"Mr. McLaren"

 

I learned that Mike McLaren died in a motorcycle accident over the Christmas holidays. 

The first time I met Mike was in the spring of 2008, when I was being vetted to become the second headmaster of Pope John Paul II High School. The Board asked me to meet each of the existing leaders of the school. Knowing he was the Dean of Students, I asked him: “In a Catholic school, should the punishment ‘fit the crime’ or fit the person?” Without hesitating, Mike said “the person.” “Why’s that?” I asked. “Because the job of a Catholic school is not to mete out justice,” he said. “It’s to do whatever it takes to help the student grow.” “Won’t that cause some people to regard you as ‘unfair,’ since that inevitably means you'll treat students differently for similar transgressions?” I countered. Mike shrugged his shoulders: “So be it” was all he said.

Three things impressed me about his answer. First, I believe he’s exactly right—that’s precisely our calling, even if from time to time people grumble about inconsistency. Second, I was astonished about how quickly he answered—it was clear he had thought deeply about this issue previously. Third, it was his confidence, especially in that he didn't know my views. “Here’s a guy,” I thought to myself, "if I get the job, I can really trust.” 

And during my seven years as headmaster of JPII, I really did trust him—about everything. I learned he would always tell me the truth as he saw it, even if he was quite sure I would disagree with him. We once got into an argument about how to handle a student about a serious disciplinary matter. I won’t give the details, but we resolved to think about it further that night and revisit the matter the next day. The next morning, I told him “We’re going to do it your way,” so we did. It struck me a few days later, and I told him: “You’re the only educator I’ve ever worked with whose judgment I trust more than my own when it comes to a kid's welfare.” And full disclosure: his judgment turned out to be the correct one.  

Mike often spoke with great hyperbole, especially regarding education. Student apathy was never a “big” issue, but a “massive” one. Mediocre teaching was not merely “bad,” but “horrific.” Get Mike started about teachers who used “worksheets” in their lessons, and you were likely to get a ten minute diatribe about the supremacy of Socratic dialogue and the critical importance of the student-teacher relationship. 

I initially dismissed his tendency to exaggerate as a quirk of his personality. But as I got to know him, I came to understand it was an indication of his passion and idealism. Mike was first and foremost a teacher, and he thought about his profession in bold colors, with sweeping brushstrokes. To create a mediocre lesson was to waste something precious--to abdicate the opportunity to connect ideas and help students think for themselves. What got Mike really excited was precisely this: to help a student develop a point of view, for that student to defend it boldly, maybe even to get into a good argument with a classmate about it. If that happened in his classroom—and it often did—he’d walk out almost beaming.  “Good class today?” I’d ask, if I saw him shortly after. “Yes,” he’d say happily, and then tell me all about it.

I don’t think Mike would like this characterization, but for me, Mike was “holy.” I don’t mean that in terms of a religious piety, or in a “holy card-ish” sort of way. Rather, I mean it in the best sense of holy: as a person who consistently put other people first in his life, and tried to serve them in the best way he could. Whether that was his wife Jody, whom he dearly loved, or a parent who called him for advice, or a colleague who was going through a personal crisis, Mike was there for them.

But mostly, he was there for the kids. One of my favorite anecdotes about Mike was he once counseled a senior girl to get into trouble with him in her senior year. He explained to me that this girl was a perfectionist, and he thought it important to her psychic health to release herself of that burden and give herself some room to fail. The girl looked at him horrified, so Mike didn't push it hard. But a few months later, he pulled her out of the hallway, and told her, “I haven’t seen you yet.” “You mean you’re really serious?” the girl asked. “Yes,” Mike told her. Three weeks later this young lady came breezing into his office, excited. “Mr. McLaren! Mr. McLaren! I’ve been sent to see you!” “What did you do wrong?' he asked, faux-sternly. She proudly showed him her shirt tail, which was untucked on one side of her skirt. “ I’ll see you for 30 minutes after school tomorrow for being out of uniform.” She served her time the next day, smiling the entire time.

Shortly into my first year as headmaster of JPII, I told the Board that I had looked “under the hood” of the school that I had inherited from Hans Broekman, our school’s first headmaster. I likened it to a “Ferrari” among Catholic schools nationally.

Indeed, JPII is a special place. But it isn’t special because of its innovative programs or A.P. success, or unique schedule or test results. Rather, it’s special because of people like Mike McLaren, whose leadership, kindness and distinctive flair have indelibly marked the D.N.A of the school since the beginning. 

Good bye, good friend. May your soul, and all the souls of the faithfully departed, rest in peace. Amen.

For Unto Us a Child is Born!

And his name shall be called "Wonderful! Counselor! Almighty God! The Ever Lasting Father! The Prince of Peace! 

Despite the pandemic, despite our separation, despite our fears, God reigns! 

Merry Christmas! 

Social Media, Modesty and our Responsibility to Others

 

This is my talk with students about posting on social media, tackling the issue of modesty and the difficult question of the role of a Catholic high school regarding its students.

Catholic Schools in a Post-Covid World

The virus will pass. How quickly we find a vaccine is an open question, but we’ll find one, we’ll inoculate ourselves, and we’ll be able to return to school without the immediate worries we’ve been living with since March, 2020. 

But we will not return to “normal.” 

To begin with, there were will be far fewer Catholic schools. According to Tim Uhl, superintendent of Montana Catholic Schools, we closed 148 Catholic schools in 2019-2020, most but not all Catholic elementary schools.  Were it not for the extraordinary allocation of monies through the federal PPP program, the number would have been higher. But we won’t get that money in 2021, and schools with significant enrollment loss simply won’t have the resources to continue. Will we have another 200 schools close next summer? 500? More? 

Second, the schools which remain, even if they preserve their present “form,” will incorporate technology in a way they never have before.  For the most part, our use of technology prior to Covid didn’t challenge paradigms;  it was used, rather, to make us more efficient in doing the same things we’ve always done: word processors to write essays instead of type-writers, using online research instead of using the library, emailing instead of writing letters, averaging grades by software instead of by hand, etc. I suppose one might argue those advances were so great in degree that they ultimately differed in kind, but I’m not terribly persuaded by that argument.  Having been a high school principal since 1989, most of these changes have simply allowed me to do the same tasks more quickly, ironically making me busier than I ever was.  Instead of typing a nice letter in 45 minutes and using white out to correct mistakes, I now crank out 10-15 emails. Is that progress? I’m not so sure. 

But the communications technology we’ve all used during the Covid19 virus will now challenge paradigms. We taught students virtually for three consecutive months last spring. We are now teaching in “concurrent classrooms, “ with most of our kids present in classrooms, but with a significant minority using “Google Meets” to participate in that same classroom from home.  It is almost as natural now for teachers and students to interact online as they do in person. 

That’s gotta change us. As I try and pierce the veil of the unknown future, let me offer some possibilities, from least to most radical:

First, it’s going to open up new possibilities for person to person interactions. For the last 20 years, if you caught me at the wrong time in the spring, you might have heard me moan about the lack of parent involvement in anything we ever tried to do in the spring. PTO attendance in the spring is abysmal. I’ve tried offering talks with nationally known experts in raising teenagers, famous theologians to speak on matters of ethics and public policy, local drug enforcement agents to speak about what the teenagers are using—it didn’t matter. The parents didn’t come. Frustrating! But I never made any changes in approach until Covid. Last April, on five consecutive nights, I hosted “Zoom” sessions for senior, junior, sophomore, freshman and incoming parents—just a question/answer session. We had nearly 70% attendance, which was astonishing. 

So there is opportunity here. As an example: at the end of our first quarter this year, we’ll do parent-teacher conferences over Zoom, and allow parents to sign up for those conferences via “signup genius.” Just this week, we had to rethink our “club expo,” in which students were invited to the cafeteria to go around to booths, staffed by club presidents, each pitching their club for new members. Social distancing wouldn’t permit that, so we asked each club to create it’s own video, and invite students to watch the video and sign up using google forms. Some of the videos were fantastic, giving student life here a whole new vibe (here’s our sailing club video, as an example). 

Second, for years we’ve had the technological capacity to offer distance-learning opportunities to our students to augment the curriculum, but we’ve never had enough proficiency or urgency to do so. But I can foresee a “class period” in the very near future where students come to the same classroom, take out their laptops, plug in their earphones, and each take different classes—Chinese, perhaps. Or advanced engineering. Or coding. Or a virtual geography class which allows them to “travel” all over the globe in 4D detail. The adult in charge of the classroom guarantees order and proctors tests, but need not be the expert. Students are on their own to do the learning. 

Third,  as our schools close, and then some rise from the ashes, re-purposed by a set of entrepreneurial educators, what form might they take? Could a diocese use a recently closed elementary school as the hub for a diocesan-wide “virtual school?” Could these virtual schools be staffed by “subject specific” teachers in grades K-2, 3-5 and 6-8 (a math teacher, for example to teach K Math, then 1Math and 2Math),  rather than by generalist teachers, expected to teach all subjects in a grade level? Could that virtual school be “scaled” by adding teacher assistants to welcome 30, 40 or 50 kids per subject? Could it invite students from rural areas in the diocese, who’ve never had access to a Catholic school, to join up? For that matter, could it welcome students from anywhere? And could this virtual school create hybrid options, whereby, for example, the core subjects were taught on line from 8-12, but from 1:30 to 3 p.m, families could opt for face to face tutoring?  Do we need to stay in an 8-3 school day? Could students complete some core requirements for the year over the summer, giving them more flexibility in their schedules during the year, allowing them to work at jobs in the early afternoon? 

Frankly, the options are endless, and I believe what has happened, in light of the “free form” of the last five months, is they no longer sound like science fiction, but ideas worth trying.  If Catholic education is going to flourish over the next decade, we’re going to need to be creative, entrepreneurial and daring. 

May God give us the wisdom and grace to navigate the winding roads ahead! 

We Need Artists!

I read that porn star Ron Jeremy was indicted for 34 counts of sexual assault. I don't know if he's guilty, but it doesn’t seem like a giant leap to imagine that a 67 year old man who has been featured in films that degrade women for the entirety of his adult life may be tempted to do the same in his actual life. 

One of the vanities of youth is to believe we are all powerful, lord commander over our passions—that we are “captain of our souls.” But as we age, we begin to better understand our creatureliness, that our vices often hold us hostage, that it’s easy to drink too much, eat too much, give in to jealousy or lust,  become judgmental, or succumb to thinking sexist or racist thoughts. We find ourselves confessing the same sins over and over again in the confessional box. 

With age comes the humility and sobriety to better appreciate Paul, who admits that: 

For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate... For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing" (Romans 7:15, 18b-19)

Catholic anthropology teaches us that we are fundamentally good, but flawed. We are graced with Christ’s presence within us, capable of virtue,  but flawed by a primordial, original sin that pulls us to vice. Understanding these dueling impulses has kept our Church realistic in its theology. We have the freedom to choose Christ, but at the same time, the temptation to reject him. As an antidote to any utopian idealism, the Church proclaims that God’s kingdom is “already, but not yet” here. 

This realism also explains our Church’s sacramental theology—our need to “see” and “feel” God’s presence and his love through physical signs. “ God is love” is an abstraction without much power to move us,  unless we can experience God’s  love through others, making his love concrete in the here and now. We are not capable of living saintly lives without celebrating the saints who have gone before us, or by experiencing sanctity in the people we live with. Rituals with incense, bells, and water point to supernatural realities we cannot deduce from pure logic or reason. 

It’s also why we need we need to immerse ourselves in what is beautiful, to “think about things,” again with Paul, that are “true, noble, and right” and “whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, excellent or praiseworthy” (Philippians 4:8).  Paul understands that all that is truly beautiful draws us to reflect upon the Creator of such beauty.  

More commonly today, we are immersed in the opposite—our social media and television celebrate what is ugly and vulgar, appealing to our lesser angels,  the voyeuristic part of us that wants to “rubberneck” the “wreck” of other people’s lives. How else to understand shows like Jerry Springer, or most reality television, or movies that feature the truly macabre? 

“Art imitates life.” That’s true, no doubt, but the converse is also true, and more frightening:  that “Life imitates art.” The technological know-how to produce stunning HD video, the ability of advertisers to manipulate our emotions through images, colors, sound, and music, the use of headlines to provoke us to “click” on a link —all conspire to manipulate us. Our attitudes and values are "artfully" shaped by those who wish to sell us something, creating a culture that sweeps us and everyone else downstream. 

This cultural current can not be resisted merely by force of will. We need God’s grace to overcome our creaturely vices. But we also need beauty—to see it, to adore it, to immerse ourselves in it. That’s one of my worries about declining Mass attendance. Without this weekly opportunity to “enter in” and to fix our eyes on “higher things,” I fear our gaze will sink to more earthly, cruder matters.  

But our world doesn’t need more mud wrestlers! We need artists, sculptors, directors, film producers, thespians, musicians, playwrights, dancers and  to elevate our gaze. We need good liturgy to pull us out of the here and now and to worship and adore. We need the witness of saints and holy people to inspire us.We need reminding of that which is wholesome, good, and joyful, yes, but also that which is painful and causes mourning.  Such is the mystery of living and dying that makes life an adventure—indeed,  that makes life beautiful. 

Open Minded-ness vs. Fixed Thinking

 This is my talk with students for Monday, August 24, 2020:

The Power of Kindness

Note: Because of social distancing protocols, we cannot host school-wide assemblies this year. Instead, I am posting my talks on video each Monday, and students watch them in advisory periods. 

Here's this week's post, on the "Power of Kindness."

Covid19 Reflections from Mother of Three Young Children

This is from a recent Facebook post by my daughter, Cynthia Schmidt, who is weathering the virus with her three daughters in Dallas, TX. She's pictured here with Monica, her youngest. 

It's Monday, and all day I’ve been trying to get my attitude right about another day, another week, another month of parenting during the pandemic. A little, indignant voice keeps muttering “I didn’t sign up for this.” It’s an alluring point because it’s true. Six months ago, I had a delicately curated balance of staying at home with my kids while maintaining a law practice, always with a full calendar of fulfilling community service, play dates for the kids, mass on Sundays, upcoming travel, museum and zoo visits, and constant access to rich, life-giving, faith-filled friendships.

But this? This doesn’t look like that life anymore. So many things are gone, and the sense of optimism and opportunity that characterized my life before has been replaced by a kind of anxiety-ridden malaise, made worse by the sense that I should somehow be managing this whole thing better, spiritually and practically. “I don’t like this,” I think; “I have to fix this.” And so I’ve tried to fix it.  With new childcare and work arrangements, changing my risk-analysis for public outings, buying things, buying more things, doing work on our back yard, some activism, and drowning myself in reading.

I’ve tried to fix it, because I have let the world convince me I should fix instead of surrender. The gospel of today preaches that my self-fulfillment, my personal happiness, and my free exercise of my autonomy is the highest good I can strive for, and that if I do this, it will somehow necessarily result in what’s best for everyone around me.

But that gospel is a lie.

The truth is that sometimes, probably more often than we think, we are asked to do hard things for the people who love us, and it costs us. I’ve spent a lot of my life avoiding suffering with life-hacks, distractions, and a whole lot of privilege in the form of resumes, family, and networks. But this pandemic has been a cross for me, and I can’t run from that truth any longer.

I’m sharing this because maybe you’ve been tricked by the false gospel too, and you don’t have any more ideas to fix it, and you’re exhausted running from your cross. Maybe, like me, you’re too embarrassed to admit this is a cross because your small trials seem to pale in comparison to the ones others face, or you still believe, deep down, that you’re the master of your own fate and should be doing better.

Friends, there is a tender voice whispering to us in this moment. Can you hear it? It’s saying “deny yourself, pick up your cross, and follow me.” It’s the voice of the true Gospel, and it is breaking boldly through the shrieking of the blind guides. It doesn’t promise ease or comfort or fixes. In fact, it pretty clearly leads to the top of that hill. But it’s only by going through the grave that we can be raised with Him, only by this dying that we can hope for true Life.

Bishop, Pastor, Story-Teller

I learned with sadness today that Archbishop Lipscomb died.

A bishop from another diocese once told me, learning that I was from Mobile:  "I know your bishop well. You can find him easily during breaks at our bishop's meetings. Just look for the laughter. He could really spin a tale. " 

Yes he could.  For 19 straight years I witnessed that first hand. 

Our graduations at Montgomery Catholic Preparatory School followed the same script during my tenure as principal. Graduates would receive their diplomas, followed by three talks:  The first was from the valedictorian, representing his or her classmates. The second was a joint talk by then president Dr. Doyle and me, in which we roasted the graduates, one student at a time. "Some of the stories are true," we'd say, "some are half-true, and some are outright lies." (We said it was our last chance to get even.)  And then Archbishop Lipscomb would take the podium, address the graduates,  and offer benediction to close out the ceremony. Every single year, seemingly effortlessly, he would weave elements of the valedictory address and our roast into his remarks, making what was always a compelling, interesting point. I marveled at his ability to do this, and at his ability to speak so eloquently, without ever using notes. 

Setting aside confirmations (for those in our archdiocese, this needs no further explanation), he was consistently one of the best homilists of our Church. 

But he was more than that. He was a gentle, caring pastor.  I once called him about a senior in our school who had become pregnant. "What do you want us to do?"  I asked him. He didn't hesitate: "You tell her and her parents that we're behind her and that I look forward to handing her a diploma in May, " he said. "We can't call ourself a pro-life Church and walk away from a young lady when she needs us the most." I remember the tears of gratitude in the eyes of the girl’s mother when I relayed his message.  And I remember being proud of our Church and proud of our bishop. 

He was a  true southern gentleman, marked by a genuine Christian humility. He trusted people. He endured unkind remarks, but forgave those who made them. Shepherding our Church through the horrific scandals that came to light in the early 2000's must have been a profoundly lonely, profoundly sorrowful time for him. But I never knew him to give in to despair, or walk away from his obligations as pastor. I always admired him for soldiering through that period with grace and gentility. 

He had a good sense of humor, too. I remember a story he told my family when visiting our home back when I was a boy:

"I often traveled with Monsignor Sullivan and Bishop Thomas J. Toolen," he said, "and once we had to take a helicopter from Chicago O'Hare to Midway to transfer planes.  Back in those days, helicopters had weight limits, so the pilot asked each of us how much we weighed before we got on.  I was first-- "180" I tell him.  Toolen was next--he was a large man, but he never liked admitting it, so he mumbles "240."  " Thomas!" cries Sullivan, alarmed, "These are our lives we're talking about!" "OK,"  Toolen says grumpily-- "260." "And you sir?" the pilot asks Sullivan. Glaring at Toolen, Sullivan says, "400 pounds." 

Thank you for your many years as our faithful pastor, Archbishop.  May your soul, and the souls of the faithfully departed, rest in peace. 

Easter Glory!

As we limp our way through the COVID-19 virus, separated from each other for nearly a month now, it does us well to celebrate Easter and to be reminded of the resurrection that it promises for us all. 

On my morning walk yesterday, I had occasion to listen to C.S. Lewis' "The Weight of Glory,"  a sermon he gave in the Church of St Mary the Virgin, Oxford, England, on June 8, 1941. 

It is important to remember the context. After the Nazis brutally steamrolled continental Europe and defeated France, they used France as a launch point to wage war on Britain, their last substantial European enemy. The “Battle of Britain” began with relentless bombing of the Luftwaffe on English cities and strategic military positions in August of 1940, all as a precursor to a planned invasion across the English Channel. The Royal Air Force  defended Great Britain admirably, and though we know in hindsight the German invasion never happened,  it was a terrifying, uncertain time for Brits, whose life consisted of rationing, air raids, death of loved ones, and fear for their country's survival.

An address about heaven, delivered by a university professor, even one of Lewis’ reputation, might have seemed ridiculously out of touch given these exigencies, and I guessing some of his critics said as much. But for those in the Church that night, Lewis' inspired vision of the glory that awaits us in heaven, and the “weight” on each of us to lead our neighbor to this glory, likely proved to be the opposite: a stirring commission that reminded those present of their noble purpose and ultimate end, giving them serenity and conviction to endure. 

As for me, trivially inconvenienced by "social distancing" some eighty years later, it stopped me in my tracks.

Here's how he finishes:

We now come to the second meaning of glory. The Bible says we are to shine as the sun (cf. Matt. 13:43) and to receive the morning star (Rev. 2:28).

Of course we can already view the morning star if we get up early enough in the morning to observe it. But we want more than to merely observe beauty—in an almost indescribable way, we want to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

Someday we will put on the glory of creation, or rather that greater glory of which Nature is only the first sketch.

This is not the heathen idea of being absorbed into Nature (after all, nature is mortal while we are immortal). But Nature is the image or symbol Scripture invites us to see. We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendor which she fitfully reflects. And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life (Rev. 2:7).

At present, if we are reborn in Christ, the spirit in us lives directly on God. The mind, however, and still more the body, receives life from God at a thousand removes—through our ancestors, through our food, through the elements.

What we now call “physical pleasures” are the faint, far-off results of those energies which God’s creative rapture implanted in matter when he made the worlds. Even so they are filtered, being too much for our present management.

What would it be to taste at the fountain-head that stream of which even these lower reaches prove so intoxicating?

But that is what lies before us. The whole man is to drink joy from the fountain of joy. As St. Augustine said, the rapture of the saved soul will “flow over” into the glorified body. In the light of our present specialized and depraved appetites we cannot imagine this violent torrent. We must not even try. But we must mention it, or we will have even more misleading thoughts (like what is saved is a mere ghost, or the risen body lives in numb insensibility). The body was made for the Lord, and these dismal fancies are wide of the mark.

It may be possible for us to think too much of our own potential glory in the afterlife. However, it is impossible to think too often or too deeply about the potential glory of our neighbor.

The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken.

It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses—to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.

All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics.

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal—they are immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.

This does not mean we must always be solemn.

The greatest form of merriment exists between people who take each other seriously, without flippancy, superiority, or presumption.

And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment.

Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbor he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ truly hides—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory himself, is truly hidden.

Wow.

Happy Easter, everyone! 

We'll Get Through This!

I told our students that one of the GOOD things about the Coronavirus is that we're being asked to surrender a little bit of our freedom for the sake of others--to "socially distance" ourselves as a way of protecting the health of the more vulnerable members of our community, especially the elderly.  Yes,  it's a little inconvenient for most of us. For those losing their jobs, it's something far more than inconvenient! But perhaps, in our shared sacrifice, we'll be a stronger, less divided country as a result. 

Very few of us living today have been asked to truly sacrifice for the sake of the common good: Military families, yes. First responders, yes. But most of us live pretty comfortably, without fear of a loved one dying, without being asked to fundamentally change our habits for the sake of others.  

As a country, we’ve been through worse.  Mrs. Donna Paintin Blanchard,  a mother of one of our teachers here, recently reminded us of that, sharing her memories growing up in Mobile, AL as a young girl at the time of World War II. With her permission, I am reposting Mrs. Blanchard's reflections here:

“We went to the Saenger Theater for a Sunday afternoon movie.  They announced the Pearl Harbor bombing.  I remember being in the backseat on the way home— Daddy was talking very low and seriously. I didn’t understand what they were talking about, but I remember being scared.   I was 9.  

I remember listening to President Roosevelt’s “Day of Infamy” speech.  I remember how upset Mama and Daddy were when they received notice that we had to move so the ship builders could move into our house.  And I remember looking at our new house on Houston Street house at night, with a flashlight.  Not sure I have these things in the proper order, just memories rolling around loose.  

I remember rationing and the stamps: red for meat and blue for other rationed things, like pineapple.  We had meat three times a week, and “meat substitutes” the rest of the time.  The rationed things were kept in a blocked off part of the store, and you had to have your stamps. You had to be careful with them.   Anything made of metal was next to impossible to get: hair pins, zippers, cars, anything.  Tires couldn’t be found.  I think I remember not having erasers on pencils.  Shoes became hard to get.  

My parents rented out the front bedroom to an Air Force couple,Bob and Phyllis Jolly.  I loved them.  Mama let them use the kitchen on Sunday mornings.  I was in the third grade—we had over 40 in the class.  There was always soldiers thumbing rides. 

Car headlights had to be painted black halfway down from the top to cut down sky shine.  Every neighborhood had its own Air Raid Warden.  They wore a helmet and a belt over their shoulder.   We had air raid practices—sirens would go off, all lights had to be OFF, no exceptions.  The wardens patrolled to check, and when the all clear sounded, people would talk about someday it might be real.   

Once I stepped in some black tar or heavy oil on the beach at the Gulf.  The story was that it was from  a German sub that had come almost up to the Bay.  It was said they were trying to meet with the German community in Elberta to get fresh food.  We watched the planes from Pensacola practice dive bombing targets at the east end of Lake Shelby when we were on vacation in the cabins.  Remnants of those targets were there for many years.  All windows that faced the Gulf had to be painted black.  

When we (kids) went to the Saturday movies to see our serial, we would stand up and cheer any time we saw our flag, or an American soldier fighting a Japanese soldier or a German soldier.   The Japanese were especially despised.   When war news came on the radio, everyone sat in the living room and listened to every word. 

Gas was rationed, so there was no such thing as going for a ride.  I remember going to the little Delchamps store and trying to buy 3 Cokes for Mama.  Rationed!  I think it was because of the sugar, which was scarce.  Once  a week, 3 cokes!   And no chewing gum. 

I remember our cousin William was the first to go in our family.  His convoy sailed out of New York and had to turn back because of German subs.  He sailed on to Africa, fought Rommel’s army, crossed the Mediterranean to Sicily, then to Italy, and up the peninsula to somewhere near Rome, and then home.  

I remember going to my friend Mit’s house.  Her cousin had come home after being freed from  a German prison camp.  I sat next to him at the picnic..he could barely talk, and his hands shook.  I can’t remember his name.   I never saw him again.  I was maybe 12-13."

I think it's likely  that the impact of the coronavirus will get worse before it gets better.  But I find it comforting to be reminded that we've endured much worse in our history, and we got through it, together. Thank you, Mrs. Blanchard! 

May God bless our doctors, nurses and those on the “front lines” as they care for the sick and combat this virus. And may God give our country faith, peace and forbearance as we face this pandemic ”one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all."

Sudden Beauty

There are brief moments in the life of St. Michael that are extraordinary. They often come suddenly, unexpectedly, in the middle of our regular routines.

Yesterday, during our weekly mass, we had  such a moment.  Stephen Sylvester was leading the music, and it happened just after communion, in our cafeteria. 

Imagine 320 teenagers, kneeling on the hard floor, with most of them singing: 

“No place that I’d rather be, No place that I’d rather be. No place that I’d rather be, than here in your love, here in your love. Set a fire down in my soul, that I can’t contain, that I can’t control. I want more of you, God. I want more of you, God.”

Teens kneeling before the altar, singing, asking God to “set a fire in their soul” was so powerful I found myself unable to sing with them, choked up by the beauty of it. 

But the real blessing of St. Michael, and of Catholic schools nation-wide, is that I’m not sure the students saw it as “remarkable.”  I don’t mean that it wasn’t a moment of grace. I mean that Mass, prayer and (sometimes!) singing are so much a part of the Catholic school culture that it begins to feel natural  to students, and may even at times go unnoticed, like breathing. 

And that’s the true beauty of Catholic education.  Immersing our children in a culture of a lively, joyful and credible faith is the greatest blessing we can give them.  I’ve been thinking about this fact a lot lately, watching our seniors as they now approach graduation. They came here as part of the original 99 students to start the school in 2016, our first freshman class—children, really.  And as I look at them now, I see young adults who are confident, excited by their futures, and buoyed in their faith.  

I am sure that our students’ faith commitments beyond high school will follow many paths, but I am convinced this place has marked that path in a way that is profoundly positive.  What a gift  our Church, this community, our teachers, our donors, and our parents have given them!

"Payback Time!"

Note: I was asked to speak in remembrance of Mr. Jim Oates at his funeral on January 11, 2019. These were my remarks. 

The most difficult issue facing Catholic schools today is one of affordability.

We cannot set our tuitions too high, pricing our schools such that only the economically privileged can afford us—that’s contrary to our mission. On the other hand, we can’t set it too low if we want good teachers to work with us—we must pay them enough to support THEIR families. 

For over 100 years, our Catholic schools were blessed to be run by smart, grace-filled women and men religious, who received very little in terms of compensation, living austere lives in community with each other. What an amazing gift they were for our Church for all of us! 

But times have changed, and with just a few exceptions, the sisters and brothers are no longer with us, so to carry on their work, Catholic schools must now hire committed laymen and women, causing our tuition costs to sky-rocket. Frankly, there's an increasing gap between what we must charge and what a number of Catholic families can afford. 

In our school’s second year, I was approached by a older Catholic man, Jim McAleer, who proposed an interesting way of bridging the gap. His idea was to invite Catholics of his generation-- those who been taught by the sisters and brothers of yesteryear--to become “guardian angels” for younger Catholic families of today, assisting them with tuition.  "Guardian Angels" would either make monthly tuition payments credited directly to a student's account, or make donations which would be placed in a designated school account, and if Catholic families needed some extra help to attend our school, they'd first apply for financial aid from our school. We'd do what we can to help them, and if they needed more, they would approach their pastor, who could instruct me to withdraw monies from the guardian angel account to help them.   

I spoke to the pastors, who thought it was a fantastic idea, as it gave them a source to help their families. And it would be clear to these families that this was an outreach of the Church and a gift from its older families. 

So in our school's second year, we launched the "Guardian Angel" appeal. Right away,  we received a very generous gift from a guy named Jim Oates. I didn’t know who he was. Normally we send thank you cards, but this gift was such that I wanted to thank him personally.  So I did. 

Mr. Oates was pleased to get my call. But those of you who know him will not be surprised to learn that within a minute, he started needling me with a series of practical questions about how we ran the program. “How do you determine if a family truly has need, vs. a family that’s just trying to get a good deal?” “Well, “ I said, "we ask that families make financial disclosure statements and send that off to a third party, who assesses their need.” “But how do you confirm what the families say?” "They must verify their numbers with copies of their recent tax forms," I said. Mr. Oates thought for a moment:  "That’s GOOOOOD,"  he said.  “That’s something I’m going to continue to support. “ 

The second year, he sent us even a bigger check for GA, and this time, I decided to visit him. “May I ask,” I said, “why you’re so generous to this outreach?” I’ll never forget what he said:  

“Listen,” he said, with fire in his eyes. “ I went to  St. Joseph School in downtown Mobile for $3/month. When I graduated, I went to McGill Institute for $100 a year. These two schools changed my life. It’s PAYBACK TIME!”  

This last summer, Mr. Oates called me up and told me to come visit him. He was more somber than usual, as if he had urgent business. “Catholic Schools are very important to me. I want to leave a substantial portion of my estate to St. Michael, but only if you promise me that it will only be used for future Catholic families who need help to attend your school. You can’t use it to build athletic fields or anything else. You can't let the archdiocese have it. Families who need financial help only. Promise?  “Mr. Oates,” I said, choking up a bit. “I promise.” 

Jim died on December 13, 2019. 

I've met some very generous people in my 31 years as a Catholic high school principal. But I have never met someone as passionate or as generous as Mr. Oates when it comes to assisting families with financial aid. What a gift! What a legacy!  

Mr. Oates, on behalf of the generations of students and families who will receive the "Jim and Delores Oates Scholarship" to attend St. Michael Catholic High in the future, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.