I was sitting at Mass one Sunday in 1993;  I had been having a major crisis of faith in my personal life – I felt like that popular poem Footprints where the guy, seeing only one set of footprints in the sand, asks God “Where were you when I needed you most?”  and God replies “That was when I carried you, moron.” Ok God didn’t say it that way but He had every right to, really.  (Disclaimer: I know God isn’t a man, okay.  Cut me some slack here.)  I was just coming to the end of  my trek through the desert and I read in the church bulletin that teachers were needed for religious ed. My children were still too young for that, but I was feeling the need to do something “brainy” and to get my mind off myself and my angst.  And I heard myself ask that question that we God-fearin’ folk sometimes find ourselves asking: “Is it I, Lord?” 

So, I signed up.  I taught for several years, my favorite being the second graders.  That was a big year, people would get their children signed up so they could make their First Communion that year, often just to make Grandma happy, I discovered.  The class sizes would decrease significantly after second grade.  Anyway, I loved it.  I was good at it.  I made it fun.  My favorite memory of that year was making the Nativity creches.  I collected shoe boxes, painted them brown, and made up a batch of homemade play dough, gathered some strawish stuff from my flower arranging bin and we were good to go.  The kids made their little people and animals and kings and of course baby Jesus.  I recall being overwhelmed after the kids left and all their handiwork was looking back at me in beautiful innocent silence.  It was truly one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.   I don’t know that I would have the patience to teach regular school to that age group – I’d be wanting to make every day “play dough day,” and they’d head to third grade not knowing how to add or subtract or spell. 

One year I taught fourth graders.  There was one boy in the class who was a bit difficult to control.  At that age there was an expectation that we would do more than just play with play dough, although I tried to make it creative as well.  His name was Daniel.  He couldn’t sit still, he didn’t take anything even the least bit seriously.  He had a twin brother who was, of course, his opposite.  Quiet, pleasant, attentive.  I wasn’t too phased by Daniel, having three little boys of my own, however it could be exasperating at times. 

One day near Pentecost we were talking about the Holy Spirit.  This may sound a bit contradictory, but after the lesson I asked the children to draw a picture of the Holy Spirit in action.  Most of them drew pictures of the Bible story, the Holy Spirit coming to the Apostles via tongues of fire.  Some of them drew Bible characters being nice to each other.  But Daniel – ah Daniel.  He got busy drawing a war scene – the Persian Gulf War was in full swing.  He drew tanks, he drew planes, he drew soldiers.  Instead of bombs, though, the planes and soldiers and tanks were delivering candy to the children in his scene.  One of the little girls berated him: “Daniel.  That’s not the Holy Spirit.  You’re supposed to be drawing a picture of the Holy Spirit.”

Daniel put his crayons down in a very deliberate manner and sighed the sigh of a child way beyond his years.  I still get a little misty when I remember his answer, which he stated with a bit of impatience at the ignorance of his classmate: “The Holy Spirit wasn’t just back in the time of Jesus.  The Holy Spirit is NOW!”  Duh.  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

 I will always remember him.  I always hoped he was doing well – it’s not an easy world for a boy who pushes the envelope and especially one with that kind of depth of spirit at such a young age.  I only saw Daniel once after that year.  He was fishing at the Lafayette Reservoir.  As a fisherwoman myself I was happy to see that he fishes, as I know that the Holy Spirit digs hangin’ out in fishing boats for some reason.    I didn’t greet him – it was a few years later and I guess I didn’t think he’d remember me.  I wonder how he is now, if the Holy Spirit continues to guide him and if he still listens – if anyone ever needed the guidance of the Holy Spirit it would be him.   At least I know he got it – and actually he had it even before I “taught it.”