I Believe Book

I BE LIEVE

I BELIEVE

a collection of summit voices

“dubito ergo cogito; cogito ergo sum.”­ — rené descartes

a collection of summit voices

I BE LIEVE

I BELIEVE

a collection of summit voices

“dubito ergo cogito; cogito ergo sum.”­ — rené descartes

a collection of summit voices

The weekly dance classes became the high point of my week. Annual recitals were the most exciting time of my childhood years. During the Christmas season, when I was twelve years old, my mother took me to see a performance of “Swan Lake.” I was so enchanted by the beauty of it; I knew I had to achieve that grace of movement to share with others.

The opportunity to study with one of the best teachers in the city came during my first year in high school. I had been warned that this teacher was a very demanding and harsh critic. Somehow, I persevered without losing hope or determination despite many humiliating sessions, as well as aching muscles and blistered feet.

A yearlong studio assistantship after high school provided an intensive professional training.

Following that year, having sense of competence, I went to New York, hoping to be accepted into a ballet company. Being responsible for myself in such a large city was something of a culture shock.

I was fascinated, excited, but full of uncertainties. Short-term dance engagements on stage and on television and sales work kept me afloat financially and enabled me to get established. When no ballet company auditions on the horizon, I settled into daily ballet classes at a well-known studio.

My first homesickness crisis came on my first Thanksgiving away from home. A friend who lived at my place of residence, sensitive to my struggles, persuaded me to attend her church. There I began to learn about the power of faith and prayer. I soon gained the confidence that enabled me to continue the pursuit of my dream.

About four months later, Ballet Theatre held auditions for its approaching season. Being eliminated on the first round of trials was devastating experience. “Was there any point in continuing?” I wondered. It became clearer to me that my first goal was to achieve the beauty and grace of movement I longed for, and so I continued to study. A wise and experienced teacher enabled me to correct some basic flaws in my technical foundation. Because many years of training had to be reworked, the change required an almost blind faith in her guidance.

After almost a year she encouraged me to audition for a place in the ballet corps at the Metropolitan Opera. At the end of the third round trials, while awaiting the final selection, I found myself praying for whatever God’s will for me would be. I was accepted.

A season of challenges and tensions in the company left me exhausted. My ballet teacher advised me to rest and not dance at all for two months. This required more faith. However, I followed her advice. The time at home with my family brought me to an unforgettable experience of God in my life. I returned to New York with a new energy, which enabled me to achieve the grace of movement and joy in dancing that I had converted. I was being transformed. This was just the beginning of a far greater faith adventure.

The good God continued to open new doors in my life of faith. Three years later I offered the gift of dance back to God. God then offered to me the gift of a consecrated life with the Sisters of Notre Dame. To my surprise God wanted me to use the gift of dance as a Sister in community programs, in teaching children, and in liturgical celebrations. The dancing shoes are idle now, but I believe that I shall be dancing again in the resurrected life.

dancing into faith

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For this year’s winter magazine we chose to put many in our community through an academic exercise, a decidedly different direction from magazines past. Extending on the wonderful NPR essays and subsequent book’s titles This I Believe, we decided to invite students and staff, parents and alumni, faculty and friends to explore their consciousness for a topical essay on a belief or theoretical frame that they apply to life. Community building is at the core of our existence, and here in these pages you will hear from our founders, students, alumni, faculty, and parents, each inviting you into their lives, their centers. Over 1000 essays were submitted - there was a time we wondered if this idea would fly - and we thank everyone for their submissions and hope you reaped the same cathartic and self-actualizing benefits that were intended. This has been an exciting project for us at the school and we hope you see the logical extensions in your own lives, work places, and families.

Many talented and passionate people deserve great credit for their work on this project, most especially Carol Boyd, our Director of Communications, who publishes all our magazines.

Her team includes Nancy Van Epps of NVE Creative, Steve Penticuff, Emily Jolly, Alex Reed, Lisa Eccles, Bob Flischel of Flischel Photography, and Tim Arnold of Arnold Printing.

Dr. Jerry Jellig Headmaster

THOMAS C. THEO B A L D S B S ’ 5 0 It was a crisp October afternoon on the Summit Boys School football field. Way back then the field was at the far end of the campus, surrounded by high hedges that screened the neighboring very grand houses.

Some twenty of us were suited up, with a scrimmage underway to practice for the upcoming big game. Our history teacher/coach was right in the middle of the action. As often, I was on the sidelines following the play, but also watching Classmate X digging up pebbles and randomly pitching them over the tall hedges.

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trust yourself

Suddenly an African-American man burst through a hedge opening, and strode over to the coach.

I heard him complain that he was hit by a stone while cutting grass, and he pointed me out as the culprit. Even then I wondered how he could see through the hedge openings, much less identify which of twenty similarly geared boys was guilty.

The coach apologized to the gardener, and angrily ordered me off the field, despite my protests that I hadn’t thrown anything. I was to take off the Summit uniform, and to report to the headmaster’s office just before bus time.

Even in deepest affront and agony I was not going to tell on my classmate. Boys just didn’t tattle.

Besides, I thought X would come forward. However, he did not.

An hour later the headmaster confronted me sternly. I had disgraced the school and my conduct was gravely dishonorable. Again, I protested the charge. But I was guilty and was informed the suitable punishment would be meted out the next morning.

I didn’t tell my parents that evening. The following day, I awaited my fate. Would I be dismissed, or taken off the team, or kept in extended daily detention? The year before I was awarded the book “Theodore Roosevelt” inscribed “Best Boy in the Class.” Now I was a pariah.

All day, silence. I was sick to my stomach. Then the following day continued in wrenching quiet.

Finally, a teacher not previously involved passed me in the hall and said X had turned himself in, and I needn’t expect further punishment.

That was it. Neither the headmaster nor the coach apologized. My classmates only knew I had been sent off the football field. I was too proud to whine.

The episode was one of my great lessons, and it has strengthened me all these many years. Life can be unfair, others may judge you wrongly, and you have only your own sense of worth to protect you. Over a career, I regularly encountered associates, reporters, stock analysts, government regulators, and even family members who judged me to have done something stupid or wrong. As many have experienced, it is often impossible to engage your critics, and you may not even know who they are. You just have to move on.

Ironically, in those same years at Summit we memorized Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If” which begins: If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; ……..

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son.

So from real life and from our literature book, I learned the same important lesson at Summit Boys School: Trust Yourself!

trust yourself

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M A NDY KE E L O R ’ 1 3

Hands. I believe in hands. In the history, power, and emotion of skin. I believe in the digits that count the days, number of losses, number of lovers, times we failed, and times we triumphed. I believe in the nails that have been eroded, sliced, pampered, and pruned. I believe in our thumbprints, unique and human. I believe in wrinkles, in hairs, in freckles and scars. But most of all I believe in the blood that pulses beneath our palms and through the electricity of our fingertips – I believe that hands hold life.

Have you seen it? Have you ever seen life in someone’s hands? I have. An infant wailing, its lips puckered in defiance. A seed, nestled in a moist array of rock and clay. A paintbrush in an artist’s hand, a pen in a writer’s. Two hands clasped together, sweating, bleeding, breathing together. Have you ever seen life destroyed in someone’s hands? I have. A cigarette, a glass, a wrong choice, a word, a dark thought. Have you noticed it before?

Why are hands so powerful? Because they are us, I think. They are what we impart on the world.

But hands can destroy too, you think now. You have seen it happen. You remember. Then how do we find balance? How do we make sure the world is lighter?

We change it. We realize what we are putting into it. We clasp hands when we meet in the street.

We put a hand on a stranger’s shoulders and ask, Are you alright? We lift them off the ground. We shed humanity like layers of skin, slither from the scales, and step into the fresh dew of skin that is our neighbor’s, that is our own. We use our talents and gifts granted to us by God, and we open our palms to the sky instead of cowering them behind veils of selfishness. We feel.

Maybe if we feel, if we try to understand, we can avoid a future predestined by the past - for the past is already etched in us. In our families who fought in wars, watched them, and were changed by them. Their wounds are in us; the wrinkles of our hands, the etches of sewn cuts in our palms, the hesitant prints and pads of death that were our fingertips, and the blood that rushes through them. I have seen the past in someone’s hands.

I have heard the past speak from someone’s hands. Last November, at the Kristallnacht commemorative concert at the Plum Street Temple downtown, I was moved to tears by the past: a diary written with the fingers of a holocaust survivor that was read while her daughter played the emotions of her mother through the strings of her violin. She might as well have strung me out to dry and used the wailing and gasping and panging of the chords in my heart as her instrument. But I doubt it can be challenged that we were all instruments that glorious night – packed and squished together, ears reverberating with voices of those who had died, hands either clasped together or gripping each other; instruments of peace, and love, and the past. The past was reawakened for me then, through the hands of a mother and daughter, and I have never forgotten the feeling of wonder and phenomenon that overcame me as I stepped out of the doors of that holy place and sucked in the frigid air.

So I have thought. And I have felt. And I have decided to change the world, one print at a time.

Whether I will succeed is still a question, but I figure, if the past is etched in our hands, why can’t the future be etched in mine? I am an instrument of God’s future. I believe in hands, in my hands, and in His hands. Do you? Maybe it is time to look at them and decipher what you will do. Do you believe? hands

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JU L I A A L M A GU E R

I believe that invitations arrive in our lives when we are ready to receive them. Not only must we be ready to receive them; we must also be willing to accept them. I have received and accepted myriad invitations in my life that have improved my life or made it more meaningful. Each invitation has led to another, creating a chain of life events leading to the person that I am today. I will describe a few of my invitations to you.

The females in my family suffer from what we call the “Cole Curse.” The Cole sisters, my grandmother being one of them, and their female descendants, have generally become teachers.

There seems no avoiding it! Well, I tried for years. After graduating from college, I worked in a variety of jobs ranging from working for a major corporation to owning my own business. No job lasted more than three years as I searched for the right fit and sufficient meaning to make going to work palatable. All of the jobs, interestingly, involved skills necessary to the teaching profession.

math coach

Events from an uncomfortable life situation forced me to recreate my life from scratch. While I wish such a situation on no one, it was exactly the circumstance I needed in order to be ready and willing to accept the invitation to… teach. The only job that I could find at the time was to teach French to preschoolers and kindergarteners. I did, I loved it, and I returned to school to receive a teaching degree. The invitation to follow this career, for which I had been prepared and which was in my blood, arrived at just the right time. Now, after fifteen years of teaching, I cannot imagine having any other career.

Continuing the chain of invitations, I met my husband Alejandro one afternoon in a coffee shop.

It was early in my teaching career. I was working on a school project, and I normally would not have been there at that time. Dating was very low on my list of priorities at that time. However, for some reason I accepted Alejandro’s invitation to meet again. We have been together now for more than twelve years. Had I not accepted the invitation to teach, resulting in the project that day in the coffee shop, and then again to go out with Alejandro, I never would have forged the life that I currently have, with a wonderful husband and our two amazing children.

Four years ago my family moved to Loveland. To say that I was unhappy about leaving my prior life, work, friends, house, and neighbors would be an understatement. I was devastated. My husband’s work required us to be here, though, so I begrudgingly closed our Columbus life and opened our Cincinnati one. Thank goodness I did. For some reason, I have received and accepted many important invitations in my four years here.

I was raised as a non-practicing Protestant. When our first child was born eight years ago, my Catholic husband and I began to attend a Catholic church. About three years ago, one year after moving to Cincinnati, I chose to convert to Catholicism through the RCIA process. For some reason, at that time, the invitation reached me. My faith deepened in the process, I became more connected to my church, and my sponsor became a good friend. Eventually I accepted the additional invitation to teach at this Catholic institution, where my faith is regularly encouraged and celebrated.

I am curious to see what invitation will reach me next. Whatever it is, I believe that it will reach me exactly when I am ready to receive and accept it.

I invite you to listen, to be ready, and to accept the next invitation that comes your way.

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invitations

S A M A N T H A WI N Z E N R E A D ’ 1 3

It is so incredibly important to believe in yourself, and your own ability, and just as important to surround yourself with people who have this affect on you, and believe in you in turn. My little brother Gary is living, breathing proof of this.

When I was six, Gary was born with Down Syndrome at an unbelievable 2 months premature.

Those first two months were the hardest, longest two months my family may ever endure.

The doctors had grave predictions for his future. The light was dim, but still flickering in the distance. Our family was strong and never gave up, though some days it seemed pointless and as if we were setting ourselves up for disappointment, but that never stopped us. If there was hope, there was a way, and that was enough. Despite the odds, Gary pulled through, a little miracle. I remember the first time I got to hold him. He was the tiniest baby I had ever seen, hooked up to tons of tubes and wires, but still beautiful. I’ll never forget that moment. That’s when it hit me, that’s when I knew: If it weren’t for the love and positive energy pulsing through the family; if we’d have given up, and stopped believing in Gary, he wouldn’t be here today.

That’s the most valuable lesson I have learned to date. Simply believing in people is enough to keep them going through whatever tough situation they are faced with. All it takes is one person who really and truly cares about you, and makes you believe in yourself.

Think about it. If you don’t believe in yourself, then neither will anyone else. You are in charge of your own life, your own destiny. It’s as simple as that. All you have to do…is believe.

believing in people

4

TERRY M A L O N E lower school director I believe‌it was about 8:00 a.m. when the one thousand Middle School students crowded the hallways to go to their lockers for the start of another school day. It was about that time when I was called to an emergency situation by a panicked teacher on the house phone. I was an assistant principal then and a teenager named Busida was swearing at the 7th grade science teacher. The teacher stood 6’5�, a former collegiate basketball star and now preacher, and was in a bit of a militant stance. Intimidating to most, but not to Busida. She was as tough as one could get; the biggest student in 7th grade, and emotionally charged. She would never back down to anyone.

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busida

I hurried to the situation and intervened immediately. Fortunately, I had a solid rapport and relationship with the student and the teacher. I don’t think she respected my authority, she tolerated me. I was able to diffuse the situation by asking her calmly to come to my office to talk. She really was looking for a way out of the situation, and she cooperated, but as she turned to walk away, she began to weep and yelled to the teacher, F*** you, Mr. Thompson. You’re just like the rest of the teachers. You’re not like us; you’re black, but you act white!

Mr. Thompson was an aspiring administrator at the time - articulate, intelligent and an asset to our school. Earlier in the year, he and I formed a club for minority students. We designed the club in an attempt to get African American and Hispanic students and families more connected to the school.

We took field trips to universities and celebrated post secondary education. Busida was one of our students in the club.

The crowd dispersed and I investigated the situation from the teachers’ perspectives. Mr. Thompson reported that Busida was not to be in this hallway of the school. He told her that many times. None of her classes were in this hallway, nor was her locker. This was the 6th grade hallway.

Historically, Busida wandered the halls and when she did, trouble followed. Mr. Thompson took pride in keeping the school orderly. I accepted his account and pursued Busida to my office, which was within the larger guidance suite.

Busida was a frequent flyer to the guidance and administrative offices. She came to our suburban, affluent school from the stricken inner city. She was a resident of a nearby foster home. Sadly, earlier in her life she witnessed her father kill her mother then himself. Her foster mother told us this story and shared how Busida watched from the back seat of the vehicle as the incident occurred.

Our hearts poured for her and we all were invested in her success. I worked with such a wonderful staff at that time and most of the faculty would do all they could to save Busida. Her team of teachers was flexible and they cared for her. They understood and gave her a lot of love.

She was wearing the Princeton sweatshirt I bought her; a week earlier she cut classes because she didn’t like her old sweatshirt. Busida aspired to be a lawyer to make money some day. When I spoke to her that morning, she told me how her locker was changed yesterday by her advisor.

She said Mr. Thompson was unaware and never gave her a chance to speak. I calmed her and we decided that we would meet with Mr. Thomson to apologize and talk together. He was the type of teacher that would apologize to her as well. All would be fine, lessons would be learned and the harm would be repaired. A big misunderstanding and overreaction.

Exiting my doorway, I had Busida sit down in the guidance office. She asked me to get her books from her locker. She never wanted anyone to look at her differently. She would never walk into class late for any reason. She didn’t want the attention. On time for class or she would never show up.

As we exited my office, I informed a staff member that Busida was to sit here until I returned with her books for her next class. The staff member responded, I hope she can behave herself while you’re gone. That was it. Busida flipped out into a rage and had to be sent home. I lost control of the situation.

I think about Busida often. I believe in listening. Meet them where they are.

busida

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B E L L A B O H L KE ’ 1 2

My brother and dad were in Canada on a heli-boarding trip when they got caught up in an avalanche.

My brother managed to survive but my dad did not. Upon grieving for my dad I remembered a quote my brother had said to me years before. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” This was becoming reality. I think about my brother and how much stronger he became after our dad’s death, and how much stronger our family relationship has become. Nick became my fatherly-like figure after the accident.

I came to realize how this pertains to everything in life. Those wise words of wisdom are always going to be the truth of the matter. Anything in life that you did not die from, in some way it has made you stronger. I believe that everything happens for a reason. You will be able to live your life to its fullest if you never look back on the bad memories and always step forward into the future.

Strength is the key to life.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. This I believe.

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finding strength

E M I LY J O L LY

I want to tell you a little bit about how I find peace after a busy day here at The Summit.

My story begins when I was in high school and I took a yoga class from a young woman named Phyllis Bellamah. I continued to take classes from her weekly for over 10 years. I admired her and her sparkling, vigorous spirit and she became a kind of spiritual mentor to me. I still hear her voice to this day, especially when I do yoga. She would close each class by saying:

At the center of love I stand and naught can touch me here.

I go forth to love and serve and return again to peace....

My garden of repose.

administrative assistant

These words made a huge impression on me. The concept of “my garden of repose” was a touchpoint to my imagination, my mind and my heart. I did not have my own home yet, and had not even left my parents home to go to college and then move out on my own into the world. But I knew no matter what else I did in my life, I wanted this concept at the center, both inside of me, as well as the physical manifestation of this peace around me and in my home.

In the rooms I shared with college roommates and in every subsequent apartment and home, I have made wherever I have lived a place of beauty and peace. I would not even move into an apartment or home unless the views from the windows were beautiful.

In my present home I have created a real sanctuary. I have a large room in the back of the house that has 3 sides of windows that overlook the back yard and gardens and out into the woods behind the house. The concept of the poem has become manifest in this room, my garden of repose.

My room has a wall lined with bookcases and a divan and easy chair where I can read, or be still and reflective.

• There’s a CD player so I can hear the music of my choice.

• There are candles and wonderful scents in this room.

• I have an easel set up with paints and brushes nearby when I want to paint.

• There is a large desk overlooking the woods where I can write in my journal.

• I have bird houses and feeders that can be seen from every window. Every morning, no matter what season; I fill the bird feeders and birdbath. In the fall the hummingbird feeder is filled till the very last hummer leaves for the south. I put out stale bread and fruit for the chipmunks and squirrels.

• In the winter I bring in all the houseplants and this room becomes a greenhouse.

• Artistic work my friends have created is on the walls.

In this way I have created a place where my free spirit can dream and flourish. This is a place where after a long day of answering phones and trying to help each person I come into contact with, I can be quiet and still.

This is a sanctuary where all creatures can be happy and safe, especially me. I can go out into the world from “my garden of repose.” The words to the poem Phyllis Bellamah would read to us are on the wall of my room, even though I know them by heart. And what a difference this teacher made in my life, even to this day.

I believe Phyllis Bellamah is still with me every day as I go forth to love and serve and return again to peace. how I find peace

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L OG A N E Y E R ’ 1 1

I believe that everyone, deep, deep down is similar in one way or another. I believe this because of my knowing my dad’s younger brother Dirk, who is mildly mentally challenged. Throughout his life there have been many hard times for my grandma and grandpa, mom and dad and people he comes in contact with. I have learned over the years that he is not at all what people assume him to be. People have stereotypes that aren’t even remotely true. My uncle is actually a very outgoing and smart man and is not afraid of anything. He will start talking to people he has never seen before like he has known them all of his life. Dirk is also really smart. If you try to pull a joke on him or act sarcastic he will be the first one to point it out and ruin the fun that you intended to have.

Everyone in the world likes to have a good laugh. When my entire family is together this happens a lot. All of the guys; my uncles Chris and Dirk, my dad, and even my grandpa feed off each other for jokes and other stupid comments. Most of the time it involves pointing out stupid stuff that somebody did, or telling old stories from when they were kids. Dirk keeps up with us all. Growing up with my uncle has taught me first hand that no matter what one’s situation is, deep down there is a part in every one of us that ticks at the same beat, some part of every human that likes to be nice to others and have fun.

dirk

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L I Z Z Y E D WA R D S ’ 1 0

I believe that barefootedness is necessary and too rare, especially in adults. Adults always have shoes on, even inside; it’s ridiculous. Are we programmed to surrender out inherent freedoms after we depart childhood and enter the nine-to-five workforce? I say nay, slip off those Doc Martin’s, your kitten heels, your loafers. And if you, the reader, have yet to reach the portion in your life coined “maturity” and are unable to recall the last time you romped “sans shoes,” well, you have some serious work to do.

The mind is bombarded with billions of pieces of information every second; yet we only are conscious of a few hundred, and even worse, we only pay attention to a select few. The foot to ground connection can tell you so much – did it rain last night? Or does the floor need mopping?

I believe being barefoot is like re-discovering a sense with empowering capabilities nothing shy of superhuman. When barefoot, I feel swift, invincible, untamed and authentic.

Being barefoot is grounding – each step feeling contact from the bottom of your heel, to rolling your arch over the surface, to the clenching of your toes to blast off, soaring inches above the terrain to then be planted down again seconds later. The truth is people are just not meant to be separate from the earth. We are meant to feel the mud between our toes, the grass on our ankles.

The next time you think it’s about time for that pedicure, think again. Your feet are beautiful and they have carried you your entire life… don’t rid them of their calloused badges of honor. Step out and stroll – free your phalanges and live differently.

bare feet

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Just as my parents earned their trust back in my 7, 8, and 9-year-old eyes, my mom changed my life forever, again. When I was 10, my mom got married to a man in Cincinnati, Ohio, and moved my brother and me there to start a “new” life with five new stepsiblings.

What most people do not know about me is that I am, or I was, a daddy’s girl. At that point in my life, my mom was never getting a second chance. I only saw my dad every other weekend. Each and every other Friday after school, my brother and I would travel to the airport, board a plane for Raleigh, North Carolina and land in the evening. We would spend Friday night, Saturday, Saturday night and Sunday in Raleigh. Sunday afternoon, we would again travel to the airport and board a plane headed back to Cincinnati. This would take a toll on anyone. I missed my dad more than anyone will ever know.

I am an athlete and if there is a God, that is what He put me on this earth to do; compete. When I started high school my games became more important and more frequent on the weekends.

Even though the “every other weekend” rule still applies, I go to see my dad about every three or four months. Now, I sometimes feel awkward around my dad, and I feel as though I cannot tell him everything I want to. I feel as though his stepdaughter has replaced me as his own. For this, I somewhat blame myself, but more my mom. I have tried my best to see the situation through my mom’s eyes, and give her a second chance.

Through these last ten years, since my parents first became separated, I have become a very independent, responsible person. Though some might find my attitude a little sarcastic, the misfortune I have endured has made me stronger. Every time I go on a trip with someone or talk about college with someone, they always bring up the fact that they miss or will miss their parents.

Since I have always been away from one of my parents I feel as though it gives me an advantage over everyone else. I love my mom, and she is my best friend, because I believe in second chances.

second chances

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B R I A NN E WA R D ’ 1 0

When I was seven, my parents got divorced. My whole innocent childhood was flipped upside down by the fact that my parents, both of whom I loved very much, would not be living with or loving each other anymore. I was mad at both of my parents. I thought that I would never forgive either of them for as long as I lived. I felt betrayed by both of my parents because I was so blind-sided by their separation. As a child, you think that your parents will love and be with each other forever until eternity, but that was not the case. Getting two birthdays and two Christmas celebrations under my belt helped but I gave my parents a second chance.

MAX WILLIAMS ’12

I believe in the power of humor, in the saving grace of a smile. They say that smiles are contagious and I believe they are. Everyone has those days where they feel like everything is going wrong, but one smile or a simple grin from another person can turn it right around. For those who think that no one cares, a smile says, “You’re not invisible.” For the people who struggle with their family life, a smile says, “I am your brother or sister.” For those who cry over a loved one, a smile says, “we care too.” For those who contemplate suicide, a smile says,” Stop. And tell me what is wrong.”

This quote written by William Arthur Ward is my interpretation of what humor can do to one’s life.

“A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance to your steps as you walk the tightrope of life.” I believe that humor acts as that balance in the serious times of our life. It keeps us from going crazy in times of stress. Imagine the world without humor, how lifeless it would be, how much sadness would completely take over and how joy would be lost. For with humor comes joy and with joy comes love.

As a personal goal I try to bring a smile to at least one person’s face every day in the hope that I have made the day that much better. And I believe that if everyone tried to smile a little bit more, then maybe great things will come. Is it possible to stop wars and world conflicts that desecrate this world with a simple smile? Maybe not, but it is definitely a start.

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the power of humor

In these ways it is not unlike the Catholic Mass. The procession, the opening blessing, Gloria, the readings, the responsorial psalm, the Gospel, the homily, Lamb of God, the Eucharist and the recessional. It’s the anti-Jazz; problematic for some, but not me. It’s predictable like home.

You enter with the same ease of home, pick the seat that suits you, share a smile with a friend or stranger, and save for the readings and their message, you’re never really surprised.

I don’t remember when both experiences changed, but I know that Providence was behind each.

Somewhere in the sunset of my teen years Catholicism became mine, attendance no longer compulsory, flames and pitch forks no longer imagery. Independent but still requiring the comforts of home and the hope of salvation, I returned each Sunday to the same rhythms I knew by rote, but with a deeply personal meaning and my own interpretive sensibility. There was the homily, and my own, synthesized by the Gospel and my own lens on life.

And one day I began to wonder, was there something anatomically true that made right handed hitters favor the high ball and left handed hitters the lowball? Why did pitchers tend to throw fastballs inside and off-speed pitches outside? And most disturbing, the truisms of my youth declaring batting average of primal importance and highly correlative to success was cast aside in favor of acronyms like OBP and OPS. Catholicism has no offseason, but most will acknowledge an ebb and flow to the calendar: the excitement of Advent, followed by ordinary time, the anticipation of the Lenten season, followed by more ordinary time. Baseball too, has no off season, if you choose to truly embrace it. I suppose there is a two week period between the end of free agency and before pitchers and catchers report where it is permissible to look away. But by and large, like an old friend, both are always there. They feed the mind and the soul if you allow them, and my deepening love and understanding of each can be directly indexed to my own happiness. Both have brought me great joy and unspeakable disappointment, as is the case with most things worth loving. And still I choose fidelity, to my faith and my sport because both forgiveness and restoration are within the ethos of each, which allows someone like me to belong.

green diamonds and mahogany pews

12

headmaster

The baseball of my youth was simple, my Red Sox won or they lost, and my heroes played well or failed to. I didn’t notice the play within the play, didn’t understand baseball’s lexicon, and the romance of the game was beyond my pragmatic reach. Church was much the same. My faith was my parents’ faith, I went because it was what we did each Sunday morning, and the depths of my theology didn’t extend beyond a youthful, but visceral dislike for hell.

DR . JE R R Y J E L L I G

There is a cadence to baseball. It’s predictable, it’s consistent, it’s reassuring, like the warmth of spring days and the chill of autumn nights. Leather on leather, leather on wood, the pop of the mitt, the crack of the bat, and the full-throated conviction of an umpire, “ball four,” and “strike three.”

The outcomes vary, and no two games are completely alike, yet like a metronome keeping time, there is something that at once comforts and excites the senses, and the sensorial experience that accompanies a baseball game far exceeds that of any other sport. Baseball can be seen, heard, felt, and smelt.

KI M B U S H administrative assistant

I feel grateful that I was alive on September 11, 2001 and the days that followed. I regret that our country was attacked and I am remorseful that families lost loved ones, but I am grateful to have witnessed the camaraderie and patriotism that occurred after that day. I have never experienced that at any other time in my life and I wish it could have lasted longer, without the consequences of an attack. Sometimes good comes from bad. It is something I will try to explain to my grandchildren because I will remember it just like I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing on the morning of September 11, 2001. I do not, however, think I’ll be able to fully convey all of the emotions I experienced.

I remember reading every business, church and school sign and thinking I should take a picture of each one to preserve the memory. I wish I would have. Every sign I drove past had a patriotic message and everyone had a flag flying over their business or home. People allowed you to get ahead of them in the checkout line at the grocery and let you over in traffic. It was as if we finally realized that we are not each others’ enemies. It was an unforgettable time of human compassion, consideration and patriotism. Unfortunately, it did not come without grief, and it did not last long.

I often wonder if my son’s decision to join the Army during a time of war is because of the patriotism he felt during that time. He told me he knew what he was signing up for when I asked him, barely out of high school and in his first year of college, if he knew there was a war going on. He further convinced me that he really did know what he was signing up for when he re-enlisted during his first tour in Iraq. His four years were coming to an end and he would have been a civilian again shortly after returning back home from his tour to Iraq, but about a month before he came home, he re-enlisted for another four years and ended up on another tour.

My son’s favorite quote (which became mine as well) is from John Stuart Mill: “War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.”

The flag in front of our home flies proudly every day as it did before September 11, 2001, and as it has since, with spotlights shining on it at night. We replace it every few months due to weather wear and tear. I once read that the red of the stripes is emblematic of the blood that was shed in the war that led to the establishment of an independent republic. To me the flag stands for freedom and all of the lives lost to keep that freedom. The meaning of the flag will remain with my family.

13

red stripes

Since I was 7 years old I had wanted a younger sibling. I had been praying for a little sister for three years. Every Christmas and birthday, a sister was on the top of the list. Finally the day came when my parents announced to us that we would have an addition to the family. I was absolutely delighted. I didn’t think I could wait 9 months.

Eventually 9 months passed. By this time we knew we would have a little boy. Although I had been hoping for a sister, I was still too excited to be disappointed.

On February 25, 2004 my little brother, Lucas Francesco Valle, came into this world. I was ecstatic!

As I rocked my little bundle of joy, I thanked God over and over. I knew that God had heard my prayers and answered them. Lucas came home two days later. My 14 year old sister, Arianna, and I could not wait to have our whole family home. We sat down to a dinner while Lucas slept in his crib. He suddenly began to make a funny noise. This is when my happy bubble came crashing down around me.

We saw that Lucas was not breathing. We had to call an ambulance and he was whisked away to Children’s Hospital. I was so scared the whole time. I kept thinking, how could God snatch my joy away from me when I just received it? It just did not seem right.

Lucas was later diagnosed with severe reflux. He had to spend quite awhile in the hospital. When he did come home, he was hooked up to machines and monitors to make sure he didn’t stop breathing. He had to be held in an upright position 24 hours a day. This was an impossible task for my parents. How could this be done? How could my Mom sit down and wipe away my tears and tell me everything would be all right, if she didn’t know it would be?

I had to turn to my sister Arianna. We slept in the same room, so that if one of us started crying at night, we could comfort each other. We would read to each other, so we could escape reality for a few blissful hours. But, most of all we prayed. We prayed every night asking God to save our little brother, who was hardly a few weeks old. When we prayed, we felt a bit better and saw a glimmer of hope. This is when I first believed that God was there for us in our time of need. When we prayed a rock would be lifted from our shoulder. I felt as if He heard me, and that light, fluttery feeling in my heart was His way of saying everything would be okay.

But, still life was hard. My parents were exhausted. Then more of my prayers were answered.

Wonderful people started to come in shifts to hold Lucas all day and night. Generous people volunteered to make home cooked meals. Kind people would pick Arianna and me up, and take us to our appointments. Sweet people would sit with me at night and help me with my math, or to study for a test. These people were the answers to my prayers. God sent them to ease our suffering.

I could see the light of God shine through these people as they willingly gave up their time to help a family in need. This is why I believe that God helps those in need. Whether through the answering of a prayer or a smile of a stranger as they help, God answered my prayers. And, because of the help of all those giving, generous people, Lucas was able to recover in a year. He outgrew his illness due to the grace of God and is now a healthy, active 5 year old boy. This I believe. lucas

14

A NNA L I A VA L L E ’ 1 2

I believe that God is there for you in your time of need. Even when you feel like no one can help, God is always there in some shape or form.

KENDRA TH O R N T O N lower school counselor After years of chasing the things I thought would make me happy, I realized that I wasn’t living the life I wanted. To the outside world I appeared successful and in control. I had a good job, leadership positions in numerous organizations, and many unique opportunities on the horizon, but true happiness and fulfillment were still missing. My father was impressed by beauty, money, and power, so I too chased those things for much of my life. Because he was an attorney, I decided law school would be the best way to earn his love. I put my personal passions aside and focused solely on gaining his approval. Yet, regardless of my accomplishments, I continued to fall short in his eyes.

It was exhausting to always feel empty and absent in my own existence.

15

happiness

While at law school, I grew increasingly physically ill. I had been battling mysterious symptoms for about a year before starting school. I was hospitalized on numerous occasions and endured frequent painful tests and procedures. During this time, eating solid food became impossible so I subsisted on broths and pudding. I was always tired because I lacked the nutrients necessary to fuel my body. I was worried my doctors would never know what was wrong with me or how to help. Eventually I was diagnosed with Achalasia, a very rare disease that permanently destroys the muscles in my esophagus. I was sent to the Cleveland Clinic for treatment and, ultimately, surgery.

Although there is no cure, for the most part, I am able to live a normal life. I now know my illness was a blessing in disguise.

My diagnosis marks the beginning of my spiritual journey. Instead of looking externally for ways to soothe my emptiness, I realized I needed to look internally to fill the void. It would never be filled by my dad’s approval. Being sick for two years completely changed my perspective on life.

I was finally able to see what is truly important. It is not financial success, social status, or family approval. I could not continue to live my life in an attempt to gain my father’s love. I had to live to please myself and trust that everything else would fall into place. I was inspired to contribute in a meaningful way to the world around me. Grateful for a new lease on life, I wanted to use my talents and gifts to serve the world every day. It was clear that a career change was in order.

I reflected fondly on my college days when I would volunteer for community service projects helping local children. These memories guided me towards the counseling program at Xavier University. I left law school and became a mental health therapist at an impoverished school in one of Cincinnati’s most violent neighborhoods. I was fueled by the smiles and hugs from the kids I helped, especially as I learned more about the struggles they face. The children I encountered exemplify strength and courage. They came to school in dirty clothes from bedbug-infested apartments, wearing no socks or coats in the winter. Sometimes there was no food at home so they ate only what the school provided. Classrooms went into “lock-down” whenever there were gunshots outside. Feeling safe, hot meals, clean clothes, and a cozy bed were a luxury to many of the families I served. All odds against them, the children overcame these hurdles daily for the opportunity to learn at school.

The experiences I shared and the skills I honed in this field of work prepared me for my current role as Guidance Counselor at The Summit. Finding peace and enjoying the blessing of good health keeps my focus on a world outside of myself. I am able to find joy in everything. Instead of being cranky about getting up early on a cold Monday morning, I am thankful for the beautiful sunrise outside my window. Instead of being angry about a traffic jam, I am grateful for some time to sing at the top of my lungs. Instead of grumbling about having to cook dinner, I focus on how wonderful it is to have loved ones to cook for and a pantry full of food. I have seen that not everyone is blessed with such bounty. I focus on life’s little moments and the ways they can bring great pleasure. I no longer seek approval from anyone because I have the gift of God’s loving acceptance. I am grateful for all the trials and tribulations because each struggle led me to where I am now. I believe happiness is rooted in our perception.

happiness

15

DAV E PA U L I N

I do not, by any means, consider myself to be a “deep thinker” – in fact, most often I barely scratch the surface of an issue. Perhaps that’s why I am perplexed and troubled by some areas of my faith where I haven’t been able to dig deep enough to produce satisfying answers to questions that plague me from time to time.

chief financial officer

For instance, my faith superhero, Gordon Minehart – my United Methodist minister for some 25 years in Minnesota - was delivering a sermon one Sunday on God’s grace – grace that is available to each and every one of us whether we deserve it or not. I was sitting near a casual acquaintance who was a retired army officer. We were all feeling good about being reassured that no matter how many times we messed up, God would always forgive us. Then Gordon delivered a line that few of us there that day will ever forget. He said, “I am so convinced in God’s boundless grace that I’m sure I will meet Adolph Hitler when I get to heaven.” You could have heard a pin drop as the army officer slowly stood and with a look born of surprise, disgust and sadness, slowly walked to the back of the sanctuary and out the door. I never saw him again. So who’s right? We all want to believe that God’s grace is big enough to cover each of us, for sure, but Hitler? I don’t know. It plagues me.

Or how about the Good Samaritan? We read in Luke 6 that we are to love our enemies, turn the other cheek and pray for those who abuse us. That sounds fine, but what if the Good Samaritan hadn’t had an extra cup of coffee at the Jerusalem Starbucks and had happened onto the bandits as they were attacking the Jewish man on the road to Jericho. What would God have had him do?

Loving our enemies and turning the other cheek doesn’t fit well with trying to defend a helpless man from a brutal attack. Was the world doing God’s will when the Nazi regime of terror was attacked and killed with massive force and bloodshed? Or was God’s will done when the world did nothing when one million Tutsis were slaughtered in Rwanda? Should we praise God and pass the ammunition or turn the other cheek? Or does it really matter? If we do something that’s not God’s will, won’t His grace cover us anyway? (See above). I don’t know. It plagues me.

I’m not sure why these questions bother me, but they do. I don’t think they bothered Hitler too much, or the Hutu’s. Maybe I don’t deserve the satisfaction of answers to these questions because I should have a bigger or richer faith. I don’t know. It plagues me.

I do know, however, that I truly believe Gordon from Minnesota when he concluded every sermon I heard him deliver with the words, “There is a God and that God loves you and me, now and forever more.”

Peace be with you.

16

the plague

By the time she became a mother, Susan knew all there was to know about being tough. One of the greatest virtues she has passed on to me is her ability to persevere. Perseverance doesn’t mean getting through a sticky situation with ease and without pain. It doesn’t mean that you never cry or that you never feel like the world is coming to an end. It does mean, however, that you keep going despite all the things attacking you. No matter how many times she fell off the horse, my mom got right back up. The lessons I have learned from her perseverance have begun to establish a personal standard for me. I have an intuition that is completely formed through her actions and her ability to persist as she conquers any and all issues. It helped her up until this point and it helps her now.

As a mother, patience is also a necessary and very useful virtue. With three girls, ages 15, almost 13, and 9, the ability to remain calm is of upmost importance. My mom always chooses her battles and rarely overreacts. Something inside of her allows her to control her emotions skillfully and understand that one, in fact, catches more bees with honey than vinegar. The way she disciplines isn’t harsh nor does it give the perception that she is overbearing or daunting. She looks at everything from the other person’s shoes and makes decisions regarding punishments with an immense amount of wisdom. No matter how many times I tell the same story or complain about the same issue, she listens. It’s unbelievable to me how she can always put things in perspective and remain unwearied even when she just wants to burst out.

Presently, as I am approaching 15 and a half, I blatantly express hatred of going to Church. Unlike me, my mom’s desire to find a constant in her shaky childhood became a search for religion. It was her decision to choose Catholicism as her religion. She honestly went searching for a faith-base that fit her and chose it herself— something that is passed on to most people and thoughtlessly accepted through their parents. This also wasn’t simply a phase of teenage angst in her life. I consider her to be a model Catholic, even though we don’t go to Mass every weekend or always pray before dinner. She doesn’t purely go through the motions of being religious. My mother prays at long stoplights. She understands that God wouldn’t give her any task she can’t handle. She plainly goes to Him for answers and guidance—something I have yet to understand or master.

Whenever her children are misbehaving, she prays about it. My mom truly takes her faith life seriously and cherishes the fact that it has allowed her to reach her full potential.

I want nothing more than to encompass all these qualities in myself some day. I am positive I will because I know she has raised me well and wants me to be the best person I can be.

my mother

17

JU L I A N A D O L C I M A S C O L O ’ 1 2

I believe that my mom truly is amazing, in every sense of the word. Though most daughters are biased, claiming that their mothers are the best, I believe entirely that Susan Dolcimascolo is exactly that. She may be little, measuring only 5 feet and 100 pounds, but she’s stronger than anyone else I know. She has had to work her way through situations most people couldn’t even imagine.

JA N W I E S N E R I say that feeling compelled to be entertaining to those who are assigned to sit next to me on airplanes. Throughout the years that story has been embellished, and because of that, on those days, on those flights, I became an ostrich trainer.

I believe in the power of the story. We are our stories, we carry them with us, and we tell them to ourselves and share them with others. Our stories are developed from our experiences, our perceptions and sometimes from our imaginations. Regardless of their source they all have power to transform, to inform, to engage and to recreate. And that power is what sustains or sidetracks us. So that brings me always to the question - what is your life story? We all have one: the middle child, the only boy, the shy one, etc. I believe it is up to us to either embrace the life story or to examine it and chuck it if it is not sustaining. But it should be a conscious choice, for these stories define us, mold us and can stymie us.

Just as each day brings promise just by dawning, I believe that we can and should create a story for each day. Make it a good story, strong enough to hold the day, expansive enough to bend and accept the day’s offering in a positive light. Keep the ostriches trained, mind your stories well.

our stories

18

lower school art

“I’m an ostrich trainer – for Barnum and Bailey Circus.”

ALEX SHARP ’10

While I wouldn’t say that my seventeen years on earth qualifies me to give life advice to anyone, I will say that if I have one belief it is: “Love thy hanger-upper.”

This past summer I worked at a marketing and consumer research agency. As a naïve sixteen year old would, I envisioned myself in power suits, rousing even the dullest of account executives with visionary marketing strategies. However, my job entailed data input and conducting surveys, an unfathomable amount of surveys. While the latter part of my job was unmistakably the most grievous part of my experience, it was also the most life altering—it taught me tolerance.

The main focus of these surveys was by telephone. This was both physically (do not underestimate the painful crick in your neck you will get after eight consecutive hours of telephone calling) and emotionally an onerous task. Everyone is familiar with the strangers who call; you know the ones who you assume are trying to sell you a timeshare. I will expel this myth, for most of the time we market researchers really do “have a brief survey.” Nonetheless, my fellow researchers and I have taken the brunt of some pretty offensive reactions. The most laughable part of these phone calls is listening to people squirm, duck, and squeeze their way out of taking the survey. More often than not, the elaborate excuses people give take longer than the duration of the entire survey. I’ve had one family ask me to call back in a few days, then tell me there was a death in the family, then tell me that the house was on fire. While it seems unlikely that their week was this eventful, or that they answered the phone in the midst of a fire, I have learned to give people the benefit of the doubt (This really happened.)

Surprisingly, the most affecting excuse is none at all. I cannot recount how many hang ups we got, for the numbers are so great. At the time you feel nothing but disdain for them, but in retrospect, these people taught me a lot about myself, and people in general. I learned that even a “hanger-upper” is a person just like me. It is so easy to accuse someone of being a terrible, rude person. But, it is hard, harder then you think, to accept and forgive that person. Call me moral, but I choose the latter. Many days, I felt like I was simply a place for people to vent their frustrations without shame.

Reflecting upon on the countless rejections we burdened, I am actually thankful that I was there for someone who needed an emotional outlet. If I helped someone in some small way get through their day, then I am glad. We only see a small proportion of people’s lives. Father Phil once said that “You don’t know what people have been through; you always look for their heart.” This resonates with me because it is impossible for anyone to know the whole story, but I can be understanding of these people and love them in even the tritest of circumstances.

19

hang-ups

This past Sunday I went on an easy ten mile run with two of my friends: Jon and Jack. It all started at 8:00 a.m. in The Summit circle. It was around 40 degrees and we were all cold and cranky because we had to get up on the only day of the week that we had to sleep in. When Coach Smith said that we had to run for an hour, we thought to ourselves, “There’s no way that we’re going to run for that long, on this morning, in this weather.” But as we started to head toward Eden Park, the sun was inching its way higher above the horizon. Jon and I made fun of Jack for wearing sweatpants, gloves, and a hat, when all we had on were shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt. Being used to this sort of harassment, he laughed and tried to find flaws in each of us. These interactions are more than common between us and only make our relationships stronger. Running past Montgomery Inn, we all noticed how beautiful the morning was. The way the sun glistened off the Ohio River, how the fog floated through the streets of Covington, how the cool, brisk air felt as it rushed into our lungs.

All of these things made me feel alive. For about a mile, the three of us were speechless. Running through Sawyer Point, running along the Serpentine wall – back and forth, running over the Purple People Bridge: these sights and experiences couldn’t even try to evoke a word out of us. The beauty and aliveness of our run changed my life. Simply by running with two of my best friends made me realize that life is more than just going through the motions. Life is running to Kentucky and back on a freezing Sunday morning, taking in all of nature’s multiplicity and beauty.

On our way back to Summit, we had to climb many stairs and hills. We decided to take a route that we have never taken before, going up the steepest hill we have ever run on. Even though it was an arduous trudge up this hill, we decided that it was worth it. At the top of the hill was a beautiful panoramic view of the Ohio River and Kentucky. We discussed how lucky the people are in the houses that lined that street: to be able to wake up every morning to the view that we were witnessing. Then I thought to myself, I’m lucky enough. I have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and food on the table to eat. What else could I ask for?

Running ten miles may seem like an outrageous mission, but I would encourage you to do it.

Maybe not ten miles, but at least take an early walk on a cool Sunday morning to somewhere that you have never seen before. You will realize how beautiful life is just by placing one foot in front of the other.

This I believe.

running

20

BRAD BEDACHT ’10

I believe in running. I believe that running lets you really explore yourself and others in ways that other things could not.

CAROLYN VA R I C K middle school math My grandfather was a gentle man. My grandmother said of him, “John can make anything grow, but he’s not much of a carpenter. Why, if he were to hammer three nails; two of them would be bent!”

21

the garden

I believe that my grandfather’s ability to make things grow extended far beyond his 4-lot garden behind his home in Parkersburg, West Virginia.

Every evening, he would put on his hat, pick up a garden hoe, and walk to his garden to talk to God. Maybe the quiet in his garden was a peaceful respite from a house full of grandchildren and their paraphernalia. Nevertheless, it was my grandfather’s custom to go walk into his garden every night after dinner…rain, shine, company in the house or not.

I remember more than one evening when I went into the garden with my grandfather. Did I have my hat? Did I have a pocket knife and some string in my pockets? Was I wearing socks and were my shoes tied? Upon answering yes, yes, yes, and finally yes, we were at last ready to go. Down the driveway, past the garage, and then onto the path into the garden we walked. I probably walked four steps forward, backward, and around for each of my grandfather’s measured paces. “Don’t be in such a hurry, child, the garden isn’t going anywhere.”

So, now that we’re here, Grandpa, what are we going to DO? “We’re going to walk, and we’re going to look and listen.”

Down each row of beans we walked. Occasionally, he would stop and pull a bit of string out of his pocket to tie an errant stringer of beans to its pole. He explained how beans would go wild if they weren’t overseen and directed to grow off the damp ground and toward the sun.

Tomato plants, too, needed to be tied to their cages with scraps of colorful fabric…but for different reasons than the beans. Tomato plants, by themselves, are not strong. They need support to be able to prevent their own fruits from pulling them to the ground to rot. I learned how to bind plants in such a way that the bindings were firm but not so tight as to strangle the plant.

Rows of Sweet Sue and Silver Queen Corn stalks stretched the length of the 4-lot garden. Why weren’t the corn rows all the same height? He patiently explained how the plantings were staggered so that all of the corn wouldn’t ‘come in’ at the same time. And, why so much corn? Again, he explained that he planted more than he needed so that there would be plenty for our family, for the neighbors, and for the deer and raccoons. He always planted more than he needed for himself knowing that in the end there would be enough to share without hardship.

My grandfather’s kindnesses did not extend to snakes. His ever-present hoe cut away the occasional weed and quickly dispatched snakes with a swift chop behind the head. “No good ever came from a snake in the garden.”

While in his garden, my grandfather talked to God. Yes, he went to church and formally prayed on Sundays. But, in his garden he felt close to God. He talked about the weather; hot, cold, wet, or dry. There was always reason to be thankful.

There were times when he fell quiet. It was my nature, of course, to fill the air with words, words, words. He told me I would need to be quiet if I wanted to see the rabbits and deer come out to eat.

Then, I heard the summer music of tree frogs and cricket chirps.

My grandfather would never have thought of his garden as a metaphor for life lessons and childrearing but I believe that it was. the garden

21

We don’t know what the nature of God is. Where would we look to know this? Scripture? Is the real Jesus the one who tells the Syro-Phonecian woman that he does not give his teachings or his love to a dog like her because she is not part of the tribes of Israel? Is the real Jesus the one who refuses to condemn the woman caught in adultery, though he does tell her to sin no more? In one situation He has to be taught compassion, in the other He gives a shining example of it. And should we be worried that the latter story is apparently a late interpolation, not likely written by the author of the rest of the gospel? And Yahweh? God walks with Adam and Eve in the cool of the evening and then drowns everyone on the planet and all the animals that are not on the ark? Picture all those mothers trying to save their drowning babies. Picture the everlasting torment often cited so gleefully by Jesus. Reconcile that with mercy and love. We don’t know what is true. We don’t know the nature of God, and saying that these stories are just stories and the truth is in the interpreting makes them no different than the stories of Zeus and Ishtar.

We don’t know whether there is an afterlife. People used to believe in Hades, in the Elysian Fields, in the dark palaces of Irkalla. People told stories about heroes who went to these places and returned and people believed those stories and lived their lives accordingly. And those of us who are believers in the Triune God? Well, we have our stories too. Shining thrones. Streets of gold. People dressed in robes washed white in the blood of the Lamb. Every tear wiped away. We know that there are no dark palaces of Irkalla, don’t we, but how can we know that there are golden streets and rejoicing?

We can’t know. We don’t know. While we are breathing we will never know. We can believe; we can hope that we will see all our loved ones once again and forever, that there will be light and rapture for all. But we don’t know for sure, and all the stories that we now know (don’t we?) to not be true that for centuries were thought to be true must give us a certain amount of fear, a certain amount of trembling when we think about our stories, the ones we now say are true. We stand before the unknowable mysteries and we close our eyes in hope and dread. Only death is the door to that realm where at last we will know everything that is important. Only in that realm will we know at last what we have longed to believe is true, that the real Jesus is the one who silently writes in the dust, that the cool of the evening is almost upon us forever, that there will be no more weeping. Only in the realm of death will we know. Unless there is no realm, no life after death, no world beyond this world. Then we will never know; we will only be dead, which I hope will at least be some kind of blessing. we know nothing

22

upper school english

We don’t know if there is a God. Many of us believe in God, in my case the Triune God of the Bible, but we don’t know if anything we believe is true. After all, for centuries there were people who believed in Zeus, people who believed in Ishtar. These people built great cities and lavish temples to these gods. They believed that they saw these gods, spoke to these gods, heard the future from these gods, even had babies with these gods. This is in all the books and all the poems written during the thousands of years that people believed in Zeus and Ishtar. Now we know these stories are not true. But people believed they were true and lived their lives in these truths for a long, long time. Thousands of years from now will there be people who see our stories and beliefs as quaint and primitive, just the way we see the stories of Zeus coming to earth as a swan or Ishtar stroking her lapis lazuli necklace after the flood that destroyed the world?

PAT KE L LY

I believe we know nothing that is truly important.

My dad is a stay at home dad, because my parents decided they didn’t want me to be raised by ever-changing baby-sitters, and Mom had a higher paying job. So while Mom was at work, Dad would take me to parks, playgrounds, movies, and museums. He never pushed me toward any one thing, but whenever I showed an interest in something, he would foster it. When I became obsessed with dinosaurs, Dad would take me to all the local museums, record dozens of TV shows about dinosaurs, and read dinosaur books to me for hours on end. And when Mom came home, we would play with my dinosaur toys, and watch the dinosaur shows I had watched several times already that day. She was never too busy to listen to the new facts I had learned.

With the constant support of both Mom and Dad, I grew confident in myself. I could always be myself, and I could always pursue what I most loved. When I decided that I wanted to quit taking piano lessons, Mom didn’t press me to continue, even though music is one of her passions. If any more proof of her devotion to me is needed: I have five pet Madagascan Hissing Cockroaches.

Mom is terrified of bugs, but she had learned to like these (from a reasonable distance) because I love them.

One famous story is from my days in primary school, when I had only one friend, and that friend wasn’t a girl like me, he was a boy. This bugged one of my teachers, who told Dad that he should set up a play-date with me and a girl I had nothing in common with. Dad flat out told her that I could pick my own friends.

I’ve grown up believing in myself and my abilities, different and proud of it, with a thirst for knowledge, a love of books, and a love for my parents. They are the first people I see when I wake up, and every night we say “Goodnight,” “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” and “I love you.”

That is what family is to me, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

family

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S HI R L E Y N U N L I S T ’ 1 1

I believe in the importance of family. Throughout my life there has been one constant: I know my parents love me. When I was little, they were always there to play with me, even when my games were incredibly repetitious. They were there to read to me, and get me a cup of water when I got thirsty in the middle of the night.

NE I L M . C O M B E R

I didn’t grow up in this country. I grew up in Mexico, and also spent some years in Canada. So I always had strong influences from my “big neighbor.” As the years passed, that influence grew stronger. I started working for an American company, married an American woman, had American children, and settled in Cincinnati. Ultimately, I completed the transformation by becoming an American citizen a couple of years ago.

And yet I didn’t fully appreciate what it really means to be an American until the last few years. One very important aspect of that is the sense of community, the sense that we all have a responsibility to contribute to our community. Nowhere is that more exemplified than when tragedy strikes, such as when Katrina struck New Orleans, or when the Summit community rallies to help one of our own when they suffer. And as the saying goes “to whom much is given, much is expected.” The Summit community exemplifies this extraordinarily well.

parent, trustee

There is another core part of being American that I learned from two non Americans, specifically a South African and a Mexican. A couple of years ago I was part of a group that invited President Fox of Mexico to come to Cincinnati. We discovered that President Fox had roots in Cincinnati, his great grandfather having emigrated to America through Cincinnati. His grandfather then emigrated to Mexico. We invited him to come to Cincinnati to reconnect with his roots and to get to know some long lost relatives.

The transcendence of President Fox is that he was the first member of an opposition party to win the Presidency in Mexico in 71 years. In other words, one party had controlled the country for all those years. It was a party dictatorship with all the abuses of power that come with a dictatorship.

When he came to Cincinnati he recounted the story of when he met Nelson Mandela, a great human being who sat in prison for decades opposing the apartheid regime of South Africa. As President Fox tells it, he was sharing with Mandela some of his frustrations about the opposition in Mexico and how disruptive they were. He sometimes thought of finding some reason to arrest them all.

Nelson Mandela said: “You have a democracy now in Mexico. And democracy is the freedom to succeed…and the freedom to fail.” Said another way, with democracy comes freedom, but with democracy also comes responsibility – individual, group, community and global.

I have learnt that for all it has to offer, there is no guarantee of success in America. It’s up to each and every one of us. Likewise for all the unsurpassable wholeness that the Summit community provides in preparing our children for their adulthood, there is no guarantee of success. It is up to each and every one of us…as individuals and as a community.

This I believe.

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guarantees

Getting ready for a campfire means digging into the back of the closet and pulling out the jeans and sweatshirts to stay warm and to keep from getting mosquito bites. My family and I get into our car and drive out into the country fields where my aunt, uncle, and cousins summer. The kids play games around the yard while the adults converse as families are brought together from Cincinnati, Ohio, and all parts of Michigan, to Brussels, Belgium. Sometimes the game is baseball, or drawing with chalk on the driveway, kick-the-can; sometimes it is hide-and-go-seek along the mowed paths of wild, knee-high grass.

Roasting marshmallows is an event in itself. My cousins run to get the Jet-Puffed bag, rip it open, choose a marshmallow, and dangerously try to stick it on the end of the two-pronged roasters.

It takes patience to sit for a few minutes to find that perfect hot spot to roast the marshmallow without catching it on fire. Some of my little cousins don’t have the determination for this and the roasters soon become fighting swords. My sister and I, being the oldest, help roast marshmallows, make sure everyone gets chocolate on his or her s’more, and keep the youngest from running into the fire pit. Some don’t even like to eat s’mores, they just like the fun of sitting around the campfire, burning and exploding the marshmallows, only to hand them to their moms.

My family rarely unanimously decides on group activities, but having a fire and roasting marshmallows is something we can always agree on. The summer campfire nights end with a drive home on the hilly dirt road, smelling of smoke and bug spray, and full of fun family memories. In my family, s’mores have brought together four generations of my family, ages 2 to 97. I will always have the picture in my mind of my family sitting around a campfire, roasting s’mores with the glow of the fire illuminating their faces. S’mores will always be a campfire treat and a tradition. This I believe.

s’mores

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A NNA S C H WI E T E R I N G ’ 1 1

I believe in s’mores. They are more than just roasted marshmallows and a layer of Hershey milk chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of graham cracker; they are cool summer nights spent with family and friends. When I think of s’mores, I think of all the time my family has spent together around a campfire. It reminds me of slimy, half-eaten marshmallows replaced in the Jet-Puffed bag, mini-fireworks shows, and sometimes La Croix sparkling water fights.

DALE A. LO U D A , J R . parent, upper school faculty I was standing at the counter of a children’s clothing store with my then two-year-old daughter when the clerk asked me: “Did you take the day off?” “No.” “Oh, did you just leave the office early?” “Nah.” “Uh, are you on vacation?” “Not exactly.” And at that moment my identity came into question. In Ohio, where conversations with shopkeepers can be more intimate than talking with our own families, it startled me. I said simply: “I am a stay-at-home Dad.” And that was when I started to grapple with my own identity and wonder about other people’s as well. I believe that

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hello my name is

our vision of our identity is a powerful force that drives how we interact with people, impacts our self-confidence, and ultimately leads us to question who we are and who we think we are.

I was used to wearing my identity on the right lapel of my blue blazer. It would say my name and the company I worked for. And as a lobbyist in Washington, that was all I needed. It was a quick and efficient way to make it through a large meeting or reception. People could decide instantly whether or not you were worth a brief chat and exchange of business cards. A simple glance at the nametag provided an identity analysis more penetrating and final than a retinal scan. Sometimes, when I was on the receiving end of one of the looks at my name tag followed by the quick glance at my face before the abrupt swivel away, it was almost as if the person offended by name tag was peering into my soul. Most of the time, of course, my attitude was that they just saved me the potentially wasted ten minutes of chitchat with someone foolish enough to not think me worth talking to.

But these days I wear no nametag. There was always a bit of defensiveness in my explanation.

“Well, I stay home because I was not able to obtain a position that used my skills and blah blah blah.” It was hard for me to talk about being a professional at Daddy Day Care. So I would usually say, “Now I take care of my daughter but I used to be a big shot fancy pants alligator shoe wearing lobbyist in Washington where I spoke about big things with important people in fancy offices.” I was a former lobbyist, a former Washington power player. Currently, I am a stay at home Daddy.

Over the three and one half years I had the privilege of leading my day care practice for one, I felt at times isolated and at the same time utterly without any private time. Making friends is not so easy when you are a man and you stay at home with a three year old. Few other men are in the same situation and everyone is always trying to fix you up with them, like you are one of only two immigrants from Lesotho and surely you must meet the other one.

Identities are curious. I had a friend once who was an Irish Catholic Geologist from New York. I always marveled at the way just about everything about him radiated around one of those pillars.

I never had such a clear identity. Oh I guess if I had to sum it up in a sentence it might be ‘SelfAbsorbed-Political-Know-It-All-Talker’ but that never seemed to flow so well. And it would look ridiculous on one of those “Hi, my name is. . . .” stickers.

But over time I became a full-fledged stay at home Dad. I can say without reservation or irony that it was the most fulfilling and challenging job I have ever had. Then this summer my daughter decided she wanted to go to school full time instead of half days. I was confused. What would I do without my little girl to entertain, to read to, take on adventures, to do projects and talk about The Beatles together?

Maybe for the future I will stop focusing on my identity or that of others and try a more nuanced approach where I appreciate the whole person and his or her unique contributions to humanity, the earth, and our spiritual life. Oh, whom am I kidding? I am never going to do that. The identity of a well-rounded deep thinking Renaissance man is one I admire but will never attain. I have been a lobbyist, a Washingtonian, and a former lobbyist and former Washingtonian. And now I have a new identity. I like it so much I may put it on my blue blazer and wear it around town: ‘Former Stay-AtHome-Dad.’ hello my name is

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A NNA A L B I ’ 1 0 This I believe, that soccer is life in a nutshell. There are good days, there are bad days; there are people you like, there are people you don’t like; there are victories and there are defeats; yet, no matter what, you’ve got to pick yourself up and play the game.

I began playing soccer at age three. I think it was initially a way for my parents to get a few hours of sanity, yet it has become a way of life for me. It is not that I live and breathe everything soccer; actually I’m quite a pitiful excuse for a soccer fan, but I have taken the lessons I’ve learned on the field and applied them to other aspects of my life. To start, there will be people you do not like in soccer. It might be your coach or it might be your teammate. Whoever he or she is, though, you just have to swallow your feelings and work it out. Moreover, you will get a call you don’t like: soccer is not always fair. But neither is life. Just as the world outside the pitch is flawed, so are the people on the field. You just have to take whatever call the ref gives you and not complain too violently.

Finally, there are days in soccer that just don’t go your way. Sometimes it’s you and sometimes it’s the team you’re up against. But even on days where it feels like you’re trying to sandbag against a tidal wave, you’ve got to stay in the game and keep fighting. There is no giving up in soccer; you play until the final whistle. And there is no quitting in life.

soccer

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CAROL B O Y D director of communications I was a nervous kid, always waiting for the other shoe to fall and it most often did without logic or justice. I say this not to whine, but as relevant background to my story.

Ours was a rough and tumble Irish Catholic neighborhood. We had seven kids in the family and were always swirling in physical and mental illness, unpaid bills, and trouble that came in all shapes and sizes. I played the part of surrogate mother while the real mom worked. We adored her, but I always recall that she was on the verge of dying for one reason or another. I worried for her constantly and for my own ability to take her place if that happened. I never thought that God had singled me out for unusual hardship, but I never felt especially close to Him either. All things considered, I thought my best recourse was to become as strong as possible and to rely on nothing but myself.

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donors and benefactors

The thing I liked most about school was that it had structure and logic so I wanted to keep going for as long as I could. To that end I was willing to work smarter and harder than most people my age.

Since I didn’t have enough money to go to college anywhere, I figured I might as well aim high, and I set my sights on Vassar. Research told me that this had been home to Jackie Kennedy, Edna St. Vincent Millet and Jane Fonda. I drove myself there several times, getting the lay of the land and working up the nerve to make an appointment with admissions. On one such visit, quite by accident, I ran into a real admissions officer, who struck up a conversation. We bonded. He gave me a personal tour and introduced me to others around the campus for the better part of one day and then another. He helped me fill out forms and articulate accomplishments I wasn’t even aware were outside the norm. I had good grades, and was, apparently, off the charts in “overcoming obstacles.” The decision makers thought I would add value to the community. Before I fully understood the significance of what was happening I received an invitation to move into a place so fabulous I could hardly believe it. Just like that. Everything would be taken care of, thanks to what I came to understand as “anonymous donors.”

From my first day on campus those donors were everywhere and dreams were realized beyond my wildest imaginings. There were small classes and passionate teachers who made us feel important and expected great things. Alumni were the stuff of legends and there was evidence of their accomplishments at every turn. It didn’t take long to understand that this wasn’t just ANY school. It was a venerable institution with a legacy of excellence. Because of my time there I will always know that I am part of something much bigger than myself, and inherently good.

During and after my Vassar days I often wondered about those anonymous donors. Was it one person or many paying my bill? Either way, how could anybody change my life in so many ways and not even need to hear me say thank you, or get to know how I turned out. Wouldn’t they want to know that I was a good return on their investment? Would they care that I graduated with honors, brought home a piece of the Berlin wall, helped in Alaska after the Valdez spill, took my mother to Paris and visited all the countries I ever wanted to see? Because of their generosity I look in the mirror and see a woman who is not a survivor, but a happy person who had a life full of opportunity, doing work I loved with freedom and confidence.

I wondered if donors actually know how the cycle works, and how far their influence goes, beyond the one person who gets to have a love affair with learning?

It has been my experience that success in families breeds on itself. You don’t go back to the old neighborhood and stay there. You go back and do your best to pull out everyone who means something to you. After me, my sister went to Yale and soon it became the norm not to ask if the kids were going to college but where.

As the word spread donors seemed to multiply magically. Soon my brothers and sisters and cousins were moving all over the country going to great schools and giving rise to a whole generation of Irish Catholics who have happy marriages, work hard, pay their bills and lead with character in government and business and hospitals and churches.

I believe with all my heart that there is a special place in heaven for anonymous donors.

donors and benefactors

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Thinking about it now, there are so many things I wish I had told him the last day that I saw him. I wish that I had told him how I had really been feeling, how much I really did love him, how much I truly was going to miss him, but I didn’t. I felt I wouldn’t know what to say to him because I was too nervous and upset about the whole thing. Not telling him that, unsure if he would even be able to recognize who I was at that point, still haunts me. It is the biggest regret in my life. My whole family, except for my mom, went home that Sunday, so that we could all go back to school. My mom stayed at the hospice with the rest of her brothers and sisters to stay with their father.

January 18th my mom called me telling me that my grandpa passed away. I finally realized that my time was up. I could no longer go and tell him how much I loved him, how much I miss him, and everything else I was feeling about it all. Thinking back on it, I become angry with myself, I had my chance, and I missed it. Everyone else took the opportunity they had and told him how they felt.

I will never forget when my mom told her dying dad how she felt. “Dad, we are all going home, you can go home now too, I love you.” I still live my life each day carrying that regret on my back.

Through this I came to believe that I couldn’t take the things at hand for granted.

regrets

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NOR A - KAT E S T R O M B E R G ’ 1 1

When I was in the 7th grade, my grandpa died. Though he was nearing 76 years old, the thought of him passing away never crossed my mind. January 9, 2006 was my 13th birthday. I had just arrived back home late that night after celebrating with my friends. My dad was standing in the kitchen as I walked in. “Nora Kate, Grandpa has been diagnosed with brain cancer, and doctors say that he only has about three to six months to live.” At my age, I didn’t even know how to react to the news. All I knew was that my grandpa had a limited amount of time to live, and I still wanted to know so much more about him, and spend a lot more time with him. When could I manage to see him when he was in Cincinnati and I am in Columbus? That night, I broke down. All I could think about was how much time I wish that I had to spend with him. He was sent to the hospice about two days after I had heard the news. My family and I were down in Cincinnati that weekend, visiting him constantly. I was only 13, so I didn’t know what to even say to my dying grandpa lying on that hospital bed.

KY L I E V O N H A N D O R F ’ 1 4

When I was confirmed this year, I was given many gifts to celebrate becoming part of the Catholic Church. I appreciated all of the gifts, but one gift stood out to me the most – the dove, my Uncle Jerry, who is also my godfather, hand carved out of wood for me. When I first opened it, I saw simply a dove carved out of wood, yet after reading the card it really hit me why it was so special.

I realized that my Uncle had put a lot of time and effort into making it. The card told me where the wood he had used for the dove had come from. After reading the card ten times, the importance of his kind gesture really hit me. Here is the story of the dove and my connection with my great grandpa whom I have never met.

A long time ago, my Great Grandpa Stratman had purchased some blocks of wood which he had intended to use for a special project. He never finished his project; however, my Uncle Jerry discovered the wood after my great grandpa’s death and decided to take the wood and do what great grandpa did not have a chance to do. He carved doves out of the wood and decided to give one to the family members as they were either married or confirmed. I had noticed that some of my cousins had a dove, but I never knew the story behind the doves until I received my own dove.

Now when I look at my dove I see my great grandpa, and I feel connected to him. Even though I have only had the chance to meet him through photographs, I feel as though I know him and have a piece of him in my heart. My uncle told me that my great grandparents would have been so proud of me if they were still alive today.

My uncle wrote in his card to me that my great grandpa had a strong faith in God. On the front of the card there is a picture of a stained glass window from Saint Mary’s Church where my great grandparents attended Mass.

I believe that even the smallest gestures of kindness create connections with those you love.

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great grandpa

Between chapters of my story and that of the river, I would take a break to enjoy time with my family. Perhaps my favorite memory of our time spent together is a hike we took to a glacier lake. To reach the lake hikers must cross a creek several times which runs from the lake down the mountain. At times we simply walked across the stones, while other times we had to carefully cross over a single log while the creek rushed below on its way down the mountain. While crossing one of these bridges, I decided it would be a perfect photo opportunity. I convinced my three daughters to sit together in the center of the log, while I hiked down the hill a bit so that I could photograph them together frozen in time. I needed that moment frozen in time because I knew that in a few short weeks, the two oldest would be leaving for college. I would be home with the youngest, our world drastically changed. Like the river, time rushes by carrying our moments, our stories, our memories, our emotions, our lives…ever changing.

the stories of the creek

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middle school english

Upon arriving home from Montana my oldest daughter took care of developing the photos we had taken in Montana. I was busy preparing for the beginning of a new school year, and the peace of the river in Montana seemed far away. Our opening school meetings began before my daughter left for Canada where she attended university, and, when I arrived home after our first full of day of back to school meetings, my daughter told me she had a surprise for me. She had framed that “moment” on the creek in Montana and placed it on the side table in our family room next to an old photo of another image frozen in time. When I looked at the photos side by side I was struck at their similarities and at the perceptiveness of my daughter. The original photo was of me with two of my sisters sitting on a wooden plank that crossed a creek, which traveled through the yard of my childhood home. This creek provided hours and hours of entertainment for my siblings and me. The stories that creek could tell – not of wildlife, or native peoples, or early ranchers. No, these stories were different. These were stories of the smell of cooking bar-be-que ribs on a homemade grill in the back yard; the sound of an after-dinner baseball game in the side yard; the sight of an old coal miner sitting on the back porch listening to the Reds/Pirates game on his little radio while visiting his nieces and nephews on his visits from West Virginia; the sound of the barking of a large Saint Bernard and a faithful German Shepherd as they watched eight children enjoy running through the sprinkler; the cries of a little girl lost in the woods with her sister; the sounds of a large tractor cutting the grass; the laughter of three young girls having a picnic on a plank which crossed over the rushing waters of a creek. These memories, these moments, these images are my treasures. What do I believe? I believe in the brief, yet everlasting moments of life.

R OS I E S A N S A L O N E A LWAY

This past summer I spent a restful week in Western Montana enjoying the simple pleasures the state has to offer. My brother’s home, where I stayed, has a spectacular deck overlooking the Blackfoot River. There is nothing better in this world than brewing a hot cup of coffee, pulling on a fleece jacket, and sitting in the chilly morning Montana air while enjoying a few moments with a good book. I found myself pausing between chapters and listening to the water of the Blackfoot River travel across smooth colorful stones while it told stories – stories never written down on the pages of a book – stories full of interesting characters such as wildlife (bear, elk, trout), native peoples, early ranchers, and a young boy dreaming of being a cowboy.

B R YA N B E D A C H T ’ 1 0

On many occasions I have questioned myself. Not about the decisions I was making, but rather my actions and personality. “Why do I do those things, or why did I say that?” I would ask myself, time after time. I assume that this is a part of growing up, or simply maturing and getting to know yourself. But these doubts and regrets about yourself can be tough. Why was I questioning my own actions and personality? No the actions weren’t bad or rude of course, but possibly not the “cool thing.” Being “cool,” or trying to fit in, is always at the top of everyone’s list, especially while growing up. The things you wear, do, and even say, are judged by those around you. Since I knew this, maybe this was why I didn’t want to be who I really was. Rather, I would put up a front and be the person I wish I could be. Now that I am older, I realize that this was absolutely ridiculous.

Although I was with the group of people I wanted to be around, and trying to be the person I really wasn’t, I wasn’t happy with who I was, or who I had become. This is why I believe that you should always be yourself.

Being yourself is the best way to get to know who you really are as a person. Although it may be scary to reveal, and take down the façade of the “fake you,” it is good to reveal to those around you who you truly are as an individual. Being yourself allows you to express your individuality, whether it is the clothes you wear, the way you talk, or even the music you listen to. Why should you be afraid of letting people know this simple information? Now I know. There is no reason to be afraid of who you really are. Although it may take some courage and some thinking about, you will truly be happier with yourself, if you are who you really are. I know I am, and that is what I believe.

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i believe you should be yourself

M A G G I E D AV I D ’ 1 0

I believe in SmartWool Socks and that every human being should be born with a pair. These socks are not smart enough to do your calculus homework or physics lab, but they come pretty close. SmartWool Socks come in men and women sizes, performance socks and lifestyle socks, and provide different patterns and thickness depending on the wants of the consumer. Such a cornucopia of a sock selection can’t be found anywhere else, nor has any generic brand come close to achieving this beauty and art in sock form. SmartWool Socks provide warmth and dryness leaving your feet in a state of euphoria.

My belief and undying passion for these socks struck me on a week long adventure in the boundary waters of Canada. I possessed the clothes on my back, a sleeping bag, and two pairs of my trusty SmartWool Socks—a pair of Performance Socks to help me through the day, and a pair of Lifestyle Socks for bedtime. The daily routine consisted of grueling and treacherous activities ranging from eighteen hours of canoeing, to hiking through quicksand-esque mud with a canoe on your back.

Through every chaotic moment, my socks were there. No matter how sweaty, smelly, swampy, or sticky my socks had become throughout the day, I would simply hang the Performance pair and put on the Lifestyles. No moment was spent in bare feet. After a good night’s sleep, I would wake at the mere thought of seeing the miraculous work my Performance pair had done. Just as I had expected, the socks were dry and ready to take on the world, or at least Canada.

The very essence of these socks comes from the power of the SmartWool fiber. Synthetic socks wait for moisture to condense into a liquid before keeping it away from your skin. SmartWool Socks, on the other hand, absorb and transfer moisture in its vapor state, before it condenses. So when it’s hot, these socks act as a mini air-conditioning unit next to your skin, transferring body heat through the socks. Therefore when it’s cold, this keeps bone-chilling moisture trapped and used for warmth. The result of this mind-blowing moisture management includes the resistance of odor-causing bacteria. My feet have never smelled so sweet and felt so much comfort than when they occupy a pair of SmartWool Socks.

SmartWool Socks are season-round, and never go out of style. Scaling mountains, dodging danger, SmartWool socks will be the most reliable asset on your journey. Whether you’re trekking through the arctic, or simply trying to make it through a school day, SmartWool Socks will always be there, ready for anything the jungle of life hands you. This I believe.

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smartwool socks

My father, a man I greatly admire, asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I, of course, answered, “a basketball player.” My Dad knew that an undersized, slow, point guard from a somewhat athletically-challenged family would not set the basketball world on fire. So, he did what any loving parent would do - he tempered my expectations. “Nick,” he proceeded cautiously, “How many professional athletes has the town of Batesville produced over the last 50 years?”

Undaunted, I responded that I didn’t know of any but that I could be the first. In typical fatherly fashion, he said that it might be in the realm of possibility, but that I should work on other aspects of my life. First and foremost, he advised, “focus on your studies.”

The message that education is king - not basketball - has been drilled into me ever since that fateful conversation with my father. Fortunately, I listened. Today I am the proud owner of two undergraduate degrees and an MBA degree. These degrees are more than pieces of paper. They are my blood, sweat and tears. They are grit and determination. These degrees have been the stepping stones that have allowed me to achieve my adult dreams. Their influence on my life has been so profound, that I humbly serve on two non-profit boards whose purpose is to educate and develop the next generation.

So now, I am the father teaching my daughters the value of education. I look forward to watching them study math, science, history, and English and see which subject makes their eyes dance.

I want them to dream just as I did. And I’m quietly confident that, also like me, their childhood dreams will not be realized (thank goodness because the world already has one Miley Cyrus and that’s quite enough). I want to tell my daughters that dreams die. And new dreams are born. And that education makes it all possible. Most importantly I want to tell them, what you put in your head no one can take away from you. Ever.

education is king

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parent, board of trustees, chair

No matter how we define success, there are only a few ways to achieve it. The obvious one is hard work. Hard work is a pre-requisite for any type of sustained success. The next best way to ensure success is through education. A good education provides structure, discipline, creativity, personal growth, achievement, and knowledge. Education expands our minds and allows our dreams to morph and mature.

NI C K R A GL A N D S B S ’ 8 3

Growing up in Southeastern Indiana, basketball was king and I was an able servant. I worshiped Indiana University’s Bob Knight AKA “The General.” IU’s point guard, Quinn Buckner, was my idol.

I saw myself as the second coming, a pass first, defensive minded player who put team above all else. I spent many happy nights dreaming about the future. I would follow Buckner’s path: IU, the Olympics, and a career in the NBA. Sadly my dream came crashing to a halt the summer between 4th and 5th grade.

A L E XI S H O GYA ’ 1 6

I started reading my good-bye letter aloud, speaking to no one except Grandma. Tear stains on my cheeks; I stood in the middle of the room, in front of Grandma’s casket, reading the letter I wrote the night she died. Everyone’s sorrowful eyes on Kay’s granddaughter, me, as I poured my heart out to the room, Grandma, and God. Taking a deep breath, I continued the note. Suddenly overcome by sadness, I started crying. Still I continued, wanted Grandma to know how much I loved her. Then crying turned into sobbing and sobbing turned into balling. Still I continued, heavily breathing between the words, feeling meek and vulnerable. Finally I finished, and sobbing, I placed a copy of her letter in the casket. Taking my seat next to my parents and sister, I felt the love of Grandma in that room. We were all united in the love of our lost one and in the preservation of her memory.

I believe that love is universal. The only people I knew in that room were my family, yet they all felt for me and the same way I did. We were all connected in Grandma’s death. I savored that moment, the moment when we all were silent, thinking about the love that was there. The love that we all felt and could understand. I believe that anyone and everyone can comprehend love, and that everyone should have the chance.

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united

I know that Santa is real. Every year, aside from the presents, he leaves my sister and me a letter, telling us how good we have been all year, and telling us how we can improve and become better people. He signs his letters in the same swirly handwriting and with the same words with which he signs his gifts: “Love Santa.”

There are many people in the world who think they are too cool for Santa. They try to tell me that he isn’t real, or that he doesn’t come every year, but I know they are wrong. Yes, Santa does bring presents to me every year on Christmas Eve. However, what most people don’t realize is that Santa is much more than a deliveryman. He is a symbol of generosity, of charity, and of hope. He allows even the loneliest of people to know that there is someone in the world who loves him or her.

Santa sets an example for all people that giving is better than receiving. He does nothing but give to others, yet he is the jolliest person I know. He doesn’t ask for much, just that we be good people (and, of course, milk and cookies), and he shows us that no good deed goes without a reward.

Santa teaches us that when we give to others and feel good about it on an everyday basis, then each day can be like Christmas morning. One person’s joy will bring another person joy, and thus start a chain reaction of happiness.

So yes, I do believe in Santa Claus, and I always will, no matter what anyone tells me. For in a dark world, Santa is a warm, a bright light that will never fade away.

i believe in santa claus

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M A R I NA J E M A I L ’ 1 2

Since I was a little girl, Christmas has been my favorite time of year. I wait all year for the Christmas music on the radio, the smell of Christmas trees, and, most of all, the coming of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. I set out cookies and milk by the tree, and even leave carrots outside for the reindeer. And every year, Santa comes, no matter how snowy, cold, or unpleasant it is outside. Santa is the only person of whom I know that I can rely on for anything; he has never disappointed me.

God carries you through the hard times. He doesn’t inflict the hard times upon you, that is just nature or the devil or bad luck or whomever you want to blame it on. God is there to give you strength and carry you if you need to be carried.

I carried this poem and coin in my purse throughout William’s illness, transplant, recovery and it is even in there today. It helped me to remember who was carrying my entire family and me.

A year after William’s transplant I went for a run on the beach. It was a beautiful, early morning run on a quiet, peaceful Pacific beach. When I reached the rocks at the end of the beach I had to turn around. There in front of me was a long line of my own footprints in the sand. I realized at that very moment that I could finally make my own footprints again. It was time for me to walk on my own and start my own recovery and healing process. We had nearly finished healing our child, now it was time for me to heal.

To most, those footprints on the Pacific beach were just another line of imprints that would quickly wash away with the next wave, but for me those footprints will be forever emblazoned on my mind and in my soul.

footprints in the sand

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parent

“The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand, is when I carried you.”

A NN F L A H E R T Y

In 2008 our son became critically ill. The illness hit us overnight, out of the blue, and like a brick wall. Sometime early in William’s illness I visited the gift shop at Children’s Hospital. There I found a small card with a silver coin glued to it. The coin had footprints imprinted in to it. The card had the story of Footprints in the Sand. It said, in part:

I believe in laughing with others. Laughter with others creates bonds that may exist for only two minutes or last a lifetime. Sharing the glee is ten times better than holding it all to yourself. So go crack a few jokes with your friends, change a sad face to a more enlightened one, and try more risks with the possibility that something awkward may result, and it could bring upon dropping to the ground laughter among the whole group.

I believe in laughing at yourself. If we don’t laugh at ourselves throughout life, we’ll end up grumpy, no-fun, boring people. What a gloomy world that would be. So if you do embarrass yourself or do something worth laughing about -- laugh. Staying embarrassed and self-conscious is just not worth the sweat.

I believe in laughing just because you are happy. Try it. Try soaring through your life looking at embarrassing incidents as laughable, or a few mistakes as something to divide and conquer. This is what I believe.

laughter

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JE NNA J O S E PH ’ 1 0

I believe in laughter: with others, at yourself, after something hilarious happens, or just because you are happy. Other than providing a decent ab workout for the body, laughter can fill the soul with bliss no matter how miserable you may be feeling. From an overly repeated joke to an embarrassing story, and everything in between, all can make a person laugh. I think people don’t laugh as much as they should throughout their lives. Of course some situations need to be taken seriously, but on the other hand there are so many times when experiences are passed up because of the lack of plain old enjoyment. I say, “Hakuna Matada!” Go out and experience life the way it was meant to be lived.

Faith communities provide boundaries bigger than life. When I reflect on the important influence of this concept of being shaped by my past, present and future, I am sure that a career spent in a faith community has made me the person I am today. Often people comment that teachers have such influence on the lives of so many students. I believe that the many Summit students that I have had the privilege to experience have been my teachers. The faculty and staff have mentored my progress, providing guidance, support and challenges. To work each day surrounded by people of faith is to see a perspective that is blessed and golden with the love of God. The Summit has shaped the teacher I am today – this I believe.

a blessed childhood set the stage

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upper school leadership team

When I sought to immerse myself in a learning community that would challenge me professionally and personally, I knew the importance of choosing a school that would satisfy this component of what I believed would shape my career. Many lives have been changed by the history and mission of The Summit. I discovered this to be true for me as well. To work here is to feel the influence of the heart and wisdom of the founders of the school, to feel called to be better each day than the day before, and to serve a growing and vibrant community. A rich history provides The Summit a clear direction that includes both a familiar and safe pathway and a confidence, at times, to choose “A road less traveled.� The multifaceted mission of the school means there are endless opportunities for curriculum and programs that enrich and provide professional growth. And much like my childhood, I find The Summit fills me with opportunities and dreams for the future. I am sure that the possibilities that I feel confident about at the end of every day are because the strong foundations of The Summit are ever-lasting.

LAURA HAAS

I believe that people are shaped by their past, present and future. As a child I realized my heritage through the stories I heard over and over again. It felt as though I had relationships with great-great grandparents who died long before I was born, and as though I had actually been present at family experiences shared by others and retold so often they were real to my ears and my imagination.

I was schooled in values and lifestyles that were consistent and stable. The involvement of my family and the various communities they constructed for my day-to-day living provided me an understanding of who I was. And for me there were passions and dreams that were built on opportunities in my future if only I would stretch and reach. I have my family to thank for what I consider to be the greatest gift of my childhood, and I believe that the significance of seeing my life as my past, present and future has helped to shape me over and over.

AL SA G E L upper school math In July, 1958 my dad, mom, and younger brother Paul and I spent a Friday evening at my older brother Jack’s house having a cookout with his wife and children. Jack’s specialty was grilled chicken. It was the last day of my dad’s vacation and he would be going back to work on Monday.

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payback

He was a machinist and I recall his fingers being rough from the steel filings produced while he worked on his lathe.

Next morning I woke up to find that my brother Ralph’s wife was at our house. It was very unusual to have someone visiting at this early hour on Saturday. I was told that my dad had gotten very sick during the night and had to be taken to the hospital. By Sunday afternoon my brother Jack sat down with me and my younger brother Paul to give us the bad news. My dad had suffered a stroke and had died. I was 11 years old and my younger brother was nine. My dad was 54 years old and my mom was 50.

My mom had to find work for the first time in her married life. She was the mother of five children (four boys and a girl) and spent her time in the home with all of the tasks that came with raising five children. The sudden loss of a father and husband made our lives very different.

By the fall of 1960 I had graduated from grade school and entered Roger Bacon High School. I enjoyed high school. I was blessed with sufficient ability to do well in my studies and joined many of the clubs that were available. I was in the Camera Club, the Drama Club, and a few others. I particularly took a liking to math and enjoyed my 9th grade math teacher, Fr. Donnul Suttman, one of the many Franciscans Friars who taught at Bacon. The friars helped to fill the void left in my life by the death of my father. They were friendly and usually had a great sense of humor and I wanted to be like them. By the time I left Bacon I knew I wanted to be a math teacher.

When I began my teaching career I made myself a promise that I would try to be the best teacher I could be. I never felt that I was a “natural” at teaching. Everything seemed to be a lot of work but what I lacked in natural talent I made up for in persistence.

It is hard for me to believe that this is my 36th year in the teaching profession. As I reflect on my career I find myself coming back to some very simple ideas. I believe that my career has been about “payback.” I had good teachers in high school. I want the students who I teach to walk away with that same feeling—they had good teachers. Even though we change very much after our adolescent years, many of the issues in our life at that time linger on into our adulthood. We need to pay attention and not be dismissive of these adolescent years.

The intellectual expansion at this time in my life was very large. The exposure to math, science, literature, religion, language and social studies still form the core of my intellectual identity. I would hope that today we still do the same for our students. Today we are under a lot of pressure to prepare students for college—sometimes it becomes a deafening mantra whereby we lose sight of the importance of education in the moment. While it is true that college is the next step in the learning sequence, we ought to be careful that we do not see our role as teachers as just “prep” folks—we’re working on the salad, but the entrée is yet to come. We are not vocational teachers.

While what we teach will certainly enable our students to pursue careers in adult life, we would be short-sighted if we did not see the importance of thinking about the many human issues we encounter in literature. I believe the struggle to work a math problem often leads to a small personal triumph that may not enable us to “turn a buck” down the road but gives us a greater respect for the power of our own intelligence and reverence for the achievements of great mathematicians before us. payback

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“Unless they find a cure” they all assured me. I wanted them to shut up, to take it away, to fix me.

It never happened, and here I stand today, still a diabetic.

Sure I was sad.

Yes, I was angry.

What had I done to deserve this?

Within a couple of weeks, the original shock had subsided, but I was still a little lost. It was a daily struggle to be positive, to keep going. Slowly, very slowly, I was learning something that I still believe today. I was learning to recognize miracles, to look for them, to treasure them. When it seemed like I had my own personal raincloud hanging over my head, those first days after coming home from the hospital, I found a miracle, or rather it found me. The newspaper had published an article about a well-known basketball player named Adam Morrison. Aside from having a very successful career playing basketball for the Charlotte Bobcats, he is also a diabetic. This article inspired me to be positive, to take control, and to live my life fully just like him. Was it coincidence that this article arrived just days after I was diagnosed? Maybe, yet I think not. Miracle? Anything is possible.

Since that day, I have formed a very strong belief that miracles do happen. Not the big, flashy, national coverage, world attention miracles, but the miracles that happen to real, everyday people.

So yes, I believe in miracles. I believe that real people with real lives, hopes, and dreams experience miracles. I can pretty much guarantee you that a positive attitude will save your life someday, and that you will experience one miracle in your life time. All you have to do is look for the good, and cherish it.

everyday miracles

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A NNE KL E T T E ’ 1 5

When I was nine years old, I was diagnosed with diabetes. At a young age, I was launched into the complicated world of needles, carbs, IVs, and blood sugar. Nobody can prepare a child for that much responsibility. My whole experience was like one of those bad dreams you have where nobody tells you what is going on, and it feels like the world is collapsing around you. Nurses and doctors floated in and out of my room, telling me all these things that just confused me. One person had the sense to tell me, “You have type one diabetes.” Well, the cat was out of the bag. I realized then that the needles were never going away; diabetes was forever.

My father was a very successful mechanical contractor and I grew up in a comfortable home, never wanting for anything. Some would even have used the term “spoiled” for the way my brother and I were raised. My mother had her own means of giving and more than anyone else in my life, she taught me the meaning of love. From the time I was a young girl, she would often spontaneously suggest that we go shopping for any of a number of families who were not quite as fortunate as ours. These were not the unknown faces of some charity, but relatives, friends and acquaintances.

Most years at Christmas we went out and bought toys for the children of a relative, new Easter outfits for them and we even made the occasional trek for summer bathing suits, complete with cover-ups, of course! Every Thanksgiving and Christmas there were at least two or three turkeys ordered, only one for our family, the others for someone my mother knew could not afford such luxury. One summer, a family friend, with three young children, severely injured his hand while working with power tools. My mother purchased a dishwasher and had it installed in their home to make life just a bit easier for the family.

The woman who cleaned our house was often the recipient of random gifts when the need arose. When her daughter became pregnant at 16, Mom and I again went shopping to stock up on delightful baby clothes, blankets, bibs and various other necessary items. There was often something extra in the paycheck when it seemed to be needed. Although it may be considered a cliché today, the generosity was not.

My father grew up on a farm in rural Amelia, and never knew the luxury of grocery store shopping.

His family ate what they raised. After he started his contracting business, he had occasion to work in a number of the poorer neighborhoods in the city. He developed friendships that, at the time, seemed rather unlikely, but in his own way, he was helping those who needed him. Based on the recommendation of a friend, he gave jobs to countless young men and women who had no experience and very little knowledge of his business. If necessary, Dad went so far as to pick them up for work and take them home afterward. It went without saying that any relative or friend who needed a job, found one with him. It didn’t matter how qualified, how young or how old, they were never turned away. Just in case you think this was an easy task, you should know that his business never employed more than 20-30 people. Yet, somehow, there was always room for another.

For over 30 years my father sponsored, managed and coached little league baseball teams. Three generations of children learned to play ball because of his generosity, with both his money and his time, many who still remain friends of the family today.

I believe in the power of philanthropy even when it is on a very personal basis. I believe that generosity, no matter how close to home, causes reverberations far beyond the initial intent. My brother and I were always the primary recipients of my parents’ generosity, but we learned every day the meaning of personal philanthropy as it extended beyond our own personal world.

personal philanthropy

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MARY JO CLEVELAND ’69

When I was growing up I never heard the word philanthropy. My parents were products of the Depression era, my father was one of nine children of an Italian immigrant farmer and my mother was the daughter of an interior decorator whose business was decimated by the Great Depression.

Aside from church collection envelopes, the idea of giving to charity was not discussed in our home. And yet my parents gave back in very personal, quiet ways.

C A R OL I N E M C KE E ’ 1 2

I believe that hearing is our greatest and most important sense and that sound can be the most useful and beautiful thing in the world. Without it, there can be no communication, no languages, and no music. It defines civilization.

Sound provides the basis of communication between individuals and between nations. Usually I sort of scorn those people in college who are majoring in “Communications.” What does that mean? What do you learn? Where will it get you? Honestly, I still don’t know any of these answers, but I have come to realize that we need people who know how to communicate. Most likely, the major just teaches you to build relationships and fit with society. But if we all took these classes, I’d venture to say the world might be more peaceable, all because we’d have learned to master our language and use words to move mountains.

This leads rather nicely into world languages. I’ve always been very interested in different cultures and especially languages. Listening to people speak in French or Russian or Chinese literally fascinates me. Supposedly the Romance languages are more lilting and lyrical, and I agree; but the guttural Danish and harsh Russian to which I’ve been exposed seem to me just as beautifully amazing. English, of course, has always been one of my passions as well. First I loved the grammar — then I fell in love with poetry and quotes and the way I could make them sound when I recited aloud. It always astounds me how much meaning and beauty words can carry when carefully chosen and strung in the right sequence. It is for this reason that I actually enjoy writing essays.

I love being able to formulate phrases in my head and then say them out loud to find either that something is lacking or that they sound like the delicate, magical epitome of eloquence. I cannot stand it when people say something is “unable to be described in words,” because it can always be described in words: those people just have a deficient vocabulary.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, is music. It can be heard and appreciated by everybody, even by those suffering from “the kind of tone deafness usually associated with real deafness.”

Real music adds beauty to the world, which is what we most need. And people have been making music since the dawn of time, purely because it brings joy. Listening to people sing, genuinely good singers in particular, should “thrill [you], chill [you],” and perhaps give an adrenaline rush or at least some spike of motivation. Straight music with no words should do the same, though it’s not as often appreciated. I’ve played piano since I was 5 and I love it. My piano is mine alone, and when I play it... (Here’s where my deficient vocabulary enters). It’s simply more sound that brings more joy and more beauty.

I believe that sound is the most important thing in the world and it brings with it the very essence of true beauty.

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the beauty of sound

Personally, I don’t have a problem with sharing the word that I use to describe how I feel about Van Gogh’s Starry Night and to express my feelings for my brother and sister, because I truly love all three. In this way, I like to think of the word love as a nice wool scarf; one size fits all. When it comes down to it, love in its essence is acceptance, joy, peace, chaos and something indescribable, all in one. I believe that it’s freeing to be able to use one word to encompass all things that evoke this feeling, this way of living, no matter how small. While I may not love traveling in the same way that I love my grandma, I still love both. If you see or hear or taste something and your first thought is, I love this, then I think you really do. You may love it differently than you do someone or something else, but you love it nonetheless. Why deny yourself the ability and the satisfaction of being able to verbalize the way you feel?

My belief is that falling in love is a process and an experience that is repeated throughout your life.

The trick is, you never really know who or what the object of this love will happen to be, and there is no way to plan it. When I wrote my first poem for English class in seventh grade, I hadn’t planned on falling in love with writing poetry. I was simply trying to finish my project quickly, because midnight was minutes away and it was due the next day. And even if I did, even if I’d had a hunch, it wouldn’t have mattered. The outcome would have been the same. In a world that has to bear the weight of so much evil, why shouldn’t we love as much as we can? Why suppress the small hint of love that rises in you when you see the lonely old man on the park bench? Who has the right to stop us?

Falling in love isn’t a feeling that can be duplicated or created at will. Rather, it is a movement inside of you revealing something that you didn’t know was there. This internal shift may knock you off balance, but more often than not, you will end up learning something about yourself that you never knew before. To put what may seem like a bold idea into practice is easier than you’d think. Being open is all it takes for love to catch you by surprise. After all, love is one thing the world could always do with a little more of. fall in love repeatedly

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MELISSA NG ’11

I believe in falling in love again, and again, and again. When you think about it, what’s better than love? The only thing I can think of is falling in love. When I say falling in love, I don’t necessarily mean finding the perfect man or woman who is your soul mate, your other half, the Bert to your Ernie. I believe you can, and should, fall in love with lots of things, ideas, places, and people.

Sanskrit has ninety-six words for love, an Eskimo language has thirty-two, and Greek has three.

Each different word means a different kind of love. For example, there could be a word for the love you feel for your significant other and a different word for your love of Sudoku. We Englishspeakers, however, are restricted to just one word for love, so in this respect, I believe that the word love is like moisturizer. It should be applied liberally and whenever and wherever needed.

Because of being stuck with a single term, I am forced to say that while I love God with all my heart, I also love macaroni and cheese. While you may be thinking that it’s wrong to use the same word to show how you feel about both your mom and your ice cream cone, I would say that I have to respectfully disagree. After all, I didn’t say that I love macaroni more than I love God. Love is a spectrum with varying degrees of intensity.

“The dreams of the three trees came true. It was just not in the way they imagined. As with the three trees, God has a plan for each of us. And so we see, God’s ways are not always our ways but His ways are always the best.”

This past month our lives were saddened by the passing of two people who were as close to us as our own families. My niece told me once she had been sent to her room and she cried, “All the tears her eyes could cry.” Now I think I know how she felt. I could not imagine how God could take away two such wonderful people leaving a great hole in not only our hearts, but in the heart of their fifteen-year-old daughter in our care.

Everyone says we are doing such a good thing by taking on the challenge of raising a teenager. I see it in a different way. We have been blessed again. God has asked us to share in the life, and all the joys of this sweet child who needs our love, our guidance and our care. We get to go to field hockey in the rain, we get to cheer at basketball games, drive lots of silly girls to Homecoming, and shop for dresses along with the absurdly high heels needed to go with them. Our house is active with neighborhood kids who show up just in time for dinner each evening. My husband (another gift) thinks he can redeem himself from his own high school days and get a better grade in geometry this time around.

Teenagers are hard. There is no perfect “how to” book on getting through these years and if there is, guaranteed, the teenager isn’t reading it! We know there will be bumps in the road and rocky days. But right now, our two girls are snuggled in a chair together watching TV. I would like to say they are eating carrots and watching PBS but in reality, it is SpongeBob and ice cream. It’s all good and with God’s help, and the love and support of so many family and friends, I believe it’s going to be just fine.

God’s plan

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lower school faculty

I always dreamed of having a big family, a house full of children and laughter, similar to my own childhood. Our little girl came to us with three hours notice. Oh how our lives changed with one phone call! I loved her from the moment I saw that wonderful pink bundle. What fun it is to see life through her beautiful blue eyes. She is an immeasurable joy and a great blessing. Though I hoped for more children, I figured that God was finished with our little family.

C E I L JO H N S O N

My favorite night time ritual is reading books with my five-year-old daughter. She is one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. Recently, she brought me the book The Legend of the Three Trees to read before bed. I love this book and its message. In light of the recent developments in our lives however, the story has taken on an even greater significance.

M A R K WI E S N E R

“You must know that he’s a bit backward.” Backward? Why was my mom now saying this to my teacher?

upper school art

From the earliest of grades I remember her arrivals home from those first quarter parent-teacher conference nights. They were always filled with these embarrassing stories of what she had freely chosen to reveal about me. It was her attempt to try to explain why her middle son, a son who worked so hard at most everything he attempted, would start off each school year with such reluctance, such fear.

Looking back now I have many fond memories of all of my teachers. There was Sr. Williams, my first grade teacher, who began her career with my class. Somehow she was able to magically teach this entire group of forty-eight students how to read. There was Mrs. Splain, my fifth grade teacher, who lived with her family down the street from us. She sometimes invited my friends and me into her home for a snack. She was the only teacher who I ever saw in a bathing suit. And there was Mr. Acito, my sophomore English teacher, who broke open literature for me in new ways, allowing me to sometimes explore multimedia responses to some of his assignments. I can bring all of their stories, all of their classrooms, all of their faces back to mind when I think of them. They undoubtedly played an incredibly significant role in my life.

Yet what I also remember is my apprehension, my timidity as I encountered each of these individuals at the beginning of every school year. My mom was right. I did enter each year “backward.” For my mom, being ‘backward’ simply meant that she had a son who was extremely shy. However, this “shyness” was not intrinsically who I was or am; it was simply born out of a lack of confidence that would raise its ugly head every year. I was lucky enough to have had teachers who helped me to put aside my fears, who believed in me, who trusted me, who empowered me, allowing my confidence to grow and my success to be ensured. And the fact that this process repeated itself each year does not diminish the “sheer magic” that took place between this student and his teacher. This I believe, that it is within that space when a teacher touches a student’s life in such a way that he or she is able to take one step further in becoming the person who they really are.

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teachers

If you have ever noticed, older people tend to send out more cards than younger generations do; this might be just because the younger generation is too caught up in technology and things like Facebook, but I believe that it is because older people know the value of a card. For example my grandma would always send my cousin and me cards no matter what the occasion was. It could be my birthday, Easter, or even Halloween and we could be sure that a card was on its way to our doorstep. I think the reason she sent these cards is not because she loved every holiday or because she felt obligated to, but because she wanted us to remember that she was thinking about us. She wanted us to know that even though she was all the way down in Florida she still cared.

She knew that when she sent that card and it arrived at our doorstep and we saw her handwriting we would begin to smile.

When I was younger I would always make my mom a card on her birthday, for Christmas, and just about any other holiday because at the time I could not think of anything else to give. As I grew older my mom told me that the best gift was the card I would make when I was little because she could tell I had put so much effort into it. I put so much effort into it because I wanted her to know that even though I could not think of a present I was still thinking about her.

Many people overlook the power of a greeting card because most people do not take the time to appreciate the card. If you forget that a person sent the card especially for you and took time to write and decorate, or pick a prewritten one out, then a card does just become an ordinary piece of paper. A greeting card can send thousands of messages, but one message is always clear: that the person truly cares about you.

a hallmark moment

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KE L LY M A I E R ’ 1 0

II believe in the power of a greeting card. We all love to receive a greeting card, whether it is a comical, singing, sad, happy, thank you, Christmas or birthday card. How could a piece of paper give someone such a great feeling? Well it is not just a piece of paper. A piece of paper is worth about 99 cents while a good card has no price. A piece of paper is the same to everyone while a card is significant to only you. Tons of people recycle paper, but rarely would you find a good card in the recycle bin. One of the reasons I find cards to be so powerful is because of The Summit.

When my dad died when I was in first grade I missed about a week of school and during that week I received a card from each of my classmates. They had all decorated them and written messages like “I hop you feel better,” and even though most of the words were spelled wrong it did not matter to me because it was the meaning that counted. The card does not have to be grammatically correct or the most outstanding card in the world, it just has to make a difference in the person’s day. Even a small smile can make a huge difference in someone’s day because it lets the person know that you took time to make sure that they were thanked or had a merry Christmas. Cards can make families come together too. Although my family does not do a Christmas card I know many who do. Some of the older children find it annoying that they still have to be in a family portrait for a Christmas picture, but what they do not recognize is that the picture is building their family. I am sure that they will be happy they had to take those dreaded family photos years from now. Any family activity builds upon the strength of a bond, but with a card you can see the formation over the years.

STEPHANIE D U G G A N lower school literacy coach Maybe I epitomize the description of “hopeless romantic” or “eternal optimist” and at times I can be made fun of for it, but I’d rather be described using those terms than words that exude negativity and pessimism. I feel this way about the books I read too. I’m drawn to novels that boast happiness and love forever after. If I have gotten to the end of a book and feel depressed, saddened or sorrowful I almost want my money back! There are enough news stories and popular TV shows that feed society heaping handfuls of violence, fear and negativity; I prefer my literature to be without it! There is one book however, that I have read and re-read that in points of my life has caused me to laugh out loud, it has entertained my imagination wildly. On the other hand, it has also made me sad and darned near depressed. Although I typically don’t like those feelings from a book, I’ve learned a lot from this book and how it relates to life, and I’d like to share that now.

Many of us have read Roald Dahl’s Matilda, and are familiar with the character Miss Honey. She was the school teacher who tried to show Matilda’s parents how unique and special Matilda was.

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miss honey

Miss Honey was warm, welcoming and tried to improve every student’s life. When reading the book you could hear her soft voice, sense her enthusiasm and love of her students and imagine her delicate beauty and grace. I do believe that every child needs a Miss Honey!

While reading Matilda as an elementary student I dreamed of having her super powers, and I wanted to move things with my mind. I admired her lightheartedness when people treated her badly, and her unending quest for knowledge. She was also allowed to watch TV while eating dinner. How lucky! I remember vividly being jealous of Matilda. On the contrary, some 20 years later when I re-read Matilda as an adult I pitied her. I still think it is funny how years of experience can completely change a reader’s perspective. Matilda’s parents were cruel and neglectful. Her principal, Mrs. Trunchbull, was a frightening force to be reckoned with, and Matilda was often alone trying to find ways to enlighten and entertain herself. I believe there are a lot of children in the world who live in similar circumstances as Matilda and they desperately need a Miss Honey.

I was lucky enough to grow up in a house where reading and learning were highly valued, kindness and consideration were the law of the land, and there certainly was never, ever a TV on during dinner. It wasn’t until I was older that I could appreciate these rules, but to say I appreciate them now is an understatement. Both of my parents were educators and they supported our every endeavor, but if something went wrong at school they were very disappointed and wanted to get to the bottom of the situation, and right the wrong. In fifth grade I had a teacher like Miss Honey.

She was young and beautiful, she was enthusiastic about teaching and she created a climate of fun and fairness. Everyone felt safe in her class. My younger brother was in first grade, and he had a Mrs. Trunchbull for a teacher. He was 6 years old and came home crying every afternoon and begging not to go back the next day. My parents thought it was a phase, and he would eventually love school. They were wrong. After a series of meetings and assessments my family finally learned my brother had severe dyslexia. Learning to read and write was a painful struggle and constant embarrassment. His teacher held up his paper in front of class and said, “No one’s paper should be as messy as Matt’s,” and she threw it away. Of course my parents were upset, and they let the teacher and the principal know how unacceptable her actions were. Unfortunately, my brother had to suck it up and get through first grade with a Mrs. Trunchbull. It broke my heart to see my brother’s head drop and hands go into his pockets the second we got to the schoolyard. Walking to school every day I tried to console him and tell him that he too would have a Miss Honey soon. I re-told him parts of Matilda and eventually he asked me to read the whole book to him. He thought it was hilarious! School was always a challenge for my brother; there were always a couple Mrs. Trunchbulls, but he also found many Miss Honeys along his way and made it through.

Although Miss Honey is fictional, she has shaped my teaching in so many ways. While content and standards are important and valued, pedagogy and relationships are invaluable! Children need teachers who make them feel safe, who care about their feelings and can celebrate their successes.

There is surmounting research that suggests that children have a positive, caring relationship with their teacher have a better chance of reaching their academic and personal goals. Students today are inheriting a very complex world; as a result we need to equip them with knowledge, character and compassion. We teachers need to be caring adults who value the learning process, appreciate uniqueness, and also make kindness and consideration the law of the land in our classroom. I do believe that we need to be Miss Honey for our students. It could change a child’s life radically. miss honey

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SKIP LY N A M middle school director It was the Spring of 1961, and I was just about to finish my second year of teaching. I decided that I needed to break out on my own and teach some place exotic. Being a male in elementary education, nearly every school door was open to me and I chose to teach in Dade County, Florida.

Ah, those gentle ocean breezes! The school that I was hired for was a brand new building built in the shape of a capital letter E with each wing containing various grade levels. I taught a sixth grade, so my wing was at the top of the E. That also meant that my room was closest to the beginnings of Everglades shrub.

On teacher orientation day two things happened that are noteworthy: 1) All teachers received instructions on how to use our newly acquired snakebite kits and 2) I received my class list. Upon 49

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reviewing our class lists, the fifth grade teachers were quick to warn me about “George,” a 16 year old who lived in the “glades.” I heard all kinds of tales from his previous teachers which led me to believe that this young man simply couldn’t or wouldn’t learn, plus the fact that he had a beard, and was going to be in sixth grade, and in my room! Sure enough, when opening day came, I greeted my students at the door, and there was George, 6 feet tall with a beard! He grunted a barely audible “yo” but when he shook my hand he had the grip of a lumberjack. Yep, I knew right then that George was O.K. George did indeed live in the “glades” with his father. He could barely write his name and had no idea who his mother was. But he certainly knew how to survive in an Everglades lifestyle. He was so strong at kickball that I had to make him permanent pitcher, otherwise the team that had George would always win easily.

Academically, George couldn’t do second grade work, let alone sixth grade work, but he had skills that others didn’t have. Now I believe that every person is put on this earth to do something - made for a purpose that only they can do if they are fulfilling the purpose that they are born for. I also believe that the Good Lord isn’t going to let any of us be good at EVERYTHING - it just doesn’t work that way. So, if we’re good at something, we’re often poor at other things. Consequently, I believe that kids who are great at academics are often not so great at other things - sometimes sports, interpersonal skills, no pattern or stereotype- just that kids good at academics have other weaknesses. Likewise, kids who aren’t great at academics often are fantastic in other areas, and this is where George fits in. He would stay after school and talk to me for hours about the reptiles and animals that lived in the Everglades and how to make a living trapping and skinning them.

He would have made a wonderful airboat guide, even at 16, and that is why I made George my permanent All-Star Room Monitor.

One hot Fall day I was escorting my class from the lunchroom back to our classroom. George led us down the outside patio walkway to unlock my classroom door, when suddenly he turned, grabbed me by the shirt, and threw me against the patio wall. For an instant I was dazed and really couldn’t fathom why George was trying to hurt me, but in the next split second, I knew. There in the grass by the walk where my next step would have been was a coiled Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake ready to strike. George literally saved my life! At least that’s what I thought. George actually put himself between that rattlesnake and me, grabbing it by the back of the neck and holding it until the custodian ran out and killed it. That evening, George taught me how to strip a rattlesnake and preserve the skin. “Do it all the time,” he told me. Then, with a pocket knife, which you could have back then, George skillfully removed the rest of the head, the fangs, and the rattle.

He very carefully grabbed the skin in one hand and the snake’s body in the other. “Rattlesnake meat is good,” he said, and slowly separated the skin from the body, after cutting the snake lengthwise.

“Take this skin home, Mr. Lynam, stretch it out, pin it, rub lighter fluid and salt on the underside, and let it dry two days in the sun.” And I did just that!

Remember I said earlier that I believe that every person is put on this earth to do something – made for a purpose that only they can do. Well, George fulfilled that purpose, as only he could do, and probably because of him, I’m writing this essay today. Oh, by the way, if you’re ever over in my office, remind me to show you my snakeskin. I carry it in my briefcase. It is a constant reminder of what I believe.

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So here I sit on a Sunday morning in a church I am unfamiliar with next to my husband of 22 years at the time. I am as hurt as I am scared. Ironically, the whole Mass was centered on the notion of service to others. I tear up during the readings, homily, and Eucharistic prayer. I bravely go to communion and return to my seat to pray silently, trying hard not to cry. After communion they dim the lights, and a small orchestra begins to play. A woman with a beautiful voice sings a song about being called to serve. It is a different version than I heard growing up. The lyrics were,” Called beyond our human understanding, called before the world came into view. Within your mother’s womb, your name was known to me, for you did not choose me, no, I chose you.” Pictures slowly faded in and out on a screen hanging on the wall behind the altar. There were firefighters, police, doctors, students, scouts, Habitat for Humanity volunteers, soup kitchen volunteers, coat drives, thrift stores, food drives, Shantytown, mission trips, and more. As I watched the warmth of inner peace came over me. I was enlightened! My son Justin was called to be who he was. We sent him to Catholic schools his whole life and he learned to be compassionate, to help others and to give back. These pictures reflected who he was -- an Eagle Scout, involved in mission trips and service projects. He honestly believed in what he was doing and the decision he made. He was a man following his calling and it didn’t matter if mama liked it or not. I needed to let go and let him become the man he was meant to be.

I am still scared. What mother wouldn’t be? But….I believe there is a purpose for each of us and that God has a plan. I believe my son was called to serve in the US Army at this time in his life and I am at peace with his decision. Justin did not go to Iraq that year. The Army Reserves released him and he became an M1A1 Abrams Tank Gunner for the US Army. He has served one year overseas at Camp Casey on the DMZ in South Korea. In November 2009 he deployed to Iraq. At this time in my life I think of another song - a country western song by Carrie Underwood titled, “Jesus Take The Wheel.” I ask Him to do that, and to watch over Justin and all our service people.

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director of human resources

Shortly after basic he decided the Army Reserves weren’t enough and he wanted to be a full time soldier in the US Army. He changed his MOS from Combat Engineer to Abrams Tanker. Then one Saturday morning I heard on TV that his Reserves Unit was being deployed and there was a stop loss and he would be going with them. For the first time in my life, I had no control over my 1st son’s future or safety - I was devastated and I was scared.

JOL E NE B A R T O N

Several years ago, my husband and I were attending Mass at an unfamiliar parish. It was during a difficult time in our marriage. Our oldest son, Justin, decided he had enough of college in his sophomore year and enlisted in the US Army Reserves. As patriotic as I am, I was totally devastated.

Here was a kid who had been brought up in an upper middle class family and didn’t need a thing.

We worked hard to provide him with every possible opportunity. And now this. Why wouldn’t he at least finish college and go in as an officer after he earned his degree? We begged, we bribed, and did everything possible to get him to change his mind. He didn’t, and left for Basic Training.

In my house, the windows shake when there is a storm. When I was little, this noise scared me out of my mind. Now, I have learned to love that sound, because it’s just the angels bowling, right? But before I learned this wisdom, I was afraid. So one day when there was a storm, I went down to my basement to escape some of the noise. My dad came down too and we found the plastic bowling set. We set up the pins carefully so they wouldn’t topple over, and began to play. We were having so much fun that we were probably making more noise than the storm. I don’t know if this sparked my dad’s idea or if it was great knowledge he had gained from someone else, but he asked me, “Do you know what thunder is?” I thought for a moment, trying to come up with an intelligent answer.

When I decided I had nothing I said, “No. What is it?” My dad said with a completely serious and honest face, “It’s the angels bowling.”

At the time, this was the greatest thing I had ever heard. There was no reason to be scared of the windows shaking anymore, because it was just the angels having a good time bowling. For a while, this was my belief about thunder. Since then, I have learned the true reason why thunder occurs, but whenever there is a storm I think, ‘Hey, it’s just the angels bowling!’

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T HE R E S A R A GE R ’ 1 3

When I was little my dad told me thunder was the angels bowling, and I believed. After many years of science classes, I now understand that thunder is the discharge of vibrations from lightening, which makes its way to our ears by traveling in waves. However, since my dad told me that thunder was the angels bowling, I still think of that when I hear the loud, window shaking, booming noise that signifies a storm.

M A G G I E GI E S E KE

I believe that adoption is a wonderful way to build a family.

I became a mother in two different ways. I gave birth to three children and adopted three children.

Both avenues to parenthood were magical. No thrill came close to that of meeting my children for the first time. There was no difference between meeting my daughters in the hospital delivery room, my sons in Guatemala, or my youngest daughter in an orphanage in Ethiopia. In the trenches of parenting, biology doesn’t matter. Genetics mean little. Love is what carries the day, what pulls you through, what holds a family together. There is no second best way to create a family. Through adoption, our family has been blessed and enriched in ways too numerous to count.

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Like all parents who have adopted from countries in distress, the children we met who are still waiting for parents stay in my heart as much as the children who became my family. Most adoptive parents will agree that this heaviness is a side effect of international adoption. While we all feel proud and fortunate to have our children safe and home, we carry the faces of those children waiting for parents in our hearts. Those are the children that we think of as we protect our own children. We think of them often when we hold our own children tight against pain and sadness.

Since our first adopted son came home from Guatemala, my thoughts go immediately to the children living in orphanages every time one of our children is sick or frightened in the middle of the night. Children need parents in order to survive and grow and no one knows this better than an orphan who is longing for a family of his or her own.

When I picked up our youngest daughter from the orphanage where she had lived for most of her young life, a girl of about seven ran out to greet me. She stopped short, looked me in the eye, grinned and said something I couldn’t understand. I bent closer and she spoke again and I realized that she was speaking to me in English, not her own language, and that she was softly and uncertainly introducing herself to me. My heart broke for her. I know that children her age do not speak to adults unless they have a very good reason. Her good reason was that she was desperate for a mother and I looked like I had potential to fill that role. The terrible sad truth is that in introducing herself to a stranger, this little girl was speaking for all of the waiting children at the orphanage, and by extension, orphans everywhere hoping for parents of their own.

Becoming a parent is a personal leap of faith and an act of love. Becoming an adoptive parent is exactly the same. While I understand that the journey of adoption can be a difficult path to begin, I will attest that the rewards have far exceeded the challenges. It is my hope is that more families would consider adoption as a loving way to build a family.

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R E V. PH I L I P S E H E R

If belief is a leap into mystery and the indefinable, regarding both human and divine experiences, there is so much to talk about. As a Catholic priest, I do not want to speak of what everyone else thinks I should state that I believe. Take those beliefs for granted.

I begin with the human experience. Every relationship requires a leap. I believe deeply in the human leap of faith into every encounter with a friend, companion or person who shows up on my doorstep. I long to listen and hear the journey of every person I encounter, whether joyful, troubled or filled with challenges. I have been blessed in my own growth from the many encounters of my life with people in all walks of life. I find no logic in the human experience. There are no answers to the “why me” questions, no answers to health, death, marriage, and financial concerns, but only the gift to treasure the person and their story and to listen intently to it. I believe in every individual that I have met. I truly believe that there is an innate goodness in every person, even if that goodness does not always leap forward in the first encounter. In relationships with so many people, so different from one another, I have come to believe a view of my church that is inclusive and not restricted to my own conviction regarding my own church. I believe in the human bond. I believe that church and worship is a celebration of that bond before God.

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I believe deeply in the Word of God, which echoes the face of God to me. I do not know which stories in the Word convey a God-message that is more literary and engaging than literal in their meaning. What I have come to realize is that these great stories in the Word have an impactful message for me. I can remember my father telling me a story about three friends. One did not smoke, drink or cuss like the other two friends. When challenged by a thief with a gun, it was the one who did not smoke, drink or cuss that pacified the thief. Years later I told my father that I realized that his story was not literal but was to convince me not to smoke, drink or cuss. Even though it wasn’t true, I appreciated his story. He then told me the story was true, but what was important is the reason that he told me. This helped me to believe in the Word of God primarily as a message. It was not important if I personally knew which story was literary and which was literally true. I do not care if Jonah was in the big fish or not. I know the message! No one, not even Jonah, can keep God’s message from getting to Nineveh or to me. I discovered a message from God that so often brought good out of human evil. That helps me to look at myself and others differently.

I think that anyone who knows me knows that I have a deep faith in the Eucharist. I take an ongoing leap into mystery to believe that God, Jesus, truly becomes food for me and my journey. I can recall my first Mass. When I spoke the Latin words: “Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meum” (This is My Body), I paused, wondering what was different now that I was ordained. A priest standing beside me said, “Phil, you have to go on.” To this day, when I hold the cup slightly above the Altar where the gifts are made holy, I still take a leap into mystery as I did at my first Mass. When I pray to the Father, “Do not look upon our sins but on the faith of the Church,” I am constantly leaping into faith. Does God really not look upon our sins? How strong is the faith of the Church?

For me, it is the Eucharistic celebration that solidifies my leap of faith in the human, the Word and the Eucharist itself. I believe that God does not look upon my weakness or on the weakness of all that is human, but looks deeply into the goodness of humanity since He is a part of it. His Word will continually help me to believe that He is within me and in every human being whose journey is so different from my own. This, I believe.

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DR. TRAC Y L AW upper school history I believe that learning is the driving force in my life. I believe learning is what saves me in my darkest moments. I believe that learning inspires me to move towards what I am supposed to be.

This gift of learning is not always found within the classroom. I knew this early from watching my Grandma Myra. She missed out on graduating from high school when she contracted whooping

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cough her senior year, but never let this stop her. Even in her 80s, she read the newspaper from cover to cover, copying paragraphs or phrases that spoke to her. When I became interested in our family history, she was the repository for names and dates. Much of what I know about history came from her stories, tales of her paternal grandfather, a German immigrant who fought in the Civil War, or her maternal uncle who was killed in the Spanish-American War. I am not discounting, however, the value of what can be learned at school. So many people in today’s world “pooh pooh” the amazing facts that are there to be acquired, especially under the guidance of a gifted teacher. That foundation of history, science, literature, writing and research that should be gained in the first few decades of life is what serves as the base onto which we build our life’s interests, hobbies, and careers. In high school, Carole Fultz taught me how to write a five paragraph expository essay, how to interpret a poem by Yeats, and how to delve into Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited to discover the role of Catholicism. Yet she also told us “never to miss an opportunity to see a live performance.” I extend this wisdom with my own students to include, ‘never pass up the chance to hear someone speak’; reading a textbook reference is informative, but I will always be thankful for having heard, in person, Gloria Steinem, Queen Noor, Benazir Bhutto, Mark Mathabane, Maya Angelou, Jean Robert Cadet, and a host of others.

There have been dark times in my life, and I truly believe that what brought me through was wanting to help my son learn. I saw so much that was new in looking at life through his eyes as he grew. As he becomes less of a child, and more of a young adult, I work to keep learning, to become more interesting to the fascinating, independent mind that he is developing and shows to me every day.

I see learning in reading books, viewing movies and theatre, going to museums, listening to music, watching sports, teaching a class, traveling to a new place, or talking with friends. When I am engaged in the active process of learning, I can be preparing myself for an experience, or soothing myself after a long day. More importantly, when I am learning, I am never alone. I am communicating with people in other places, and in other times.

It has taken me four decades to realize that this passion for learning makes me different from many other people. That is what I have learned about myself. I finally accept that, because of this, sometimes I do not fit it. I finally see that truly interesting individuals are not easy to find, and when you do encounter them, you need to act and not let an opportunity escape. Their gender, their age, their education – these elements are negligible; this is one of the things I love most about teaching, seeing what these young minds can bring to me that I otherwise never would have known. Circumstances currently render me unable to travel the world, but in sharing the experiences of my friends, I feel in a certain way, I have been – to Nepal, Ecuador, Brazil, Peru, India, Italy, London, and Montreal – and that is within the last year!

Arthur Ashe, the great tennis player and humanitarian activist, writes in his book, Days of Grace, “I like to know something about everything, from economics and geography to science and philosophy. I want information, not to enliven exchanges at dinner parties or in some other way to show off my collection of facts before less-informed people, but because – as I tell myself – if I am proud to be a citizen of the world, I must know as much as possible about the world.”

This is my mantra. This is what I believe. the gift of learning

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KEN UCK O T T E R director of technology I’ve often reflected on how we are each on a unique life journey. Genetically, of course, we reflect the physical and biological characteristics of those who have gone before us. More importantly for me, however, is my belief that our life journeys are in greater measure shaped by the people and events we’ve encountered along the way. Our interactions and the events of our lives, more than anything genetic, have occasioned the opportunities and context for us to reflect on life’s deepest questions, to love and be loved, to aspire and to be committed to the values that led to the consequent directions that we’ve taken in our lives.

Life is a gift. Each day is a gift. I believe that God did not need to create me… but He did… I thank Him for that most special gift. We live in a wondrous place and time. How thoughtless I’ve been so often throughout my life about the rich and fresh possibilities each day brings. I guess that it is a key attribute of human nature to fall short in thankfulness and appreciation.

I am so grateful for the rich tapestry of people and experiences that are the pattern of my life. My grandmother, an immigrant at the age of fifteen from Slovakia, was such a model of a positive, generous and prayerful spirit. I treasured God’s gift of 99 years to her so that my daughters were old enough to appreciate those qualities in her as well. I was struck by how special she was to so many other people who loved her. For my children my mother wrote at the time of my grandmother’s passing: “A beautiful life came to an end She died as she lived Everyone’s friend Memories we’ll keep Of one we loved And will never forget.”

My grandmother’s Slovak prayer book is my main item of remembrance of her and its worn and torn pages always remind me of her daily prayers and of her deep love for God. She was and is so special to me.

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So too are many other people in my life: my other grandparents and my father who have died, my mom with whom I can still spend evenings each week in her nursing home reminiscing about times past, praying for “everyone” as she often reminds me I must, and celebrating the events in the lives of our children and grandchildren. I’m so thankful for my brothers and my sister, and for the times and experiences we’ve shared. I am thankful that I have been part of each of their life journeys. My father was such a strong and positive force in our family. Always focused on what was important, he was devoted to my mother. Both served their country during WWII and both celebrated every family occasion and event with great love. I have no doubt about it: they were great members of their generation.

The journey of my life has been made ever so special by my loving wife, three daughters and sons-in-law, and grandchildren. Grandchildren open once again a window to the simplicity and beautiful innocence of childhood. It’s exciting that the circle of our family is growing. The tapestry of differences exists because of the unique journey of each family member, but there are some important elements that clearly seem to promote unity and love. I believe that the elements that were dominant in my youth and are so today are faith and family.

There have been many times over the years when I’ve reflected on how the rudder of faith and the wheel of family have helped me to steer the ship of my life across the sometimes choppy waters from birth on… Faith has always been central to my experience of family life. It is the core value.

I have always been so appreciative of the gift of my faith. Living a religious life has always been of value to me. Though we have differences at times in the way we look at things, the religious values that my wife and I share are deeply embraced and cherished by both of us. I am convinced that deeply embraced values commonly shared have deepened our faith and our love for each other and for everyone in our family.

I believe in God’s grace and that it is His desire that we all grow in grace and wisdom. I know people who have grown in grace and wisdom. I thank God for the occasions that He has allowed me to personally witness profound changes in the lives of others, that I have often said can only be evidence of the “grace of a sacrament.” As a Catholic, I believe that the seven sacraments Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation, Confirmation, Marriage, Holy Orders, Anointing of the Sick are all huge channels of grace. I love my Catholic faith, and I thank God for the grace offered through the sacraments.

I love my work in Catholic education. It is a privilege to work with faculty and staff in the education of youth. I love teaching. I believe in the importance of creating vibrant learning communities, marked by rigor and engagement. I love solving problems and in helping others learn to solve them. I love to use technology tools to solve problems. I love the Mission of The Summit and how it has helped to build our faith and learning community.

I believe that however unique our life journey is, it is important that the values of faith and family form a strong central core. God’s graces seem to flow best when that is true. I pray that I may always live in the channel of His grace, and always follow the advice of my mom to “pray for everyone.” In a very real way it is in that spirit that we become servant leaders to all and true leaders of character that we are all called to be.

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KI M DAV I D trustee

I believe everyone should know the beauty of silence.

I believe that technology is silencing all of us.

I believe everyone should try something new that either mentally or physically challenges you.

I believe in Simple and I believe “ If not now when?“

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JU L I A GA E D E ’ 1 1

Mortified by my peers’ encouragement, and petrified that they would discover my lack of coordination, I adamantly clung to my seat. I just knew I’d look ridiculous- didn’t they understand that? I’d be the laughing stock of the area. This kind of thing just wasn’t meant for me. There were plenty of others I knew lounging around, and on those grounds I again encouraged my companions to abandon their hopes of getting me to dance, and instead leave me with the others.

They persisted a while longer, but eventually they gave up. So there I sat, along with the others who couldn’t dance, though they all used the pretense they “just didn’t feel like it.”

As the night went on, it became increasingly apparent that my friends were enjoying themselves excessively, and I began to feel that I had put myself on the sidelines where I had intended to preserve my dignity. I was becoming more and more aware that I should have just taken the plunge, and, most importantly, not concerned myself with what anyone else thought; clearly that was the method of my friends. I had never seen bodies move or limbs flung in such spastic ways, but I had also never seen anything look so enjoyable. My desire to participate, however, was paralleled by the fearful realization that, by stepping in after making a big show of saying no, I would only be drawing more attention to myself. Maybe I no longer had the option of careless dancing. Maybe the fear I had shown before would now make me subject to criticism. The night was surely lost. I would have to wait until the next dance and the fresh, untainted canvas that accompanied it, on which I would paint confidence and carelessness instead of self-consciousness and sensitivity. Just then, a friend approached me, once again compelling me to dance. For the first time that night, I was thankful she hadn’t given up on me, and, recognizing this as a do or die opportunity, I got up and accompanied her to the floor. The remainder of the evening was spent embracing the abnormality that was my dancing, and learning to laugh at both it and, most importantly, myself. Being in the public eye no longer meant conforming; it instead meant striving to be different, even ridiculous, and taking pleasure in breaking the mold.

That was one of the most memorable nights of the summer. Since then I’ve continued to breach the bounds of my comfort zone because I’ve recognized that life is too short, so I should do my best to really live it. I believe that living isn’t found in sitting on the side lines. Living is found in dancing, even if it’s to the last song.

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MARY VE T T E R upper school english Not all men are created equal, and thank God for that! This belief has been even more evident during the process of writing this essay. An English teacher, I have a passion for the power of the language and the poetry of the perfect sentence, but I must admit that I have struggled to compose an essay that powerfully and fluently expresses my belief. Scarlett O’Hara must be my alter ego, because I always put off until tomorrow what I should have done days, even weeks ago.

So here it is, Friday afternoon and I stare at the blank computer screen (wishing I could switch over to one more game of Spider Solitaire) knowing that my colleagues and my students have already submitted compelling and poignant pieces of prose, while I remain stranded on the island of first sentences.

I tell myself that my procrastination stems from an inability to cull one brilliant idea from the many that crowd my brain, but this is an excuse I would never accept. Really, I do have ideas – I believe 58

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that life gives you lemons so you had better learn early to make lemonade; I believe in waiting your turn; I believe in the power of Spirit; I believe in football (I truly do); I believe in rite, ritual, and ceremony; I believe in the words of Will Varner (Orson Welles’ character in Long Hot Summer): I love life…I love it so much that I think I will live forever. The visions of This I Believe essays that have been dancing in my head have humbled me and reminded me once again that not all men are created equal.

My philosophy of education is founded on the “non-equal” principle. As much as I joke that I want a group of Stepford Students to stare admiringly and listen attentively for seventy minutes (a thought that does have some merit,) if that were true, my career that has spanned 38 years would have ended much sooner. Every day I share an adventure with nearly 80 ever-changing individuals.

Despite my plans, I never know where the class might lead, which student will surprise me, which one will make me laugh, which one will teach me something new. My students surely will scoff at these words because they know all too well that I do believe in please and thank you, properly worn uniforms, silence in the chapel, thank you notes, “bleacher” etiquette, and chivalry. One can be free and still have proper table manners!

At The Summit I walk among unequal men and women- scientists, mathematicians, poets, coaches, mothers, fathers. I am none of these. I teach musicians, equestrians, gymnasts, chess players, dancers, athletes. I am none of these. Yet, I have the joy of hearing their stories, cheering at their games, marveling at their genius, witnessing their achievements, and admiring those who keep their families safe and well. And many of these astonishing people have developed their inequality while making batches of lemonade from an endless supply of lemons.

My strength lies in my spirit, that “breath of life” that gives me the vigor and the enthusiasm to love life. I greet each day as if the one before did not exist – twenty-fours to be filled up with new ideas, new experiences, and new achievements. This ability to move on from the past is, I believe, a gift.

It is the curse and the blessing of a cluttered mind that moves from Shakespeare to Joe Montana in zero to two seconds. I live alone, but I am never alone because so many things intrigue me.

Seriously, I can enjoy wondering why the person across the street decided to put out his trash earlier than usual! This pondering may take hours, mainly because my thinking takes numerous side trips to puzzle about the hamsters I know have an apartment complex under my porch, to formulate the lecture I have to give next week, to chastise myself for the still unpulled weeds in my garden.

I inherited this love of life from my raucous and very large family in which no “flat tires” are allowed.

My parents and my aunts and uncles worked and played with a zest for life that my cousins and I can only dream about. Laughter filled our homes that bulged with big families. And although many have passed away, their spirits remain as large in death as they were in life. I believe that all those men and women who loved me unconditionally still hover about. I hear their laughter. I remember their advice. I emulate their work ethic. I never visit the cemetery; I seldom linger over pictures. I don’t need to. These strong spirits loved life so much, that I believe they will live forever.

No man is created equal. I consider myself a competent editor and literary critic, yet I struggled with an essay that others wrote easily. I do believe, however, that the spirit I inherited and the spirits that surround me have made it possible for me to submit an essay in which I do believe.

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SR. MARY ELAINE TARPY, SNDdeN Some years ago I had the opportunity to join a group of Sisters of Notre Dame when they left after a full day of teaching at Most Holy Trinity Parish School in Phoenix, Arizona. We drove to a camp outside a huge ranch of vegetable crops where the Mexican migrant workers lived in squalor with

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their families. There in an open space, the Sisters taught religion. In answer to my question, if there was anything I could bring to give the children, one of the Sisters provided me with a large brown paper bag filled with wrapped candies. Upon arrival at the camp, a swarm of little ones surrounded us as we alighted from the van. I held my bag high and began to dole out the candy. Child after child held up a scrawny little brown arm and cried out, “Give me one for my brother. Give me one for my aunt.” etc. Then with the prizes held tightly in their hands, they turned and ran toward the shacks. The joy in their hearts was on their faces as they anticipated giving the candy to family members, not eating it themselves.

When the religion lessons ended, we visited the mothers and relatives who sat crowded around in their shacks. Here daily living took place within one, four plasterboard walled structure. I was deeply touched to see the joy and excitement of the little ones as they sat on the laps of their elders, kissing and hugging them as they laughed and giggled. On the walls were tacked up images of the crucifix, Our Lady Guadalupe, rosaries, religious articles and other symbols of faith. The climate of the group was infectious, and tiny brown/black eyes as well as tired old ones glistened.

I felt so happy for them as they evidenced their love and affection for one another.

When we finished visiting and walked back toward the van, it was dusk. Straight ahead we could see Camelback Mountain glittering with the lights of homes and mansions built on the slopes. One in particular was especially bright. I asked if anyone knew to whom it belonged and was told it was the 72-room “dream house” of a CEO and his wife who were out of town settling the particulars of their divorce. The servants who were accommodated there kept the estate looking as if it were lived in. I froze in my tracks with the query, “Who’s poor, the Mexicans or these Americans?” The pity I felt in my heart was for the two who had everything material, but had succumbed to discord, infidelity or a conflict that escalated into separation!

During the ride back to Most Holy Trinity Convent, I mused on the contrast of the situations I had just experienced and the implications for Sisters Of Notre Dame de Namur today. From the inception of our Congregation in 1804 in Amiens, France, amidst the chaotic conditions following the French Revolution, Julie Billiart and her companions dedicated themselves to the religious instruction of youth, particularly the poor but not necessarily excluding other classes. The one goal of Julie’s life was to love and bring others to love God whom she knew to be good. Her means were to form Christian mothers, Christian families and to save souls.

In regard to Julie’s love for the poor, she was emphatic. Classes of poor children were to be the first and most important of all. She wrote that we could never establish a house without providing free classes for the poor. Our constitutions read: “It is their desire (the Sisters) to devote themselves to the care of the poor in the most abandoned places.” Elsewhere in her letters she wrote, “Our end is to form good Christians, who know how to manage the household, their family, their affairs…If we can form mothers of families, who have received a pious education and will give the same to their children, we will have done a great deal.”

Today, not every Sister of Notre Dame worldwide is involved directly with teaching religion to poor children, nor preparing young girls to be good homemakers. However, among us all arms are linked around the world, and I believe we are collaborating in many efforts that foster the achievement of our common aim of bringing about the reign of God through education. arms linked around the world

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At the time I did not realize the blessings I was receiving from all the people who helped build my character and strengthen my soul in my journey to adulthood. I now understand the power of positive encouragement from my family, teachers, coaches and community. The wisdom I learned from the elderly I reached out to help in my neighborhood is immeasurable. The knowledge gained from the homeless I fed and stopped to listen to in spite of my haste to get to my next destination cannot be replaced. Looking back on all the people who helped mold my personality today, I realize the importance of the development of a child from birth through high school.

Most adults spend their lives rebuilding or reliving their childhood in some fashion, partly because of missed growth opportunities along the way. What amazes me most is that I was given permission to explore and make mistakes and experience the results of my choices – not as a punishment, but as a way to learn what works and what does not. This is something that is priceless.

I believe children are our most precious investment if we provide a safe, nurturing environment in which our children can grow, have their creativity encouraged, be supported even when their paths are not clear to us and be prepared for the time when they will leave our homes for their life adventures. They will pursue life with openness, remember our words of encouragement and show appreciation for our guidance and, especially, our love.

When we allow children to find their gifts – find what they love – they will have passion for life and a sense of purpose. They will be excited to share with us and their communities the wonderful things they discover and create in their own lives. This I believe!

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parent, trustee

When I was in high school my counselor would talk to me about going to college. I thought it would be impossible. I was not a strong standardized test taker and college was expensive. Although I had a small business at the time, I was not sure how I would find the money. Beyond that, I wondered if I really had the intellect to survive in college. Looking back now, what I remember is the encouragement I received from my teachers and my community to believe in myself. After I received my Bachelor’s degree in Business I went back to New York to work on Wall Street which opened a new venue of support and encouragement, this time from college friends and business associates. After four years in the business world I was encouraged to obtain my MBA to help mold my business portfolio. I again remembered those words of encouragement from my childhood to help accomplish this goal.

T ONYA WA R R E N

Growing up in New York City in Harlem in the 70’s was an invigorating time. I was the third child of six children in a single parent home. Statistics were stacked against my mother in her journey to help us see life with our cups half full. She worked seven days a week; I am still amazed at how she was able to attend every school play and every teacher’s conference. She established clear expectations and ensured the proper consequences for our choices – both good and bad. I still remember one of the things she would say when we doubted ourselves: “Believe it, claim it and you will achieve it.” This quote helped me believe in my abilities to overcome challenges.

E M I LY H O GYA ’ 1 3

I believe we can sing through writing.

Writing is an unspoken song. It scrawls its way across generations of people who see and appreciate the melodious crispness of ink swirling in simple yet powerful lines on a single piece of blank paper. It ignites a smoldering ember of creativity within an individual and nourishes that flame as it flickers with the strength of the verb, the noun, and the ever important adjective. Each written word is like a note in a musical composition; it sings with its own voice, which, in turn, contributes to the delicate sparkle of a quiet sentence or the sharp acuteness of an aggressive clause. Either way, every word, whether plain and common or unique and catchy, is a little song, a little voice, in a symphony of little songs that becomes the great, magical orchestra of writing.

I believe that any writer of any age or background or accomplishment is singing to the world through words on a page. Every style is a different piece of music, accented with splashes of color, dots of laughter, streaks of tears. I admire all authors, for they have the amazing ability to sing on paper. Their words twinkle like silent stars in a canvas of night sky, glimmering with a special light that illuminates the world with the brightness of another kind of song. Notes dance across the pages of writers’ compositions in the form of adverbs and conjunctions and the occasional exclamation, all of which add to the distinctive cadence of each piece of literature, a rhythm that makes me want to sing along to the sound of the written word.

Writing is an unspoken song. It brings me into a place where melody and courage and emotion and spirit stream not from the mouth, but from a pen. Where harmony is found between the clacking of keys on a computer keyboard and an empty Microsoft Word document that slowly is filled with the passion of a writer’s voice. Where soundless words are enlivened by the touch of a person’s individual song to create music. This is why I love to write. This is why I believe in the power of writing. And, someday, I know that I will express my song to the world: through writing.

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KELLEY S C H I E S S director of admissions I am blessed to have many roles in The Summit Country Day School community. Through my experience as a parent, and an administrator, I do believe that The Summit transforms lives. When I first arrived in my administrative position at The Summit on February 4, 2002, people told me that those who come to The Summit do not change it; however, they made it very clear that The Summit transforms those who experience it. I have come to understand and appreciate the meaning behind this belief through my personal and professional experiences.

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My sons enrolled as young boys in first and third grades of The Summit Lower School in the fall of 2002. Patrick is now in 8th grade and Matthew is a sophomore. I believe The Summit has and continues to transform both of them into young renaissance men. When I look at Patrick and Matthew’s development, I see very clearly the reflection of The Summit’s five pillars. They have performed and appreciate artistic expression; they are driven by the power of participation and teamwork through competitive sports; they are challenged and are excelling in the rigors of their pre-collegiate preparation; they have the desire and need for serving and sharing their talents with those less fortunate; they have developed a deeper understanding and love of God. Through this transformational experience, they have formed meaningful, life-long relationships and been guided by talented faculty and staff who live and believe in the principles of The Summit mission.

Through my professional role as the Director of Admission, I have the opportunity to identify, connect and mentor new Summit families for this transformational experience. This, I believe, is a sacred responsibility. I believe the role I have at The Summit is an honor and privilege.

Knowing that I am connecting a child with a transformational experience makes every encounter and interaction with a prospective family very special. I truly believe The Summit is an extraordinary place and each and every child who enters through our doors experiences a transformation, one that will remain with him or her for a lifetime as they value and improve the world that they inherit.

Recently, I was reminded of how The Summit transforms lives in talking with a Summit graduate and lifer, one that I had the privilege of watching grow up on Grandin Road. She shared with me how The Summit provided many firsts in her life and shaped the person she has become. Upon arriving to The Summit as a three year old, English was not her native language. The Summit was where she learned to speak her first English words and later learned three other world languages. The Summit was where she experienced her first communion, her first sleepover with friends, her first trip to the pumpkin farm and our nation’s capitol. The Summit was where she found her passion and first developed her love for writing. The Summit was the first place that she had a leadership role as co-editor of the yearbook and campus newspaper. Today, she is a journalism student at New York University having already studied in Prague, interned for the NBC Today Show, and CBS. Her next adventure takes her to Vancouver as an NBC intern for the Winter Olympic games. She reminded me of the critical transformation that occurred throughout her life at The Summit and how it has shaped the person she has become. What a privilege to be a part of this transformation!

I believe all who experience The Summit are transformed. I believe Sister Julia and Sister Louise created a magical institution and experience that will live through the hearts and minds of current and future Summit generations for a lifetime! I believe my transformation began on February 4, 2002.

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SR.THERESE DEL GENIO, SNDdeN St. Julie was a minimalist: “Who knows but that He gathered all of us together here, to win Him one single soul?” and a maximizer: “I seem to have been dropped here by the permission of the good God, and then I only think of doing what He shows me moment by moment.”

I am grateful for the courage of her beliefs and actions whenever I am challenged by someone demanding of me an accounting of our shelter’s numerous successes: How many homeless people went to rehab? How many homeless people got jobs? How many homeless people moved into apartments and got off the street? Although there are definite quantitative answers, it seems to me that the notion behind the questions is flawed. The end result may be personally satisfying or frustrating, depending on the situation, but the calculations miss the point. For me, it is the sharing of the journey, the connecting of two souls, the experience of just “being there,” that is at the heart of the matter while I am at the shelter.

“Being there” at Southwest Chicago PADS is intentional on my part, although I never know who will come to the door. At 9:30 one morning, the doorbell rang with annoyance and persistence. The door was opened to an exhausted and dehydrated Joe, begging for a PADS’ ID. He had been released from prison with the clothes on his back, $10.00 in his pocket, and good wishes, to start a new life. Because of a shortage of halfway houses for ex-offenders, he was paroled to a shelter for 150 homeless men in downtown Chicago.

Upon his arrival, he was greeted with the bleak news, “Unless you have a photo ID by tomorrow, you cannot stay here any more.” On December 31, 2004, state IDs in Illinois cost $4.00. Twentyfour hours later, the city raised the fee to $20.00. What to do?

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A stranger in the crowd of 150 overnighters mentioned that Southwest Chicago PADS offered shelter photo IDs. Because he lacked the money for the bus, Joe set out on foot at 6:00 a.m. and arrived three and a half hours later drenched in perspiration. A volunteer told him that without some proof of his identity, no PADS’ ID could be made for him. As I walked into the room, I watched a man and his hope dissolve before my eyes.

Gently intervening, I suggested that we could solve the dilemma more productively after Joe had the opportunity to eat a bowl of cereal with a banana, drink a cup of coffee, and put on clean clothes after a shower. Forty-five minutes later, Joe was a different man. The attentiveness to such basic needs (e.g. Jesus said, “Give her something to eat,”) made all the difference in the world!

The volunteer who helped Joe witnessed an incredible transformation, not only of outward appearances, but also of personal dignity and hope. Within minutes, Joe posed for a picture and took his laminated ID, which he put gingerly in his pocket. He now would have a roof over his head–a roof shared with 149 other people, but at least a roof.

As we walked to the door together, Joe showered me with so many smiles, “Thank you’s” and “God bless you’s” along with a mighty handshake, that I felt drenched in his appreciation. I had done so little for him. I just couldn’t fathom the depth of his gratitude—until months later.

Sometime in January, several viruses viciously attacked me. Trying to be prudent, I made an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible. All night I was awake hacking in respiratory distress. The next day I drove to the doctor’s office, an hour away, and was relieved to find only two people in the waiting room. The nurse looked at me quizzically and stated professionally, “The doctor had an emergency and isn’t in. I called and left you a message.”

“I never got it,” I replied weakly.

“You can make an appointment for Friday.”

I knew in my heart that I probably wouldn’t be alive by Friday! As I fumbled to get my calendar out, all the coughs I had been suppressing exploded.

“You sound terrible. Forget the calendar.” This sensitive nurse was calling the doctor at his emergency and had him call in an antibiotic prescription to my pharmacy.

Within 24 hours, I was feeling better and profoundly grateful, as I thought of Joan, R.N. and her act of compassion. It was then that Joe’s face floated into my consciousness, and I understood how an act of kindness, while just “being there,” was a gift from God, to someone in great distress. I pray that what Joe taught me about expressing gratitude, will be shown by me for acts both great and small.

It seems to me that Jesus, the itinerant homeless preacher, had, as his method of operation “being present” fully to those He encountered, wherever their paths crossed: in cemeteries, sheepfolds, synagogues, houses, up trees, and around lakes, in boats, or at on-shore gatherings. It also seems to me that He was profoundly impacted by the mutuality of the encounter, while “being there.”

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Sunday mornings are always good but I love the afternoons as well. While sitting upstairs watching TV, all of the sudden I hear children’s voices saying “SAMANTHA WHERE ARE YOU?!” coming from downstairs. These are three of my little cousins who come every Sunday with my uncle to play outside and have a fun time. Spending time with my three little cousins means a lot to me because I want them to have good memories growing up, like I did with my older cousins. I will never refuse to play hide and go seek, tag, or any other children’s games that come up because I want them to remember how much fun Sundays are to them as they are to me.

Finally it’s Sunday night. Some people hate Sunday nights because they have to go to work the next day or school, but for me I love them! I know I have to go to school the next day which is always a downer but I always have fun at my Sunday night dinners at my grandparents. Yes, Sunday night dinners; these dinners are were all of my family comes together under one roof to spend family time together. Walking up the driveway of my grandparents on a Sunday is like walking up to a circus tent. From inside you can hear laughter, people talking and little kids running around. Getting closer to the door I can smell all the wonderful foods that are being prepared. When I get to the door and open it all of a sudden ten or more people yell from all different directions, “Hey Samanth,” “Hey Mamfers” and “Samantha come and play”! When I get inside I go straight to a big round circular white table where ten other people are sitting who are talking about the latest gossip, what TV shows are on that night, or just how everyone is doing. To me this is my special time to sit with everyone who I love the most and be able to see how they are and what they have been up to.

I believe in Sundays because it is a time to be with family and friends. I believe in Sundays because they are peaceful and exciting. I believe in Sundays because they are full of laughter and hope.

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SAMANTHA MEDER ’12

I believe in Sundays. I know most people do not like Sundays because it is the last day of the weekend. But, I love it because right when I get up I know it’s going to be a good day. Once I wake up and get dressed I run down stairs to the kitchen where I smell eggs, bacon, pancakes, and my favorite cinnamon rolls. When I get there I see my mom, who is always in a happy cheerful mood while making breakfast and watching her favorite television show, and I see my dad sitting at the dining room table reading the newspaper. Once I get my food I sit down and pull out the funnies from the Sunday newspaper. I sit there reading, eating, and listening to my parents talking about things that are going on in the world.

C HE R Y L F L A D U N G ’ 1 4

I believe in listening to the stories of others, so that I will never forget.

Elie Wiesel was deported to Auschwitz as a young boy. As he approached the entrance, he came across flames and the stench of burning flesh. Elie was immediately separated from his mother and younger sister, whom he would never see again. Elie, along with his father, was selected to be a laborer. The laborers and all the other Jews were stripped of their possessions and clothing. Their hair was cut off and they were soaked in barrels of petrol to be disinfected. The laborers were sent to their blocks and given oversized, striped uniforms. They were only given a ration of bread and soup for each meal. They were forced to work in harsh conditions to the limit of their endurance.

The men and women were crammed into bunks, their only option for rest. The SS officers yelled at them with filthy language and beat them with their truncheons. The Jews were forced to run in the death marches past the extent of fatigue. They used every bit of faith they had left to help them survive. The Jews’ identities were taken, leaving them no humanity. There were tormented and beaten, their spirits and faiths challenged. Their will to live was deprived, leaving them with the desire to die. They were emaciated and treated like lonely, worthless animals.

People still continue to reflect on the torment and agony of the Holocaust. Pictures and thoughts haunt the minds of the survivors, and those who are witnesses.

The United States Memorial Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. displays artifacts taken from the concentration camps as well as photos of innocent Jews who fell to their deaths. As I walked through the museum on our recent 8th grade class trip, I placed myself in that suffering and pain.

I experienced the evil and the genocide that was like no other. I will never forget the images, the stories or the feeling.

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JEFF CA R L E upper school theology I believe in God’s Grace. The question of God, which is life’s central question, was settled for me when I was 27. It was then amidst one of life’s downturns that I discovered He was the best friend I’d ever have. Clarity didn’t come till a few years later, but, it started there. I believe He is there, and He is here, inside of us and all around us.

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Scripture reveals this albeit in mysterious ways. I believe many misinterpret scripture and that is one of the reasons God inspired people to create the Church as one of God’s instruments through Jesus Christ. I believe there are many ways God reveals himself to us and to others and this gives rise to our world religions, and though I believe there are many paths to God, Christianity represents for me, the most complete path. To steal a few lines from my favorite theologian Thomas Merton, I believe, as he says, there is a paradox that lies at the very heart of human existence. This paradox must be apprehended before any lasting happiness is possible in the soul of man. The paradox is man’s nature, by itself, can do little or nothing to settle our most important problems.

If we follow nothing but our natures, our own philosophies, our own level of ethics, we will end up lost, or as Merton says, in hell.

I do believe hell or something like it exists. I’m not sure who’s there, that is for God to decide as only He can judge the human heart. I believe in purgatory; though not the conception many hold.

I believe purgatory is a place some go to burn away impurities or things unresolved in this life.

Purgatory, in my definition, is a place that is on the path to God, it is a go between, a momentary stop on the way.

I believe in the infinite mercy of God, but, I also believe God is just. If there is no justice in this world or the next then why are we always so concerned about it? I believe our sense of right and wrong, our concern for justice comes from somewhere beyond us. I believe that place is the same place from which, as Merton says, sanctifying grace originates. I believe God’s grace comes to us and is revealed to us at different times in different ways. Using Merton again, God’s grace is like a ray of light, which strikes us like a crystal. When light hits a crystal it gives it a new quality. When God’s grace hits our souls it plays upon our souls and something extraordinary happens; that something is sanctifying grace.

I believe as the intro of John’s Gospel beautifully reflects, there is darkness in the world. Not that the world is predominantly dark because I don’t think it is, but as Merton says, and this I believe, the soul of a man or a woman, if left to its own nature, lacks something that it can only receive from outside or above itself. At some point in our lives, for each person, the light shines, and our souls become transformed by that light and we are able, through grace, to change our natures to conform to the splendor which comes from that light and touches us all in different ways at different times.

I believe that life as we know it has become so complicated for us and our children that we often lose our way. I think it’s easier now to go off in the wrong direction than ever before; there are too many things pulling on us, too many options and too many voices telling us that the things of this world can answer life’s deepest yearnings. This I believe couldn’t be further from the truth. We all need God but to really know Him we must turn away from the world. My prayer is that we all search for Him and come to know Him when we find Him. I believe He pursues us regardless of who we are or how much we believe. But, like anything in life, to find something and to know something you have to search. A life with God takes effort, anything worth anything takes effort, but it’s there for us if only we’ll look and if only we’ll take the time.

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SR. ANN C A R O LY N BLACKBURN , S N Dd eN This I believe that God through my experience with the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur was calling me through the intercession of St. Julie from first grade on.

My first grade teacher, Sister Mary John, introduced me to the story of St. Julie Billiart, a founder of the Sisters of Notre Dame. My teacher told me how St. Julie began schools in Belgium to teach little girls. In Compiegne, France in 1793, Julie had a vision of a group of women standing at the foot of the cross, wearing a religious habit unknown to her. She heard God’s words, “These are the daughters I will give to you marked by the cross in an Institute.”

I became so excited after hearing the story that I ran home to tell the story to my dear mother. In a very determined voice I yelled, “I know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a Sister of Notre Dame like St. Julie and Sister Mary John!” At this early age was God calling me?

My mother smiled at my enthusiasm and said, “I wanted to be a Sister, also at your age, but I changed my mind, and you will too.”

As I progressed in grade school, I learned more about St. Julie by listening to the Sisters’ daily instructions and observing their beautiful example of love towards their students. These Sisters taught me to be concerned for their mission school, Our Lady of Council in China. They gave me a job of collecting pennies, which helped me to think of other children besides myself, whom I prayed for across the miles. This reminded me of St. Julie’s words, “No graces are greater than friendship.”

In the summer of my eighth grade graduation, I had an opportunity to teach small children catechism in the inner city of Chicago. I saw their plight of poverty each day. When I returned home each afternoon to my parents and two younger sisters in our cozy four room apartment on the pleasant northwest side of Chicago, I began to realize God’s physical, emotional and spiritual gifts to me, saying, “Thank you, God, you are very good to me.” St. Julie’s words, “We must turn toward the poor, gather them in and nurture them with greatest care!” became more understandable to me.

In 1941, Notre Dame High School for Girls opened and was staffed by the Sisters of Notre Dame, St Julie’s Sisters. During this time, St. Julie became so vivid to me that I wrote a paper on her life and read it to my ninth year classmates. I even attempted, for local color, to say Julie’s motto in French. “Ah! Qu’il est bon. Le Bon Dieu!” How Good is the good God! 67

st. julie in my faith journey

In 1943, my sophomore homeroom teacher, Sister Miriam Therese, encouraged me to complete the last two years of high school at the Notre Dame Candidacy in Columbus, Ohio, which was started by the Sisters in an effort to help high school girls discern their vocation to religious life.

My mother gave her consent and in September of 1943, I became a Candidate of Notre Dame.

Sister Cecelia, who was in charge of the candidates, was filled with the love of God and told me of St. Julie’s love of the Holy Spirit. She quoted St. Julie, saying, “You must know what is the great secret of the spiritual life, to allow yourselves to be guided by the spirit of the good God.” I in my naïve manner said, “I want that love of the Holy Spirit.” At Mt. Notre Dame in Reading, Ohio, in the Notre Dame Novitiate, I obtained a greater understanding of the Holy Spirit’s love for me, even in the midst of my doubts and fears.

My first teaching assignment was the first grade at The Summit Country Day School in Cincinnati, Ohio. Here I spent ten wonderful years being mentored by Sister Theresa who reviewed with me St. Julie’s principles of teaching to her young Sisters. One important philosophy of Julie – “You can’t use the same methods every time. They work the first occasions and fail the next.”

I became a successful teacher with the help of my Sister mentors and the advice of St. Julie, “Have boundless charity for one another.”

As I completed my college work, I studied the teachings of Maria Montessori, a well-known author and teacher from Italy who taught the principle of teaching children at their own level and pace. She advised her students, “Prepare the child for the man he is to become and show respect towards him.” This statement was similar to St. Julie’s words, “In schools, teach whatever is necessary to equip the students for life. If you do not respect the children, they will not respect you. St. Julie enhanced my understanding of the Montessori program and in which I succeeded quite well.

In 1972, I became ill with a closed valve in my heart. The doctor ordered immediate surgery, but I asked him to wait one more day, so I could pray to St. Julie. The next day, the doctor found to his surprise that my valve had opened by itself. He wrote on the report, “There is no way this valve could have opened.”

He didn’t outright call it a miracle, but I know God opened my valve through St. Julie’s intercession.

This allowed me to fulfill my dream of going to France and Belgium five years later to visit St. Julie’s birthplace. This was a precious, prayerful experience for me, which I cherish to this day.

It came to pass that I was given an assignment to a small community in which I experienced a certain tension in a community situation. I was thinking of moving to an apartment when one night I had a dream St. Julie came to my bed. She did not seem upset with me, but I sensed her disappointment.

She said to me, “Let us work with all our hearts to contribute to unity in community.”

I awoke from my dream; my fears and doubts had vanished. I was able to cope with the community situation, and great peace and happiness once again came into my heart. God sent St. Julie to give me spiritual healing, which I so needed.

Now in 2009, as I reminisce about life’s journey of faith as a daughter of St. Julie, I need to continue this journey in my years in Notre Dame and make the time that is left a continuous time of thanksgiving to my God for calling me. To be a Sister of Our Lady, because this is the French translation of it, daughter of St. Julie and spouse of Jesus. This I believe. st. julie in my faith journey

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A NDR É R O U I L L A R D ’ 1 0

I believe in the many virtues of long showers. Virtues ignored, forgotten, and disregarded. I believe in showers during which the steam blankets the mirrors with soft, pillow-like droplets of water so thickly that you can’t even see your reflection, and you can draw faces and inscribe messages into the glass. I believe in showers that wrinkle the tips of your fingers. I believe in showers that soothe your aches and pains. These kinds of showers are the ones that can reach much father down than merely brushing the surface of your skin.

Long showers can be taken whenever they are most needed; whether that be before dawn breaks or long after the sun has passed below the horizon. They are called upon like good friends; no appointments, reservations or advance notice necessary. A long shower is perhaps the ultimate instant gratification, but these are not indulgences one need feel guilty about. There are no lies in a long shower. No slimming stripes, no baggy sweatshirts. Just you. You’re forced to confront yourself, your problems, and the state of yourself. It’s a personal assessment, a state of the body address.

A long shower is nothing that it doesn’t appear to be. It’s exactly what it sounds like: it’s long, and it’s a shower. It’s time to think, time to unwind after twisting, contorting, and warping ourselves during the daylight hours. It’s time to prepare oneself for the punishing marathon of the day to come. It’s a pep talk. The shower is your own, your space, your time. It’s as personal as the space within your own head. It comes with a tacit “Do not disturb” sign. You’re freed from obligations, from deadlines, from “have to’s” and “must do’s.” That fabric curtain suddenly becomes an iron curtain, an impermeable divide that parts you from your sometimes callous and unsympathetic world.

Long showers clear your head. They clear your nose. They’re wet cloths across dirty chalkboards, rakes across leafy yards. They clear your slate, renew your tabula rasa. You feel lighter, stronger, and more able. Your eyes open wider, your muscles seem quicker, your bones feel stronger. It evaporates the common cold, chases away the flu, and sends headaches running scared. Some people say laughter is the best medicine, but those people haven’t taken sufficiently lengthy showers. Long showers are cure alls and panaceas.

Tonight, or tomorrow morning, take a long shower. Wake up early if you have to. I promise, you won’t regret it.

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long showers

GRETTA CONLAN B A R C L AY ‘ 5 8 I left Cincinnati by train on a snowy November morning. My family; mom, dad, two brothers and four sisters were all at Winton Train Station to see me off. Everyone was crying and my youngest sister Chris held me tight, not wanting to let me go. I was off to New York City to meet the Peace Corps Group I had trained with for three months at Syracuse University, and then heading to East Africa for two years. There, I would teach school at Mysengi Upper Primary School, a boys’ boarding school in Musoma, Tanzania, right on Lake Victoria. To the alarm of my mother, (my dad was too proud of me to be alarmed) I was off to the Dark Continent that, at this time, few people seemed to know much about. I was alarmed myself, and very scared, but I did not want to show I was feeling less brave than my family thought I was, and when I waved tearfully good-bye to them through the train window, my stomach doing flip-flops, I had no idea this would be one of the most enriching experiences of my life.

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africa

Living in a third world country, being a minority for the first time in my life, and having to communicate in Swahili taught me many things about myself, and about what is really important in life. I experienced a completely different and more simple way of living; a way of life that had never occurred to me before. As an American with a task-oriented mind-set, I was always in a hurry to get something done; to accomplish something. In Africa, the pace was much slower, the Africans taking time to be with each other, to laugh and talk together, and to help each other. They went about their lives with a joy and happiness I had never known before. One day, while I was racing to town on my bike with an important errand, my neighbor ran out into the road waving her arms.

Annoyed with delay, I almost missed her beautiful gift to me. Mrs. Mbaya stood in my path and sang happy birthday to me in perfect English. She had been practicing for weeks, and this was her present to me on my birthday. She knew no other English.

Over two years time, I came to love the African people and all the ways they had of living more simply on the earth. The school children taught me how to plant a vegetable garden (this city girl had never done that before) and to enjoy their simple games with sticks and stones they found all around them. They loved to sing, and showed me the joy that came from music and singing, no matter what the task. The sweet voices of the African children remain in my heart today. I can hear them still. Their presents to me were always simple, like the birthday song. Sometimes it was something they had cooked or woven together like wild flowers or baskets. One day a knock on my door brought two African students to my porch holding a bird’s nest for me, huge smiles on their faces that melted me more than the hot beating sun.

The African people were models of courage and endurance to me. Some of our students walked ten miles or more each morning to school. Most never missed a day. And when faced with danger, i.e., a giant python in our school yard one day, the Africans went toward the problem with a solution instead of running away. That day, the whole school followed behind our African Headmaster with a rifle over his shoulder to hunt the python that was making its way toward the lake. At the time I taught school in Africa, only ten percent of male students went to high school due to a shortage of secondary teachers. The competition to go to high school, based on test scores, was fierce. When one day we had to miss a class due to a late breakfast, the students refused to eat unless we made up the class on Saturday. Education and learning are so important to the African children, and the opportunities for higher education rare, even today. The African children taught me to appreciate my education more than I ever had, and to not take it for granted. I found the African people I lived and worked among to be genuinely happy people in spite of hardships. They knew how to smile, laugh, dance, tease and joke with each other and find happiness in simple things. What a life lesson for me! They had so much fun with my inadequate ability to speak Swahili, and would tease me, but were always gracious in trying to help me speak better. Most of all, they knew how to laugh at themselves, and taught me to do the same.

What do I believe? I believe in taking some risks in life, and getting out of our comfort zones. I was afraid when I went to Africa, but I did it anyway. I remember thinking that I had a 50/50 chance of ever coming home, but the experience enriched my life more than I could ever have imagined and I think I did some good along the way. Today, I still try to stretch myself, learn more, get out of my comfort zone now and then, and never forget the lessons I learned in Africa.

africa

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Music helps us to understand the disappointment and joy of our lives in a way for which no spoken language has invented a vocabulary. When we bury a loved one, Albinoni’s Adagio or Barber’s Adagio for Strings cannot heal our broken hearts, but we are consoled by knowing that this music understands our loss. There are no words that better express the ache when we are separated from that special place we belong (the mountains, the forests, the ocean?) than The New World Symphony, 2nd movement. The joy of life’s possibilities leaps from Beethoven’s 7th Symphony, 4th movement. Was there ever a more eloquent apology than Handel’s Water Music?

Music shows us there are many ways to express the same song. The Beatles’ With a Little Help from my Friends is completely redefined by Joe Cocker, while Jose Feliciano’s feminine take on Light my Fire is the yin/yang for the Door’s masculine version. But there’s also the connection of different pieces of music from different eras expressing the same idea. Beethoven’s Fur Elise and Suite: Judy Blue Eyes by Crosby, Stills, & Nash attempt to define the many complex dimensions between ourselves and those whom we love. They speak of the relationship that continues after we have fallen in everlasting love: the compromise, the irritation, the optimism, and the struggle.

They ring truer to me than the forever love that most ballads proclaim. Toccata & Fugue in D Minor

by Johann Sebastian Bach and Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy are both showy, dramatic pieces by young men desperately trying to impress.

Often it’s not what’s written, but how the music is sung or performed, that reaches us. The silence in between the notes on Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue album is just as important as what is played.

The heartbreak in Ray Charles’s vocal of I Can’t Stop Loving You stuns me every time I hear it. The weariness and vulnerability in any Chet Baker vocal has massaged me on many a Friday night.

magic of music

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middle school music

Music makes us time travelers. Who can completely understand the intrigue, the flirting, and the excitement of living in the great palaces of Europe in the last decades of the 18th century until they have listened to Mozart’s A Little Night Music? The ecstatic exuberance of Sing, Sing, Sing by Benny Goodman helps us understand the escape from the hopelessness of the Great Depression and the early years of World War II. I tell my students that the popular music they listen to now will forever be imprinted on them because it will transport them five decades from now back to their youth. I will always love the Token’s The Lion Sleeps Tonight and You Were on my Mind by the We Five because they were the #1 song at a critical time in my life. Whether it’s a song of lost romance (It was a Very Good Year) or long ago summer (Good Vibrations), music can evoke a memory, a time, when our lives were a story still yet to be told.

B R U C E B O WD E N

Music helps us to understand different cultures and their response to the challenges of life. Who can help being overwhelmed with the joy of Celtic music as played by Solas and Silly Wizard? The rhythmic vocal harmonies of South Africa’s Ladysmith Black Mambazo pursue a dignity that was originally denied them. The soft, sexy samba of Joao Gilberto, the frenetic drive of the Gipsy Kings’ guitars, or throat singing from Mongolia beckon the listener to other worlds.

There is a craftsmanship to admire in music. In Mozart’s The Magic Flute, the Queen of the Night vocally rivals any gymnast’s floor exercise. Rock guitarists (pick your favorite) have been astounding us for over 50 years. I’m not sure I can hear notes as quickly as Ravi Shankar can play them. And I’m still skeptical that Stanley Jordan can play 2 guitars at once or Bobby McFerrin can sing with a four-octave range; except I’ve seen and heard them in person.

There are many lessons that music teaches us. Who can fail to admire Beethoven continuing to compose in the face of diminished hearing? Beethoven knew that in every crisis is an opportunity.

When he accepted that he was fated to lose everything, Beethoven found the courage to express himself, and he used that voice to redefine music in the 19th century and beyond. What’s the worst thing that ever happened to Beethoven? He lost his hearing. What’s the best thing that ever happened to Beethoven? He lost his hearing. To hear a diary of that journey, listen to his 5th Symphony.

The blues teaches us that within the limitations of three chords, there is an infinite universe in which to express ourselves. I was puzzled for years about how I always felt better after listening to the blues, a music that is about loss. Even though the songs are always sung in the present tense, the blues audience assumes the past tense. The performer has survived this loss; assurances are given that you too, will endure. That’s why the blues is ultimately optimistic. Finally there is the lesson of how powerful simplicity can be. Where have all the Flowers Gone? written by Pete Seger and fleshed out by Peter, Paul, and Mary is as powerful today as it was in 1963. Johann Pachelbel’s Canon has a serene grace that has transported us for centuries.

There is much wonder in our world; but nothing is more wonderful than music.

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magic of music

SR. JOYCE HOBE N , SNDd eN Within the last six months I have spent considerable time visiting a rehabilitation center for seniors.

The center, when I first started going there, was rather sylvan and beautifully set off by a lovely cornfield and a roadside that was filled with trees and vines. The scene created a sense of peace and comfort. In the last few months much of the property along the side of that road was sold to the city to develop storage for salt and safety measures for the winter. Down have come the trees and vines. The earth has been gouged out for the construction needed. Buildings have gone up that contrast sorely with the rather monastic setting in which the rehab is situated. Seeing all this I felt stricken by a sense of loss and I sensed that I even had a different feeling toward the center I visited. Things changed, never to be the same, and I felt diminished in some cases.

This experience led me to consider how the many landscapes of one’s life influence one’s attitude and behaviors. I began to appreciate how my many changing landscapes have led to maturity and an appreciation for the diversities of family, friends, dwellings, locations, professions, activities, religious beliefs and finally, the dwindling down to older years and serenity in a world that insists on constantly changing around me. The enthusiasms and invincibilities of younger years have given way to appreciation for the mentors and the challenges that have often led to places and situations I would never have dreamed—and not all have been what I would have chosen for myself.

And what has been the constant that has situated me through all of this? In my heart it is the certainty that God has been the sustaining love and power in my life even when I was most unaware of the Presence. God knows and allows all that happens to each of us from a most loving stance and protectiveness tailored just to our needs. We need to pray the apostle’s request: “Help my unbelief.”

God is good—all the time! All the time—God is good!

Take some time to reflect on the many landscapes of your life.

How were you changed by the experiences of each landscape?

Were you/are you aware of the Presence that permeates all?

How do we thank God for all our disguised blessings?

the landscapes of one’s life

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I remember my first trip to New York. I was in the fourth grade and my mom, cousin, sister and aunt were all there three days after Christmas. The first thing we did in New York was visit Ellis Island. It was there I saw a giant plaque with the names of all the immigrants that had passed through that island, and I am proud to say that my great grandmother was one of them. My mom then went off telling me the same old story of how my actual grandparents met and were married in Queens. Only this time, the story spoke to me. I closed my eyes and imagined life in New York City in the 1950’s. It was like an old Doris Day movie; girl meets boy, they fall in love, they have a beautiful wedding in their neighborhood and move away, living happily ever after in the small town of Simsbury, Connecticut.

It was at that moment that I really felt a part of this city, like I was able to identify with the millions of people who lived there and had grandparents or any other sort of relative from Brooklyn.

However, I believe there is more to this city than just it’s past. It is a modern symbol of culture and diversity in America. Every neighborhood is a cultural center all on its own. Every neighborhood was settled by a different group of people which created what I think are obvious nicknames like Little Italy or China Town. These immigrants who came here from all of the different continents of the globe have left their mark. Even though they may not be remembered, their very diversity and existence have contributed to the richness of ‘New Yorker culture’.

I believe in the forward direction New York carries itself in. As a paragon of the urban world, it is a renowned fashion capital, famous for its universities, environmentally conscious technology and the breeding ground of new American innovations and cultural movements.

I believe New York is a model of what the rest of America is or can be. New York is the modern symbol of commerce and economic potential. Aside from famous landmarks, such as the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, the City is what other countries immediately think of when they think of America. It is a symbol of peace and prosperity, unity and uniqueness, trade and commerce, but most importantly it is the past, present and future of our great nation. I believe in New York City.

the city

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F L AV I A GA L L A GH E R ’ 1 1

I believe in New York City. I believe that it is the greatest city in the world. This city is both historical and futuristic, you can be surrounded by a mob of people everyday and still be by yourself. Even though everyone there has a different background, to the rest of the world, they look like one thing...a New Yorker.

My mother got the idea that we should walk to the repair shop, a good fifteen miles away. In ninetysomething degree weather. It would be faster than waiting for the taxi, she said. At first, I was completely opposed to going with her. It was much too hot to walk that distance, in my opinion.

But, then I remembered a scene from Kidnapped, which I had read barely a week before. I said to myself, “When David was dead on his feet and Alan offered to carry him because they had to keep moving, what did David do? Did he accept the offer? Did he refuse and simply lie down in the field? No! He moved onward without complaint!” With a crazy grin on my face, I told my mom I’d go with her.

We marched down the road and would have made it all the way to Pep Boys if we hadn’t gotten the call that a driver was on his way. I find it irrelevant that we never took the walk. The hard part, the show of determination, was in the first few steps we took out our front door. I still remember that day clearly: what I wore, what I said, and, of course, the insufferable heat. What I remember most, however, is the pride I felt when I told my mother that I wouldn’t let her go alone.

Humans have a great inner strength. They can find themselves in the most impossible situations and somehow manage to suffer through them. We can accomplish so much more than we give ourselves credit for. Within each of us is the ability to do great things, if we only put our minds to it. This I believe.

strength

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LAUREN MILLER ’10

Young people can pick up lessons in morals from the oddest places. I learned this about a year ago when I was taught a lesson in personal strength from a novel: Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped. It was during the hottest and most miserable part of summer, the few weeks before school starts. My family’s car broke down and had to be towed to Pep Boys. It had to be left in the shop overnight. My mother called a taxi to take us there the next morning so we could pick it up.

One problem: no drivers were in the area.

Then in the 6th grade, Sister Anne Bernadette happened. She wasn’t just my teacher; she challenged me to think, to question, to go beyond the easy and comfortable. She did this in every one of my classes, and what a difference that made. The biggest difference of all took place in religion class.

I came from a very Catholic family – three girls, parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. All 100% Catholic. I always felt religious, especially on Sunday at Mass while squeezed between two parents, and at daily Mass with the rest of my classmates.

As a good Catholic, there were things about God in the sky that I had to believe - no questions expected or asked. The list included things like incarnation, the trinity, the death and resurrection of Jesus, the Holy Spirit, heaven and hell. I believed the whole package. After all, that’s what feeling religious is all about, isn’t it?

Well, Sister Anne Bernadette taught me feeling religious was one thing. Having faith was something entirely different. She led me to that ah-ha moment when I realized that faith is not believing things about God - it’s believing God. It was the point where my real journey of faith started.

I began to understand that God was speaking to me! I had to learn to listen to the still small voice in my heart, and to trust that experience. I didn’t always want to hear what God had to say, but I liked having Him around. Anyway you look at it, this is pretty heady stuff for an 11-year-old.

As I listened more and more to God’s side of the conversation, I soon learned I had the wrong order of some pretty basic things. Here I thought it was my job to love God all the way. All day and all night. Then, I had to love people. All day and all night. Starting with my mother and dad, and of course my two sisters.

My teacher told me to listen to what Jesus meant when He said, “love your neighbor as yourself.”

In other words, even though I was not the most beautiful girl on the block, I didn’t have naturally curly hair and my parents were old-fashioned, my first challenge was to love myself. I had to get to know myself - my real self - and then believe that the God within me liked me too.

From there, I could focus on seeing the beauty in other people – even if they were overweight, old, sick, and ugly. And then, because I knew the miracle of a person, I could find the miracle of God. What a powerful first step in a faith journey that has only deepened over the years. The challenge now is to continue to let it deepen. And to think, the first step happened because a 6th grade teacher helped me move from facts to a person in my life.

She taught me faith. The priceless gift we want for all children.

This I believe. a journey of faith

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S R . M A R Y A N N B A R N H O R N , S N Dd eN

It wasn’t that I didn’t like school, because I did. I was an avid reader, a good student and I kept the rules. I eagerly skipped off to my classes each day. But still, something was missing.

This week as the primary students have been logging reading time during literacy week, I have personally noticed the tranquilizing effects of students immersed in their favorite fiction or studying subjects of interest in nonfiction books. Often they came into the library fidgeting with pencils, rocking their chairs, etc. After a few moments of reading, these same students were so engrossed in their books that I had trouble getting their attention to let them know it was time to go to their next classes.

Children learn many new facts watching television, but generations of students have also learned from books. Growing up I watched my youngest brother reading from the World Book Encyclopedia.

Today’s children benefit from reading as well. Study after study has shown the importance of reading for vocabulary building. Students who have read their entire lives attain higher scores on standardized tests and often have higher grades in school. Reading is crucial to success in all types of curricula, and those having difficulty often do not have the reading skills that they need to do well in school.

Even with all the technology available to us, nothing can replace curling up with a good book, even for a short while. I personally feel that books may be even more needed for tranquility in our world today than ever before. Take some time to unwind and reconnect with yourself while reading a good book. Hope to see you soon—at the library!

the power of the word

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middle school media specialist

When our surroundings become too hectic or upsetting, reading is an instant escape. I especially realized the truth of the previous statement when my husband was so sick. As I accompanied him to doctor and hospital visits, I always had a book in hand, as did he also. For a short time we were able to forget the reality of his situation. Reading became an escape to better worlds and gave much pleasure in the process.

KA R E N WA GN E R

In our ever increasingly-busy world some people, including children, think reading (and libraries) may not be as important as in past generations. I believe just the opposite is true. Reading is even more important for relaxation, as an escape, to improve our minds, and for tranquility in this generally noisy and crazy world in which we live.

What was even more bizarre to me is that earlier that same day, in a history class—after having a spirited debate with a young conservative over the legacy of Malcolm X- I had been labeled a “black radical.” When news of our debate spread throughout the school, some of the white students were averting their eyes and mumbling (I assume about me) as I passed them in the hallway. Yet I was heralded as a hero at the all-black lunch table. So here I was—the same person on the same day an “Oreo” (a slang term for a black person who “acts white”) to one group, a Malcolm X style, militant, black person to another group, and a girl who had the courage to “represent” (i.e. be a role model for the race) to a third group. How on earth could all of these things be true?

This experience began my quest to try to understand the complications and contradictions of identity—specifically racial identity. In truth, we all are a part of multiple communities that imprint our identity. Some of these communities reinforce one another while others contradict one another.

Back then I couldn’t imagine a bigger gulf between communities than being an impoverished “inner city kid” who attended an elite, predominately, white high school. I often felt misunderstood by both groups and that I’d never fully belong to either.

Yet, there exists a space between, often uncomfortable and marginalized, but filled with the potential to become a fully actualized human being who can act as a bridge-builder between various groups. Too often people of color are told that in order to be successful you have to place distance between yourself and your community of origin. But you see, long before I had ever even heard of The Summit, I had a community. I had a family. I had roots. I had an identity firmly placed inside those roots. I have never thought that success means that I have to turn my back on all the things that make me, me.

This I believe… We are, all of us, the sum total of ALL the communities to which we belong. These experiences make us unique, make us different, and it is this diversity that enriches our lives for the better.

I believe success in the “real world” depends upon our ability to value our differences. Too often we are told to keep our focus on what we have in common, that we are more alike than we are different.

But we ARE DIFFERENT. And these differences can be just as binding as our similarities. In school, in the work place and even in our personal lives we need people from different backgrounds, with different skill sets, to challenge us, and help us grow; to tell their truths and help us to become more compassionate, understanding and even more competitive.

I believe our students will be competing globally with people who speak different languages, come from completely different cultures yet have the same expectation for success. Those of us who have learned to accept and utilize diversity will have an edge over those of us who have yet to make this transition to the 21st century.

Therefore, I believe our progeny deserve better than homogeny. the value of difference

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M I C HE L L E B U R S T I O N - Y O U N G ‘ 91

Many years ago when I was a student at Summit, I remember walking home in my school uniform being teased by a group of public school students. When I tried to defend myself, the sound of “proper” English flowing from my mouth added insult to injury and the taunts escalated. No longer were they questioning my uniform, which seemed to them to be nothing more than a bizarre fashion choice, they began questioning my identity: “Who is this wannabe white girl?” “Do you like Oreos, ‘cause you are one!” and on and on.

It was lunchtime. A friend and I, participating in a conference, looked for a restaurant near the conference center. We were directed to three of them across the street from the hotel. As many travelers we walked up and down the dock looking for the one that met our needs and the resources of our purses. On the way into the restaurant I noticed there were two people standing on the dock looking for handouts. In my usual way, I walked past them and into the restaurant. Neither of us wanted much to eat, only enough to tide us over to dinner late in the evening. Therefore, a cup of soup and a half sandwich seemed to be the best choice. When the sandwich arrived at the table it was the size of a large plate. This was far more than either my friend or I cared to eat.

Cutting the “half sandwich” in half again, the remaining portion was left on each of our plates. The waitperson came to collect the dishes and asked if we wanted take-out-boxes. After a short pause we accepted the kind offer thinking that we could offer it to the two beggars on the dock.

After emerging from the restaurant we looked for the individuals we had seen when we went into the restaurant. Surprise! There were not two beggars but now six standing on the dock about 100 feet apart from each other. The question now, “With which two do we share the sandwiches?” At the farthest end of the dock there was a man and woman. Seeing the two together we decided to walk the length of the dock and offer the take-out boxes to them. As we approached, it was evident that neither of them had seen soap, water, comb or clean clothes for quite a while. Still we approached them and told them that we would not share money with them but that we would offer them the sandwiches, which we had just bought from the restaurant. No sooner had we said this, when the woman grabbed my hand, thanking us over and over. Before either of them took the boxes, she burst out and said, “Would you pray with us?” Before we could respond she, the man, my friend and I were standing on the dock by San Diego Bay while she led us in praying the Our Father. Such simplicity, gratitude and prayerfulness were totally unexpected.

As we walked back to the conference center, we both were astounded and asked ourselves, “Who received the bigger gift?” We were deeply moved and convinced that we had received far more than we had shared. It is this experience that now allows me to look gently into the eyes of God’s in the poorest of poor.

the eyes of a beggar

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S R . L O I S A N N M E Y E R , SNDdeN

To look into the eyes of a person begging has always been difficult. For me to do this was a challenge until one day on the docks of San Diego.

NOR A KE L LY ’ 1 1

I believe in friendships with an unspoken language. For those of us who have traveled, we have most likely experienced the perhaps inevitable frustration that arouses when the same language is not spoken among parties. While I myself am guilty of such irritation, I learned to see language barriers as an opportunity. I learned to find them beautiful.

I spent one month during the summer of 2009 in the African Kingdom of Lesotho working on numerous service projects aimed at sustaining and helping the native people. Lesotho is the tenth poorest nation in the world and has the third highest HIV/AIDs prevalence rate in the world as well. Lesotho is poor, polluted, and stricken by disease. Lesotho is many things. Above all however, Lesotho is beautiful, and the native Basotho people are among the friendliest and most welcoming people in the world.

The official language of Lesotho is Sesotho, and can simply be described as a true African language.

There are no cognates, no similar phrases, and no similar pronunciations to the English language.

For a month I lived on a compound that neighbored a village containing many young Basotho children who were fascinated by our foreign skin, language, and dress. The first time I met these children I quickly discovered the inevitable and extremely present language barrier. A few of the older children knew some English from school, but the younger children, who I seemed to attract, spoke only their native language. For the first few days I felt like my relationship with these kids could go nowhere beyond awkward smiles and laughter. However, during my third day in Lesotho, a little girl of about six caught my eye and we instantly connected. I soon came to understand that my relationship with her could not be hindered by the lack of a common spoken language.

Every morning as I crossed the compound and walked to the dining room for breakfast, I would see a massive group of children waiting outside the gates. And every morning, like clockwork, the little girl who “claimed� me that third day would stand barefoot, half dressed in the cold, waiting to see me. When her eyes found me her whole face would light up and she would smile and wave so hard I worried her shoulder would fall off. In addition to every morning, every afternoon she would be waiting by the gates as I came back to the compound after a day of work. Seeing her reactions to me were some of the warmest and most satisfying feelings I have ever experienced and for one month, those mornings and afternoons were easily the favorite times of my day.

One afternoon, after a long day of work, I returned to the compound find my new friend waiting for me.

As soon as I walked over to see her she grabbed my hand and led me deep into her village where she took me to her home. Without speaking, I met her family. With no spoken words, they welcomed me into their home. Without any verbal communication, I became part of them and they became part of me.

My last day with my little friend was one full of tears and laughter. We said our goodbyes with nothing but our bodies and expressions. There was nothing that needed to be said out loud; we knew exactly what the other was feeling.

Looking back I realize I am grateful for the language barrier that existed between us. I believe that speaking would have ruined those moments I shared with her. I believe some instances are simply too precious for any language. One little girl, with whom I exchanged no verbal language, whose name I will never know, taught me an extremely profound lesson. She taught me that as humans, we are all connected and because of this, spoken language is not necessary to communicate. She showed me that speaking does not have to play a part in a friendship. All of this, I believe.

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human connections

RICK CO E N ‘ 8 8 When most people think about this phrase – or at least, situations worthy enough to be documented – they think of grand events, emergencies, touching stories… the kinds of things that make it into People magazine or Chicken Soup for the Soul. Powerful emotional events. But I wanted to celebrate the idea that such power can also make a small but far-reaching impact in almost unnoticed ways.

I was raised with a “save your pennies” mentality. All my young life, I had been taught to save first. “If you get a raise, save all of that extra – you didn’t need it, and you’d spend it if you allowed yourself to think about it.” If I worked hard to earn money, half of it was immediately sent to a bank account “for later,” “for emergencies,” or “just in case”. Over and over, I heard how my parents had scrimped and saved in order that I, their only child, could have opportunities and special events.

Save now, sacrifice now, and maybe be okay later – this was the philosophy.

Don’t get me wrong, this mentality they fostered paid off as they hoped. When my father earned an Achiever’s Trip to Italy from his company, they were able to bring me along, and stay for three additional weeks so we could tour France. Another trip was to Hawaii, and I was able to come along. I earned the opportunity through the Boy Scouts to meet the President in D.C., and my parents had the funds to come along. Later, I paid my way to Australia (Boy Scouts again), and my father had enough squirreled away to come as well despite having just changed jobs.

But the unforeseen side effect was that I also was a bit of a miser. I gave freely of my time, certainly, but I had a deathgrip on every penny that entered my reach because, of course, I might need it later. Life reinforced this instinct; when it came time to go to college, I could afford not to work during the school semesters (my first attempt was a disaster at both work and school!) as long as I worked hard and - you guessed it – saved during the summer. When college was over, I put all my savings into a CD, stayed at home, and went to work. Three years later when I was lucky enough to get married, I cashed in the CD and we bought a house without having to live in an apartment first.

I mention all of these just to point out that “save, save, save” was a well-worn and well-reinforced

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the power of friendships

mental rut for me. Of course, newly married in my early twenties, with two household incomes… I won’t say we penny pinched all the time! The philosophy was still there, and while I would happily take my wife out to dinner, I felt bad about coughing up $5 for pizza with friends, or a $2.10 donation to the shelter for a Thanksgiving meal for someone. (Hypocritical, I know.) My wife despaired of this personality trait, but I couldn’t understand because in my mind I certainly lavished what I could on her.

Then one night we went on a “double date” with my best friend and his wife. I don’t even remember where we went or what we did. I vaguely recall needing to return something to him, so he accompanied us back into our house. My wife went to bed, and my friend and I chatted for a moment in the front hall.

And I’ll digress for a moment here… This friend I had met in college during my freshman year through a mutual acquaintance. We had many similar interests, and hit it off immediately. He had had some academic setbacks before, so even though we were four years apart, he was only a junior. In college we were best buds, but when we graduated (more issues for him – which I helped him through – made our graduations simultaneous) I began to really see the difference in our maturity levels and looked up to him as the big brother I never had.

So back to that front hall, chatting with the man my best friend had become. As we finished our conversation about light topics, and he headed to the door, he turned back to me with a serious look. “Rick,” he said, “you need to think about something. I don’t know if you realize it, but you’re really cheap.” I was stunned, never expecting to hear anything like that, especially from him. Into the silence, he continued to give several examples from that evening alone, but not from a “What’s your problem” attitude but rather honest concern for how I would be perceived by others, and was I aware of how things I was doing without realizing it was affecting others. And then with a firm handshake, he smiled, said good night, and left.

I stood in that front hall for a long time, thinking about what he had said. I looked back at the “perfectly reasonable” actions and decisions from that evening, and then from the prior weeks and months. And I had to admit he was right. And I didn’t like the image I was presenting in public, nor the way I was acting privately. And that night, I decided to change. In the weeks and months to come, we began giving more to charity, tithing at our church, treating friends to dinners, and so on.

I won’t say I became a philanthropist or great humanitarian. As I said before, this isn’t a magazine— or book-worthy story. I still read a menu from right to left, but I don’t look at the bill when treating family and friends. I balance our charitable donations with our budget, which still includes meals out and entertainment. And I still put away half of the money my kids earn into savings accounts for them, “just in case.” No one is going to nominate me as a paragon of the community any time soon. But a single sentence, delivered with friendship and honesty, made me a better person. And I like to think this has improved the lives of my friends and family as well (who no longer have to put up with a penny-pincher.)

We all look back at moments in our lives and realize that we’ve “grown as a person.” We talk about the wisdom and maturity that comes with age. But how often do we realize that sometimes it isn’t wisdom that was earned but rather wisdom that was offered, and the maturity isn’t from experience, but in being willing to accept the gift? the power of friendships

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PATTI KE N N E Y middle school english I believe that wisdom does not necessarily come with age. I had just embarked on my newest five-year plan with a goal of acquiring wisdom. I was teaching about Confirmation and the gifts of the Holy Spirit to high school students in our parish CCD program. Recognizing that I, too, had received understanding, knowledge, piety, counsel, fortitude, fear of the Lord, and wisdom, 80

the face of wisdom

I evaluated myself and knew that I had a large package of some, and wisdom might be still in the box. Searching for the gift, I knew I needed to identify the face of wisdom. I looked to find three people who possessed that gift: my husband Bill; a coworker, Joan Hilton; and my grandmother.

What was it that those three people had that I wanted to achieve? I decided to “watch” what it was that made them wise. Total faith in God was a standard quality. Knowing I had faith I wondered what was more special about theirs. Grandma needed to come off the list since she was deceased and memories were not going to work on this quest. As I journeyed I was going to need to find another person for observation.

Then it happened. The quest needed to be put on a temporary hold. Our oldest child, Christopher, had just been diagnosed with Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and was to return home from college for surgery, chemotherapy, radiation and a healthy dose of family support. My quest changed from a personal spiritual journey to a family’s physical task of survival, or so I thought. Who needs personal wisdom when you are researching medical wisdom? Prayer, always a part of my life, became more subconscious as I focused on reality rather than the abstract. I still went to morning communion service and remembered especially the gospel in early January where Jesus is lost in the temple.

Mary appeared panicked, yet remained calm. I understood that feeling. Then I went about my daily business being a mother, wife, and teacher. Christopher had surgery, rounds of chemotherapy, began his radiation on Ash Wednesday of that year and by Holy Week was found to be in a state of remission. That was quite an Easter celebration for the Kenney household.

In May, on one of my middle-of-the-night rounds of checking bedrooms, I found my third face of wisdom. I first went into Christopher’s room and the side of his head that was facing the door had the beginning of some course and curly hair with a moderate degree of facial stubble. Child in bed, sleeping, so Mother is happy. Then proceeded into the next bedrooms to check on Emily, Allison and Philip. Children in bed, sleeping, so Mother is happy. Stopped back into Christopher’s room and noticed that he had turned his head and felt an emotional pang. The side of his head now facing the door was the side that had no hair or facial stubble because of the radiation treatment.

Take a breath. Stay happy. Decided to think of this now 20 year old as my man-child. Hair on one side-man, bald as a newborn-child on the other. Return to bed. I then was reminded of the gospel from early January. I got up to reread that passage: “…and Jesus advanced in wisdom and age and grace before God and men” Luke 2:52. My child had grown in grace and wisdom! I now had the third face of wisdom and it was my man-child.

I knew what the face of wisdom looked like. It was not just faith. It needed to possess the quality of total trust in the Lord. When your faith is deep enough to have the trust to turn things over to God, then you have wisdom. Was Christopher’s trust in God, was it in his family, was it in his doctors, or was it in the gift of the Holy Spirit that was bestowed upon him at Confirmation? That’s personal, so I didn’t ask him. I knew he had trust. That is what I needed to have in order to complete my quest for wisdom.

It’s amazing how I see wisdom now in the face of others. I like the welcoming look of trust. I see it in the faces of my other children and I now see it reflected in my own.

Wisdom comes from trust in the Lord, this I believe.

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In my teaching career, especially in religion classes or individual counseling, I often encouraged students to be aware of the times they have done something on faith. Believing in God and trying to do His will and follow His call is already a lived faith. I call it sheer faith because we have no actual proof, but we are willing to offer our lives to a God we love and serve through sheer faith.

For instance, entering religious life, that is, becoming a Sister of Notre Dame de Namur (or a Sister of some other order), is indeed an act of sheer faith. Somehow, God’s love and grace reach one’s mind and heart to encourage one to take this difficult but enriching step; however, there is no tangible nor external evidence to lead someone in this direction. Belief in God, trust in the Holy Spirit, and sheer faith will direct you toward this gifted vocation.

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S R . JEANETTE DEBROSSE, SNDdeN

As we walk through life with the gift of faith, it becomes more and more evident that the gift must be opened and acknowledged, appreciated and cherished – prayerfully lived. We have been graced to recognize our need for faith through the living and preaching of Jesus Himself and the immediate response of the apostles called to His mission. However in our frail humanity we often fail to grasp the everyday opportunities to express our faith, share our faith, and pray our faith.

took over when we weren’t paying attention. While all the happy, feel-good virtues stole the show, the vice of hubris choked out nearly all of our epistemic humility.

I believe that one of our highest callings is to acquire the Socratic wisdom of knowing that we don’t know. Furthermore, Lao Tzu was right: those who somehow do know don’t speak—they can’t, because the ultimate truths they grasp transcend the power of language—while those who speak incessantly don’t know. Folks with a little too much learning and a little too much pomp and insecurity blather on about science, history, politics, and religion, not to mention about themselves and other people, with ridiculous self-assurance.

I believe that championing Socratic wisdom comes with a few real dangers. To say we’re essentially ignorant is a slippery slope, and not too far from the Cartesian psychosis that becomes skeptical of absolutely everything: how do I know I’m not a brain in a vat? How do I know I won’t fall through the sidewalk after my next step? How do I really know that salads aren’t bad for me (and deep-fried Twinkies good)? Another danger is the lure, in the face of not knowing anything, of doing nothing.

It’s a critique that sticks to the left pretty well: identifying problems galore isn’t the same as knowing how to fix anything (though not acknowledging problems in the first place might be worse). Finally, it’s lonely territory being a distant cousin of Socrates. Philosophers of this ilk are misunderstood at every turn, with some calling their openness “relativism” (which it isn’t), their words “nonsense” (which they may be), and their relentless questioning “a waste of time” (not true).

I believe that a healthy dose of Socratic wisdom is incredibly liberating and well worth the side effects. I suspect that our realities are more or less socially constructed, so to loosen the grip of certain “truths” is to open ourselves to more authentic experiences and a universe of surprises. I don’t believe that epistemic humility is the most important virtue, but we really ought to plant a few extra seeds each spring and make a habit of attacking with a vengeance the roots of that pesky and persistent hubris.

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upper school faculty, college counselor

I believe that contemporary paradigms of science are extraordinarily useful, but they have nothing to do with any meaningful personal enlightenment, the kind that Christian mystics and Buddhists and others have been finding for millennia. If you ask me, folks everywhere are worshipping false idols, elevating not just science and knowledge but money, fame, material objects, and even scripture above God. To read the Bible literally is to forget that God is infinitely bigger than the understandings we glean from our favorite book, chapter, and verse. I believe that calling ourselves the pinnacle of creation is the height of hubris. I’m pretty sure it’s not all about me, that God and the splendor and glory of creation will be approximately if not equally as splendid when humans finally disappear from the planet.

STEVE PENTICUFF

I believe that we should take a much closer look at our gardens: virtues like kindness, faithfulness, generosity, and gratitude grow there, sometimes in abundance, but hubris is the weed that quietly

Creativity is a gift. Some people choose to ignore it, and some choose more wisely to let the gift blossom. The people who ignore the gift are afraid of having their ideas rejected. However, I believe it is better to show thought and be rejected, than to sit quietly and wonder if an idea is any good. I believe you should express your ideas and if they are rejected then go home and think of new ones. Being able to recognize personal mistakes in your work, and then correcting them, is a necessary skill for success. Hard work is important too. It means going the extra mile and beyond, not just stopping after the extra mile. I believe these things will make you stand out in a field of workers and lead to success.

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OL I V I A KL O S T E R M A N ’ 1 4

I believe success comes through the power of hard work and creativity. This was the secret of Klosterman Bakery. Many years ago a young man by the name of Frank Klosterman came over from Germany to plant a base in Cincinnati. He had the brilliant idea of painting the one truck the company had two different colors. One side of the truck was painted blue and the other side of the truck was painted red. When the truck drove down the city streets, people would see either the blue or red side of it. Later in the day when the truck returned up the street people would see the other side, creating the illusion of having two bread trucks. When possible clients saw how big the company was, being able to afford two trucks, they gave us their business.

SR. BARBARA MARY WILDE, S N Dd eN The inclination and attraction to dance, I believe, was a gift inborn. The spark that touched off and kindled my love for dancing came one morning in kindergarten when a small group of girls from the first grade danced for our class. After that day my parents had no peace until they enrolled me in a neighborhood dancing school, hoping simply to improve my frail health.

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The weekly dance classes became the high point of my week. Annual recitals were the most exciting time of my childhood years. During the Christmas season, when I was twelve years old, my mother took me to see a performance of “Swan Lake.” I was so enchanted by the beauty of it; I knew I had to achieve that grace of movement to share with others.

The opportunity to study with one of the best teachers in the city came during my first year in high school. I had been warned that this teacher was a very demanding and harsh critic. Somehow, I persevered without losing hope or determination despite many humiliating sessions, as well as aching muscles and blistered feet.

A yearlong studio assistantship after high school provided an intensive professional training.

Following that year, having sense of competence, I went to New York, hoping to be accepted into a ballet company. Being responsible for myself in such a large city was something of a culture shock.

I was fascinated, excited, but full of uncertainties. Short-term dance engagements on stage and on television and sales work kept me afloat financially and enabled me to get established. When no ballet company auditions on the horizon, I settled into daily ballet classes at a well-known studio.

My first homesickness crisis came on my first Thanksgiving away from home. A friend who lived at my place of residence, sensitive to my struggles, persuaded me to attend her church. There I began to learn about the power of faith and prayer. I soon gained the confidence that enabled me to continue the pursuit of my dream.

About four months later, Ballet Theatre held auditions for its approaching season. Being eliminated on the first round of trials was devastating experience. “Was there any point in continuing?” I wondered. It became clearer to me that my first goal was to achieve the beauty and grace of movement I longed for, and so I continued to study. A wise and experienced teacher enabled me to correct some basic flaws in my technical foundation. Because many years of training had to be reworked, the change required an almost blind faith in her guidance.

After almost a year she encouraged me to audition for a place in the ballet corps at the Metropolitan Opera. At the end of the third round trials, while awaiting the final selection, I found myself praying for whatever God’s will for me would be. I was accepted.

A season of challenges and tensions in the company left me exhausted. My ballet teacher advised me to rest and not dance at all for two months. This required more faith. However, I followed her advice. The time at home with my family brought me to an unforgettable experience of God in my life. I returned to New York with a new energy, which enabled me to achieve the grace of movement and joy in dancing that I had converted. I was being transformed. This was just the beginning of a far greater faith adventure.

The good God continued to open new doors in my life of faith. Three years later I offered the gift of dance back to God. God then offered to me the gift of a consecrated life with the Sisters of Notre Dame. To my surprise God wanted me to use the gift of dance as a Sister in community programs, in teaching children, and in liturgical celebrations. The dancing shoes are idle now, but I believe that I shall be dancing again in the resurrected life.

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I BE LIEVE

I BELIEVE

a collection of summit voices

“dubito ergo cogito; cogito ergo sum.”­ — rené descartes

a collection of summit voices

The weekly dance classes became the high point of my week. Annual recitals were the most exciting time of my childhood years. During the Christmas season, when I was twelve years old, my mother took me to see a performance of “Swan Lake.” I was so enchanted by the beauty of it; I knew I had to achieve that grace of movement to share with others.

The opportunity to study with one of the best teachers in the city came during my first year in high school. I had been warned that this teacher was a very demanding and harsh critic. Somehow, I persevered without losing hope or determination despite many humiliating sessions, as well as aching muscles and blistered feet.

A yearlong studio assistantship after high school provided an intensive professional training.

Following that year, having sense of competence, I went to New York, hoping to be accepted into a ballet company. Being responsible for myself in such a large city was something of a culture shock.

I was fascinated, excited, but full of uncertainties. Short-term dance engagements on stage and on television and sales work kept me afloat financially and enabled me to get established. When no ballet company auditions on the horizon, I settled into daily ballet classes at a well-known studio.

My first homesickness crisis came on my first Thanksgiving away from home. A friend who lived at my place of residence, sensitive to my struggles, persuaded me to attend her church. There I began to learn about the power of faith and prayer. I soon gained the confidence that enabled me to continue the pursuit of my dream.

About four months later, Ballet Theatre held auditions for its approaching season. Being eliminated on the first round of trials was devastating experience. “Was there any point in continuing?” I wondered. It became clearer to me that my first goal was to achieve the beauty and grace of movement I longed for, and so I continued to study. A wise and experienced teacher enabled me to correct some basic flaws in my technical foundation. Because many years of training had to be reworked, the change required an almost blind faith in her guidance.

After almost a year she encouraged me to audition for a place in the ballet corps at the Metropolitan Opera. At the end of the third round trials, while awaiting the final selection, I found myself praying for whatever God’s will for me would be. I was accepted.

A season of challenges and tensions in the company left me exhausted. My ballet teacher advised me to rest and not dance at all for two months. This required more faith. However, I followed her advice. The time at home with my family brought me to an unforgettable experience of God in my life. I returned to New York with a new energy, which enabled me to achieve the grace of movement and joy in dancing that I had converted. I was being transformed. This was just the beginning of a far greater faith adventure.

The good God continued to open new doors in my life of faith. Three years later I offered the gift of dance back to God. God then offered to me the gift of a consecrated life with the Sisters of Notre Dame. To my surprise God wanted me to use the gift of dance as a Sister in community programs, in teaching children, and in liturgical celebrations. The dancing shoes are idle now, but I believe that I shall be dancing again in the resurrected life.

dancing into faith

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