I still believe in God the Father who made Heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen. It’s just so much easier to keep that one in place, and I don’t have a proper alternative.
So there’s that.
One of the primary reasons for me to not throw the Baby Jesus out with the Christian Nationalist bathwater is because I’m inclined to see things from time to time that I can only describe using the Christian language that I’ve always used. The most common, for me anyhow, is to use the word “Holy” to describe a moment in life that could not be adequately described in any other way.
I see Holy Moments often in public schools. It’s what keeps me coming back. They’re not easy to spot, but they’re present if you look close enough for long enough. Generally, Holy Moments are found when I allow myself the space to wait and see what happens. Emails and texts must go unanswered, classroom evaluations must not be in play, and real life must be in full swing. It is in the quiet, technology free space that rarely exists in my day in which a Holy Moment may show Itself.
Some of my favorites:
The time I sat in the stillness and watched while our Advanced Theater students explored Rasaboxes for the first time. The teacher masterfully explained the technique of standing in one of many boxes splayed on the floor like a giant tic-tac-toe board. Each box listed a different emotion; love, joy, courage, anger, peace, sadness, fear, disgust. While the student stands in the box, they explore that emotion on a profound and intimate level. They “taste” the emotion. They internalize it, experience it. Then they move on, giving closure to the previous emotion before exploring the next.
It could have been awkward. High school students do not lightly reveal their true emotions, and certainly not in front of other high school students, but not this day. This day the students committed, at the stewardship of their teacher, to creating a safe space to go somewhere deep, somewhere fully other, somewhere Holy.
I sat in the back of our blackbox theater. The lights were dim and I dared not to breathe, to disrupt the moment. I was a guest, but I felt like I was witnessing something I did not deserve. The young man holding back tears in the sadness box, the young lady who struck the ground with her fist in the anger box, the two friends who laughed until they couldn’t breathe in the joy box. The student who stood on the outside for most of the class period, pacing and staring, deep in thought, hesitant to commit to the exercise, to the emotion, to the vulnerability. When he finally stepped in a box, his face showed strength. He had overcome something in his soul. His shoulders were back and his chin rose a few degrees from parallel. He stood in the “courage” box for a minute or two before stepping back out of the grid. I felt a lump in my throat as I watched.
Another one that comes to mind is when one of my favorite students, a person who has experienced trauma unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, a person whom I have laughed with, lost my temper with, suspended several times, and high five every time I see them in the halls, left a drawing on my desk when I was away from my office.
They saw me later in the hallway and ran up to ask if I received the drawing. It was on plain white paper and was sketched in colored pencil. It looked like a child’s artwork; it wasn’t fancy, nor particularly well done in any capacity. I told them that I’d seen it and asked what it was all about. They told me it was part of the art therapy they’re doing and wanted me to have the drawing. They went on to thank me for not giving up on them and for being a safe person at school.
Then there was the time I told my head drum major I was leaving my job as a band director to go be a principal and would miss her senior year in the band program. She didn’t cry in front of me but the tears building up in her eyes and her bottom lip quivering are the things I remember.
In high school band, the Holy Moments are a dime a dozen because, well, music. Also, the band world is weird and deserves an entire essay, suffice to say; it’s a group of kids that spend most of the summer and a million hours a week together during the school year, most of which have been in band together since middle school.
I remember the time the mother heard her daughter’s clarinet solo for the first time. She couldn’t stop crying with joy.
I remember the first marching performance after my colleague abruptly got fired. The kids were devastated, I was running on coffee and whiskey, and we were expected to perform a halftime show for a home crowd 48 hours after my colleague’s face, their teacher’s face, my friend’s face was all over the news. They did great and we circled up and created a 150 person group hug on the football field when it was over. I remember the smell. Isn’t that odd?
I remember walking in to work every day at 6:15 am to find a room full of kids practicing their instruments. Just think of that for a moment. An hour before school starts. There is nothing Holier than seeing a student, in any discipline, working through difficulties, getting frustrated, getting better. Seeing a high schooler develop intrinsic motivation before your very eyes will take your breath away. Ask any teacher.
Thanks for reminding me--Holy moments everywhere. It really was moments just like these that made me love being a teacher! Love you, B!
Good Afternoon Brandon.....I am proud of you as well.....your Grandma Nette. Love you so much.