  In short, it was fantastic.  Rehearsals were touch and go for a while, and the day of the show they still didn't have everything memorized, but they turned "it" on, whatever "it" was, and pulled off a wonderful performance. 

 

After the curtain call, the kids dragged me out from backstage and clapped for me.  I laughed and theatrically flicked a tear from my eye, but I really was within an inch of crying.  I've scarcely been prouder -- not of myself, mind you, of the kids.

 

The pictures were taken by one of our awesome parents.  I'll post a few of my own when I have a break.  Which will be... well, not in the foreseeable future (Most of the last ten entries have been via either cell phone or e-mail), but I've not given up faith in the existence of free time!