Why Catholic Schools

Headline: TBA

            Meetings don’t begin with prayer at my place of employment. As a company, we don’t gather for a weekly Mass, and there is no religious art in our lobby; no crucifixes on the walls of our conference rooms. There is no official discussion of religion, faith, Gospel values, saints that have gone before us, or saints who may be in our midst. And all of this is completely appropriate. I work for a Fortune 100 company, headquartered in Milwaukee, and the people who come to work each day come from a beautiful array of backgrounds—some religious, some not. I have no doubt there are silent prayers being offered throughout the day at work; and I’m sure that choices that many employees make in regard to ethics in the workplace are driven by their personal beliefs, but religion, prayer and faith have no part in the official company vision, mission or day-to-day operations. The vast majority of adults in the workforce share my experience. Unless a person works for a faith-based organization, such as a church, school, hospital, or social service agency, the workplace is devoid of references to the role of faith in our lives.

            And perhaps it’s my days in sleek modern rooms on global conference calls that make me so grateful for my children’s Catholic schools. Perhaps it’s the absence of the cross in my own cafeteria that makes me appreciate the one where my girls eat, at Holy Family School in Whitefish Bay. Maybe the reason I feel such joy at an evening Dominican meeting that begins with prayer is that earlier in the day I went to three meetings that only began with the review of the agenda.

            Our four children will likely spend most of their lives in secular workplaces, as my husband and I do. After graduating, they will enter a world that talks little of prayer, religion or spirituality. The gods of consumerism and achievement will snap at them, asking them to worship at the altar of status. The loud call to service they now hear from their Catholic schools will become a whisper, with the idea of servant leadership sounding paradoxical when compared to the traditional model of leadership intertwined with power. Church will be optional; religion compartmentalized.

            I see the world rushing at my children like a tidal wave, and I see my children being prepared by their Catholic schools to swim well and swim hard—not being taught to flee from the inevitable strength of the current culture and time—but rather being trained for what is to come. I see in our older boys, who have been through 14 and 17 years of Catholic education respectively, a commitment to social justice, prayer and faith that goes beyond what my husband and I taught them. I credit their Catholic schools from K4 onward for building on what Bill and I began at home—for giving them a wide variety of teachers who approached faith, prayer and service differently than Bill and me, but within a similar context. I see in our middle school girls a developing faith and a deepening morality. I watch the girls discover their own pattern and ways of praying; I see them approach service as a positive, fun event, whether it’s scooping out meatloaf at St. Ben’s meal program or reading to children at the Next Door Foundation. I see their sense of suburban name-brand entitlement begin to fade in the wake of these experiences.

            My children will need to make their own choices in terms of the place of faith, religion, prayer and service in their lives, as they grow up. Indeed, Jacob and Liam are making some of those decisions on their own, already. What I want for my children is an awareness of God present in every moment of every day. What I want is for them to know as adults is that prayer is within reach, that love comes out of prayer and service is the response to love. I want the cross, the Gospel values and the strength of the resurrection to be so much a part of who each of my children is, that even if they are in a Fortune 100 company, in a sleek modern room, on a global conference call, they will understand they are nevertheless in the presence of God. I want them to know that in a world of power and prestige, they are called to nothing more (and nothing less) than servant leadership. And I believe their current day-to-day breathing of faith in school; with God as the focus and the reason for learning; with experience of service in response to the Gospels—this way of spending their childhood will lead them to an adulthood of living their faith and understanding that God is everywhere, even when unspoken and unseen.

            Happy Catholic Schools Week. Thank you St. Monica; Holy Family; Dominican; Notre Dame.

           

           

           

Easter Eggs

When Jacob, now a junior in college, was four years old, we went to a community Easter egg hunt. It wasn’t truly a hunt, as all the small plastic eggs were in plain view, scattered across a football-field sized section of the park. The hunt was open to children under five, and a couple hundred preschoolers and toddlers stood in a circle around the eggs, baskets in hand, ready for the large white bunny mascot to give the signal to go. The bunny jumped up and down, his handler shouted go, and the tiny children rushed out into the field, grabbing eggs. Children everywhere, gleefully scooping up eggs, shouting to each other, racing around the field. But not Jacob, who looked alarmed at all the action and held tightly to my leg.

            As Bill cajoled Jacob to join the group, dramatically telling him of the yummy jellybeans inside each egg, I surveyed the crowd to see if there were other, similarly reluctant children. There were not. While a couple kids were looking for eggs only in the area right in front of their parents, no one else had refused to leave the sidelines entirely. Only Jacob.

            We left that day with just one plastic egg, brought to us by the sympathetic bunny mascot, who saw Jacob’s distress and tried to hand it to him. Jacob buried his face in my leg, refusing the egg. I thanked the rabbit, who nodded (a bit judgmentally, I thought).

            That moment stands out to me as pivotal in my parenting journey with Jacob, because it gave me a tremendously important perspective. That spring morning, when Jacob was four, I could see where my son was, compared to other children his age, in terms of his ability to try something new. I love statistics, and I remember doing the math in my head as we left the park. Two hundred kids looked for eggs; one child wouldn’t; that put Jacob in the lowest half of one-percent in terms of fearfulness of a new situation.

            Bill and I talked about the Easter egg hunt that night after Jacob was tucked in bed. We discussed how much joy Jacob could be in danger of missing if he continued on his current trajectory. We talked about our own personalities and where Jacob’s reticence may have come from—and how our own parents either encouraged or discouraged each of us from trying new things. Together that night, Bill and I decided that parenting Jacob, who was such an easy, quiet child, was going to require a bit more effort than we had put forth so far. We promised each other we would not allow Jacob to spend his childhood on the sidelines— even if he wanted that. We committed to figuring out the balance between respecting his naturally cautious personality and steering him to experience new things.

            Fast forward to a childhood of nudging, prodding, and sometimes simply waiting for our hesitant son. We sent him off to sleepaway camp for a week the summer after fifth grade; we taught him to ski (he stayed on the medium hills even when he was good enough to go down the black diamonds); we signed him up for activities—sometimes asking him first, sometimes not. Gradually, through grade school, Jacob became more confident and Bill and I breathed a sigh of relief as he began taking initiative, showing us flyers for sports and events and asking to join.  By high school, Jacob had left the fearful little boy behind, and jumped into stage crew, high school sports, and life with friends. On the occasions he did hesitate, his friends tugged him in, convincing him, for example, to be part of a gentlemen’s pageant, wearing a horse mask. He joined a young adult Ultimate Frisbee team as soon as he could drive.  My Easter egg memory became blurry.

            This past weekend, Jacob went to Easter Island, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and camped with friends—he chose the excursion as part of his semester studying abroad in Chile. We Face Time with him once every couple of weeks, and he’s happy, not homesick, speaking Spanish, but still unable to roll his Rs.

            Last semester, when Jacob first told me he was going to study abroad, I tried to contain my surprise as I asked him why he had chosen Chile, and not England or Ireland, where Notre Dame also had programs—and where he could study in English. “The idea of going to Chile made me the most uncomfortable of all the programs,” he said. “And I guess I’ve learned that when I choose to do something uncomfortable, it usually ends up being a great experience. So I signed up.” 

             From being afraid to pick up Easter eggs, to camping on Easter Island. He’s learned to nudge himself.

A Letter written by Liam to Teenasia

This is Liam's writing, to his younger sister: 

Dear Teenasia,

            Four years ago you officially entered my life with a bang. On September 30, 2011, a judge struck a gavel against a block of wood, and that crisp sound meant that you were officially part of my family; you were finally adopted after years in foster care. As incredible as the moment of adoption was, it was not as significant as the hundreds of much more ordinary, everyday experiences we have had together before and since that moment. These experiences—from the endless bike ride in Washington, D.C. to apple picking near the Kettle Moraine—have defined you as a member of my family and my sister. On this fourth anniversary of your adoption day, I want you to know how fortunate I feel to have you as my sister.

            You are an incredibly talented person. Your perseverance amazes me, your athletic ability impresses me, and your love and dedication to your family never ceases to astound me. You are very different from the average thirteen-year-old girl and I mean that in the best possible way. You catch the humor in everything, whether or not it was intended. You are undoubtedly the most observant person I know, while also being one of the most sensitive. Your optimistic and charismatic personality—still intact and not dimmed even after years of turmoil from different houses, foster families, and court cases in your first nine years of life—make you an inspiration. I know I do not always acknowledge your resilience, and it is commonplace that we start our day bickering about who gets to use the shower first, but that does not change how I feel. Our brother-sister competition is often frustrating and irritating, but it is part of being siblings, and deep down I know that as we overcome our differences, we will be closer as we get older. You are so deeply my sister—I feel it in everything we do, yet sometimes I notice the world has trouble recognizing that we are related. I know you notice it as well.

            We never talked to about the family trip in California--  what happened when we took the ride on the cable car. Mom paid for the cable car tickets, and we all found a space to stand as the car started to move. About two minutes later the ticket collector came back and said to Mom, “Excuse me, but which children are yours?” It was an understandable question, the operator couldn’t be expected to assume that a Puerto Rican girl, an African American girl, and a white boy were all siblings. Although I understood the ticket collector’s confusion, it still saddened me. The reality of the matter is that there is an image of what families are, and adoptive families don’t always fit that image.

            Adoption is a beautiful thing, and there is no reason why it should be so unusual. I am blessed to have you, Jacob, and Jamie in my life, and I would not have it any other way. I play, fight, eat, and pray with all of you and I treasure my unique relationship with each one of you. From my experience, adoption is the optimal gift, as both parties are on the receiving end. I was lucky enough to receive a sister, Mom and Dad were blessed with a daughter, and you got a loving family. This ultimate exchange is nothing short of miraculous, and it is something that can always be looked to as an example of the grace of God.

            In adopting you, Mom and Dad were putting complete and absolute trust in God. They couldn’t go on Consumer Reports and research until they found a daughter that fit their desired criteria, they had to believe that God would help them find a child that needed them, and just as importantly a child who would be able to prosper under their love, direction, and support. Prospering wasn’t easy, you had to learn the ABCs once as a todder, and learn them again when you came back after your years away, as a kindergartener. Moving back and forth has left its impact, but I have watched with joy as you have been able to climb your mountain of challenges, swim through your river of painful memories, and cross your desert of doubt. Your journey from one household and way of life to another hasn’t been easy or fast, and it is certainly not over, but though heaps of hard work, you have made an incredible amount of progress. You have prospered. You are amazing, and anyone who knows you well understands this. The years since your adoption have flown by and I have trouble accepting that you are already in eighth grade—last night during dinner I barely stopped myself from making a remark asking why you were talking about high school. Yes, I had to tell myself, she will be in high school next year. She’s not a little kid anymore. Your adoption is something incredible. It is an action that mirrors God’s love for humanity and I count myself blessed to have you in my life.

Love,

Liam