Grace's Goodnight Prayer
My daughter Grace’s bedtime prayer tonight (she’s 5): “Thank you God for this world, and for our food today, and for this house, and … and for God. For You, I mean! Thank you God for You. And God, please help make the bad people good. Even if they’re really, really bad, just make them good. Goodnight God. Amen.” Amen!
The Littlest Things
The girls and I watched Charlotte’s Web, the 2006 movie based on E.B. White’s classic tale of friendship between a spider and a pig, this weekend. Our public library has a couple copies of the movie, so this is the third time we’ve watched it this year.
That’s a good thing, for me especially. While a three and a five year old naturally find miracles in every day occurrences (“Look at this dandelion, mom!” “Mom! Mom! There are stars in the sky!” “I want to keep this stick, mom”), I sometimes become busy and harried and forget to find the wonder in even the most wonderful things.
Like Fern’s mom in Charlotte’s Web, who goes to the doctor to ask if he thinks her daughter is crazy for talking to animals, or to see what he thinks about the possibility of a spider actually writing a word in a web, I need to be reminded, as the doctor tells her, that “The web itself is a miracle. Can you or I do that?”
Indeed, the more miracles there are around us, the more we become accustomed to them and forget to be amazed. In Charlotte’s Web, her first words written in the web, “Some Pig!”, attract hundreds of visitors to the farm, but this is not enough to save Wilbur from his fate as a spring pig. People have short attention spans, Charlotte explains to Wilbur. They’ll soon forget. Charlotte’s next word, “Radiant!,” describes Wilbur perfectly as he watches the sunset one evening with all his barnyard friends (he never forgets to find the joy in little things). Still, it is not enough. Only Charlotte’s final word, “Humble,” is enough to win Wilbur the special governor’s prize at the State Fair that saves him from the butcher’s block.
Humble. Just hearing it reminds me of some of the best human beings I know: hard-working, selfless individuals who, like Wilbur, always find laughter, joy, and miracles in every day. They are not fancy people; they do not make the headlines or win grand awards. But they, like Wilbur, are close enough to the earth that they can find all the delight in it. The dandelions, the stars, the sticks … the leaves turning with the crisp Fall air, the crickets outside my kitchen window tonight, the geese flying south in formation, the beating of my heart. It’s all there, always there, when I remember to be humble and pay attention. That’s the trick. Not being distracted by all the flashing lights and ringing bells. Life this is not.
Humble. It was enough to save Wilbur, even when other miracles couldn’t, and it just might be enough to save us all.
Grace's Goodnight Prayer
My daughter Grace’s bedtime prayer tonight (she’s 5): “Thank you God for this world, and for our food today, and for this house, and … and for God. For You, I mean! Thank you God for You. And God, please help make the bad people good. Even if they’re really, really bad, just make them good. Goodnight God. Amen.” Amen!
We didn’t know what had happened to the bird, but we found it lifeless by our front steps as we returned from the Fourth of July parade on Saturday. “What’s wrong with it, Mommy?” asked Genevieve, my three year old. Grace, the all-knowing five year old, answered before I could, “It got dead, Genevieve.” She didn’t have the answer for Genevieve’s next question, though, a simple “Why?” Neither did I.
We had a brief but lovely burial for the tiny bird, complete with a prayer and an original song by Grace. Genevieve looked concerned throughout, especially as I buried the bird. When we finished, she stared at the smooth earth above the bird for a few moments without saying anything.
Grace saw her concern. “Genevieve, I think that bird was old. It was his time to go,” she said, echoing what I had told her earlier. “Don’t worry.”
Genevieve thought a moment more, and then she took Grace’s advice. “Sure,” she said with a smile, a bit breathlessly, “And when he wakes up, he can fly away again!”
Oh, my sweet Genevieve. This is not the way the world works. Death is much crueler.
This cruelty hit me later when, at a neighborhood picnic, I learned that the nineteen year old daughter of a family in our town had been in a car crash with her friend the night before. She died instantly. The friend had a broken leg. I imagined never seeing one of my daughters again. I tried to imagine this family’s pain. Their daughter had just finished her freshman year in college. She was a pitch perfect soprano who worked as a lifeguard at the township pool. She had everything ahead of her. What an enormous, heart-breaking loss—for the family, for the town … for everyone.
Later, as Anthony and I watched the fireworks from our neighbor’s lawn (our county fireworks display is at the park right by our house every year) while holding our two girls, Anthony brought up his mom, who had died six years before. “Remember that time we all went to the fireworks together?” he asked, a burst of gold shimmer drifting to the ground as the next display, green and blue, exploded above it. I did. It was about ten years ago, before she was sick. The sky lit up again, pink light falling fast. “You realize why she wanted to go to the park to watch them,” Anthony continued, his eyes still on the sky, “I understand now … why she wanted to be right underneath the fireworks. It really is different.” Then, after a moment, “What an awful disease cancer is. I mean, to have to be pushed around in a wheelchair at age sixty.”
The grand finale began, illuminating the summer sky. The girls held their ears while older kids clapped. Heads tilted back, we all took it in. Anthony looked over at me and smiled a sad smile.
The smile of all those who miss someone they love, someone irreplaceable. Death does sting, even for those with the deepest faith. Sometimes you just miss someone—a mother, a daughter, a sister … You want to hold them close one more time. And what God has promised, through Jesus, is difficult to wrap your arms around. Or maybe it sounds naïve, like something a child would say. “And when he wakes up, he can fly away again!” Sure.
But many wise men and women have believed it, and in the quiet, honest moments of my life I have found it to be true, too. “So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you” (John 16:22). I like that line, "NO ONE will take your joy from you." Indeed, may all those hurting tonight find joy again, and faith as beautiful and simple as a child’s.
“The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to till it and keep it.” –Genesis 2:15
I’ve always loved a well-kept garden, both for what it is and what it symbolizes: the beauty that is possible when human hands and human will shape what God has made. Really, what is more satisfying than a lovely garden? As the Bible and so many classic works of literature have shown, gardens are Paradise.
That’s why my own garden (or lack thereof) is such a cause of chagrin. I know what I would like it to be: hydrangeas, azaleas, and rhododendrons lining the fence in the back, petunias and impatiens brilliant in weed-free beds of dark mulch … the grass edged and cut … perhaps some tomatoes and basil growing next to the patio. I have none of that. Instead, I have a front garden clogged with weeds and bushes that are either overgrown or dead, and back gardens still cluttered with leaves from last fall. Besides the clover flowers (actually weeds) and perennials that bloom in my back yard every spring, there are no flowers. There are remnants of my past attempts at growing flowers: an empty basket where impatiens withered and died last year after I forgot to water them, a clay pot with a jumble of weeds (“Look! Something’s growing!” Grace announced excitedly when we walked by the other day), but these remnants are even more depressing than having nothing at all. I tried, I failed, they announce.
Oh, how I would love to have a lovely garden to write about! I would write about how gardens must be tended to daily. About how roses and azaleas need to be pruned to remain beautiful, and about how nothing is possible without sunshine and rain. Like so many other writers before me, writers much greater than myself, I would find comfort in the marriage of nature and civilization that gardens represent. My garden would be a metaphor for my spiritual life itself (I’m in trouble if this is true now). Flowers, nurtured by my loving gardener’s hands, would bloom much to my joy and the joy of others. Butterflies and hummingbirds would be breakfast visitors.
Alas, I can only write about my poor, unkempt garden, a garden in need of some serious loving care. Past experience has shown that I am not capable of making it any better on my own. Sure, I’ve tried. But with two girls to care for who like to run off down the block when they’re outside, a budget that limits me to the most basic of flowers, and what seems to be an inherent lack of gardening skill, I have not succeeded in the least. My garden is not a Paradise, or anything close to it. I need help.
So I said a little prayer, and God answered my prayer in the way that God answers so many prayers … through moms. “How about I come over next week and help you with your garden?” my mother said this morning, unsolicited, “I know the perfect flowers to plant in that sunny patch out front.”
Maybe by the end of the summer I’ll have my lovely garden to write about after all. No matter what, I’ll have my ugly garden (or the memory of it) to remind me that we’re all a little East of Eden and in need of God’s grace.
For my daughter Grace’s birthday a few weeks ago, my parents gave her a refurbished two-wheel bike complete with streamers, a basket, and an “I love my bike” bell. Now one of Grace’s favorite activities is riding around the four mile trail that begins right at the end of our block. I follow behind, pushing her younger sister Genevieve in a jog stroller (Genevieve inevitably hates this and screams to get out and run the whole time, but what can you do?). The trail runs along the Cooper River, popular among rowers, sailors, and kayakers, and it has a great view of the Philadelphia skyline. In the spring and summer, the park is packed with families celebrating birthdays, baby showers, and, well, their families. On the far side of the river there’s a playground, where we often stop for a few turns on the slides and swings. The park smells like honeysuckle and barbecue, and it sounds like salsa music and laughter. I’ve always loved it.
Grace must have inherited this love, because as we made our way around the park last weekend, she let out a little whoop of joy and a “Woohoo!” It was a beautiful evening, with the sun low in the sky over the city, and little wisps of white clouds scattered across a pale blue sky. The air was cool, and tons of people were out for an evening stroll. Even better for Grace, she was able to ride so fast on her new bike that I could barely keep up.
Suddenly, just as she reached the bridge to cross to the other side of Cooper River, Grace brought her bike to a screeching halt. As I caught up to her, huffing and puffing, she looked at me seriously. “Mommy,” she asked, “How long do I get to be five?” She was clearly in her five year old glory and wanted the answer to be “forever” or “as long as you want.” I told her the truth.
“You get to be five for one year, just like every other age.”
“Only one year?” Grace exclaimed, truly shocked and dismayed, “Oh, man!” She thought for a moment more, still straddling her bike (Genevieve had fallen asleep in the stroller).
“How many months do I get to be five for?”
“Twelve,” I answered.
Grace opened her mouth in amazement (obviously they haven’t covered this in-depth in the pre-school curriculum!). “Twelve whole months!” she shouted. “Yes!”
She thought for a moment more. “How many days?”
At this answer, 365, Grace was back in her glory. She sat on her bike again and started pedaling, a huge smile on her face. 365 days to be five! Could life be any better?
As we made our way around the rest of the river, I smiled, too. Life can seem really short, and life can seem really long, but it is always best, as Grace reminded me, when we live it day by day.
For the past three days, my work has been listening to young people talk about the amazing things they are doing for this world. Not a bad job. It’s senior project time at J.R. Masterman High School , where I teach in Philadelphia, and more than a hundred students are reporting on how they spent the past two weeks, when they were not in school but out in the world pursuing their interests. Back in February they found a mentor and wrote their original proposals as to what they would do. In March they handed in a five to nine page research paper related to the topic, and in May they took two weeks to go investigate and complete their projects. And now they present. Skeptical about the potential of today’s youth to do the incredible? You wouldn’t be after these talks.
One young woman, Ogadi, worked with Philadelphia’s Back on My Feet (which was featured by Guideposts magazine several months ago), an organization that helps the homeless gain control of their lives through running. Ogadi, who is an excellent runner herself, woke up at 4 a.m. every day in order make it to center city and run with the men at 5:30. Afterwards she helped at the organization’s headquarters, which works to provide the men first with shoes and running clothes, and then with a better life. “Before every run we always circled up and then said this prayer,” Ogadi explained, switching to the “serenity prayer” on her Powerpoint: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference. “To me, running is a metaphor for life,” Ogadi explained, “It’s about just moving forward and not looking back. That’s true for everybody. I’m a human being and it’s true for me, and these men are human beings and it’s true for them. We’re all just human beings trying to have a good life.”
Two other students worked at Pegasus, a riding stable right outside of Philadelphia that strives toprovide the therapeutic benefits of horseback riding to physically, emotionally, and developmentally challenged individuals. In their presentation they talked about how they groomed the horses and cleaned up after them, but they also spoke of the amazing transformation so many of the riders experienced at Pegasus. “Some children who had never spoken before said their first words on a horse, and others who didn’t speak at least communicated by tapping the horse’s side, which was more than they had ever done before.” The young women presenting, Kaitlin and Meryl, picked their project because they loved horses, but they got more out of it than they could have imagined.
Other students built houses in Camden, one of the poorest cities in the country, and even in Lousiana, where they were assisting in the (still ongoing) cleanup after Hurricane Katrina. “Even though the work was really hard, and you were exhausted when you got home, it was a very satisfying feeling,” one of the young men, Michael, shared. “Where before there had only been a frame, now there was a house, a house that you helped build.”
That’s exactly what I think all of these students are about to do as they set out into the world: build a house—or continue building the house that others have already started, making it bigger and stronger than before. They are incredibly bright, talented individuals and, even more importantly, they are good human beings. I just know they’re all about to go do the hard (but enjoyable) work that leads to satisfying, good lives.
Last week I spent Thursday night (and early Friday morning) in the emergency room with my husband, Anthony, and Grace, my daughter. It was her 5th birthday, and we were just saying goodbye to the last guests after a party with face painting, a piñata, and cupcakes, when Grace fell running up our porch steps and opened up a huge gash above her right eye. My sister-in-law, who as a nurse and even more so as a mother of two young boys is an expert on stitches, took one look and said, “Get her to the hospital a.s.a.p.” My parents took my younger daughter to their house to sleep for the night, and we were on our way. By nine-o-clock we were in the waiting room of Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, or CHOP, as it’s commonly known (what a horrible acronym for a hospital!). The bleeding had stopped and Grace had calmed down, but one look around the full waiting room told me that we were in for a long night.
We were called back to a room around 11 pm, and some wonderful nurses applied a numbing cream to Grace’s cut for when she got the stitches, and then they returned bearing gifts, saying to Grace, “We heard it was your birthday!” There was a pink Hello Kitty necklace, a High School Musical glitter puzzle and, to Grace’s delight, an incredibly soft stuffed bear to cuddle. A tag on the bear explained that a non-profit organization distributed thousands of them to sick and injured children in emergency rooms all over the country every year. Grace quickly hugged the bear close and fell asleep in my arms. That’s where she slept for the next three or so hours, as doctors came in and out of the room to explain how they planned to stitch Grace’s cut. They could give her a shot to numb her eye before stitching, they said, but since that shot hurt a lot they would probably just give her another dose of the numbing cream and then restrain her in a “papoose” during the procedure, which would be quick.
That sounded wonderful compared to how the procedure actually went. The “papoose” is really a straight jacket for kids, and as we strapped Grace into it at 3:30 am, she smiled nervously and put on a brave face, but tears slowly slid down her cheeks, conveying her very real fear. She asked me to put the bear on her tummy. When the doctor began stitching, Grace howled in pain with every stitch. Now hot tears burst forth as she screamed desperately, “Why are you doing this to me, mommy?” and “Let me go! Please let me go!” As I rubbed her hands under the papoose and tried to comfort her, it took all I had not to cry too. I hated seeing my daughter in pain, even as I knew it was what she needed to get better.
Then it was over. Twenty minutes of pain, and Grace got to cuddle with her bear and drink a Cola slurpee, which an attendant who had helped restrain her for the stitches went upstairs to get. We were all exhausted but relieved. Grace’s cut would heal the right way, and we could go home. We were lucky. A lot of parents there that night had children who were in much worse shape than Grace. Their children were gravely ill, or wounded badly. Some didn’t know if they would get better. Sometimes I don’t know what to do in the face of that kind of sadness.
Yet my faith tells me that beyond every pain in life there is healing and relief. Even (or especially, I should say) for the children who don’t get better. God—like a skilled physician, a loving mother, and a concerned father--is there through every pain we suffer and wants us only to be healed.
When I’m faced with suffering big or small in life I hope I can look at Grace’s new stuffed bear that she named, appropriately, Stitches, and remember this: Pain will cease. Healing will come.
Tonight was the “Year End Celebration” for my daughter Grace’s pre-school class. She took to calling it graduation, and that’s what it felt like, really. We dropped Grace off at her classroom at six p.m. and went to get a seat in the sanctuary of the church, which was already packed with parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, all equipped with video cameras and cameras.
When the music started (Celebrate good times, Come on! We gonna celebrate … ) and the kids began walking in, smiling and waving, you would have thought that they were movie stars walking the red carpet. Life is full of milestones, and this one seemed just as important as the big ones that are still far away, I thought, standing on my toes to make sure that Grace saw me waving to her from the audience. Grace entered this pre-school three years ago with a chubby little toddler’s body, and she walked out tonight as a little girl. She rides a two-wheeler now and sometimes prefers being with her friends over me. She is no longer my baby.
At the end of the ceremony, after Grace and her class (“the Stars”) had sung “This Little Light of Mine,” and the Appleseed, Acorn, and Rainbow classes had sung their songs, there was a slide show set to music that just about broke your heart. The kids were so beautiful. There were pictures of them with pumpkins, with Christmas gifts, with the chicks that had hatched this Spring … Each photo made it so clear that time was passing, that this, childhood, couldn’t last.
Last Sunday, I was putting Grace to bed, and she wanted to read from “Your Wonderful Body,” a National Geographic children’s book from 1982 that she had found at a consignment shop. We read about how babies begin from a single cell smaller than a pencil’s dot (“What?!” she asked in disbelief, and then: “Even you?”) and about how nobody knows for sure why we dream, but that dreaming “gives you a chance to roam free from the rules of everyday life.” The kicker, though, was when I turned the page to a picture of a baby in its mother’s tummy, sucking its thumb. “That’s like the baby that’s in Aunt Kate’s tummy,” I explained to her. She examined the picture closely. “What’s this?” she asked, tracing the umbilical cord with her finger. I explained how the cord attached a baby to its mother. “It’s how the baby is fed,” I added, “And it’s where your belly button comes from. That belly button reminds you that you were once attached to me!”
This was too much for Grace. She fell back on the bed, mouth open in astonishment. Then she pulled up her pajama shirt and looked at her belly button.
“How did they separate us?” she asked earnestly. “Did it hurt?”
“Well, they have to cut the cord,” I said, “But it doesn’t hurt.”
“How do you know it doesn’t hurt?” Grace asked, and then again, “How do they do it?”
I realized that I didn’t really know for sure if it hurt. Maybe it did. “Well, they just do it,” I answered ineptly.
“Does God do it?” Grace asked.
I thought that one over. “I think God has a lot to do with it,” I said, “But people actually cut the cord.”
Grace seemed satisfied with this answer, and she snuggled back in next to me. “Yeah. God does it,” she says.
Tonight, as I feel a little sad about the passing of time, I think back to this and know that Grace was on to something. It might hurt to cut the cord and let go a bit, but it is also what is good and right.
What I can’t do myself, God will step in and do. I just need to look at my belly button to remind me of that.
“I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will” (Matthew 11:25-26)
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” –Timothy 4:6-7
The first time I ever saw a road race was with my dad. I was seven years old and sitting at the breakfast table in my pajamas when he pulled me outside and walked me to the corner to watch a few hundred people running by in our town’s annual 5-miler. I was amazed, and I wanted to be a part of it. The next year, in second grade, I ran in that 5-miler with my Dad and my best friend Margo Biondi. We had trained diligently for the day, and I was so happy when I finished. I was hooked.
Since then, I’ve run in all kinds of races, from 5ks to marathons. There is something about lacing up your sneakers and setting off with another hundred—or thousand—other runners with one goal in mind. I love the pre-race rituals: the Star-spangled banner, the cheering at the starting gun, and the nervous jokes. I love the race itself: the family members cheering on the side of the road, the collective sound of a thousand sneakers hitting the pavement at once, and the satisfaction of passing a mile marker. And, of course, I love the end—that sweaty, delicious, feeling of having given something your all.
I am now 32 years old, and last Sunday I had the good fortune of running in the 30th anniversary of Philadelphia’s Broad Street Run, once again with my Dad. He’s now 59. We had never run the Broad Street together before, and somehow it seemed important. 25,000 people were registered this year, 25,000 people who for reasons of their own wanted to run down Broad Street from one end of the city to the other—10 miles in all.
Back in January, my dad called me on cold nights when I didn’t feel like leaving the house and encouraged me to lace up my shoes, with the end goal in mind. “If you don’t do this now, you won’t be able to run in the race in May,” he’d remind me. Sometimes we ran together to train, and sometimes we just checked in with each other. I never would have completed the race without him. My dad has always been my quiet, steady supporter in this way.
The morning of the race—May 3rd--I woke up to rain on the window. My dad picked me up at 6:15, and we drove to the stadiums at the south end of the city, where we parked and walked with the thousands of other runners, clad in raincoats and trash bags, to the subway, which would take us to the starting line at the north end of the city. It was a half hour ride on a full train, all of the other passengers runners like us, except for a few. On one stop a beautifully dressed African American woman boarded and stood next to my dad and me.
“Where are you going dressed so nicely this early?” my dad asked her.
“To church!” she answered with a smile.
“It starts at 7:30?” my dad asked.
“No, 8:00,” she answered, then added: “But it goes until 3! We break for breakfast and lunch.” What devotion, I thought, to go to church for longer than it takes to run 10 miles. The train rumbled on.
When we got off at Broad and Olney, the subway station was overflowing with runners. People sat on benches changing into their race shoes and stretched against the wall. What a great scene! I had taught not two blocks from here for five years of my life, at Central High School, and I knew that the subway station was not always filled with such life and enthusiasm.
Up on the street, the neighborhood was transformed, too. Runners walked down Broad Street, which was usually filled with traffic, to the start line, or as close to it as they could get. This year we were starting in “corrals,” and my dad and I struggled against the crowd to find the group we were to start with—orange. Then we found the bus, one of twenty or so, to check our bag on—it would meet us at the finish line. The volunteers on board were my two dear students from Central High, whom I had taught the past year. “Ms. Gentlesk!” they exclaimed, as surprised to find me among the thousands as I was to find them. We hugged tightly, they wished us good luck, and then my dad and I were on our way.
At the starting horn, we began to run in a light rain. Spectators lined the course, cheering, ringing bells, and holding signs for their loved ones. An entire congregation stood in front of their church, clapping and waving their hands in the air. As always, I loved reading the signs the cheerers held, “Go Kelly! Go Mommy! Run Aunt Stefanie! I love you! You can do it!” The t-shirts other runners wore were even more moving. Two runners wore light green t-shirts in memory of a Lieutenant who had died, 1979-2006. 27 years old! “If not me then who?” the shirts read, quoting the young Lieutenant. Others ran for causes of their own – leukemia research, Lyme disease, Alzheimer’s, breast cancer. Then there were those like me, wearing plain t-shirts and running for their own reasons, if only just to be a part of something good and bigger than themselves.
My dad and I didn’t talk much, but we made sure not to lose each other in the crowd, checking after water stations to make sure the other was still right there. At mile 5, right in Center City, I saw current students of mine, from Masterman High School. Their cheers pushed me along. There was also music: an Irish folk singer, a full-ensemble jazz band, a drummer, a DJ from a local radio station. The run was almost pleasant at this point—actually, it was enjoyable, despite my fatigued muscles and labored breathing. “How you doin’?” my dad asked me. I smiled.
By mile 8, the rain had picked up, and my muscles hurt much more. In fact, my legs were starting to feel like rocks. Still, the sound of other runners all around me, of people lining the streets cheering us on, and of my own father right beside me kept me going. One of my favorite Bible verses ran through my mind: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (Timothy 4:6-7). I wanted to fight the good fight and finish the race. I kept going.
By the time we reached mile 9, the sides of the road were thick with family and friends cheering (not my family and friends, but it didn’t matter). There was no way I would stop now. I could see the end.
Finally, 138 minutes after we had begun the race, my Dad and I crossed the finish line together. We didn’t set any records that day, but that didn’t matter. We had fought the good fight and won, as small as that “good fight” might have been.
But I think—or I thought, as I sat wrapped in warm clothing on the ride home—that these small things are important to God. That we keep going towards the ultimate goal, sometimes moving forward because that’s where our own two legs take us, sometimes because others cheer us on, and sometimes because we have a father—or Father—who never leaves our side for a moment, this is what matters.
We didn’t know what had happened to the bird, but we found it lifeless by our front steps as we returned from the Fourth of July parade on Saturday. “What’s wrong with it, Mommy?” asked Genevieve, my three year old. Grace, the all-knowing five year old, answered before I could, “It got dead, Genevieve.” She didn’t have the answer for Genevieve’s next question, though, a simple “Why?” Neither did I.
For the past three days, my work has been listening to young people talk about the amazing things they are doing for this world. Not a bad job. It’s senior project time at J.R. Masterman High School , where I teach in Philadelphia, and more than a hundred students are reporting on how they spent the past two weeks, when they were not in school but out in the world pursuing their interests. Back in February they found a mentor and wrote their original proposals as to what they would do. In March they handed in a five to nine page research paper related to the topic, and in May they took two weeks to go investigate and complete their projects. And now they present. Skeptical about the potential of today’s youth to do the incredible? You wouldn’t be after these talks. 
Last week I spent Thursday night (and early Friday morning) in the emergency room with my husband, Anthony, and Grace, my daughter. It was her 5th birthday, and we were just saying goodbye to the last guests after a party with face painting, a piñata, and cupcakes, when Grace fell running up our porch steps and opened up a huge gash above her right eye. My sister-in-law, who as a nurse and even more so as a mother of two young boys is an expert on stitches, took one look and said, “Get her to the hospital a.s.a.p.” My parents took my younger daughter to their house to sleep for the night, and we were on our way. By nine-o-clock we were in the waiting room of Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, or CHOP, as it’s commonly known (what a horrible acronym for a hospital!). The bleeding had stopped and Grace had calmed down, but one look around the full waiting room told me that we were in for a long night.
Tonight was the “Year End Celebration” for my daughter Grace’s pre-school class. She took to calling it graduation, and that’s what it felt like, really. We dropped Grace off at her classroom at six p.m. and went to get a seat in the sanctuary of the church, which was already packed with parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, all equipped with video cameras and cameras.
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” –Timothy 4:6-7