 Welcome home. Those are the first words said to you as you step out of your mini van onto the dirt driveway of Bethlehem farm after a long day. This time, I was going home, returning to the place that helped me strengthen my faith a year before. After living in South Bend, Spain, Columbus, my real home, and then South Bend again, it was comforting to know that the amazing Catholic community I had been a part of was still rolling along in the same way. I had been called back to Bfarm and this time to lead another group of people there so that they could experience this home away from home.
Once again the beauty of Appalachia took my breath away. The view of the fall colored mountains from the back porch of the farm is one that I hope to forever hold in my heart. In the mornings as we were out doing our farm chores, we would see as the light began to struck the mountains, as the fog would lift, and the pockets of fog would steam up to the sky. It is one of the strongest reminders of God’s creation I have seen to this day. Up on the hill of Bethlehem farm, one can see the beautiful world that God created for us. And on the farm, we get to take care of this world like we are called to do in the Catholic faith. Each morning, during our farm chores, we planted kale, or mulched, or prepared crop beds for winter, chopped wood, or fed chickens. Each day we saved water by limiting our showers, we composted our food, recycled, teracycled, and ate only organic foods and dishes prepared by our own hands. We left all our technology, including our phones away so that we could connect with the scenery in front of us and the people around us. I felt God in the sunrise in the morning and in the view of the tress on the mountain surround by a dazzling blue sky. The community at Bethlehem farm is something truly remarkable. Each day I felt so loved. My group radiated love and support for one another in our work for each other, in our teamwork on our service sites, in our support in prayer, in our ability to listen to one another, or sit in silence together. Each morning we hugged each other “have a great day”, each afternoon we hugged each other “welcome home”, each meal we held hands and prayed together. At the farm it is so clear to see what a community of love can do. It is so clear to see what Jesus meant when he told us to love our neighbor. I felt God’s love for me in the love my team had for one another and for the love that came from the caretakers of Bethlehem farm. Each day we would go out to our different work sites and serve people in the community and one day is spent at home on “home crew”. My day on home crew was one of my favorites, not only because I enjoy spending time in the kitchen, but it is a chance to take care of the rest of the group. Home crew packs lunches, makes dinner, cleans the house, and welcomes the workers home after their day away. It was explained to us as humble service because people don’t necessarily notice a clean toilet or realize how long it takes to make seven lasagnas, yet without it, things would not run as smoothly. I really enjoy this humble service and being able to do the small things to make people happy and to take care of my team. My other favorite site happened to be at a home that I began working on last year. Tank and Wanda are a hilarious couple who have been married for 50 years and poke fun at each other all day long. Wanda will not let you leave without at least one piece of cake and a cup of coffee and never ever an empty stomach. One of the aspects I truly love about Bfarm is that they care about experience and not time or work completed, so conversations with homeowners are just a important as how much siding was put on the house that day. When I wasn’t needed, I got to go inside the house and help Wanda get lunch ready for us and talk with her about her family. I also got to have Tank warm up my hands in his very large warm hands since he deemed I was freezing. The love this couple showed for me and for each other once again proved God’s love for me and the idea that we are here to love another and take care of one another. I wish I could stay at Bethlehem Farm, a few of us joked it is like the Garden of Eden- a Catholic utopia sitting atop the hillside, however reality called us back. I do hope to take the farm with me though. First, I know I always have a home there and do not think this will be my last time whether it is an adult week or I bring Notre Dame alumni back, one day I will return again to my “home” in West Virginia. I also know that as I move on into the next phase of my life after I graduate Notre Dame next year, I will try and be more intentional about my faith as the farm has taught me. In the coming months, I hope to have more conversations about faith with my friends who I normally don’t. I hope to have the meaningful conversations that I may sometimes avoid. I want to have lunch with my team members who I had conversations with that challenged my ideas and helped me to understand God further. I plan to be more aware of what I am throwing away and what I am recycling in my apartment and to think about where my food is coming from and buy local and organic when I am able. Additionally, I want to surround myself in communities who will talk about their faith and support me in mine as I continue to see what God has in store for me. I am so grateful for the CSC for giving me the opportunity to have this experience to meet more amazing Notre Dame students, to grow in my leadership skills, to lose myself in the hills of West Virginia, to find God, to laugh and be hugged, and understand what it means to live intentionally in my faith. There is no place like home when your home is Bethlehem Farm. Over the week, we performed quite a few of hands-on tasks for ASPI and the community of Mount Vernon homesteaders. At first, I was glad to break out of my sedentary school routine, so I relished the chance to get my hands dirty by pulling weeds, spreading compost, mining clay and the like. However, before even our first day was over, the novelty of doing manual labor for the first time in a while had worn off, and I began to think pessimistically. I felt like my own contribution —and by extension the contribution of our Notre Dame group— was inconsequential. I thought it was ironic that our group of 11 people had traveled about 400 miles to work in a garden for the sake of local and sustainable food systems (among other things). Although the food grown from the ASPI garden is consumed locally and requires little to no artificial chemical input, I was frustrated by the imperfection of the system because it probably couldn’t provide all of the produce for a family, and most families cannot or simply will not devote their weekends and afternoons to gardening.
The next day, I got to see some off-the-grid homes. Modern-day homesteaders have generally built their homes using natural, local, and recycled or reused materials, incorporating passive solar design and other building techniques to make them energy efficient and supportive of self-sustaining lifestyles. I even got to work on one such house which is still under construction. Our main project was to install “slip straw” insulation for the walls of the house, in which we mined clay from the soil directly beneath the house, and used it as the glue to hold together the straw that we packed into the framing of the walls. Like when I worked in the ASPI garden, I had to suppress my cynical thoughts. I was thrilled that this house was being built with such care, but at the same time a voice of pessimism reminded me that this way of life would probably remain an exception to the rule in industrialized consumer culture: most Americans probably don’t even have the natural resources available in their local area to build a house like the one Robert is building, let alone a lifestyle that would afford the time and effort necessary to create their own homes with such painstaking care. Later that night, I reconsidered these problems in a new light. I realized that my reservations about the significance and viability of these projects were superficial. I had been looking at my work on those days as representative of universal solutions to the problems that we face. The source of my worries during the day had essentially been, “If everybody can’t live this way, then nobody should.” In retrospect, the thought is absurd, and ironic too, since in my opinion, one of the main sources of the thoughtless waste inherent to the status quo in the US is that very same one-size-fits-all approach, the approach taken by big-box stores and monstrous suburban subdivision developers, for instance. As much as I would like to shrug off my ties and forswear my allegiance to a global economy and way of life which unfairly benefits me, my work with ASPI reminded me that I am part of the system. This realization cemented my understanding that a sustainable and just future will be pluralistic and varied, because one size never really fits all. When it comes to the significance of the work that I did, of course my impact was miniscule, just a drop in the bucket, like I had started to think while gardening. However, when lauded by a community member for giving up my vacation week to go on the service trip, it put the week into perspective for me. Maybe I had spent the week doing some work which might have made only the tiniest of positive impacts, but my alternative to was to simply spend another week as a docile participant in the wasteful systems of our culture by sleeping in and shooting the breeze either at school or at home. In one case, I might have spent the week engaging in a futile effort, but in the other I would have done nothing but make the ecological crisis worse by doing nothing to stop my own —or anybody else’s— contribution to it. I decided that in either case I would have spent the week as a mere cog in a giant system beyond my control, but my choice was what type of machine I should choose. In the same spirit, I reflected on my own future. Over the last year or so, as I have decided where to go to college and what to study, I have been overwhelmed by the question of how to best put my talents to use. Will I stand to make a greater impact to right the wrongs of climate change as an environmental writer, or a research scientist, as a policymaker or an engineer? My reflection during my week at ASPI led me to believe that it is naïve to obsess over forecasting which discipline or career path will empower me to make the greatest positive impact, because for one, such comparisons are impossible to quantify, and furthermore, my own impact as an individual will be just another drop in the bucket. This time I mean it only to say that I have strengthened my sense of humility: I know I will lead a career that will generally work for greater environmental justice, and I know that I cannot fix everything, so within that realm, I should simply find the organizations and people that inspire me, work for their benefit and causes, and go one step at a time. It’s very easy, as a college student, to lose sight
of where you’re at. Our whole lives are based on our futures. We are constantly working toward something that is as yet unattained, and for many of us constantly shifting as we reevaluate what we “want to do with our lives”. We were forced this week to intentionally lose awareness of both the past and the future. Living on “God’s time” was relaxing, definitely, but it was also a wake-up call for me. I struggle with letting go of routine because it’s comforting and (I thought) reduces my stress. However, I saw on Toppa Joppa that choosing to live in the present is not the coward’s way out of having to face the future, and it’s not a way of denying a painful path. Rather, by allowing yourself to be at peace with the present, you open yourself up to all the possibilities that await you on the road ahead. What is home? Growing up, of course my answer to this question was my address in Ohio. Even at Glenmary, my nickname was Lima (my hometown). But ever since I began my years at Notre Dame, I’ve truly felt that ND is my home, and during this trip I sort of figured out why. For me, home is the place where I feel relaxed and safe. An introvert likes to have a place she can retreat to. To be honest, I was sometimes over-peopled during the Appalachia trip since the twelve of us shared living quarters and it was very hard to get alone space. But when I had a moment to myself, on the porch with the dogs or sitting by the firepit at night looking at the stars, I felt the sense of peace I get when I feel truly comfortable. Glenmary became a home to me, in just a week. I am amazed by the power of welcoming and kind people and the spaces they create. Star-gazing Sometimes our days seemed clouded with pessimism, seeing tough situations that evoked our compassion for humanity or brought about painful personal memories. Or sometimes real clouds and rain brought a gloomy mood upon our group. Each night we had reflection, which allowed the stars hidden in the day to shine through and show us another side to humanity, one that cares for the other and takes joy in their raising up. Since the birth of humanity there has been an inconceivable number of human interactions.
While history has revealed some of them, the vast majority remain hidden from the public eye, they remain pure, unique, and original. They range from intimate conversations between two people to fiery presidential debates, however the majority of human interactions remain in the quiet of our heart or behind closed doors. Our thoughts, values, and beliefs are displayed outwardly at times but very few actually have the opportunity to witness the beauty of a particular person. In fact, if we sit and think about it, the people that another knows is very small in comparison to the billions on this Earth. Therefore, while we try to learn everything there is to know about our best friend or lover, we could not possibly understand each individual person let alone a culture. For this reason, society has learned to unfortunately stereotype others which does not give justice to those communities. It is, thus, essential that for those who have traveled to different locations to speak honestly of the cultures that they have connected with and break down social stereotypes. The Appalachian region, is a region in the United States that is not given proper justice. Therefore, we who have gone must speak honestly of our experiences. For in every community there are inevitable problems (even if they do not appear on the surface), but often over looked are the glimpses of hope and beauty. However, in searching for the truth and beginning to comprehend the complexity of a community, one might have to displace oneself to engage in a community unlike their own. This was my experience of displacement in Hurley, Virginia. Sunday, October 16th 2016, was a long day of travel. Our group finally arrived on site at in the late hours of the evening, but greeted by Teresa, our community partner, at the Hurley Community Development Center. Through the week, we would be graced by several conversations with Teresa about her missionary of work, the conflicts and struggles she witnesses within the community, and her overarching love and compassion for those surrounding her. Later on in the week our group would meet the dedicated volunteers of the Community Center who worked with us at each of our sites. Just as Teresa had her stories to share, so did Hassel, Junior, Glen, Barret and the others. The common theme that all spoke of was the need for volunteers, the needs of the community, and although not directly discuss an underlining love for this community that has raised them. The most troubling aspect of the trip is witnessing the state and country’s neglect for the people of this region. The Catholic social teaching, teaches us that there should be preferential options for the poor and vulnerable. Unfortunately, these options are slowly depleting with the coal industry dying and the majority of people leaving the Hurley (and the greater Appalachian region). Furthermore, the number of jobs, healthcare, and even education opportunities have been severely limited. In part, the second two stem from the first problem, but arguably Hurley and the wider Buchanan County suffers from lack of political voice. For decades, the coal industry voiced its opinions, which has shown to be detrimental to many men and women’s health but also research shows the industry cared more about financial gains than the rights and dignity of the human workers. If the county had political voice, it would be the first step for Virginia to provide aid to a community who faces increasing amounts of setbacks. However, it is up to the people within Hurley to start the push for political representation which I foresee to be a feasible option. Political voice would additionally provide the county with the social justice that they deserve. If there is not a foreseeable industry or solution to the degradation of the coal mines and job opportunities, then as a society we must provide another option such as services to support transitional processes. While, Hurley faces several hardships the Community Development Center has been a staple in offering resources to the community, not only does the center perform housing repair, it additionally distributes almost 200 food boxes to families each month who greatly need support. Without their services, many would be suffering far worse than they currently do. However, amidst the suffering, the community is rich in familial bonds and culture. Unlike, my hometown in Wisconsin, the people in Hurley love their front porches. The majority of houses have them and by sitting and listening to stories during our repair day, I found that these spots are prime areas to share stories. Stories about the past, present, and future, are shared in these intimate areas, but in a way it shows the openness of the community. Driving through the Hurley, it was not unusual to see a couple chatting on the front stoop in the afternoon and to me that shows people opening their lives to one another. In a way, like the community center has opened its doors to people with all different stories, front porches also invite others to listen to the many experiences of their neighbors. Possibly gaining strength or having a mentality that “we are all in it together”. As mentioned before front porches are not as common in my hometown, so I did not recognize their power until halfway through the week when I participated in a front porch chat. In fact, I was only near the front porch but the conversation still mimicked one. A conversation about life’s struggles and our aspirations for a brighter future. Yet, in this moment while I felt some solidarity, it really was not until Thursday night when our group joined about twenty community members to share in a picnic style meal together. Here, I stood witness to the beauty and strength of human relationships within a community who has faced a great deal of suffering. One family, graciously invited to gather in front of them to listen and sing along to a few songs. However, before we sang Amazing Grace in unison, we listened to a song that their family has sung throughout their life. I can’t recall the title but a common phrase within the lyrics was “I can wait to see you all in heaven someday” which was repeated several times, and each time one of the brothers would point to all of us as to say he hopes to see ALL of us in heaven. But even more beautiful than that, was the mother’s rich voice that grasped everyone’s attention. We could all hear the love that she poured onto her family for the past several decades the moment she voiced her song. For at the age of 89, she has come to see her children grow and learn all life has to offer. From their brief introduction, it was obvious that their family grew up singing to one another and by inviting us to join in with them I felt at most in solidarity with each one of them.  “It’s always worth the eight out of ten,” Fred argued. That’s it, I told myself. That is this week. That is the hope found in Appalachia. That is Christ.
Fred—a man in the community who has since retired from his full-time job to be of service to his neighbors—was explaining the criticism he frequently encounters. Fred gives without counting the cost, he serves without reward, he loves without boundaries. Fred is often blamed for enabling his neighbors. He is faced with disapproval for excessive generosity. But as Fred sees it, if he helps ten people in one day and two of those people scam him by abusing his hospitality, Fred has still helped eight people that day. To Fred, limiting his generosity is far worse than the risk of being taken advantage of. He is attempting to look at his brothers and sisters as Christ looks at them, as being worthy of the full gift of self. The Telling Takes Us Home describes crucified places—wounds of Christ in our world—as opportunities for resurrection. The Catholic Committee of Appalachia suggests that “practicing resurrection means taking our place in locations, locations with faces, communities, and stories of struggle” (p. 42). Fred embodies this taking place. Fred chooses to live in the crucified area so that he may be near the wounds. He does not avoid the wounds, he seeks them out. In Tattoos on the Heart, Father Greg Boyle claims that taking the right stand on issues is not enough; one has to be willing to stand in the right place, with the right people. This is a radical call to physical action. It requires movement to the margins, even if that looks and feels uncomfortable and messy. The Telling Takes Us Home proceeds to summon us to touch the wounds of these crucified places like Thomas was called to touch the wounds of Christ. In doing so, resurrection becomes possible and the hope of new life is reinvigorated. Fred embodies an eagerness to live in a crucified place so that he might touch Christ’s wounds. In his Appalachian neighborhood, Fred encounters Christ in such a raw and vulnerable manner, and in doing so, he brings hope for resurrection. While Fred demonstrated this unceasing value for human dignity in his interactions with those on the margins, Bethlehem Farm proved the importance of touching the wounds of the crucified places in our environmental world. The Appalachian region bears very overt physical marks of the damage caused by human carelessness. Our week with Bethlehem Farm consisted of living in radical simplicity as an effort to mend these wounds. Bucket showers, compost, sawdust toilets, and homegrown produce reminded me of my responsibility to bring hope of resurrection in our crucified world. The absence of my phone, my oblivion to time, our prayer schedule, and the dependable routine reestablished an appreciation for simplicity; it all comes down to my relationship with God. This call to simplicity is not to be lived out solely on a farm. It is easy to live simply on Bethlehem Farm, but that does not excuse a lifestyle of simplicity in my life beyond the farm. Just because I cannot see the visible wounds of the injured environment around me when I live on campus does not mean that the wounds do not exist. Just because I am not limited to bucket showers on campus does not mean that I should not conserve water by taking fewer and shorter showers. Just because there is no convenient compost site on campus does not mean that I should not limit my food waste. Just because the toilets on campus do not consist of sawdust buckets does not mean that I should ignore the excessive waste of water and paper that my daily lifestyle produces. Just because I cannot harvest food in my dorm room does not mean that I should live in ignorance of sustainable practices and options. Just because I have access to my cell phone and because my schedule now seems to offer no room for prayer or reflection does not mean that I cannot intentionally devote time spent with God. This call to give attention to the wounds is a call that cannot be contained to one week. The Appalachian region is not the only crucified site with wounds to heal. There are plenty of people to encounter whose lived world is one of pain and destruction. Additionally, my actions here have implications for the healing of wounds in crucified sites beyond my physical reach. My pursuit of simplicity and sustainability contributes to the process of repairing and caring for God’s creation, even in the Appalachian region. Whatever I pursue at and beyond Notre Dame must incite a movement to touch the wounds of crucified places and be among those inhabiting these places. It may not always be comfortable, but it is always worth it for the eight out of ten.  During our immersion experience, much to our good fortune, my group interacted with several members of the community. The small community of Richwood in which we resided proved to be tightly knit and resilient in the wake of devastating flooding over this past June that produced 10.5 million dollars in damage for a population of just over 2000. At first, I wasn’t sure if a community of such small size, such extensive devastation and so few prospects for hope and thriving future was even worth saving; however, after my community interaction, my perspective shifted and I came to understand the value in this town. We met a former teacher, Susan, at Richwood High School (RHS) while attending mass at the local church and she invited us over to her house for a campfire. Susan explained to us how RHS had just a few years ago been listed as one of the worst high schools in the United States, prompting an influx of national funding and crusade to revitalize the school. Susan, along with the other dedicated faculty, helped transform RHS by adding more vigorous courses into the curriculum and increasing test scores; the improvements were so substantial that the US News and World Report awarded the school a Bronze Award in 2013. At RHS, over half of the students are members of the award-winning marching band, one of the best in the state that has traveled nationally and has even been on nationally televised events. The marching band serves as a key rallying figure for Richwood and it was abundantly clear that the community takes pride in the band’s success. In one of the most touching stories I heard during the immersion, the mayor of Richwood, Bob Henry Baber, recounted how after the flood waters had receded slightly, members of the band went into the school to retrieve their uniforms and had them cleaned by a neighboring town; then, in the wake of such a devastating event, the band performed down the main street of Richwood in an emotional tribute to the community. However, due to the flood damage and lack of recovery funding, FEMA has rejected proposals to rebuild RHS so there are no current plans to reopen this vital heart of the community. Additionally, Richwood sits just on the edge of the Monongahela National Forest, a hub of some of the state’s highest ridges, spectacular views, beautiful waterfalls, and rare biodiversity which we had the privilege of experiencing. Community members recommended various hiking spots and during our time in the forest, I definitely gained an appreciation of the natural beauty that Richwood is tucked among. From the people I spoke with in Richwood, I would definitely assess that they have a strong feeling of stewardship for God’s creation and really value the natural paradise they live in, a clear embodiment of Catholic Social Teaching. One of the most striking things I took from my experience in Richwood was their principles of community and the common good; Richwood was very obviously driven by community spirit and belief in the general good for all. To me, this, along with the love of their home and surrounding nature, proved to be something worth saving, despite the magnitude of challenges or extreme costs. The Richwood community is definitely facing extreme devastation that they cannot recover from alone. Through my immersion experience and speaking with Mayor Baber, I gained a better understanding of what Richwood requires on the path to recovery. Mayor Baber really exemplified the principles of CST in terms of the role of the government; he fervently believes in the role of the local government to promote human dignity and solidarity and build the common good. He also believes in caring for God’s creation, as he explained how he is firmly against coal mining in the area, which he described as parasitic. In fact, he is currently in the process of suing a coal company for mountaintop removal in near the main river that caused the June flooding for their role in exacerbating the damage by altering the landscape around the river. Mayor Baber seeks to turn Richwood into the “Aspen of the East” and spark economic recovery through tourism. He believes that the main street in Richwood, which has several impressive murals, could be transformed into a trendy, quirky vacation spot. The primary barriers to this are obviously lack of funds as well as lack of outside knowledge/interest to spur this growth. To combat this, the mayor recommended we look into purchasing real estate in the area. Additional engagement from FEMA would also help speed up recovery. According to Mayor Baber, FEMA typically will only provide funding to restore damages to their original state; in a poor community, this can mean providing weak quick fixes to deeper problems. Richwood needs sufficient funding to correct issues at the core rather than a series of fixes that accumulate in cost. I also believe that re-opening Richwood High School is essential to preserving the spirit and soul of the community. During our immersion, Susan posted my group’s photo in the “I am Richwood” page, dedicated to flood relief, on Facebook and the post received an outpouring of gratitude, receiving over 330 likes and 33 comments. I got the sense that many in the Richwood community feel forgotten and just our presence and passion combatted this. We can also continue to share our experiences to help rally the publicity and support that Richwood needs and deserves. Most importantly, since our community partner is not typically based in Richwood but the community is in dire need of support, I think continued engagement by the Notre Dame Appalachia seminars with the town of Richwood (perhaps with the establishment of a new site and community partner) could help them combat their current difficulties and assist in their physical and spiritual recovery.  The David School is a high school in David, Kentucky that provides alternative education to teenagers who do not thrive in a typical public high school setting. Along with education, the David School provides meals and a supportive environment for its students. Through spending time with the students for one week, I saw why the David School was so crucial to these children’s lives.
The first difficulty I saw as prominent in the high schooler’s lives was that of finding education that would work for them. The David School is not like any high school I have attended, or even seen before. I can only compare David to my own experiences, that of a private Catholic high school with what I would call a tough curriculum, and I judged David a little harshly at first. For example, when I arrived I thought that the teachers at David seemed too relaxed. They would let the students interrupt them during lectures and gave the students a lot of slack when they didn’t finish an assignment. However, I came to see how the slow pace and the casual conversations were necessary for these children. That wasn’t how school was for me growing up, but that is what seemed to work for them. They had energy that needed to be let out, but they were also always encouraged to refocus their attention back to their work after a short amount of time. Initially, I made the mistake of relating “different” to “not as good.” Luckily, I broke out of this habit early on and learned that I needed to focus less on what it would be like for me to go to school here and focus more on what is it like to be them in this school setting (9). David really brought to light that even though the education system works for a lot of people, there will always be people that “fall through the cracks.” This does not mean that they are not worthy of an education, just that they need something different than the usual system. Changing perspectives in this manner was beneficial going forward in my time at David. However, David provided much more than just education to its students. For example, David provides both breakfast, lunch, and numerous snacks to its students. The teachers at David all made a point in telling us how the students had various home life conditions, and that it was important to them to take care of the students in all aspects of their lives. This included food. One teacher, Adam, also shared with us how when a student is being particularly moody or acting out, the first thing he tells the student to do is dismiss him or herself from class and grab a snack from the kitchen. The school staff treats its students in a very God centered manner, where they do not blame but try to understand and heal. Through daily encounters of this sort, David becomes a second home to these students. I saw the close knit community that seemed to be characteristic of the region as a whole. This became apparent through the many conversations I had with the students and staff. One student excitedly recounted how she was there for the birth of her best friend’s baby (a baby who would later be taken care of by the students and school staff during school hours). In another encounter the principal of David explained to a teacher why a certain student had been absent for a long period of time, going into detail on the student’s difficult home situation. This is what was, in my opinion, the most beautiful part of David. The engagement and intertwining of the lives of the school staff and students are what make David a home to so many people. The staff makes it their business to know what is going on in the students’ lives so they can cater to what they need. No, this isn’t always traditional. Sometimes a teacher’s response may be something along the lines of “Stay home for a week or two to take care of that,” which is something I know I would have never heard at my high school. But this is exactly the compassion and empathy that the students need and deserve. These small moments were an example of where “people have decided to act, and to act boldly, because life depends on changing the way we live together.” (51). These were extreme acts of care and love in my eyes, yet the David staff made them commonplace. It is easy to judge an area and its people by first looks and stereotypes. Some can see David and assume that because it is an alternative school, these are “bad” children. Some, though, can see that David simply provides alternative education, meaning a different way and pace for people to learn. The students have just as many dreams as “normal” high schoolers. They want to be video game designers, nurses, teachers, psychiatrists, and United States Marines. Some of the students already are raising their own children, some are currently in between foster care homes, some have been to jail, some do not feel adequate enough - all real and common hardships in life. We listened to each other’s stories and saw how “in God’s grand story, everyone must find a place, and everyone’s story… must be welcomed and honored in its telling” (59). Through these tellings, we found shared experiences and bonded. We played tag, listened to music, went to classes, and simply existed together. On our last day, the kids loaded into cars to go home when school ended. They were honking their horns to get our attention and to wave goodbye. It was a short encounter with David, but proved to be a huge lesson in empathy in the face of challenging life situations. Source: Catholic Committee of Appalachia. The Telling Takes Us Home: Taking Our Place in the Stories that Shape Us. Catholic Committee of Appalachia, 2015. |
