Learning about life through the eyes of others

When you’re a student in Catholic school, the waning days of winter and the early days of spring mean one thing: Life as you know it will change drastically for the next 40 or so days.

Now, before the most devoted among you start reaching for your rosary beads to pray for my soul because I’m railing against the church — relax. I’m not. The mind of a Catholic school student — even a former one — works in mysterious ways.

The education process, at its core, is fundamentally the same for both public and non-public school students. The goal for all schools, whether there’s a crucifix hanging above the chalkboard (well, whiteboard now) or not, is that the students learn how to read, write (cursive or not), add, subtract, multiply and divide (with or without a calculator).

But for kids who do pray to that crucifix over the whiteboard before a pop quiz, school days, outside of the education process, look a whole lot different than public school days.

Back in the day, when nuns were armed with yardsticks and weren’t afraid to use them, those 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday carried a bit more weight than the rest of the school days. More was expected from us, I believe — maturity, respect, faithfulness. But more than that, I think the faith-based lessons that dominated that stretch of time were intended to stay with us much longer than long division or the rules of diagramming a sentence.

The “new additions” to learning start once those ashes are smeared on a Catholic school kid’s forehead. The lesson that seemed to kick things off was proving Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity to be false — in other words, time can indeed stand still during Lent.

Each Friday afternoon during Lent the students of St. Patrick Grade School would abandon our classroom desks for pews in the church.

The first time we heard that classes on Friday afternoons would be replaced by Stations of the Cross, my classmates and I rejoiced. Why wouldn’t we want to forgo math and science in exchange for a couple of hours in a beautiful church?

Because of the kneeling — that’s why. And the amount of time, which, as noted, was about 10 hours of kneeling, standing, kneeling, standing.

But those weekly stations left very distinct impressions on me, lessons, I think, that were vital to my maturity and growth.

Each time we knelt, and my knees ached so I desperately wanted to lean back on the pew, I heard my grandmother’s voice saying, “Jesus suffered on the cross for 3 hours. You can kneel for 15 minutes.”

Actually, though, as noted above, those are 15 minutes in real time.

Those words echoing in my head weren’t meant to chastise or belittle me. My grandmother was urging me to understand and embrace compassion, sacrifice and putting the needs of others first. And, no matter how bad you think you have it, there’s always someone else in greater need, pain or struggling more.

All-in-all, that lesson was definitely worth those five hours (OK, really probably just 30 to 45 minutes) of Friday afternoon Stations of the Cross.

The other thing that came from those Friday afternoons in church was the memory I have of Father Rayford Emmons’ smile.

Father Ray was the first African-American priest to be ordained in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, and his first assignment was St. Pat’s. (In 1987 he broke down barriers again when he became the first African-American to be appointed pastor of a parish. He’s currently the parochial vicar at Holy Cross parish in Mount Airy, according to the archdiocese).

Father Ray’s smile is something I see in my mind still, because it was so genuine, so engaging and so, well, real. It was through his smile and pure joy that I realized that faith is something to be celebrated. Each Friday he took his place at the front of the church and addressed all the kids of St. Pat’s during stations. He spoke of sacrifice and devotion and compassion. He connected with us in ways no other priest did before. He spoke to us, not at us, and he was able to make us understand that this kneeling-standing-kneeling business served an important purpose in our lives. He made all those “chores” associated with practicing faith joyous and happy.

But mostly, and most importantly, the words Father Ray shared with us on Friday afternoons, while by nature served to make us better Christians, the intent clearly was there to make us better people — strong, decent, supportive members of society.

Those lessons that teach compassion, sacrifice for the greater good, trusting in God, finding joy in faith, putting others first, are lessons that, if embraced, transcend all religions and beliefs, ethnicity, skin color, political affiliation.

More than reading, writing and arithmetic, those lessons were the most impactful on my life. And as I continued my education, more educators, coaches, priests, nuns, parishioners imparted those lessons on me in their own, unique ways.

The funny thing was, I learned, that the best teachers of those lessons were with me always. I just needed to look to my mother and grandmother — because in them, those lessons were brought to life.

And now, it seems the lessons I learned as a student are being taught by my daughter.

As an English teacher in a Catholic high school, Kaitlyn has fully embraced the important role she has in her students’ lives, and frankly, I’m impressed.

She’ll tell Matthew and me story after story about things that happened during her day. Her stories are meant to amuse us and give us insight into the chaos that comes with dealing with that many teenagers in a given hour. And since she’s also pursuing a doctorate in education, no doubt these stories are a way for her to find humor in somewhat stressful days.

But as a parent, not just Kaitlyn’s parent, but as a parent who appreciated when her kids had stellar teachers while they were students, I find a lot more than humor in her stories.

She’s giving her students the opportunity to see what acceptance is, what tolerance looks like, and how important it is to see and hear a person, no matter the differences that may be evident. At the time I’m writing this, she’s on retreat with her students — and the talk she has planned for them is remarkable — she will talk to them about grief, faith, and what it means to heal.

As I read her speech, many thoughts came to mind. First, I was happy that she learned to scale back her wordiness. But more importantly, I couldn’t help but think what remarkable young woman she is — and how grateful I am that she inherited from my mother and grandmother the strength and faith that carried them through life’s most challenging times.

“Grief is those shattered pieces that we never think are going to fit back together, but the gifts that come from grief — the compassion, patience, the love — is what we use to start to put those pieces back together. Yes, those pieces will never perfectly fit back together into their original shape, but we can use our broken pieces and the lessons we learn to create a beautiful mosaic. We can create a new beautiful picture that is a better representation of who we are and what we have learned in life. It is a picture where we can learn to let our lights shine.”

Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers is a content editor at The Times Herald. She can be reached at crodgers@timesherald.com.