I wrote this piece in November 2014, very early in my blogging days, when I was still hitting the space bar twice after every period and when I could say all I wanted to say in 800 words or less. I stumbled across it this morning, and I needed to hear what it had to […]
Loved by God — Next Chapter
A friend asked me recently, “How are you doing with pain now that you’re back in the classroom?”
I appreciated her asking — it was an acknowledgement that she remembered how far I had come and that my move back to the classroom was not taken without much prayerful consideration regarding the impact such a move could have on my health after the years-long journey I have just taken.
It’s a good time to ask because a) last year wasn’t a real test since the students were learning from a distance and the physical demands were not as great and b) we’re now back in person, and the first quarter will end on Friday.
It’s an important question, too, because this blog started when I had to leave my teaching career due to health issues. I was struggling with pain, fatigue, and issues with my skin and eyes, and I just couldn’t bring quality care and instruction to my students in that condition.
My body, it seems, had gone on strike after years of overwork complicated by a failure to process my emotions or take care of myself. Inflammation was so prevalent in my body that I could feel it– it bubbled into my joints making them hot and stiff, it irritated my skin causing scaliness and itching, it inflamed my eyes sending me time and time again to a specialist for treatment.
Many times I’d landed on the couch or in my bed for days at a time. In the early years of my recovery, I had to lie down several times a day even though I slept 8-10 hours a night. I often found myself limping through the house or lying on the bathroom floor waiting to throw up. I was miserable, and I couldn’t imagine a time when I would be able to return to the rigor of the classroom.
However, over six long years, I learned strategies that began to reduce those symptoms and that have kept me on a path to improved health. Among those strategies is a diet that is rich fruits, vegetables, chicken, rice, and fish, and that avoids gluten, dairy, beans, and corn. I also exercise every day, write every day, and see a therapist, a physical therapist, a chiropractor, and a masseuse. When I do all of these things on a regular schedule, and get plenty of rest, I mostly stay well.
The progress has been slow and incremental, just as my return to working has been.
If you’ve been tracking the saga, you know that I didn’t work at all for six months, then I started by tutoring and proofreading. I moved on to part-time work in an educational agency, then progressed to teaching part-time as a college adjunct instructor. From there, I moved back to the agency and eventually worked full-time in a leadership role, but I still didn’t believe I would ever have the capacity to teach in a classroom full of students, managing their learning, their emotions, and their movements five days a week.
It was at this time, about almost six years into recovery, that Covid hit. We as a nation were knocked down by this highly contagious pandemic, and, as we social distanced from one another, we had some time and space within which other ailments — widespread poverty, systemic racism, educational inequity, and the like — became more evident.
The situation looked familiar to me because I had just lived through something similar — autoimmunity had knocked me down and forced me to take some time and space to recognize that I hadn’t been attending to my mental or physical health or to that of my family. I had to acknowledge that they were suffering, too.
And as I observed our nation’s symptoms in real time, something just clicked. It was like I had been training and preparing for this moment. I was in good shape and ready to step back in the ring, and if I was going to do it — if I was going to put myself out there and see if I still had the juice — I was going to do it in a place where I could turn the dial, be it ever so slightly, by identifying and using strategies that might reduce the impact of poverty, racism, and trauma for students who had been knocked down the hardest.
If you’ve been reading along for the last year, you know that I am intoxicated by the opportunity I’ve been given at Detroit Leadership Academy — I can’t keep my mouth shut about it.
But that didn’t answer my friend’s question, did it? How am I doing with pain now that I am back in the classroom full time?
I’d say I’m doing better than I might’ve hoped for. As I’m writing this, I’m tired, and I’m on the second day of a headache. I’m not surprised. It’s the weekend before the final week of the first quarter. We are still short one staff person, plus we’ve had one out due to Covid for over a week. I’m working in a setting that is rich with trauma and the impacts of trauma, and it shows. The students are tired, and worn, and often quite raw. I see all of this, and it weighs on my heart.
And, if I’ve learned anything through this journey, it’s that emotions are stored in the body. My students’ bodies show it, and my body shows it.
So, yes, I do have some pain — in my heart, but also almost always in my right sacroiliac joint, often in my low back, a little less in my hips and neck, and today in my head, and much to my dismay, my left eye.
That left eye — he’s the lookout — he always lets me know when I have pushed too far, when I need to take a down day, when I need to attend to self-care. Today I think he’s shouting because on top of a long week, I pushed a little further on Friday night, went out to dinner with my husband and a coworker, then travelled through a downpour to an away football game where my students were playing against a team with far greater resources — a well-lit turf field, cheerleaders, a marching band, and stands that were 1/3 full even in the downpour. Our side of the field had about a dozen fans including us. Our guys, after arriving late because the contracted transportation was late picking them up, fought hard, but they were outmatched; the final score was 42-6. The other team was jubilant — they had claimed their victory. Our team was despondent — their hopes were dashed. It felt emblematic of the divide in our country — the inequity of resources and opportunity I see in my work every day and the impact that inequity has on the lived experiences of students like mine. It was hard to watch.
We got home after 10:30, damp and chilled, and I crawled into bed to sleep. Through the night I felt a headache and some nausea. This morning, my body has the hum of inflammation — the heat and a quiet vibration that calls for my attention. Less subtly, my eye is shouting, “For the Love of God, take a break!”
So, I’m spending my morning writing and doing some yoga. Next, I’ll eat a breakfast of non-inflammatory foods, slowly go pick up some groceries, then come home, sit on the couch, and watch some football.
I’ll take the weekend to rest, recover, worship, and see some friends, and by Monday, I should be ready to step back into it again.
It takes vigilance to stay well — everyday attention to self care that puts the oxygen mask on myself before it dares to assist the person next to me. It’s counterintuitive to how I always imagined I was supposed to live — squaring my shoulders, gritting my teeth, muscling through, grinning and bearing it — and it’s a better, richer way.
I have way more gas in my tank, way more capacity to put my work down when students gather in my room like they did on Friday morning — a bunch of seniors huddled around my desk, asking for snacks, chatting, busting on each other, making me laugh.
Pain? Sure, I have pain; my students do, too. Somehow, we’ve landed in the same space, and we are learning how to be together, how to learn from each other, and, on the richest of days, how to laugh with one another.
For this, I am so thankful, and so committed to staying the course and attending to my wellness so that I can keep on showing up for these kids.
He picked me up
And He turned me around
And He placed my feet
On the solid ground
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Corey Asbury, “So Good To Me”
I was so excited last spring when I saw a crew replacing our hallway water fountains at school with filling stations.
As part-camel, I consume a couple quarts of water each day while I’m in the building. I’d been lugging in a large Igloo water jug all year; this would make my daily trek in from the car so much easier.
It made sense, in the times of Covid, that we would do away with traditional water fountains, the likes of which I’d stood in line at in my growing up years. It was the only way we got drinks of water back then, by bending over a shared porcelain bowl and glug-glugging until the person behind us got impatient and we stood up, wiped our dripping mouth on our sleeve, took a big gulp of air, and moved on.
Over the past few years, we’ve seen filling stations pop up everywhere — office buildings, airports, and, of course, schools, but in my little charter school in Detroit, which is on lease from the Archdiocese and in need of myriad repairs, I was surprised to see this improvement. Certainly, it was an expense mandated by Covid — I couldn’t imagine the funds would have been found otherwise.
However it came to be, I happily began to refill my water bottle and gladly left my Igloo at home.
I pictured my students doing the same — bringing a water bottle to school and carrying it with them all day, independently managing their thirst as countless students across the country do without thinking. No such thing happened. The students came, but they brought no bottles. They wanted drinks, but they had nothing to put them in.
“Mrs. Rathje, do you have a cup?”
“A cup?”
“Yeah, so I can go get a drink of water.”
“Oh, right. I guess you can’t get a drink of water unless you have something to put it in.”
The school could hardly let the students go thirsty, but what were we to do? The traditional fountains were gone. We certainly didn’t have a supply of water bottles lying around. Instead, as students became thirsty, they went to the office, asked for a paper cup, filled it at the filling station, and carried it back to class. Day after day after day.
It was a disruption to class and to the office staff, but even more, this paper cup carrying seemed like a step backward. Weren’t the filling stations supposed to be an improvement?
This whole situation really started to bug me, but in a world full of planning, teaching, grading, and managing the movements of hundreds of bodies of teenagers in a building, the water problem was not top priority, never mind Maslow.
We were about four weeks into the school year, four weeks in to the era of the paper cup, when a friend from our St. Louis days reached out to me. He said he’d read my blog and would like to support my students. How could he help? My first response was to say that although I had had a great deal of initial support that had allowed me to purchase snacks and prizes for my students, my supply would certainly need to be replenished in time. My reward system was working, and students were claiming prizes for their hard work, and the word was out — Mrs. Rathje has snacks — and the kids were making a bee-line for my classroom.
However, I had no sooner sent him that message when the water situation popped into my mind. I sent a follow-up: “Another project I’m thinking about starting soon is purchasing re-usable water bottles. We have those refillable water stations, but nobody has a bottle. Right now we are using paper cups. I’ve got 80+ seniors. I’d at least like to get each of them a bottle.”
Before too long, he replied that he’d like to support the water bottle effort and asked how he could get me some cash. As it turns out, he is the pastor of a church called Jacob’s Well. Do you remember Jacob’s well? The place where the Samaritan woman gave Jesus a drink, and He told her that He had water that would forever quench her thirst? (I really can’t make this stuff up.) It seems that Jacob’s Well wanted to make sure my students could get some drinks of water.
Within a day or two he had sent me enough money to purchase water bottles for the whole school. My mind was blown. I wanted to act as quickly as possible to put water bottles in my students hands, and since I was still preoccupied with planning, teaching, grading, and the like, I reached out to a few people who quickly got to work on ordering some pretty sweet water bottles — complete with the school logo — that would arrive within a week! I was telling a friend about this purchase, and she said she wondered if there would be confusion with 300 identical bottles all in the same building. Could she create and fund some custom name labels for the bottles? Before she could change her mind, I supplied her with the names of all of my seniors, and, guys, before I could blink twice, these were in the works.
Last week, we had just returned from two weeks of virtual learning due to a high number of Covid cases in our school, and I had brought in some new items to put in the prize bins. I was organizing these prizes Tuesday before I left for the day when one of our custodians said that UPS had just brought me a large delivery — the water bottles!
In my class, each time a student completes an assignment, he earns what I call a Rathje ticket (more on this here); on Wednesdays, students can use their tickets to purchase items in the Rathje Store. I have three bins of prizes that are worth 1, 3, or 5 tickets (almost all of this donated by friends). Additionally, each Wednesday, I hold a drawing; students can put a ticket in a cup, and I draw out the name of one person who can win a prize from the 5-ticket bin.
When my students walked in on Wednesday, tickets in hand, I couldn’t wait to show them that they could get a personalized water bottle for just 3 tickets.
“They have our names on them?”
“Yes!”
“I want one!”
“Me, too!”
It’s not a small thing to have a water bottle of your own, is it? It’s not nothing to be able to fill up your water bottle on the way into the building or in between classes — to take care of a vital need, to do it yourself, to not have to ask someone for a cup for your water every single time you want a drink, to know that this is something that belongs to you.
When people ask me what I mean by educational inequity, I cite examples like this. How can a student focus in class when he has to problem-solve to get a drink of water? And, let me be clear, this issue is not due to an uncaring or irresponsible school administration. I’m working with a very committed team of educators who are working hard each day to provide for our students. If lack of water bottles were the only inequity, it would’ve been handled already, but we’re also trying to ensure that all of our classes have teachers, that every student has a ride to school, that every student has a mask, that students have access to mental health care, winter coats, and all the other things that teenagers need.
Getting a drink of water is so basic, so ordinary, we might overlook the need. Having a water bottle is standard, isn’t it? Don’t we all have several in our homes? Don’t we assume that everyone does?
The fact is that everyone doesn’t. Everyone doesn’t have everything that they need — a water bottle, a warm meal every day, transportation to school, a home with electricity, or access to a quality education. But those of us who do can do something, We can turn the dial on societal inequities — one water bottle, one warm meal, one winter coat, one helping hand at a time. So thank you to my friend who asked how he could help, and thank you, Jacob’s Well, for quenching the thirst of my students.
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,”
Matthew 25:35
When we lived in the little house by the river, on the campus where my husband is Dean of Students, we often had encounters with wild life.
Situated right next to the Huron River in Ann Arbor, Concordia is home to many kinds of animals.
Probably most populous are the less-than-desirable Canada geese that invade in spring and occupy until late fall, dropping unsightly bombs all over the campus grounds, causing students, faculty, and guests to acquire a particular gait that enables them to avoid calamity.
More pleasant in terms of fowl was a small flock of turkeys that visited one fall, taking up residence among the students, blending in, perhaps hoping for a short course in the benefits of veganism or nonviolence.
Most impressive in the category of fowl was a hawk who appeared outside our door last spring — huge, majestic, and unable to fly due to a damaged wing. I admired him from my window and watched when animal rescue arrived, wrapped him in a blanket, and took him away for repair.
Beyond birds, we were often visited by various little critters: countless squirrels dropping acorns on our metal roof — ping, ping, ping — moles who built a metropolis under our backyard and garden, opossums who scavenged through our compost pile, and woodchucks, one of whom found his way under an overturned bucket behind our house and scratched and clawed until I mustered the bravery of my husband to go free him.
We loved watching the deer who lived in the woods behind our yard, often venturing onto campus in the early morning, looking for food or exercise. During the pandemic shut-down, when all was desolate, the deer boldly explored central campus in the middle of winter, during broad daylight, searching for leaves, and seeds, and any other vegetation that remained.
We knew we would miss the exposure to animals of such variety when we moved to our mid-20th century neighborhood with its fenced yards and close proximity to I-94 — that we wouldn’t get as many great sightings. However, recently, we have had some close encounters with the animal kingdom, much to our dismay.
It was several weeks ago when my husband excitedly bounded in from his early morning walk.
“Kristin, oh my gosh, I almost got sprayed by a skunk!”
He had been on the sidewalk down the street when, in the morning darkness, he suddenly saw, right in his path, a furry black critter with distinguishing white marks down his back. Both of them stopped dead in their tracks and made eye contact. My husband adeptly turned and ran the other direction in hopes of mitigating the skunk’s fear response. In doing so, he was able to safely return home by an alternate route.
A similar scenario happened not long after. Then, one morning, as he was stepping outside for his morning walk, he spotted the skunk in our driveway! Again, my husband’s quick-footed response saved him from a morning spent showering and applying all manner of concoctions to eliminate that particularly acrid smell. The only consequence he felt was an elevated heart rate.
As days went on, the skunk seemed determined to get to know us better. On two or three occasions, my husband or I took Chester to the back yard for his morning relief and spotted the skunk in the bushes near our house. Panicking, thinking surely Chester would see him, move to investigate, and get sprayed, we whisper-called our nearly deaf doggo, waving our arms, trying to rush him back to the house. Miraculously, we continued to avoid trouble..
However, not wanting to continue standing idly by as this skunk got bolder, perhaps with eyes on taking up habitation in our backyard, we started taking action. We purchased a few solar-powered landscaping lights and placed them near the bushes where the skunk had been seen. My husband started carrying a large flashlight on his dark morning walks, and recently we purchased a motion-detector light for the backyard. We were going to make sure this nocturnal critter was greeted with light whenever he showed up.
We were taking action, but let me tell you, we were still looking both ways whenever we stepped outside after dark, until a few weeks ago, when we thought our worries were over.
I was driving home and was on the final leg of the journey. Several blocks from our house it hit me — the smell of skunk! It was late afternoon, the sun was still in the sky. I surveyed my surroundings and saw, lying in the street, a rather large skunk who had met his demise trying to get to the other side.
I immediately called my husband. “I have some sad news to report to you, dear.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I am sorry to inform you that our friend, the skunk, is lying in state in the middle of the road. You might slow down at the corner on your drive home tonight and tip your hat in farewell.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “I shall do that.”
Don’t let our solemn exchange fool you. We were rejoicing! We thought we were out of the woods, so to speak. We thought we had prevailed in this saga of the skunk. But alas, there is more to the story.
This past week, my husband was gone on a business trip, and while I had been teaching virtually due to a Covid outbreak at our school, I had agreed to go in to the building early on Wednesday morning to administer the SAT to a small group of students. I rose at 5am and walked with Chester to the side door for our first stop of the day — the back yard.
I was still rubbing my eyes when I opened the back gate, so it startled me when Chester bolted straight for the bushes at the back of the house. I wondered what he smelled there, but I wasn’t conscious enough to register an answer before he bolted right back out and started rubbing his face in the still-wet grass. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement — a small black critter, about the size of my hand, scurrying along the back of the house, under the fence, and away from us.
I looked back to find Chester still rubbing his face in the grass. I don’t think he had even relieved himself yet, he was so focused on getting rid of whatever was on his face. Still, I didn’t smell an oppressive skunk smell, so I wasn’t sure he had actually been sprayed. Nevertheless I led him back into the house, plunked him right in the bathtub, and started hosing him down and shampooing him before either of us had a chance to realize what was happening.
I washed and washed — his face, his paws, his body, his undercarriage — then I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed. As I became fully awake (and fully drenched), I did indeed smell skunk, but it was not overpowering. Perhaps the little guy who got him did not have the capacity of a full-grown skunk, and for that I was thankful.
I toweled Chester dry, put his leash on him, and walked him just outside our door so that he could do what we had set out to do in the first place. He gladly complied, and then we quickly went back into the house.
Chester watched me sheepishly as I ran through my morning routine, put him in his crate, and hurried off to work. As I drove away, I began to think that perhaps I had become nose-blind. Maybe he smelled much worse than I thought, but I wouldn’t know that until I got away for a while and then came back. I hoped my entire house hadn’t been tainted with the stench; I prayed I wouldn’t have to spend my evening on stink-abatement.
Later, after hours of reading SAT testing instructions, I arrived home, opened the door, and smelled just a trace of skunk, right near the door — right where I had brought Chester in after the encounter. I also smelled a little near his crate, where he had spent most of his day.
I was relieved. We had once again escaped almost entirely unscathed, but clearly, this saga is not over. It seems the skunks are here to stay. And, as long as Chester lives, like most old men, he’ll have to take care of business at five o’clock in the morning. So, I’ll continue to grab the big flashlight, wake myself fully, and step boldly forth to take Chester into the back yard.
And…I’ll keep hoping that the faint smell of skunk at the entry way will dissipate.
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
John Rutter
Since I re-entered the classroom last fall, I think I have been annoying some folks on my staff a bit. At least that’s the vibe I’m starting to pick up. Perhaps I’m a little too positive, a little too gung-hung, a little too happy-clappy.
I’ve not always been this way. I haven’t always interrupted staff meetings to say, “I really appreciate the thoughtfulness the leadership put into this decision,” or “Wow! Thank you so much for this meaningful professional development,” but after being away from the high school classroom for six years, thinking I’d never be back, I came to my little charter school in Detroit carrying an unbridled enthusiasm and wearing a lovely pair of rose-colored glasses.
You can almost hear the other teachers, most of whom have been trudging away in understaffed, under-resourced environments for most of their careers and who had recently closed out a school year that ended in an unanticipated three months of virtual instruction, saying, “Who is this woman? And why is she so happy?”
They didn’t ever say that out loud. In fact, I didn’t have any idea anyone was feeling that way until this fall when one teacher I’m growing closer to subtly implied that perhaps my positivity wasn’t firmly grounded in reality.
How could it be? I had been given a second chance at my career during a world-wide moment when everything was virtual. Reality was hard to get a grip on.
All last school year, I sat in my classroom alone, meeting with students who chose to log in to my Zoom room.Those who didn’t want to be there didn’t show up at all. I didn’t have to navigate noisy crowded hallways; I didn’t have to interact up close with the sometimes volatile emotions of high school students. I didn’t have to clean up messes, make copies on machines that sometimes get jammed, stand in line to use the faculty restroom, or cover a class when another teacher was out sick.
My first year back was a challenge, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t the typical Sisyphean grind that most teachers experience day after day, year after year. I was able to prepare, teach, and grade within the hours of the school day with very few exceptions. The classes I taught were similar to those I had taught in the past, and I was able to use my own materials that I had been developing for years. Other staff who had chosen to work from the building became my friends, joining me for walks on our lunch breaks. Every part of my position seemed tailor-made for me, and I was thrilled to be back!
I got excited every time a student logged into my classroom. The few rare times that we actually had students in the building, I gushed with enthusiasm, handing out gifts and prizes to anyone who crossed my path. I looked forward to faculty meetings and gladly answered the phone when anyone related to school — principal, coworker, parent, or even student — happened to call. I volunteered for opportunities such as a curriculum audit and mindfulness sessions, and I agreed to participate in a program for graduates over the summer.
I have been a cheerleader, literally clapping my hands, shouting “hooray”, and doing celebration dances for students and staff. I know, I know — perhaps it’s been a bit much.
But my colleagues can relax, because lately the rose-colored glasses haven’t been doing the trick. We started this school year in the flesh, and shit has been decidedly real.
I think we were “fully staffed” for four whole days, and that was before school even started. We lost one staff member before the students arrived and another within the second week. Not only did we have two fewer staff than we had planned on for the year, but we had a sudden need for an additional staff member when our freshmen class ended up being one and a half times as large as we thought it would be. Our HR department had just replaced the first two staff members that we lost early in the year and was still trying to find the additional teacher when another staff member resigned on the spot last week.
Why so much turnover? Because most teachers don’t experience what I had the privilege of experiencing last year. Most teachers work hard — very hard — with few, if any, breaks, and they do it for insubstantial pay. Teachers are leaving the profession in droves, and few young people are interested in entering the field. Our nation is experiencing a teacher shortage, which is especially felt in districts like mine where teaching can be even more challenging due to systemic inequities.
So, we’re still down two teachers, and Covid starts picking off first students and then staff. By the middle of last Monday, three key staff members had tested positive. Out of concern for student and staff safety, the decision was made to move to virtual instruction for two weeks. This news was to be communicated to students during the day on Tuesday.
When I walked into the building at 7:30 that morning, I felt wobbly. I think all of us did. We were extra short-staffed, and we all knew we’d be covering an extra class or two. The students, it seemed, were feeling it, too. The halls seemed louder, the classes a little more electric than usual.
About midday, as students got notification of the pending move to online instruction, the questions started coming. Why are we going to virtual? What about Homecoming — the dance is supposed to be this weekend?! The anxiety started building. I know it’s going to last longer than two weeks. I ‘m not coming to virtual class. I can’t do it again.
During the last period of the day, I was subbing for a class in which most of the seniors in the room were already disengaging. I tried, in futility, to get them to complete some of their work, to “get done what you can now before you are at home and don’t have the support.” Another teacher, whose room we were in, brought in a small group of underclassmen who were involved in “some trouble” in another room and needed to be removed. Since the vice principal was already backed up with other behavioral issues, we would have to house them until he had time. The two of us talked with students, answered questions, and tried to keep the atmosphere light until the final bell.
When it finally rang, and the students were dismissed, a handful of us teachers gathered in the hallway for a collective sigh. We hadn’t stood there long when we heard the yell of a staff member saying there was a fight in the parking lot and all of us were needed.
We ran out of the building to find chaos — a small cell of students involved in the actual fight and dozens of students moving about the parking lot instead of getting on their busses. What we had hoped would be a smooth transition to virtual instruction was anything but.
It made sense to me. The whole day had felt tenuous — not enough staff, impending change, and uncertainty about the future. I, a grown adult with years of therapy under my belt, had felt wobbly. How were teenagers, most of whom had experienced trauma after trauma after trauma, supposed to find any ground beneath their feet? How were they supposed to think logically, get on their busses, and go home trusting that we would indeed be back together in a couple short weeks?
The fight was soon dispersed, but not without injury, not without drama, not without the adrenaline and cortisol rush that witnessing chaos produces. Students who had missed their busses were picked up by parents or brought inside to wait for their rides, and staff wandered back to their rooms to hop on a Zoom meeting to discuss the details of Count Day which would coincide with our move to virtual instruction.
When the meeting was over, the same staff member who had gently chided me for my rose-colored glasses stopped by my room and pulled up a chair. We processed what had happened, shared our dismay, and acknowledged the reality within which we function, within which we have chosen to teach, within which we both believe we can make a difference — the messy, unpredictable, and sometimes volatile reality. Then, we loaded our computers into our cars and headed home.
The next day I sat in our home office, logged into my zoom room, and greeted each student who showed up with my overenthusiastic grin. I applauded the students who turned on their cameras, and I literally happy danced when a student told me that she had decided that she was going to go away to college after having resolved some personal issues that she had thought might keep her at home.
I think my happy-clappy self showed up not because I am wearing rose-colored glasses, but because I have fully acknowledged the reality within which my students live and move and have their being. Despite the fact that the challenges are many and varied, I am still a glass-three-quarters-full kind of gal. I think I have to be in order to see a path toward educational equity in spite of what I know to be true, to think that I can make a difference in the lives of my students and their families, and to believe that my experiences have brought me to this place for such a time as this.
The joy of the Lord is your strength.”
Nehemiah 8:10
My principal called me and my partner, the college access counselor, into her office. We’d received an invitation from Central Michigan University, our charter school’s authorizer, for our seniors to attend a college visit on Wednesday, September 29.
The event was free for our students, but it was only a few weeks away, and we’d have to hustle to pull it together — communicate with students and parents, get permission slips, and coordinate chaperones and transportation.
“What do you guys think? Do you want to take them?”
Almost simultaneously, my colleague and I said, “Absolutely!”
Last year we provided virtual college visits for our students. Each Wednesday, students would log into a zoom room and an admissions rep from a university would pop in and share a presentation, often with slides or a video. We provided incentives for students to show up, turn on their cameras, and ask questions. It was the best we could do, and for some of our students it was enough.
For most, though, it was hard to imagine what college life might be like by merely watching a slide show on the screen of their chromebooks while lying in bed in their pajamas. To be honest, it was very hard a year ago to imagine life beyond the isolation of Covid period.
Last year, virtual visits were the only choice we had. Now that we were being offered an opportunity to actually put our seniors’ feet on a college campus, we couldn’t pass it up. We had to give them a clearer vision of college.
My colleague got busy on a flyer and a permission slip, and our vice principal/athletic director quickly secured us a bus. A few days later, I started meeting with seniors one-on-one.
“You’ve been invited,” I said, “to go on a field trip to Central Michigan University next Wednesday. We’ll leave at 6:45 am and return at 6:45 pm.” I paused after this information each time I said it to allow students a moment to process. Each of the students looked me in the eyes and nodded before I continued. “Here is the agenda. You’ll tour the campus, attend a class, and get a T-shirt. There is no cost for you, but you need to return this permission slip by Monday.”
Each of my students — students who sometimes grumble and complain about school, who often want to sleep or eat in my class, who struggle to stay engaged from time to time — each of these students responded with a measured excitement.
“Ok. Thank you. I’ll bring in the permission slip.”
Over the next couple of days, I heard doubt surface.
“Mrs. Rathje, are we going to have to ride on a yellow school bus?”
“No,” I replied, “we’ll be on a charter bus.”
“What about the lunch? What are they gonna give us — some bologna sandwich and chips?”
“I imagine it will be a regular college dining room meal. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
“Why do we have to leave so early?”
“CMU is a couple hours away. The event starts at 10am. We don’t want to miss anything.”
We started with a list of 48 students we were willing to invite — those who, despite Covid, are on track for graduation, have consistent attendance, and are mostly engaged in the journey toward college. Several opted out for various reasons, and we ended up with 31 students and four chaperones on a plain vanilla charter bus.
The students were excited and, I think, a little anxious. The questions kept coming.
“Mrs. Rathje, are we all going to stick together all day today?”
“No. We’ll be together for parts of it, but you will each go to the class you signed up for. We’ll be separated for that.”
“What if I don’t like my class? Can I just leave?
“No. You are going to give it a chance. You’re going to stay with your group. You’re going to survive. I promise.”
“Mrs. Rathje, you better be right about the food.”
“Trust me.”
After we left the Detroit metro area, Lansing was virtually the only sign of “city” life amid miles and miles of farm land. The students, on their phones or sleeping, were mostly oblivious, but as we neared Mt. Pleasant, which is not far from my childhood home, I woke them and called their attention to the surroundings.
“If you look out your windows, you’ll see mostly farmland, but in the next few minutes, on your left, you will see the CMU Chippewas’ football stadium.”
They looked out the windows as I continued to narrate.
“On the right you see everything you need within walking distance — restaurants, groceries, a pharmacy. As we turn left here, you are officially on campus.”
The phones were mostly down as students looked out the windows.
We pulled up in front of the Student Activities Center where someone in a maroon and gold shirt was waving us in. Inside, more people in maroon and gold were calling the names of our students, handing out backpacks and T-shirts, and encouraging us to change into them to designate that we were part of the group.
I heard just a little grumbling, “Mrs. Rathje, do I have to wear the shirt?”
“Yes.”
Then compliance. They quickly changed, grabbed a donut or a juice that had been set out for them, and then walked en masse into the basketball arena where the opening session was in progress.
The stands on one side of the gym were filled with students — I’d say about 300 or so — from charter schools across the state. Perhaps 80% or more of those students were Black, and most were from Detroit.
In this opening session, the students learned about the culture of CMU — “Fire up, Chips!” — and some of the programs. Next, we were broken into groups for a campus tour and lunch.
I was proud of our students as they followed our tour guides, asking questions, and checking out the campus, and I was probably as excited as they were when they got to lunch and realized they could pick what they wanted and eat as much as they liked. I got my own lunch and sat down at a table with some young men from our school. They weren’t embarrassed or trying to avoid me as some teenaged boys might do. They spoke to me. They asked me questions. In fact, other students sought me out during that lunch time. They, too, had questions and just wanted to check in. They were relishing a full hour of lunch and the freedom to move about among actual college students.
When I saw some of the students who’d expressed concern about lunch, I asked “How was your food?”
“It was great! You were right, Mrs. Rathje!”
After lunch, we moved into class sessions. We were separated into even smaller groups, and students attended sessions based on their interests. It was fun later to hear students report on their experiences.
“I learned about exercise science. It was about how the muscles work,” one said as he massaged his own bicep.
“We were in the TV station learning about how films are made,” said another.
But my favorite was the one that I read on a reflection assignment completed after the event: “We had to do an egg experiment where we dropped it from a certain height to see if it cracks or not. My egg was the only one that did not crack, and I got a mug for it.” He hadn’t said a word the whole trip home. He had held that little victory to himself.
As we wrapped up at the event, I questioned our students. “Well, what did you think? How was your day? What did you learn?”
I got all kinds of responses.
The understated: “It was alright.“
The tired: “It was a lot of walking.”
And the excited: “This is my dream school. I’m applying this month.”
As we walked to our bus, we met up with one of our grads from last year who is currently attending CMU. He shook the hands of some of our seniors who, in the fog of Covid, hadn’t known he had chosen to go to college at all. My colleague and I asked if he would come speak to our students when he is home; we’d like him to share his experience with our seniors. He said he would and added, “going to college has changed the way I think about everything.”
The bus ride home was hot. The air conditioning on our bus quit working as though to remind us that our fantastical day of hope was over. We were headed back to our school in Detroit where we wouldn’t go on tours, have hour-long all-you-can-eat lunches, or be bathed in images of possibility.
However, the next day in class, my students wanted to share with those who had not gone. They didn’t mention the hot ride home, but they wanted to share what they’d seen, what they’d done, and most importantly, what they had eaten.
“Mrs. Rathje, are we going to visit more colleges like that? “
“If it’s up to me, we sure will, but right now let’s get back to our college research. Who is adding CMU to their college comparison chart?”
A few hands in the room went up into the air.
“Excellent. Let’s find out even more than we learned yesterday.”
Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed to me that my seniors were a little more engaged, a little more motivated, a little more interested in the possibilities of college.
Bring on the next road trip.
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Jeremiah 29: 11
I wrote and posted this piece just about a year ago, when the death toll from Covid-19 in the US was merely 200,000; now we are closing in on 700,00. A year ago we were waiting on a vaccine, anticipating an election, and hoping for financial assistance from the government. Now, we’ve got a different […]
What World Are We Living In?, A Re-visit — Next Chapter
It was 6 o’clock in the morning, my husband was out of town, and I was in the bathroom toweling off from a shower. I heard a disturbance in the hallway, an unfamiliar sound that I knew had something to do with our 13 year old golden retriever. I heard what I thought was a slipping, a scrambling for traction, a fall, and then silence.
I stepped from the bathroom into our hallway, onto the admittedly ultra-smooth engineered wood flooring, to see Chester standing, quivering, just inside the office door, claws safely secured in the plush carpeting. His eyes met mine as if to say, “Mom! Where were you? Didn’t you see what just happened?”
I looked him over, and urged him to come see me, but he wouldn’t step off the carpet. In fact, when I tried to guide him off, I saw that he was very unsteady on his feet. He could barely stand, let alone walk.
I got dressed and went to the basement where I found a couple hallway runners we had brought over from the other house. They weren’t exactly the decor I was looking for in this house, but they might just help Chester get his footing so that he could get to his water dish and outside one more time before I had to leave for work.
I made a path from the office to the kitchen where the aging rolled linoleum floor provides a little more traction. I guided/supported Chester to the kitchen and out the door where he stumbled and careened to the backyard.
This whole time my brain was in panicky problem-solving mode. Was his hip broken? Golden retrievers have all kinds of hip problems. If it was broken, wouldn’t he be crying? He was quiet, but unsteady. Maybe his hip was displaced. That might explain why he was careening — he really couldn’t walk a straight line.
What could I do? It was the second week of classes. We were (are!) still short-staffed and didn’t have a sub to cover me if I stayed home to take him to the vet. I decided I would have to put him in his crate where he sleeps whenever we leave the house, contact the caregiver who stops by during the day and let her know to take special care today, and phone the vet as soon as they opened.
Driving to work, I was stressed. Because of caring for Chester, I was running later than usual, and he was on my mind. What might the vet say? I imagined worst-case scenarios where I would have to call a family Face-time conference to make a tough decision at the end of a long work day. In all our minds, we know the day will come eventually. We’ve had thirteen amazing years with this nearly perfect pup. We know he can’t live forever, but guys, look at him!
The vet said I could bring him in at 5, and Chester’s caregiver said she would report back as soon as she was with him. I had done what I could. Now I had to compartmentalize my concern about Chester and attend to the three sections of seniors who would be coming to my class over the next several hours.
I taught the first two classes then checked my phone. Our caregiver had just arrived at the house. She acknowledged that Chester was wobbly and that she had to support him while he ate and drank. My heart sank. Surely this is serious; surely the vet will have nothing but bad news for me.
I thanked her for taking such good care of him, and regrouped before my final class stepped into my room.
When that block was over, I packed up my things and hurried to my car. I sped home, changed my clothes, put down some blankets in the back of our vehicle, and carried Chester to the car.
We got to the vet’s office, just a couple miles from our house, and I carried Chester in.
“Hi, this is Chester,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m so worried that I forgot to bring his collar and leash.”
“Ok,” the receptionist said, “as soon as we have a room ready, we’ll get you in.”
I sat down on a bench with Chester on my lap. The fact that he just sat there, letting me hold him, added to my panic. He is typically very active at the vet — he sniffs and paces and checks out all the other animals — but on this day, he rested quietly on my lap as I worriedly held his lanky body.
When another dog walked in, he couldn’t be bothered even to look over at it.
Gloom descended on me. Why now? Our daughter, who hasn’t see Chester is almost two years, had finally gotten permission to take a few vacation days and fly home. She actually purchased her flight on this very day. Certainly Chester would be ok, and she would be able to see him. Right?
After several minutes of waiting under the weight of my sweet doggo, we were moved into an examination room. I was texting with my husband, giving him the blow-by-blow report.
Our once very fit pup, who in the days when he ran several miles each day with us weighed in at 54 pounds, was now just 44. Gasp. In June he had been 46.
My emotions were right at the top of my throat when the vet, a woman I had never met before, came in. She knelt next to Chester, examining him thoroughly, listening to his heart, feeling the muscles in his legs, and gingerly massaging his hips.
I braced myself for her to say something like, “We are going to need to get an x-ray,” or “His hip is displaced and at this age, it is unlikely we will be able to relocate it,” or “Is there anyone you can call?”
But instead she said, “I think he has probably strained his muscles in this fall. I don’t believe anything is broken. I’d like to give him an additional medicine for pain, have him rest for a few days, and see how he does.”
“Really?” I practically cried. “I love that plan! That’s amazing!”
“Yes,” she said, “If he doesn’t improve in a few days, then we can do an x-ray.”
Relief washed over me. I hugged and kissed sweet Chester, gladly paid for his medicine, and drove him home.
Over the last several days, he has improved bit by bit. Yesterday I was putting on my walking shoes and he got that excited “can I come, too” look in his eyes. “You wanna come?” I asked. He looked me in the eye and did a little foot stomping routine.
“Ok, Buddy, but you’re not going far.”
I put on his collar and leash, and he happily walked down our street. At first he was sniffing and walking a straight line, even prancing a little bit, but before long, he looked up at me and started slowing, so I turned him around and headed back to the house. He’d made it about a quarter mile — not bad for a guy who couldn’t really walk down the hallway a few days earlier.
Last night, he labored to crawl up onto the futon to lie next to me as I watched TV. I put my hand on him and drank it in.
Tomorrow is not promised, so I treasure today.
For from His fullness, we have all received grace upon grace
John 1:16
I arrived at school Tuesday morning early — well before my 7:50am required arrival time — and the parking lot was already full. Like me, the rest of the staff wanted a jump on the day. They were scurrying around their rooms putting on finishing touches, in the teachers’ lounge making copies, and stationed in the gym to receive any new students planning to register on the first day of school.
Our rosters had been set since the previous week, and teachers had been charged with creating seating charts that would allow for easy Covid tracking should a positive case be identified. I was in my room numbering my desks to correspond with my chart.
The halls were quiet. Unlike other schools where I have taught, this school holds all students in the gym until a bell releases them to their classrooms. Then, students start walking down the hallways, searching for their rooms, while teachers stand positioned at their doorways, greeting students one by one, and allowing them to enter.
It’s all intentional — a way to bring order. A way to establish rhythms. People who have experienced trauma do better when they know what to expect. Routine is very important to the way we do everything in our school.
Once the second bell rings, and all students are in my classroom. I give them a direction to follow — grab a pencil and follow the directions on the screen, for example — while I take attendance. As I begin to mark attendance, I look up and note those who are following my directions, “Jamar is writing his name on his paper. Devon is reading the directions on the screen.” This affirms those who are following through and reminds those who are unclear on the directions of what they are supposed to be doing. When I have finished taking attendance, I walk around the room, confirming that all students are completed, and I give them a class point saying, “One hundred percent of you grabbed a pencil and followed the directions on the screen — that’s a class point.”
On the first day of class, one senior said, “Why are we still getting class points? We are seniors! This is stupid.”
“I’m glad you asked,” I said. “For some of you, the class points may seem stupid. I get it. However, I just want to acknowledge that we have all just been through a lot. For the past 18 months, we’ve been at home, sitting in our beds, logging in to Zoom rooms, or not,”
Some chuckles can be heard around the room.
“…some of you may feel a little uncomfortable being here today,” I continued, “because Covid is still real, and we are sitting fairly close to each other, and there are going to be, when everyone is here, twenty-eight bodies in this class,”
Groans and grumblings replace the chuckles.
“…so even though the points seem dumb, I want to in some way acknowledge that you are here — that you showed up — that you are choosing to opt in to this school year. So, I’m going to give class points. Roll your eyes if you must, but the class with the most points each week will get some kind of prize on Wednesday. It might be a piece of candy, some small prize, listening to music while you work on your assignment, or something else that you all choose. It might be stupid, but that’s what we’re going to do.”
I looked around the room and saw a few blank stares and a few heads nodding. I hadn’t planned it, but I ended up giving the same speech almost every block that day. Before the end of the week, students were watching the tally on the board, telling me, “Shouldn’t we have gotten a class point for that?” and finally, the last hour on Friday, “Hey, don’t give our point to first block! We’re sixth block!”
I think they are on board with the stupid class points.
In fact, they seem to be on board with most everything we are doing. We have had 100% engagement in every activity, every go-around, every assignment. When I told them to write on a sticky note a way in which they committed to respecting others in the class and to stand up and stick it somewhere on the walls of our classroom, they did. When I said to write for five minutes in their journal about the communities they belong to, they did. When I had them complete an online grammar and writing diagnostic which took them close to half an hour, they did it, and, rather than grumbling about how stupid it was, they confessed their feelings of inadequacy and their need to develop their skills.
When I heard their insecurities, I felt compassion.
“Guys, let’s not be too hard on ourselves here. This is just a diagnostic — a tool to tell us where we are. Remember, we have been away from each other for a year and a half! We have not been focusing on grammar and writing. This diagnostic is going to tell us where we need to start so that we can build these skills.”
I was impressed with their ability to honestly look at their scores and to identify the areas where they were proficient and the areas where they were struggling. They verbalized it, too. “I need to work on verb tenses.” or “I need to practice building compound sentences.”
As they finished the diagnostic, I walked around the room, handing out little white raffle tickets I picked up at Office Depot. Every time they complete an assignment, they receive a “Rathje Ticket”. Once a week, I will open the Rathje Store and they can use their tickets to purchase items that I have been stockpiling. One ticket will get them a pen, a lanyard, a trial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, or a travel pack of tissue. Three tickets can get them a fabric mask, a small bottle of lotion, a snack bar, or a box of tic tacs. Five tickets might get them a collapsible water bottle, a college t-shirt, a pair of sunglasses, or a flash drive. The prizes will vary because most of this loot has been donated or scavenged from somewhere. I don’t have an unlimited budget for such inventory, but I do have a lot of great friends.
The students have been stacking up tickets all week — they’ve gotten tickets for completing assignments, for downloading apps, for logging into websites — and they are trying to find ways of keeping them until the store opens.
“Mrs. Rathje, do you have something for me to keep my tickets in? I don’t want to lose them.”
And they are looking forward to the store opening.
“Mrs. Rathje, I have five tickets. Can I buy something from the store?”
You might be wondering if this is a waste of time, money, and resources. Shouldn’t high school seniors just be able to do whatever you tell them to do? Isn’t the learning reward enough for the hard work they put in?
Your experience might lead you to think so. You might’ve been able to show up to school every day, follow directions, do all your assignments, and be successful without really thinking about it. Your experience, however, may not be the same as the experience my students are having.
I don’t know all of their stories yet, but I do know that during this first week of school, the highest attendance I had in any class was 65%. I know that many students don’t have the resources for school supplies, lunch, or clothing that they want to be seen in. I know that all of these kids have just been made to learn from home for a year and a half. I know they are unfamiliar with being at the school by 8am, with following a bell schedule, with sitting at a desk, with putting a pencil to paper. I know that just showing up each day is, right now, a very heavy lift.
So until it’s not, every kid who does the work of showing up is going to get something tangible — a point on the board, a ticket in her hand — for doing so. I am going to do my best to stay stocked on prizes that are appealing and to stay prepared with activities that are meaningful, relevant, and engaging.
“Everything we do in this classroom,” I tell my students every day, “is to prepare you for whatever you have planned next. I will do my best to prepare and show up for you. I am expecting you to show up and get all that you can so that you will be ready.”
This is not going to be an easy year. We’ve got a lot of work to do under difficult circumstances — making up for missed instructional time, wearing masks, avoiding Covid infections, and having limited resources. My students and I are going to need to celebrate each tiny step along the way.
I don’t know, maybe they will learn enough this year that the learning itself will be a reward, but until we get there, we’re going to need some cheering along the way.
So, wherever you are, start cheering, because we’re making a comeback, baby. Just watch us and see!
Encourage one another and build one another up.
1 Thessalonians 5:11
My phone rang while I was watching TV last Sunday night. It was the director of HR from my school. I’d been in back-to-school professional development meetings the previous week, and she was informing me that I had had close contact with someone who had tested positive for Covid-19. I’d need to get a negative test before I reported for more meetings the next morning.
The students weren’t even back yet. Certainly this didn’t bode well.
Monday morning I got up and drove to a nearby CVS where I purchased two self-administered tests. I climbed back in my vehicle, cracked open a swab, and did what we’ve all learned to do over the last many months. I prepped my sample, set a timer on my phone, and started driving in the general direction of my school. If it was positive, I’d return home; if it was negative, I’d continue on to school.
I was slightly worried, because although I’m vaccinated, so was the person who tested positive. If I had Covid-19, I’d have to stay home for 10 days, and I would miss the first day of school. I didn’t even want to entertain that possibility.
Our students haven’t been in school since March of 2020. The last thing I want them to find on the first day of school is a substitute teacher because I’m out due to Covid.
As I waited for the fifteen minutes to tick away, I consoled myself. Kristin, you weren’t within 3 feet of anyone for over 15 minutes, but then I remembered that I had been in a coaching meeting with my mentor where we had sat desk-to-desk, masked of course, for thirty minutes. It was possible, if she was the positive case, that I had truly been exposed.
But surely since we were both wearing masks and both of us are vaccinated, our risk is very low. And that is what I held onto until the timer went off and I saw that I was indeed negative.
Phew! Thank you, God!
I have a feeling this won’t be the last time this year that I will have to swab and sit. My classroom is set up with 27 desks, and for most of the day, every desk will be full. Each 100 minute period, around 27 seniors will roll into my room, find their assigned seats, and hopefully engage in learning until the dismissal bell rings.
Typically during such a long class (we’re on a block schedule), I would move students into groups, have them working at the board or somehow getting out of their seats to break up that long time period and move around the room.
Things have to look a little different in the times of Covid. Each room must have assigned seats and a seating chart printed out and kept in a plastic pocket near the door. If a student or a teacher tests positive for Covid, all students who have been within 3 feet of that student for fifteen minutes or longer will be considered ‘close contacts’. If those within close contact are not vaccinated, they will then quarantine for 10 days, receiving their lessons asynchronously via Google classroom. For this reason, we want to limit the number of close contacts each student has.
Can my students move around the room? Yes, but I need to keep that movement to a minimum. Can they work in small groups? Yes, if I keep those small groups within their already-established close contacts or if the small groups last less than 15 minutes. Can I rearrange my seating chart? Yes, but only at the start of the week because for Covid we trace close contacts two days prior to the onset of symptoms or the positive test, so re-sets need to happen over the weekend.
Are you confused yet? Exactly.
And we’re only, so far, talking about the seating chart!
All students and teachers must wear masks at all times inside the building, except for when they are eating. Breakfast will be served in first hour classrooms, fifteen minutes before class starts. Lunch is served in the lunch room, half of the 300-member student body at a time.
Windows will be open as much as possible, and rooms will be equipped with air filtration systems. All rooms are well-stocked with hand sanitizer and disinfecting wipes and will be treated each night with a Clorox Total 360 electrostatic sprayer. Custodians will routinely and endlessly disinfect doorknobs, bathrooms, and other high-traffic areas.
But guys, Covid or not, we are going back to school!
Thursday, all staff started work a little later than usual because we were hosting our Back to School night from 3:30-6:30. As I was driving in to work, I wondered how many of our students would show up to get their schedules, to pick up their school-issued Chromebooks, and to sign up for their bus routes. After 18 months at home, how many would opt in to an in-person learning experience? We had no way of knowing.
However, when I arrived at school at 10am, the place was already buzzing with activity. Teachers were arriving to participate in active shooter training, the trainers were setting up in a classroom, a couple of new teachers were being oriented to their new surroundings, and….and we had parents and students touring the building, filling out registration forms, and preparing to be at school!
After a very weird year — arriving to a silent building each morning, walking to my classroom, and signing into my zoom room — this felt very back-to-school normal. Could it be?
I dared not hope that this buzz could sustain itself throughout the day and into the Back-to-School night. So, I leaned in to our training — active shooter, fire drill, and round three of Covid protocols. I put finishing touches on my classroom, and I printed and copied day one paperwork for my students — boldly making enough copies for everyone on my roster. If I print them, they will come.
As it got closer to 3:00, I ate the lunch I packed, cracked open a can of green tea to re-caffeinate, and started heading to the gym with my colleague to get our assigned roles before the students started showing up. We peeked in the principal’s office on our way. She said, “Please get all the teachers to the gym right now; parents are already arriving!” What? It was only 3:00. We weren’t supposed to start until 3:30!
My colleague and I split up and went down separate hallways to round up teachers, and when we got to the gym, we found clusters of people moving about, trying to get what they needed. We scrambled to each take a station and begin assisting parents.
Our principal directed families to please step back outside the gym, form a line, and wait their turn — we would get to everyone. And for the next three hours, families stood in lines, shuffled forward, got what they came for, and chatted with teachers and administrators.
Yes, everyone wore a mask. Yes, it was difficult to hear one another. Yes, it was a struggle to identify students who claimed they had been in my class last year, but guys, that gym stayed buzzing until after 6pm.
Is it going to be a challenging year? Of course! Are we going to have students and teachers who test positive for Covid or have to quarantine due to exposure? Undoubtedly! Will we be exhausted by protocols on top of instruction on top of adapting to ever-changing circumstances? Without question.
However, the activity in that crowded gym told me that we — teachers, students, and parents — are ready to give in-person instruction a try. So take that, Covid. We are going back to school!
Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
Joshua 1:9
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