A few weeks ago, four girls told me that they said a rosary together
at lunchtime for the victims of Ebola. Around the same time, a few guys
organized a friendly card game, clearly articulating the rules to newcomers.
Meanwhile, a group of eight or so developed a play to tell a familiar story and
brainstormed how to find a part for all of the interested parties.
These events all sprouted organically during the span of one
twenty-five minute indoor recess on a rainy day. I’m a third-grade teacher in a
Catholic school, and these scenes spring up throughout my weekdays for most of
the year. Though many of my teacher friends and I cringe at the excess of
sentimentality found in some quotes about how rewarding our profession is, there
is no denying that seeing these little ones initiate such happenings is one of
the many factors that makes my job a pretty sweet gig.
In these interactions, I see my students discover their gifts and
develop talents and passions. I get to witness them developing their
compassionate hearts, their senses of humor, their unblinking generosity. In
their games, their stories, their plays and plans, these little humans are
slowly piecing together who they are and their role in the world.
But what is my part in all of this, beyond a lucky, front-row audience
member? How am I called to ministry as a teacher?
I’ve gotten pretty good at answering questions like this. My old classmates
and I, (graduates of the Alliance for Catholic Education, a service/teaching program that served as an excellent foundation for a career in education), could probably nail all the key phrases and big ideas that would satisfy the eye of whoever had to read over our responses to this prompt. “In the classroom, we are called to emulate Christ the teacher in the way we interact with our students,” we’d say. And it would be totally true. “By building communities of faith in which high expectations are held, we form students not only academically, but as complete persons.” Also, totally true.
But what does that mean? I believe these things, that as a teacher I am called to be Christ to my school community and to form my students as complete persons, but how do these seemingly abstract, macro-level ideas manifest each day? I have found myself in a growing number of situations in which the best way to emulate Jesus is not exactly clear-cut. What would Jesus do when an eight year old complains to Him about the (high) odds of one’s hand skimming a booger at any given time on the reading carpet? How would Jesus confront possible thieves of sparkly pencils that deny any wrongdoing?
I ponder these dilemmas often, from the mundane to the more significant. How do I pastorally but firmly confront the students that sneakily mess around during prayer? How do I deal with the child that is struggling but does not want to be seen receiving extra help? How do I maintain my patience with students who respond to my efforts to help them understand with apathy?
I can’t examine the Gospels to see how Jesus dealt with these situations, but I am not lacking in models of faith in my life to which I might look. I kind of won the lottery when it comes to nourishing faith communities. My parents have been role models in complete selfless love. The friends I have come to know continually astound me with their deep faith and commitment to doing good in the world. These are the people who have shown me what it means to love in all kinds of circumstances, but most of all how to love in everyday circumstances.
My mom unfailingly puts others before herself, from caring for her aging parents, to pretending like she isn’t interested in the last of the leftovers so someone else can have them. My dad patiently hears me reason out every kind of dilemma, from deciding which route to take to avoid traffic to discerning which job to accept. My friends do incredible things through their jobs, but also demonstrate generosity and compassion in their smallest interactions. John consistently talks to the person he knows feels least a part of the group. Dana sends cards at the most random times, just so her friends find a nice surprise in the mail. Mary drops what she’s doing and bakes her friends their favorite dessert at the first hint of a bad day. The list goes on.
Through my relationships I witness how people serve as vessels of God’s love on the grand scale and in the humble details. In discerning my course of action day to day, these relationships that are such sweet reflections of the love of God remind me that each interaction I have with my students, from the significant to the seemingly mundane, is an opportunity.
My ministry as a teacher is to help my students find their ministry. I don’t expect for children to finish third grade and have a clear idea of how they might best answer God’s call to serve in their life, but I want them to be better prepared to do that than when they entered.
For this to occur, I often have to walk the line between showing compassion and demanding excellence. The confidence and pride that bloom on a child’s face when a seemingly impossible concept suddenly “clicks” makes finding the time to go over and over it the only choice that allows that child to see the extent of his capabilities. At the same time, when a student’s “I don’t get it” is accompanied by a blank page reflecting a complete lack of effort, I think that the more loving response is closer to something like, “I know what you’re capable of. You haven’t tried. Give it a shot, and then check in with me if you are still confused.” These moments of authentic struggle and perseverance are the ones in which students discover the depths of their strength.
The religion book that my class uses defines the Kingdom of God as “God’s love active in the world”. I want to help my students discern their role in building the kingdom by knowing their capabilities and their passions. Sometimes my role in this is gauging how much guidance they actually need to refine a skill, but often it’s as simple as not stifling their innate motivations. I’m tempted to push along a fierce pace to ensure that we “get through” all of the expected academic material. Yet taking the time to pause to have a real discussion, or just giving them the time to joke, play, dance, or pray, offers them the space to explore their gifts in a different way.
Those girls who said a rosary for Ebola victims? They decided to begin a Rosary Club, and they invited classmates to pray with them any indoor recess they feel so inclined. The budding actors and playwrights? When they told me about their project, I said, “Great, just make sure that everyone that wants to be in it can have a part.” “Oh yeah,” one of the leaders responded. “We think we asked everyone at recess, but we’re going to make an announcement at lunch just to make sure everyone feels included.”
I have students who remember the prayer intentions I mention one time, and proceed to offer them up daily. I have students who entered the year already committed to serving people with special needs, because at eight it is so crystal clear to them that these people are in need of others who will help to preserve their dignity. I had a conversation with a kindergartner one morning in which she explained to me, “ I'm not going to stop giving to the poor. I'm going to keep helping them. I don't want to un-serve Jesus.”
This is the raw material, the sweet, unhampered motivations of the children I witness. Of course occasionally they are rude, selfish, and mean. They are kids (and human). But their innate faith, their desire to help, and their impulse to show compassion are so pure.
I have been blessed with an abundance of family members and friends that demonstrate what it means to love in our messy, daily lives. In the past few years, I’ve been especially grateful for the additional relationships that I’ve encountered as a teacher. My students’ innate faith, kindness, and compassion remind me that we are each made in the image of God and are called to channel His love. Through my ministry as a teacher, I hope to help them as they determine how best to answer that call in their lives; by witnessing their example, I know with certainty that they help me understand how I might better answer that call in my own.
But what does that mean? I believe these things, that as a teacher I am called to be Christ to my school community and to form my students as complete persons, but how do these seemingly abstract, macro-level ideas manifest each day? I have found myself in a growing number of situations in which the best way to emulate Jesus is not exactly clear-cut. What would Jesus do when an eight year old complains to Him about the (high) odds of one’s hand skimming a booger at any given time on the reading carpet? How would Jesus confront possible thieves of sparkly pencils that deny any wrongdoing?
I ponder these dilemmas often, from the mundane to the more significant. How do I pastorally but firmly confront the students that sneakily mess around during prayer? How do I deal with the child that is struggling but does not want to be seen receiving extra help? How do I maintain my patience with students who respond to my efforts to help them understand with apathy?
I can’t examine the Gospels to see how Jesus dealt with these situations, but I am not lacking in models of faith in my life to which I might look. I kind of won the lottery when it comes to nourishing faith communities. My parents have been role models in complete selfless love. The friends I have come to know continually astound me with their deep faith and commitment to doing good in the world. These are the people who have shown me what it means to love in all kinds of circumstances, but most of all how to love in everyday circumstances.
My mom unfailingly puts others before herself, from caring for her aging parents, to pretending like she isn’t interested in the last of the leftovers so someone else can have them. My dad patiently hears me reason out every kind of dilemma, from deciding which route to take to avoid traffic to discerning which job to accept. My friends do incredible things through their jobs, but also demonstrate generosity and compassion in their smallest interactions. John consistently talks to the person he knows feels least a part of the group. Dana sends cards at the most random times, just so her friends find a nice surprise in the mail. Mary drops what she’s doing and bakes her friends their favorite dessert at the first hint of a bad day. The list goes on.
Through my relationships I witness how people serve as vessels of God’s love on the grand scale and in the humble details. In discerning my course of action day to day, these relationships that are such sweet reflections of the love of God remind me that each interaction I have with my students, from the significant to the seemingly mundane, is an opportunity.
My ministry as a teacher is to help my students find their ministry. I don’t expect for children to finish third grade and have a clear idea of how they might best answer God’s call to serve in their life, but I want them to be better prepared to do that than when they entered.
For this to occur, I often have to walk the line between showing compassion and demanding excellence. The confidence and pride that bloom on a child’s face when a seemingly impossible concept suddenly “clicks” makes finding the time to go over and over it the only choice that allows that child to see the extent of his capabilities. At the same time, when a student’s “I don’t get it” is accompanied by a blank page reflecting a complete lack of effort, I think that the more loving response is closer to something like, “I know what you’re capable of. You haven’t tried. Give it a shot, and then check in with me if you are still confused.” These moments of authentic struggle and perseverance are the ones in which students discover the depths of their strength.
The religion book that my class uses defines the Kingdom of God as “God’s love active in the world”. I want to help my students discern their role in building the kingdom by knowing their capabilities and their passions. Sometimes my role in this is gauging how much guidance they actually need to refine a skill, but often it’s as simple as not stifling their innate motivations. I’m tempted to push along a fierce pace to ensure that we “get through” all of the expected academic material. Yet taking the time to pause to have a real discussion, or just giving them the time to joke, play, dance, or pray, offers them the space to explore their gifts in a different way.
Those girls who said a rosary for Ebola victims? They decided to begin a Rosary Club, and they invited classmates to pray with them any indoor recess they feel so inclined. The budding actors and playwrights? When they told me about their project, I said, “Great, just make sure that everyone that wants to be in it can have a part.” “Oh yeah,” one of the leaders responded. “We think we asked everyone at recess, but we’re going to make an announcement at lunch just to make sure everyone feels included.”
I have students who remember the prayer intentions I mention one time, and proceed to offer them up daily. I have students who entered the year already committed to serving people with special needs, because at eight it is so crystal clear to them that these people are in need of others who will help to preserve their dignity. I had a conversation with a kindergartner one morning in which she explained to me, “ I'm not going to stop giving to the poor. I'm going to keep helping them. I don't want to un-serve Jesus.”
This is the raw material, the sweet, unhampered motivations of the children I witness. Of course occasionally they are rude, selfish, and mean. They are kids (and human). But their innate faith, their desire to help, and their impulse to show compassion are so pure.
I have been blessed with an abundance of family members and friends that demonstrate what it means to love in our messy, daily lives. In the past few years, I’ve been especially grateful for the additional relationships that I’ve encountered as a teacher. My students’ innate faith, kindness, and compassion remind me that we are each made in the image of God and are called to channel His love. Through my ministry as a teacher, I hope to help them as they determine how best to answer that call in their lives; by witnessing their example, I know with certainty that they help me understand how I might better answer that call in my own.
Michele Monk hails from Augusta, NJ. She graduated with a BA in Sociology and Spanish from the University of Notre Dame, where she was a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir and led music service programs at the local juvenile detention center. Michele earned her Masters of Education through Notre Dame's Alliance for Catholic Education, through which she taught PreK-8th grade Spanish in Atlanta, Georgia. She currently lives in Washington, DC where she teaches third grade at a Catholic school. Michele can be contacted at michelemonk@gmail.com.
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