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The end of a race is always bittersweet—especially when it requires the passing of a baton.

Having somehow run some three-quarters of our year of service through, together, our community must now round its final turn. Our lap has had its hurdles, but always, we have sprinted to one another's aid. And as another ACE summer approaches, we are still racing—to make new memories, to leave a lasting impact on our students, to not have to even think of saying goodbye.

Just twelve months ago, we left these starting gates as utter strangers. Now, I can hardly remember having had closer friends. Still, our ministry calls us onward. And for two of us, new races must be run.
Thanks be to God then that this is not just any other race. For I have run not with a community, but a family. And family has no end—family has generations.

Dizzying as it is to reflect upon the challenges, growth, and abundant joy this year has brought, I find profound peace in recalling how we got here. ACE summers might well be considered a pressure cooker of sorts. Following the summons of vocational discernment, ACErs are called to hit the ground running from the moment we step out unto this great unknown.

Not only juggling a full schedule of masters coursework, but the novelty of single-handedly leading a classroom, ACErs must race from day one in order to take full opportunity of every precious moment of spiritual renewal, professional formation, and foundation of community. Such a feat ought to be exhausting. And at many times we certainly did off of pure adrenaline. But more than this, it was love that saw us through.

At the time, I could never fully comprehend how we managed to run so far, so fast. But looking back, the source of our stamina stands clear as day. For even as we first-years struggled to envision exactly what this intentional Christian community would mean, we never ran alone. And in those doubtful moments where the road seemed too long, the responsibilities too great, and God's will obviously seemed to have been misinterpreted, our second-years were there, to humbly lighten our yoke.

Having only just finished a year of service that would irreversibly transform their lives, they had just said their own difficult goodbyes. From Friday to Monday, their role had reversed from teacher back to full-time student. And already missing the graduated members of their own community, they returned to the juggling act of coursework, reconnecting with dear friends, and somehow inviting three brave new ACErs into our fold.

Despite every opportunity to cling onto the past, to resist the tide of change, and move forward in blissful denial, they instead prioritized our own well-being. They did not push, nor set expectations, but rather, welcomed us to join in the authorship of the untold adventures that lay ahead. And it was their intentional acts of service and ever-present inclusion that formed the bedrock on which our community now stands.

All of us have since come to appreciate exactly what it is to be a part not of an ACE community, but an ACE family; for the latter requires far more than passing off the baton after two years of service. Each and every one of the ACErs who graduated from our community last year has remained an active member in the race of our site's on-going ministry. Though now scattered across the country, they have made a point of visiting on multiple occasions, and whole-heartedly continued the legacy of this family's expansion.

Recognizing the sincerity of this selfless love, I welcome the growth of another ACE summer's beginning. For as we pass the starting gates anew, our dear friends will never truly have left us. Rather, it is the inspiration of their continually enacted love that will lead us to welcome our family's newest members with open arms.

Our dear friends will return to share in still more memories, to offer up their honest experience, and to minister from afar to this next generation of ACErs. We too must then strive to humbly exemplify all that an ACE family might become. We must share our short-comings as honestly as our successes, be forever inviting, but never expecting, and challenge ourselves to growth we ask of others.

The race we run together does not pass the baton from mentor to mentee. For each individual's experience in teaching is shared and supported across generations. And as the next leg approaches, there truly is no end in sight—only the welcoming of a new beginning.

6:52 AM: Already on my merry way to school, I'm getting my daily dose of perspective from the combination of NPR on the radio and the Florida sunrise on the horizon. 

7:41 AM: Stealing a moment of peace in the Tampa Catholic Chapel—Fr. Hendry is saying Daily Mass. He's got a great Scottish accent, and I love seeing my students here. Afterward, I chat with Barrett, one of my juniors who has his sights set on ND. (Needless to say, I'm totally psyched for him.)

8:00 AM: First bell. Let the games begin! #Homeroom. Today I'm playing DJ and exposing them to Tracy Chapman's "Crossroads," but really, all they want to hear is "Baba Yetu." (Not that I blame them, it's an amazing song).

9:28 AM: Midway through second period, Evan, one of my students, shares the amazing story of his grandfather who escaped from a work camp in Communist Cuba by cutting off his own toes. We're reading Of Mice and Men, and talking about whether any of the characters have a real chance of achieving the so-called "American Dream." He's told me before that his favorite quote is "Sometimes, you can't see the window through the glass." I wonder if there's a connection...

11:55 AM: Lunchtime! A much-appreciated break from the teaching grind to eat with my compadres in the English Department. Spotlight on this legend: Pat Bindert. I hardly know where to start, but let's just say when I gave everyone in our department the cooking spice which best captured their personality for Christmas, she got a single vanilla bean. Wizened, pure, and paradoxical—a flavor which is both exotic and familiar, universally recognized as wonderful. She's taught at many different kinds of schools, and she is an endless source of wisdom, guidance, and inspiration for me.

2:17 PM: It's the last period of the day, and because my American Literature class is currently studying Transcendentalism, we are outside, discussing examples of modern-day Thoreaus. We finish with an exercise in nonconformity. Inspired by one of Mr. Keating's antics in The Dead Poet's Society, I challenge them to express their true self in the way they walk around the picnic tables. Hesitancy soon gives way to confidence. The result is simultaneously hilarious, strangely moving, and really cool to watch.

3:00 PM: Last bell! The class day is over, and I get my daily visit from a junior football star named Treyvon. I'm pretty sure he started coming by because of a rumor he heard that I always have chocolate in my room, but now it's just a tradition. I ask him for a quote for this blog post: "Tell them Ray Lewis is my hero because his leadership and work ethic inspire everyone to be greater than they are." Perfect. Love it.

3:41 PM: After-school tutoring is over and it's time for lacrosse practice! Tryouts are this week, and I've been working with the brand new recruits. They take me right back to my own freshman year of high school, when I was "in their cleats," awkwardly trying to figure out how to fail with grace. Important life lesson, that one.

6:07 PM: We finish with a bit of conditioning and all come in for the breakdown: "Heads, Hearts, Get Together! TC LAX fights forever! Go Crusaders!" The moment is perfect, and I know it's going to be a great season.

6:40 PM: Tonight, the TC basketball team is hosting "Faculty Appreciation Night," so I change quickly and head to the gym. I chat with my buddy Tony, a pillar of the TC community who has been at the school for 30+ years and sells tickets at every sports game. He's the real deal. Then, I find a spot with several other faculty members (including Mike and Vincent, two other ACE teachers at TC!) to watch the game. Two of my boys are on the team and several of my girls are cheerleaders or dancers.

To other spectators, our squad may appear as just a row of numbers. Not to us. It's incredible how fast each one of them has become so, so much more than a number to all of us in the faculty section. I often wonder if our students have any idea how much we care or how proud we are...

8:32 PM: I finally pull into our driveway. Home. We have a quick community pow-wow over ice-cream, and then it's straight to the shower.

11:54 PM: At this point, I've been deep in planning mode for a while. I've designed a Frankenstein test, planned lessons for my writing class tomorrow, submitted online reflections for our Educational Psychology class, and graded a batch of quizzes. I'm completely exhausted. Time to make my lunch, pack my bag for tomorrow, and head to bed. I call my sister for a quick check-in, but then its lights out. Until tomorrow.

"Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all." –Helen Keller

The “Fighting Irish” moniker did not always apply to the men gathered on our football field; before Notre Dame football assumed the name as a badge of pride in their Irish heritage, the title belonged to the Irish Brigade of the Civil War, a band of Irish-Americans known for their bravery on the battlefield and their battle-cry “Fag an Bealach,” Irish for “Clear the way!”

Today, the three surviving flags for the “Fighting Irish” regiments can be found in three locations: at Notre Dame’s own Snite Museum, in New York at the sixth-ninth regiment’s Armory bar, and in Dublin at the home of the Irish parliament. At all three locations, the flag serves as a testament to history and a call to live up to the zeal and determination modeled by the young men who first earned the name of “Fighting Irish.”

ACE Ireland embodies this zeal in its fight to revitalize the Irish Catholic School system. Led by John O’Malley, recent recipient of the Malpass Award, the ACE Ireland Advocate Committee has been hard at work to “clear the way” for greater vibrancy and engagement among Ireland’s Catholic youth by supporting Irish Catholic schools as the lifeblood of Irish society.

Through partnerships with select schools in the country, sponsored fellowships, and monthly community masses, ACE Ireland has built a network of teachers and community leaders who have been breathing new life into the Irish church since 1996. Whether sending teachers to the Notre Dame as part of the Irish Teaching Fellows program, bringing American scholars to Ireland through the Ryan Fellowship, or training Irish teachers in Catholic education through their diploma program at Maynooth, ACE Ireland has continuously found new avenues for revitalizing the Catholic schools and Catholic faith that is so central to Irish society.

More than a thousand years ago, in an act of outright rebellion and defiance against the Irish king and his druidic faith, St. Patrick dared to light the Paschal fire on the Hill of Slane. Legend has it that the fire Patrick lit that night in Ireland will never go out, but will burn forever in the hearts of the Irish people. Miracles and legends aside, fires do not continue to burn without someone to tend them and fan their flames. ACE Ireland continues to do exactly that, following in the footsteps of St. Patrick and embracing the hard and joy-filled work of keeping his fire alive. 

You've got five years.

Five years to revamp your instructional practice and standards.

Five years to dramatically raise your enrollment.

Five years to right this sinking ship—or we will be forced to shut your doors.

Countless Catholic schools faced this ultimatum while struggling to stay afloat amidst an economic downturn that ravaged our nation. It placed a still greater strain upon families prioritizing the sizable cost of a private, faith-based education for their children.

For one small, family-oriented, and diverse Catholic K-8 school in particular, such conditions were issued four years prior to my own arrival. Despite these conditions, though, not all schools—indeed not all students—have been so lucky.

It would be an oversimplification to propose that the Alliance for Catholic Education singlehandedly saved the school I now consider a second family. But the loving labors of ACE Teachers have made an incalculable impact towards the continuity of this community. And as AmeriCorps members, we have indeed gotten great things done.

Long before I ever stepped foot in my classroom, greeted my smiling students, and considered myself an educator, AmeriCorps safeguarded the possibility for my predecessors and fellow staff to afford my students the educational choice that they fundamentally deserve. Our school stands as a safe-haven for many, welcoming students from all walks of life.

By means I still cannot fully conceptualize, they endured and continue to work selflessly towards the re-imagination of our school's circumstance. But it just so happened that a five-year ultimatum came as our school's first ACE teacher arrived in 2010.

She elected to continue serving her position to date, and was joined two years later by my own predecessor—for the first time in far too long a time, our school had a certified instructor of science. Suddenly, my coworkers could more intentionally focus their freely given energy to their subjects of passion and expertise. Suddenly, our school had even more energetic young role models serving our students. Suddenly, we were back in the black and things were finally looking up.

While I have only enjoyed the privilege of participating in this most recent year of transformation, the vigor with which our community has rebounded could not have been foreseen. Classrooms, once struggling to get by with textbooks outdated some twenty years now, boast unprecedented integration of state-of-the-art technology. Our enrollment has achieved its greatest numbers in memory, with waiting lists for next year growing every day. And for the first time in decades, families from our neighborhood are choosing to send their students to the small, family-oriented, and still diverse Catholic School that was always right there, waiting across the street.

I, and the ACE Teachers who served before me, are but individual participants in this on-going story of grit and revitalization. But through the relationships forged, students inspired, traditions re-imagined, and hours clocked, AmeriCorps has catalyzed a change that will support our students far beyond our classroom walls.

Every single day, I remind myself to stop to look into the smiling faces of my students, and thank Heaven: for the opportunity to call them my family; for the funding that makes it possible to serve them through the trying uncertainties of adolescence; for the opportunity to spark their imaginations and aspirations in ways a textbook never could; and to proudly support these bright young women and men who will undoubtedly continue our mission—challenging the limitations of circumstance, actualizing equal opportunity, and re-imagining this nation.

We had five years to right this ship.

Give us five more, and just see what we get done.

Anyone who knows the story of the glittering Jay Gatsby and his obsession with an unattainable, idealized love knows that the cautionary tale is a comment on the so-called “American Dream.” So when my English III Honors class started reading Fitzgerald’s classic this week, I introduced the concept of an “American Dream” with a series of prompts:

Stand up if one of your goals is to “be rich.”

Stand up if you want to be married.

Stand up if you want to have children.

Stand up if you want to own your own house one day.

Stand up if you want to live in the suburb.

The list went on, and their responses were fascinating. Only boys stood up to affirm their desire to be rich, and then all but two of those boys sat down when I asked about being married. Interestingly, every single person stood up to affirm that it was important that they own their own house someday.

But then I read the two most important prompts of all:

Stand up if you feel empowered to reach all your goals and live your dreams.

Every single student stood up. I’m not sure why, but I have to admit I was surprised. Then:

Stay standing if you feel that where you’ve come from, or something about your background, is a barrier to your success which you will have to overcome.

One brave young black woman stayed standing. I thanked her for her honesty.

I left school that day optimistic, because I live in a country where youth, at least those in my classroom in Tampa, feel empowered to achieve their dreams. But I also left with a renewed awareness that for many youth in this country, the journey to achieving those dreams will be a long, difficult, and (at least for the one young woman in my classroom) potentially lonely road. 

The Oscar-winning song “Glory,” written by Common, John Legend, and Che Smith, took Tampa Catholic High School by storm this week—students begged to listen to it, and when it played, they would sing along. It’s a catchy song, but that’s not why they got so into it. The song is an empowering, optimistic tribute to the promise of future “glory,” and you can feel it as you listen. 

AmeriCorps embodies this American optimism. At this moment, 75,000 AmeriCorps members are serving communities across the country, innovating and building a better America. Lila Watson, an Australian Aboriginal woman, once said to mission workers:

“If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us walk together.”

AmeriCorps members do not come “to help” in any patronizing way—they come to stand with those they aim to serve because we are all part of the promise of America. At a time in history when it is perhaps easier to become jaded and cynical, they see and work toward a better future.

I am proud to be one of them. 

"We are the Universe becoming conscious of itself. We are the stewards of Creation. And we are restless."

These are the admittedly flowery lines with which I chose to open my personal statement in application to the Alliance for Catholic Education, now a head-spinning thirteen months ago. Granted the opportunity of their rediscovery during our program's recent December retreat, I can find no more holistic way to articulate my profound affection for the sciences and far greater passion for their communication.

Many a scientific reductionist will smugly tell you that Psychology, to which they reduce the complexity of the human person, simplifies to Biology, which simplifies to Chemistry, and then to Physics, and finally Math. And they are right in saying that no fact, no theory, indeed nothing in science stands in isolation. Rather, the whole of existence exists as an interwoven fabric to be explored across multiple layers of complexity.

Yet one must not forget the glaring omission of our reductionists. For as Christians, we hold that only the loving Providence of our Creator could have authored such elegant interconnectedness into existence. To deepen our understanding of the Creator, and thereby our relationship with Him, we might then unravel the mysteries of His masterpiece.

Allow me to rephrase my point in relation to my classroom:

"Faith and reason are like two wings on which the human spirit rises to the contemplation of Truth."
– Pope Saint John Paul II

These are the words that greeted my students to science class with Mr. Wilde on our August bulletin board. They have since served in reverberating echo of my application's personal statement. To the best of my ability, my daily instruction seeks to communicate scientifically validated truths in accord with our diocesan standards.

But the reason I teach is to touch lives, not fill minds. Memorization of facts and skills of data analysis pale in comparison to the repercussions of scientific inquiry complimented by spiritual development. And so I strive day in and out to gradually convince my bright young students of the deeper truths behind our covered content—to even begin to comprehend just how dizzyingly complicated, how humblingly dependent, and how irrefutably connected we are—as humans—to the whole of Creation, and thereby our Creator.

I relish the opportunities to explain to my students that the iron in their blood once destroyed stars, that the atoms in their bodies might once have been a part of Mother Theresa or Martin Luther King Jr., and that genetically, the odds of each of us existing as our exact selves have been calculated at close to one in 10^(2,685,000), essentially zero.

I want my students to dare to trust that if they seek, they will indeed find, to recognize that they are a part of something bigger than themselves, and to believe that they can ripple intentional change into this world.

It hasn't happened overnight. And the unearthing of my personal statement's opening lines came as a desperately needed reassurance of my efforts. But what were once cracks of fleeting, almost embarrassed curiosity have increased in near exponential fashion.

My 7th graders, who often act far too cool for school, frequently, if not subtly, drop science and math vocabulary into the jokes they love to make in front of me. Hardly a day now goes by where my 5th and 6th graders do not stop me at lunch with surprisingly insightful questions they have connected to the day's subject matter.

"How can the first cell really have been alive if there was nothing for it to eat?"

"If the Universe is already so huge, and it's still expanding, why do we think it even ends?"

"So technically, all of the atoms that were in Jesus' human body are still
somewhere on Earth, right?"

And one 8th grader tearfully stopped me after class to thank me, saying she doesn't feel small and alone anymore when she looks up at the stars. I wish that I had one, picture-perfect story to communicate how my passion for scientific inquiry infused with spiritual discovery has impacted the lives of my students, but such precious glimpses of reassurance come more often than I could ever have hoped for.

And so, I trust in the slow work of our God, in whom all things are made possible.

Even for an English teacher, metaphors can be difficult when trying to explain what it's like to be a first-year ACE teacher. But let's give it a shot:

Being a first-year ACE teacher is like running an ultramarathon in a superhero costume that doesn't quite fit yet.

I've certainly never run what's called an "ultramarathon," but there's a legendary and dynamite teacher at Tampa Catholic named Mr. Matthews who runs them fairly regularly, and he's given me the run-down. An "ultramarathon" is a 100-mile race that usually takes around twenty-four hours to complete. It is with extreme humility that I even dare to compare my experience in ACE with his, but there are perhaps several interesting similarities:

1. There's not really any way to train for it.

Before Mr. Matthews ran his first ultramarathon, he said the farthest he'd run was around sixty miles. That's only a bit more than half the total distance. ACE was the same: two quick months of education classes, six weeks of mornings spent in a public summer school classroom, and off you go! There's a limit to how much you can prep for your first days as a teacher—at some point you just have to do it, armed only with a full heart, enthusiasm for your subject material, and a reliable support network.

2. It's a wild ride, with precious moments of runner's high and other (longer) moments of pure exhaustion.

It may be a cliché, but once you're in it, each day is truly an adventure. There are moments of pure ecstatic joy when you are channeling the very spirit of Steinbeck, and other moments of complete exhaustion when you might as well be trying to nail Jell-O to the wall.

Mile Three is an entirely different experience than Mile Fifty-Eight, and Mile Seventy-Nine brings with it a whole host of new joys and challenges. I can hardly remember my first day of teaching any more (though I do remember not being able to eat or sleep for a several days from nervous terror), but the view from February is an entirely different vista, with new fears, thrills, and burdens.

3. You may feel alone, but really, you're not.

As you can imagine, Mr. Matthews talked about the unique experience of being "alone with your thoughts" for 100 miles. But although physically alone, a runner apparently draws on all the people who wander into his or her mind's eye for strength and motivation.

This feeling comes in teaching, as well—sometimes I feel like it's just "little me," in a classroom in Florida, hundreds of miles away from anything or anyone familiar. But it's not. The greatest gift of ACE is community. Even though I met some of my community members mere months ago, I lean on them like family. They are, along with my students, reminders of God's presence, and I am never truly alone.

But what about that superhero costume I mentioned in the beginning? I said it didn't quite fit yet. It's too large—a first-year teacher has to grow into his or her role as "superhero." You're dressed, doing your best, and maybe you've fooled some people, but it's not really you yet.

Not that it's insincere in any way, it's just a little ramshackle, like when you look in the mirror some mornings, see yourself in "teacher clothes," and feel a bit ridiculous. But you're growing, and eventually the costume you wear will be an authentic representation of who and what you are in your classroom—an everyday hero.

In the end, neither an ultramarathon nor your first year as an ACE teacher is about winning. Massive challenges like these are instead about becoming your best self. While the finish line is always in sight at the end of a race, and the end of my first year of teaching is within grasp in June, it has never been about that. As Thomas Merton said, "There is no being Christian. There is only becoming Christian." What is true of living Christianity is equally true about first-year teaching.

To all my students: even though I am writing this on a dark bus on the way home from a lacrosse tournament, and you are singing "Livin' on a Prayer" at the top of your lungs and sounding mildly ridiculous, I run for you.

Interested in participating in this year's ACE Marathon in Denver on May 17th, 2015? Click here to register or pledge your support for the ACE runners!

"Mr. Wilde, I just left a note on your desk."

"Alright, is it something I can help you with now, or should I wait to read
it later?"

"It doesn't matter when, but promise me you'll read it."

Sensing something awry in his tone, I immediately retrieved his hastily scribbled words. Those words would bring my end-of-day routine to a screeching halt and irreversibly alter the way in which I understood my vocation as a first-year teacher.

From what little I knew about his circumstances at this point in the initial month of our relationship, this student had already earned a position among my nightly prayers' intentions. Many outside spectators would presume that this young man didn't have a care in the world. Gregarious and exuberant as they come, mere mention of the name of our school's star basketball player will bring a smile to the face of any staff member at our school.

But this warm-hearted student had learned to default to this powerfully convincing guise in concealment of freshly opened emotional wounds. Even as his grades steadily slipped and his academic focus deteriorated towards non-existence, he took on more extracurriculars to delay the inevitable—going home.

His parents' marriage was over. With legal rights to custody uncertain and hotly contested, his sense of security was in free-fall.

Just the day before, I had asked him to hang back past the dismissal bell. He sat in what seemed like numbness as I struggled to delicately phrase my concerns for his well-being. He listened, politely nodded, and avoided eye contact as I offered to simply sit back and listen should he ever ask. Mere seconds after his departure, I had already deemed my attempt a blundering failure.

But with the next day's note, the floodgates opened, and his note's desperate words remain etched into my memory.

"Please help me. I just keep bottling all this up, but I can't do it anymore. I'm scared. Please help."

My mind raced as my heart dropped and I stammered to dismiss my homeroom. It was my turn to sit and listen. Our conversation would break my heart, but I no longer felt helpless. Confounding as it was to comprehend, [tweetable]he had somehow chosen me, his newest teacher, with whom to be most vulnerably honest[/tweetable]—to admit to the pain he had not allowed himself to feel. For the first time in a long time, he felt safe, and he felt heard.

Through our innumerable check-ins since and in cooperation with my coworkers and his mother, he has gradually regained his footing. And after long months of frustrations, his renewed academic efforts have finally yielded fruit.

Just yesterday, he strolled to the board, fighting back tears through an infectious smile.

"Mr. Wilde, can I say something to the class?"

Try as I might, I could never do justice to the words that followed. But even when he had given up, he explained, we had refused to give up on him.

Such are life's most precious lessons. Amidst the curriculum, beyond the content, what we learn in school is how to be human with one another. And [tweetable]if my students remember nothing else, let it be that they felt seen. That they were heard. That they are loved.[/tweetable]

When I was first told that I would be given the opportunity to teach seventh grade students this year, my initial reaction was utter shock and dismay. I had known from the moment I applied to be an ACE Teacher that I never wanted to teach middle school, and I was content with my eleventh and twelfth graders last year.

Yet, a week before the first day of school, I had no choice but to accept that this year, I'd be teaching fifty-seven seventh grade students.

The first month of this school year seemed as if it was my first month of teaching—ever. I struggled with the transition between teaching eleventh grade English and teaching seventh grade literature. I couldn't remember my seventh graders' names because I saw them every other day. Giving directions consumed half of my class time—I never accounted for the number of questions young middle school students would ask. I felt a perpetual nervous feeling in my stomach as I prepared to teach my seventh graders.

But, somewhere between late August and early October, I fell in love with each and every one of them. While I had struggled all of last year to rid my eleventh graders of their jaded spirits, I suddenly found myself in front of fifty-seven eager, energized, and innocent seventh grade students.

Sure, Jose raised his hand in the middle of my lesson and said, "Ms. Ramos you don't have an earring!" and, after I grabbed my ear, responded "You have two!" Yes, Miguel only volunteered to read if he could do it in his Mickey Mouse voice. And, still, Robert told the other students to "shut up" when talking during my lesson. But, when I looked upon these moments with love, patience, and a few more hours of sleep, I had no choice but to smile.

In a new light, Christ made himself known to me through this particular group of students. Here are just a few of the many moments that I saw Christ in my 7th grade students:

• When reading The Outsiders, my students asked me if I was ever bullied like Ponyboy was by the Socs. I felt comfortable sharing with them that the most studious student is not always the most popular person in the classroom. Immediately, Miguel raised his hand and I was naturally caught off guard when he asked me, "But, where are those students now, Ms. Ramos? You went to Notre Dame. You're here teaching us at Saint Joe. Can they say that?"

• When interviewing a few of my 7th grade girls for a video for our school's Week of the Woman, they advised all of the high school girls not to forget who they were before all of the pressures of boys and school. They told them that they had the opportunities to do great things so they shouldn't waste those opportunities simply for the sake of boys.
  
  
• A student realized that he had forgotten to answer the questions on the back of his homework sheet. He came up to me, tears already forming in his eyes. I told him everything would be okay, and he responded, "But, Ms. Ramos, I tried so hard. I try hard every time and my grades never show it. Now, it's going to be another bad grade." I asked him to trust me, and he has ever since.
  
  
• When reading The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, I asked my students if they could relate to Bruno when he was forced to move from his home in Berlin. Many of my students raised their hand and shared their stories of when they were forced to leave their homes in Mexico because of all of the violence. So, every day without fail, my students pray for peace in Mexico. They ask that God protect their families and their homes that they left behind.

I so often associate Christ with his love and his painful sacrifice for all of us that I forget to revel in His moments of joy, playfulness, and youth. This year, I finally realized that Christ was once a young teenager as well. He was not born a fully grown man; He grew in stages. Once I could understand that, I was able to see Him in my seventh graders too.

6:12 a.m. After dragging myself out of bed and showering, I silently take my seat at the kitchen table with my bowl of cereal and sliced banana to catch up on NPR. If she’s not there already, my housemate Mary joins me with her Greek yogurt and prayer card.

Every morning we sit in the same seats across from each other. We eat in silence, not saying a word—it’s too early for either of us to engage in conversation. Her presence is enough, though: a reminder that [tweetable]as challenging as my day may be, I have my housemates to support me when I get home.[/tweetable]

7:50 a.m. Sacred Heart begins each day with an assembly in the parish center/cafeteria. I head straight there from overseeing the car drop-off line, a job that gives me the unique opportunity to interact with students of all grades. What’s the best way to get a kindergartner to go straight into the school building from his vehicle without stopping, you ask? If you think of a strategy, let me know.

Assembly often includes special presentations, but always entails a daily reading and responsorial psalm, the Pledge of Allegiance (when was the last time you said it?), and our school mission statement. Finally, once each class is in a Spirit of Excellence line, Sister Mary Ann leads us in Sacred Heart’s core beliefs (complete with hand motions!).

8:45 a.m. By this time, the 4th Grade Explorers are well into their daily math lesson. This week we have been practicing our strategies for solving multi-digit multiplication problems (i.e. 37 x 64). Each math lesson usually includes direct instruction, individual practice, group work, and pair-shares.

In a classroom of 30 students, one-on-one attention can be tough; often it’s while students are practicing the content of the lesson—either individually or in groups—that I get a chance to meet with struggling students. I’ve found through pair-shares, though, that fellow students can be the best teachers, as can be heard from students working through the traditional method of multiplication.

9:15 a.m. We always begin religion class with some form of prayer, and usually students share special intentions they have before we begin. This practice not only gives students the opportunity to express themselves and voice their concerns, but it also provides me with a window into their lives outside of school.

The neatest part of this practice is when students pray for a peer’s intention days after the petition was originally voiced. While I never know what the intentions will include, the most common ones involve friends and family.

Bonus! 10 a.m. On Wednesdays we have our all-school masses, and by this time they are just about wrapping up. When you’re an ACE teacher, you often find yourself filling random roles within the school, despite a lack of qualifications.

For me this means conducting the choir, which translates into showing up to Mass on Wednesday with no prior knowledge of any of the music and moving my hands the best I can to the notes (Which hand do I use? Depends on which isn’t tired!). Fortunately, Mrs. Gibson is a stellar music teacher, and I just let my hands follow her lead on the piano. Apparently I’m a pretty good actor (as far as looking like I know how to conduct), but I’m quick to note that all the credit for the choir’s beautiful sounds actually goes to Mrs. Gibson, the musicians (some students, some staff), and the 3rd – 5th grade singers.

12:54 p.m. Recess. If there’s any part of the day during which a teacher has to be ready for anything, it’s now (i.e. What happens if a squirrel falls on one of your student’s heads?). I’ve discovered that real-life recess isn’t completely different from my favorite childhood cartoon, Recess.

While Sacred Heart may not have a middle school student named King Bob, my class’ recess does consist of various groups. You have the taggers, gymnasts, football players, drawers, swingers, and those I’ve affectionately dubbed “the imaginators.” I’ve even managed to get exclusive information on the imaginary world the four imaginators enter once recess begins.

2:16 p.m. Most of the afternoon is spent on Social Studies and science. This can be a tricky time of the day for a teacher: some students seem a bit lethargic after eating and exerting energy at recess, while others are amped from the food and fresh air. With the end of the day so near, this is also a very quick-paced time.

Yet, as always, instruction must go on! So I begin pulling out all of my ACE-certified teacher strategies: call-and-repeats (Scholars?!?!?), verbal attention grabbers (GASP! Look how cool this is…), bodily-kinesthetic movement (“I need every to get up, walk in a circle, and then sit down.”), and perhaps even some unexpected accents. Consequently, it is often at this time of the day that I am reminded [tweetable]I’ll pull out any stop to keep my students learning.[/tweetable] (My apologies for the singing…)

6:17 p.m. When I finally get home, I’m usually mentally exhausted and chances of getting any work finished before our 7 o’clock community dinner are slim. Fortunately, this is where community members (aka friends who have also spent the day managing and bestowing knowledge upon mobs of students) are quite beneficial in helping to blow off some steam.

For example: a given evening might include Kaleen preparing community dinner in the kitchen while Ealish reads nearby. Jordan, Alex, and I have just watched the end of the Bond movie Sky Fall. Rather than simply watch something else while we wait for dinner, we go into Bond mode ourselves: Alex and I with the community Nerf guns, Jordan with the inflatable parrot. The next twenty minutes include hardwood-floor slides, behind-the-couch dodges, and sneak-attacks that scare Ealish and almost take out Mary, who has just gotten back from her run.

I’d share sounds from this situation, but some things you just have to experience for yourself…

Picture the five people you spend the most time with.

Maybe you made a deliberate choice to seek them out, maybe they're family, or maybe they've just become part of your daily life, almost by accident. Motivational speaker Jim Rohn famously said that "we become the 'average' of those five people." This is, of course, not a new idea: Ralph Waldo Emerson was on to the same thing when he said: "Show me a man's friends, and I will tell you who he is."

The people we choose to spend time with have a massive effect on our way of thinking, our choices, our values, and our self-esteem. For some of us, this news is comforting; for others, maybe it's more than a little scary.

But wherever you stand at the moment, massive turning points like the end of your college years and your first foray into the "real world" are a chance to make a very deliberate choice about who those "five people" will be.

During my senior year, a very wise person told a very lost me to stop looking for "a job," or even "a career." Instead, he advised that I focus on identifying truly great people —leaders, heroes, and game-changers, as well as more ordinary people with principles. Once I had done that, he advised that I then do whatever it took to be near them, to work with them, to let them make me better.

That was great advice. Here's why: you've probably heard that the US Department of Labor reported that 65% of current schoolchildren will have jobs that don't exist yet. That's how fast the world is changing. What this means is that your connections with people who are riding the wave of innovation will be far more important than any job experience or specialized skills. Apart from broad categories like "problem-solving" and "critical thinking," no one has any idea what skills will be important in twenty years.

So I chose ACE.

My "five people" now include three brave and talented housemates, the rest of the ACE 21 cohort (all similarly brave and talented), key members of the ACE faculty and pastoral team, my fellow teachers at Tampa Catholic, and last but certainly not least, 130 unpredictable, challenging, and deeply inspiring high-school students.

I chose this kind of life on purpose. I deliberately chose not to have a nine-to-five job because I'd rather pursue a 24/7 vocation. I wanted a life which, by design, surrounds me with the best people I could find—the everyday heroes, the hopeful pioneers imagining education anew, and young people who wrestle, every day, with a world that is challenging and confusing, but also ultimately full of truth and grace. Throughout my process of discernment, I cared less about what they were doing, and more about how they were doing it, because that had everything to do with who they were.

Brother John Paige, CSC, said that "the acquisition of knowledge and competence help build values, attitudes and behaviors that lead to the transformation of the person, who then becomes an agent for transformation in the world." Education, by nature, focuses on people, especially in Catholic schools.

When I chose ACE, I didn't know that I wanted to be a teacher. I knew I wanted to be an ACE teacher. I sought out the greatest people I could find, and found them in ACE.

My only advice to people making the same decision now is this: Be deliberate. Ask questions about who you will be working with and working for before worrying about what it is you will be doing. The people you surround yourself with are the people you will become.

At times, it can be difficult to remember to find Christ in our daily lives—struggles arise, stress mounts, and it's easy to start to forget how blessed we really are. Most recently, I found myself struggling to make it to Thanksgiving break. Having gone so long without being home, I yearned to be near my family. But, it was the many faces of Christ that helped me to endure this test of time.

The week before break, Melissa, the chairperson of my school's English department, unexpectedly told me she would be my Brownsville mom. During our free time at the Encounter retreat we were leading, we managed to fit in meaningful conversations about family, friends, and relationships. She listened with an open heart, and we realized just how much we had in common. It was through her presence that I saw Christ's understanding and patience.

During that same retreat, I had the opportunity to get to know Manuel, the Spanish teacher at SJA. He shared his pride for his daughter and her accomplishments, speaking highly of her dedication and perseverance. He reminded me of my dad simply by his humor and kind heart. A few hours after Melissa offered to be my Brownsville mom, Manuel also spontaneously volunteered to "adopt" me as his daughter.

Two teachers and friends had offered to take me in as their own. While I had never shared with them my homesickness, both had somehow been drawn to call me family, take me under their wing, and make me feel at home. In Manuel, I found Christ's pride and happiness.

After the retreat, I was reinvigorated by the wonderful experience but still faced a few more days of work. As I rushed to finish last minute assignments and grade my students' performance assessments, I ran into Tony, the head of the our school's campus ministries. He took one look at me and absolutely understood what needed to be said.

He talked me through my list of things to do. Tony put everything into perspective by emphasizing the value of living in the moment and only doing what actually could be done. In Tony, I found Christ's peace and friendship.

In the span of one week, Christ revealed himself through these three individuals. He made his presence known by showering me with the understanding, patience, pride, happiness, peace, and friendship I needed in order to make it to Thanksgiving break.

But, on a much larger scale, Christ has presented himself in all of my Brownsville community. They have taken me in as their own and have made me feel at home. Knowing my need for a place to belong, Christ made a home for me in Brownsville, granting me an absolutely wonderful second family.

"I don't need any help, Mr. Wilde."

Stepping back to recover from the blunt delivery of this declaration, the surrounding silence soon allowed the ramifications of my student's frank response to crystalize in dizzying clarity. Her moment had arrived. Pencils sharpened, desks cleared, deep breaths in, and back out, the test was out. For weeks now, years really, she had been preparing for today. It was now or never.

* * *

Allow me to expand upon my surprise. Here was a student my coworkers had warned me to show added care. She has been wounded by years of let downs and set backs, they assured me, though she masks it well in feigned indifference. For as long as she can remember, test scores have told her she is too slow. Her circle of friends snicker in chorus each time she answers yet another question incorrectly. And her home life would break your heart.

For months now, I had strived to get through to her, an eighth grader still counting basic addition on her fingers. Making an intentional point to try to differentiate my instruction to her needs, I would not hesitate to offer words of affirmation, check in for added clarification, and go out of my way to give reminders regarding upcoming assessments.

Still no single day's interaction could come anywhere close to predictable. With her life's endless list of variables, one fleeting moment of misunderstanding could readily transform her from a beaming, carefree adolescent, to a defiant, disengaged occupier of a seat. Just two weeks prior, she turned in a quiz without having even written her name. No plea for a retake, no reaction when I assured her I would allow one—numbness.

It was not until the following day that I guardedly noticed a faint shift; a flickering spark just smoldering, begging for a breath of life. She returned to my class with unprecedented focus. No more constant questions just fishing to be handed the answer, no more excuses for having neglected to complete yet another assignment; she was determined. And as the days before our unit test dwindled to a close, the fruits of her newly concerted efforts had come to maturation.

Her classmates exchanged quick glances of disbelief as she earned the top score in our final review activity and she proudly proclaimed she had spent the weekend studying. She had something to prove and as I distributed the test, the tension was palpable.

* * *

Minutes ticked away, and her exasperated sighs increased in frequency. Her frantic rustling of papers made her ever more panicked stress bitingly known. Passing quietly past her desk, I whispered to just let me know if there was anything I could do to help.

"I don't need any help, Mr. Wilde."

She knew the steps forwards and backwards, recognized her most commonly made mistakes; she had put in all the practice, but still, she found herself not measuring up. Never enough. A final, defeated sigh signaled her complete surrender and with her test still unfinished, the clock still ticking, she set her head between her crossed arms in crippling frustration.

As her classmates obliviously continued their calculations, time slowed to a stop. The decision that lay before me was simple, but the effect anything but certain. Deep breathe in, and out. It was a chance worth taking. So I strolled over to my desk and picked up a Post-it pad. How best to say it?

Scribbling down the decided combination of simplicity and support, I whisked back by to place it on her desk, with her still none the wiser. Pause. As she read the note, her eyes peeked open, locking immediately upon the foreign note. And after a moment's hesitation, and a look of disbelief, she reached back for her pencil.

All tests were in, the class bell tolled, and my students gathered their things. From the front of the room, I watched with a now-warming heart as my student carefully secured the simple Post-it note on the inside cover of her binder. And without timidity, she spoke up before the friends she knew all too well might snicker.

"Thank you Mr. Wilde, for the note."

The next day's returned score would send her rushing into the hallway glowing with the joy of showing other teachers just what she had accomplished. The best score she had ever earned on a math test, second highest in her class. News would spread and with it congratulations. And as she greeted her mother at dismissal, "math" would be among the first words out of her mouth.

* * * 

She never said it in quite so many words, but we all tell ourselves the same lie at times. Indeed, we have been conditioned to recite it. Proudly, we proclaim that we are independent, self-sufficient. That no problem is too burdensome, no disappointment too defeating, no help needed. But one single moment's grace can expose the outright absurdity of this seasoned self-assurance. More practice problems, more friend requests, more hours of even the most heartfelt work can only go so far towards the realization of who we were made to be. No, to become that, we all need help; for we must believe the sometimes unbelievable. That we are worthy. Seen. Heard. Believed in. Beloved.

If I teach them nothing else, let it be this:

We believe in a God who believes in us. Who loves to call us His Beloved. Fashioned then in his image, let us never cease in striving to love as He loves us. Let us believe, just as proudly, in the worth of our sisters and brothers.

Even when they fall, lash out in pain,
and shield their faces for fear of ridicule;
day in and out, let us take the risk to tell them,
to show them—

You matter. More than you believe.

Education is a wildfire.

And a single educator is but a flickering of this timeless flare, hoping to shed some light where there is darkness.

I've come to see myself not as some unerring fountain of knowledge, but an active participant in a dynamic process. I stand not alone, but on the shoulders of those who came before me; those courageous educators who kept the light of knowledge burning, and passed the torch of inspiration.

Like any flame, I, too, require fuel, a life-giving breath of oxygen.

And it is here that I find myself just as much a student as I am a first-year teacher. My students, this community, and God who keep my soul alight. It is their joyful curiosity, their tried endurance, and their boundless love that lead me through each day.

Take for example:

Another school day comes to its close and I find myself spent. The sum of every mental note, committed appointment, and striving self-reflection coalesce in a spinning slurry of to-dos. But it is just then that a fifth grader enters with a shy smile and turns my world back upright. With a simple note of honest gratitude, she has made my world stand still. And in a flash of light and love, my self-doubting pales.

If teaching has taught me anything, it is that my students have much to teach me. And as their reciprocated student, I can always use the review.

These sixty-two bright, burning coals remind me who I am and who we are together. Even when the class ceiling leaks, the projector bulb is kaput, and I have deemed my lesson plan a painfully flawed attempt at improvement, their stretching smiles and accepting laughter join my own to radiate God's love anew.

In innocently reminding me of my imperfections, from in-quiz typos to the belt I forgot to wear, they help me focus on what matters most.

And all the more they demonstrate, if only subtly, their depth of appreciation for my efforts, indeed my presence in their lives. From the student who chooses to confide in me the turmoil stemming for his parents' bitter divorce to the chorus of elation proclaiming my arrival at soccer, I will forever remain a student of their beautiful humanity. Each day, they remind me that I belong here, that this is part of His plan, and that I am enough.

All the communicated knowledge in the world cannot amount to true education, if one's heart and soul remain unchanged. More than my assessments, more than our outcomes, if anything, it is my character these students will remember. Those quiet moments of enacted humility, courageous honesty, and enduring care. The shared fires of inspiration and motivation hold the promise to brighten our world. First year teachers remain but single tongues of flame, but with the warmth of God's love enveloping us, we might just set the world ablaze.

And so I return to a quote now seared into the fiber of my teaching. I behold each of my students anew, as precious lanterns of untold potential. They stand not as empty minds to be filled with information, but smoldering tinder, just waiting to ignite. I pause, thanking God for the privilege to let my life's vocation reach them, wondering with a smile just how far their lights shall shine.

From an outside perspective, the life of a first-year teacher might well seem predictable—regimented even. Let me assure you—it is anything but that.

True, the skeleton of one's day follows a now-hardwired schedule, but the magic of teaching transpires between the class bell's tolls. Hours of dedicated preparation and masterfully enacted lesson plans seem perfect formulas to yield tangible student success, but it is in the simple, unplanned moments that I know God works alongside and within me. To fully appreciate this, I believe one must experience it; so please, walk with me through today—one unlike any other.

5:32 AM: My still weary eyes open, lamenting that my cold has most certainly set in. The temptation manifest in my symptoms nags—just hit snooze, roll back over, you need to rest. But sixty-one faces swiftly
surface to the forefront of my subconscious. They need me even more. There is cake to be eaten today! A universe to be unlocked. God's love to be shared.

6:25 AM: As I greet the crisp fall air outside, it is quite apparent that auto-pilot has only semi-successfully led me through my morning routine. Community coffee brewed, tie tied, breakfast downed (despite this morning's protesting stomach), and the door to our humble convent locked tight on my way out. A thirty-minute commute awaits me on my way to Richmond, a time of reflection and clarity I have come to cherish dearly. And it is here that my day turns.

7:45 AM: My classroom now lies in wait for the students who will brighten it. Practice sheets, returned assessments, and reminders home sit organized and prepared to streamline the day's instruction. I triple-check that today's technology is bug-free, offering a silent prayer that cough drops might soothe my already failing voice. I head downstairs to the gathering point of our school's gymnasium and in an instant, the familiar flood of questions flows. I reassure anxious fifth graders that one late assignment will not destroy their grade, confirm with my seventh graders the exact location of this evening's soccer scrimmage, and share in the barely containable excitement of my sixth graders' home-baked models of the cell. As our school stands to recite our pledge and morning offering, I breathe in the goodness of this place, the hope of the community, and exhale any exhaustion that might oppose it.

3:45 PM: For the first time since 7:45 AM, I sit in silence. My students love to point out that I never sit down, and my legs have long since joined in the aching of my throat. Today has brought a blur of beautiful progress, bitter frustration, and an ever-burning desire for tomorrow's continued improvement. Together, my students and I have comprehended the expansiveness of our observable universe, connected chemistry to the geological formation of caverns, laughed over lunch, decoded algebra, and enjoyed the reward of cellular baking. And just as I sit to plan still further ahead, my mentor teacher swings by unannounced with Ricola cough-drops and reassurance. She invites me to consider anew the work of this day, and find God there. She leaves me with this thought, but my wavering mind is already made. Tired can wait, I have a soccer scrimmage to attend.

8:13 PM: The game is over and the All Saints Knights have narrowly prevailed. Twenty-two grinning faces gleefully acknowledged my presence at the pitch. Casual sideline conversations with parents followed with the revelations that several students I struggle to keep on task have proudly proclaimed my class to be their most engaging. After high-fives and congratulations, the commute home offers a chance to call home and unwind. And the instant I enter the door, my community members sit to intentionally ask me about my day.

Fifteen hours have passed since my head left the pillow. Yet somehow, head-cold and all, I am wide-awake with the week to come. Today was no piece of cake (though I did help myself to two), but it was unlike any other. Authentic teaching will never amount to a stilted routine of standards-based curriculum. For it is inseparably infused with the joy of simple, shared humanity and the overflowing love of Christ. Today was just one day in the life of one first year teacher, but God knows the work of a single day can set hearts on fire.