Spiritual Motherhood: A Day in the Classroom

By
Ashley Lenz
Published On
April 30, 2020
Spiritual Motherhood: A Day in the Classroom

“Wherever the work of education is called for, we can note that women are ever ready and willing to give themselves generously to others, especially in serving the weakest and most defenceless. In this work they exhibit a kind of affective, cultural and spiritual motherhood which has inestimable value for the development of individuals and the future of society.”

– Pope St. John Paul II, “Letter to Women”

6:52 A.M.

I round the corner of the hallway on the way to my classroom, bleary-eyed and fumbling for the key.

“Boo!” A voice echoes in the otherwise empty building and I jump, despite the fact that I had been expecting it.

“Good morning, Joe,” I chirp with as much cheer as I can muster at such an early hour when one of my sophomore boys appears from a shadowed doorway. Balancing my bag and a stack of papers on one arm, I unlock the classroom door and usher him inside before turning on the lights and depositing the papers and bag unceremoniously on my desk.

This has been our morning routine for months; a daily jump-scare most mornings and then a quiet hour spent in my mostly empty classroom. Sometimes, Joe finds a desk in the far corner and plays on his iPad while I update the agenda on my whiteboard or tidy up my room. Other times, he wanders over to my desk as I sit drinking scalding-hot tea.

“How are you doing?” I ask as he shuffles his feet in a noncommittal fashion.

A long pause. “Good.” Another long pause. “There’s a formal coming up.”

I smile softly. “Ah, do you think you’ll go?” He nods, and I press on, suspecting I’m on the right track: “Do you have anyone in mind you want to ask?”

He shuffles his feet some more and practically whispers the young lady’s name. I light up in encouragement.

“Oh, I bet she’d be delighted. How are you going to ask her?” Elaborate “asks” are big around these parts, and I know the young lady in question would be over the moon to receive one.

Joe shrugs. Fidgets with his phone. Pauses. “I dunno. I just thought I’d, like … ask her at lunch or something.”

I nod and tilt my head thoughtfully, glancing over at the prayer table in the corner. “Hmm ... you know what, Joe? What if you grab those flowers over by Mama Mary and ask her out with those?”

I point to the tissue paper bouquet in front of the Virgin Mary painting. Joe smiles nervously and scratches the back of his head, “Are you sure Mama Mary won’t mind?”

I laugh and nod enthusiastically. I’m sure, Joe. She’s your mama, after all. She’d want to see them put to good use.”

Then, he’s off to the races, snatching up the flowers and half-jogging out of the classroom to the library, where his soon-to-be date usually spends the morning before first period.

7:15 A.M.

I make use of a few precious moments of quiet to send some emails before a gaggle of voices and laughter comes streaming through my classroom door.

“Gooooooooood mooooorning, Mrs. Lenz!”

The greeting makes it through the door before its bearer does, but I recognize the voice and echo back, “Gooooood moooorning!”

Five or six (it’s hard to keep count) teenagers drop heavy backpacks on the ground and plop themselves into chairs and on the tops of desks. One of them, another sophomore boy, sprawls dramatically on the carpet in front of my desk, lamenting, “Mrs. Lenz, it’s a baaaad day.”

At the same time, Becky makes her way over to my desk and puts a flyer into my hand. “Can you come to my recital?” she asks expectantly, nodding to the date and time on the flyer.

And another voice, overlapping with Becky and the lamenting boy: “Can you settle a debate we’re having about souls? They said that the Church says that…”

I take a deep breath. “What’s going on, bud?” I ask the boy on the carpet as I place Becky’s flyer on my desk and then turn to her. “Oh, how exciting! Let me check my calendar — how are you feeling about the performance?” Then, finally, turning my attention to the last student, I smile sympathetically and gesture broadly, waiting for her to finish explaining what the latest theological debate is among her group of wonderfully nerdy Catholic friends.

The next 45 minutes pass in this ongoing juggle between three (sometimes four) different conversations before the five-minute bell chimes and the students disperse to their first class of the day.

The next 45 minutes pass in this ongoing juggle between three (sometimes four) different conversations before the five-minute bell chimes and the students disperse to their first class of the day.

8:30 A.M.

My students are busily completing an assignment — that is, all but one student who, I notice, is quietly doodling in his notebook and staring vacantly at the wall. I make my way over to him silently, not wanting to disturb the relative peace in my room full of teenagers.

“Hey Charlie, I noticed you aren’t working on the assignment. What’s going on?” I keep my tone bright and even, not wanting to put the student on the defensive.

Charlie looks up at me and then away before muttering, “I, um … I don’t have the book we were supposed to get.”

“Oh, I see.” I nod and try not to let disappointment color my voice. I assigned the students to purchase the required book weeks ago and gave frequent reminders. “Is there a reason you haven’t gotten it yet?”

He glances up at me sheepishly, briefly, and I get a pretty good idea of what’s going on. I nod again and then incline my head toward the door, communicating a silent invitation to step outside with me for a moment.

In the hallway, Charlie spills out a jumbled confession: “I’m sorry. It’s just that my parents are separated, and it’s my dad’s credit card on my iBooks account, but he won’t give my mom the password, even though he’s supposed to pay for my books and …”

I wave my hand gently, halting the flow of apologies and explanations. “That sounds really hard, Charlie.”

“I’ll try and get the book tonight, I promise!”

I wave my hand again and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it; you can borrow my copy until things get sorted out with your dad.” I see Charlie glance back towards the classroom door and see the worry flicker across his face, so I add, “What if I just leave the book on the corner of my desk every day, and you can just quietly grab it on the way to your seat? Then, no one would notice.”

He nods enthusiastically, “Yes, uh, thank you. Thanks so much.”

10:30 A.M.

In between classes, a former student pokes her head into my classroom.

“I’ve got your book,” she announces, waving said object above her head.

“Oh, what’d you think of it?” I ask as I take it from her hands and return it to the bookshelf. She’s been a sporadic visitor to my classroom since I taught her sophomore year — sometimes stopping in to discuss challenges with her non-Catholic parents, sometimes swinging by to borrow a theology book, and once even knocking to ask for some last-minute prep before her first confession. She leaves my classroom today with a book of Advent readings from G.K. Chesterton and a copy of The Screwtape Letters, calling a “Thank you!” over her shoulder as she heads off to English class.

12:15 P.M.

The bell rings, signaling the end of our class discussion on the problem of pain and suffering.  As students pack up their belongings, I make eye contact with Jessica in the front row. It only takes a moment for me to register the glassy look in her eyes; I raise my eyebrows to let her know that I see her in that moment and then briskly turn to my other students.

“I have a meeting today, guys, so I’ve got to kick you all out,” I announce without missing a beat. Normally, I’d have a few stragglers stay behind to eat their lunch in my classroom or to continue debating the chapter of Mere Christianity we just finished reading. Not today, though. I usher them all out — except for one — and then close the door behind them before turning back to Jessica, still in her seat.

I take one look at her, and she bursts into heavy sobs, shoulders heaving with each one. “Oh, Jess, what’s wrong?” I ask gently as I make my way over to her desk. I grab the box of tissues as I pass by it and whisper a silent prayer to the Holy Spirit before sitting down in the empty chair next to her.

Her answer comes between sobs and sniffles. “I don’t — I just, I can’t understand why … why would God let something … so, so bad … happen to a little, just a little kid.” I wait patiently for her to unpack what she means, offering sympathetic nods and the occasional prompting until the whole tale spills out: a little brother diagnosed with cancer. Ten years of watching that beloved brother struggle through remission and surgery. Anger at the thought of a supposedly loving God burdening a sweet little boy with such an unfair cross.

I don’t have answers for her, at least not satisfying ones, but I sit and cry with her and she tells the story. I share with her what I’ve come to know about God in my own suffering and pain. I look at her meaningfully as she wipes away a tear and tell her, slowly and deliberately, “Jess, the heart you have for your little brother is so beautiful that it makes me cry to hear you talk about your love for him. And even then, I know that God loves your brother even more than you do.”

She nods and sniffles. The tears are falling less rapidly now. I hand her another tissue and ask if she would like to walk with me to the chapel on campus. We spend the rest of the lunch period there, kneeling before the tabernacle.

I hand her another tissue and ask if she would like to walk with me to the chapel on campus. We spend the rest of the lunch period there, kneeling before the tabernacle.

1:45 P.M.

I stop midway through a sentence about the Incarnation, noticing the blank stares of my students and the oddly palpable tension in the air.

“Is…is everything alright, guys?” I ask, legitimate concern evident in my voice.  

There’s a brief pause before a student in the back chimes in, “We’re just tired, Mrs. Lenz.”

“Yeah, we’re stressed,” another student adds.

“I’ve got six tests this week.”

“I’ve got two essays and a lab.”

“And the SATs this weekend.”

“Oh no, that’s THIS weekend?!”

“You know how the end of the quarter is, Mrs. Lenz.”

I look out at them again. I’ve been teaching long enough to know when students are pulling my leg or being dramatic, and I can see in their posture and hear in their voices the bone-weary fatigue that dogs them.

“Let’s take a mental health break, OK?” I suggest. I see relief wash over them as I dig through a cabinet for some old Scripture verse coloring pages. Then, I turn down the lights and put on quiet music. My room, full of normally rambunctious teenagers, sits in total silence for the next 30 minutes, coloring peacefully without a single peep and without anyone reaching for an iPad or cell phone.

I’ve been teaching long enough to know when students are pulling my leg or being dramatic, and I can see in their posture and hear in their voices the bone-weary fatigue that dogs them.

2:20 P.M.

The bell rings and students trickle out with quiet “thank yous” as they pass me at the door. No sooner has my classroom emptied than another familiar face comes sprinting down the hallway. I smile at Amber, another former student.

“Did my recommendation letter go through?” I ask. I had spent the previous weekend writing exactly why Villanova University would be lucky to have Amber in its freshman class next fall.

“Yeah! Thank you so much! Here!” She practically shoves an envelope at me and then is off sprinting back the way she came before I can get another word in.

I open the envelope, revealing a small handwritten note:

“Thank you for always being there for me...” it begins. And then, at the very bottom, there’s a postscript squeezed into the margins: “You’re going to make a really great mom someday.”

I fight back tears as I close the door to my classroom behind me, immeasurably grateful for all the silly, angsty, joyful, and challenging young people that God has entrusted to my care for a short while.

I fight back tears as I close the door to my classroom behind me, immeasurably grateful for all the silly, angsty, joyful, and challenging young people that God has entrusted to my care for a short while.

Author’s Note: Names have been changed.

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“Wherever the work of education is called for, we can note that women are ever ready and willing to give themselves generously to others, especially in serving the weakest and most defenceless. In this work they exhibit a kind of affective, cultural and spiritual motherhood which has inestimable value for the development of individuals and the future of society.”

– Pope St. John Paul II, “Letter to Women”

6:52 A.M.

I round the corner of the hallway on the way to my classroom, bleary-eyed and fumbling for the key.

“Boo!” A voice echoes in the otherwise empty building and I jump, despite the fact that I had been expecting it.

“Good morning, Joe,” I chirp with as much cheer as I can muster at such an early hour when one of my sophomore boys appears from a shadowed doorway. Balancing my bag and a stack of papers on one arm, I unlock the classroom door and usher him inside before turning on the lights and depositing the papers and bag unceremoniously on my desk.

This has been our morning routine for months; a daily jump-scare most mornings and then a quiet hour spent in my mostly empty classroom. Sometimes, Joe finds a desk in the far corner and plays on his iPad while I update the agenda on my whiteboard or tidy up my room. Other times, he wanders over to my desk as I sit drinking scalding-hot tea.

“How are you doing?” I ask as he shuffles his feet in a noncommittal fashion.

A long pause. “Good.” Another long pause. “There’s a formal coming up.”

I smile softly. “Ah, do you think you’ll go?” He nods, and I press on, suspecting I’m on the right track: “Do you have anyone in mind you want to ask?”

He shuffles his feet some more and practically whispers the young lady’s name. I light up in encouragement.

“Oh, I bet she’d be delighted. How are you going to ask her?” Elaborate “asks” are big around these parts, and I know the young lady in question would be over the moon to receive one.

Joe shrugs. Fidgets with his phone. Pauses. “I dunno. I just thought I’d, like … ask her at lunch or something.”

I nod and tilt my head thoughtfully, glancing over at the prayer table in the corner. “Hmm ... you know what, Joe? What if you grab those flowers over by Mama Mary and ask her out with those?”

I point to the tissue paper bouquet in front of the Virgin Mary painting. Joe smiles nervously and scratches the back of his head, “Are you sure Mama Mary won’t mind?”

I laugh and nod enthusiastically. I’m sure, Joe. She’s your mama, after all. She’d want to see them put to good use.”

Then, he’s off to the races, snatching up the flowers and half-jogging out of the classroom to the library, where his soon-to-be date usually spends the morning before first period.

7:15 A.M.

I make use of a few precious moments of quiet to send some emails before a gaggle of voices and laughter comes streaming through my classroom door.

“Gooooooooood mooooorning, Mrs. Lenz!”

The greeting makes it through the door before its bearer does, but I recognize the voice and echo back, “Gooooood moooorning!”

Five or six (it’s hard to keep count) teenagers drop heavy backpacks on the ground and plop themselves into chairs and on the tops of desks. One of them, another sophomore boy, sprawls dramatically on the carpet in front of my desk, lamenting, “Mrs. Lenz, it’s a baaaad day.”

At the same time, Becky makes her way over to my desk and puts a flyer into my hand. “Can you come to my recital?” she asks expectantly, nodding to the date and time on the flyer.

And another voice, overlapping with Becky and the lamenting boy: “Can you settle a debate we’re having about souls? They said that the Church says that…”

I take a deep breath. “What’s going on, bud?” I ask the boy on the carpet as I place Becky’s flyer on my desk and then turn to her. “Oh, how exciting! Let me check my calendar — how are you feeling about the performance?” Then, finally, turning my attention to the last student, I smile sympathetically and gesture broadly, waiting for her to finish explaining what the latest theological debate is among her group of wonderfully nerdy Catholic friends.

The next 45 minutes pass in this ongoing juggle between three (sometimes four) different conversations before the five-minute bell chimes and the students disperse to their first class of the day.

The next 45 minutes pass in this ongoing juggle between three (sometimes four) different conversations before the five-minute bell chimes and the students disperse to their first class of the day.

8:30 A.M.

My students are busily completing an assignment — that is, all but one student who, I notice, is quietly doodling in his notebook and staring vacantly at the wall. I make my way over to him silently, not wanting to disturb the relative peace in my room full of teenagers.

“Hey Charlie, I noticed you aren’t working on the assignment. What’s going on?” I keep my tone bright and even, not wanting to put the student on the defensive.

Charlie looks up at me and then away before muttering, “I, um … I don’t have the book we were supposed to get.”

“Oh, I see.” I nod and try not to let disappointment color my voice. I assigned the students to purchase the required book weeks ago and gave frequent reminders. “Is there a reason you haven’t gotten it yet?”

He glances up at me sheepishly, briefly, and I get a pretty good idea of what’s going on. I nod again and then incline my head toward the door, communicating a silent invitation to step outside with me for a moment.

In the hallway, Charlie spills out a jumbled confession: “I’m sorry. It’s just that my parents are separated, and it’s my dad’s credit card on my iBooks account, but he won’t give my mom the password, even though he’s supposed to pay for my books and …”

I wave my hand gently, halting the flow of apologies and explanations. “That sounds really hard, Charlie.”

“I’ll try and get the book tonight, I promise!”

I wave my hand again and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it; you can borrow my copy until things get sorted out with your dad.” I see Charlie glance back towards the classroom door and see the worry flicker across his face, so I add, “What if I just leave the book on the corner of my desk every day, and you can just quietly grab it on the way to your seat? Then, no one would notice.”

He nods enthusiastically, “Yes, uh, thank you. Thanks so much.”

10:30 A.M.

In between classes, a former student pokes her head into my classroom.

“I’ve got your book,” she announces, waving said object above her head.

“Oh, what’d you think of it?” I ask as I take it from her hands and return it to the bookshelf. She’s been a sporadic visitor to my classroom since I taught her sophomore year — sometimes stopping in to discuss challenges with her non-Catholic parents, sometimes swinging by to borrow a theology book, and once even knocking to ask for some last-minute prep before her first confession. She leaves my classroom today with a book of Advent readings from G.K. Chesterton and a copy of The Screwtape Letters, calling a “Thank you!” over her shoulder as she heads off to English class.

12:15 P.M.

The bell rings, signaling the end of our class discussion on the problem of pain and suffering.  As students pack up their belongings, I make eye contact with Jessica in the front row. It only takes a moment for me to register the glassy look in her eyes; I raise my eyebrows to let her know that I see her in that moment and then briskly turn to my other students.

“I have a meeting today, guys, so I’ve got to kick you all out,” I announce without missing a beat. Normally, I’d have a few stragglers stay behind to eat their lunch in my classroom or to continue debating the chapter of Mere Christianity we just finished reading. Not today, though. I usher them all out — except for one — and then close the door behind them before turning back to Jessica, still in her seat.

I take one look at her, and she bursts into heavy sobs, shoulders heaving with each one. “Oh, Jess, what’s wrong?” I ask gently as I make my way over to her desk. I grab the box of tissues as I pass by it and whisper a silent prayer to the Holy Spirit before sitting down in the empty chair next to her.

Her answer comes between sobs and sniffles. “I don’t — I just, I can’t understand why … why would God let something … so, so bad … happen to a little, just a little kid.” I wait patiently for her to unpack what she means, offering sympathetic nods and the occasional prompting until the whole tale spills out: a little brother diagnosed with cancer. Ten years of watching that beloved brother struggle through remission and surgery. Anger at the thought of a supposedly loving God burdening a sweet little boy with such an unfair cross.

I don’t have answers for her, at least not satisfying ones, but I sit and cry with her and she tells the story. I share with her what I’ve come to know about God in my own suffering and pain. I look at her meaningfully as she wipes away a tear and tell her, slowly and deliberately, “Jess, the heart you have for your little brother is so beautiful that it makes me cry to hear you talk about your love for him. And even then, I know that God loves your brother even more than you do.”

She nods and sniffles. The tears are falling less rapidly now. I hand her another tissue and ask if she would like to walk with me to the chapel on campus. We spend the rest of the lunch period there, kneeling before the tabernacle.

I hand her another tissue and ask if she would like to walk with me to the chapel on campus. We spend the rest of the lunch period there, kneeling before the tabernacle.

1:45 P.M.

I stop midway through a sentence about the Incarnation, noticing the blank stares of my students and the oddly palpable tension in the air.

“Is…is everything alright, guys?” I ask, legitimate concern evident in my voice.  

There’s a brief pause before a student in the back chimes in, “We’re just tired, Mrs. Lenz.”

“Yeah, we’re stressed,” another student adds.

“I’ve got six tests this week.”

“I’ve got two essays and a lab.”

“And the SATs this weekend.”

“Oh no, that’s THIS weekend?!”

“You know how the end of the quarter is, Mrs. Lenz.”

I look out at them again. I’ve been teaching long enough to know when students are pulling my leg or being dramatic, and I can see in their posture and hear in their voices the bone-weary fatigue that dogs them.

“Let’s take a mental health break, OK?” I suggest. I see relief wash over them as I dig through a cabinet for some old Scripture verse coloring pages. Then, I turn down the lights and put on quiet music. My room, full of normally rambunctious teenagers, sits in total silence for the next 30 minutes, coloring peacefully without a single peep and without anyone reaching for an iPad or cell phone.

I’ve been teaching long enough to know when students are pulling my leg or being dramatic, and I can see in their posture and hear in their voices the bone-weary fatigue that dogs them.

2:20 P.M.

The bell rings and students trickle out with quiet “thank yous” as they pass me at the door. No sooner has my classroom emptied than another familiar face comes sprinting down the hallway. I smile at Amber, another former student.

“Did my recommendation letter go through?” I ask. I had spent the previous weekend writing exactly why Villanova University would be lucky to have Amber in its freshman class next fall.

“Yeah! Thank you so much! Here!” She practically shoves an envelope at me and then is off sprinting back the way she came before I can get another word in.

I open the envelope, revealing a small handwritten note:

“Thank you for always being there for me...” it begins. And then, at the very bottom, there’s a postscript squeezed into the margins: “You’re going to make a really great mom someday.”

I fight back tears as I close the door to my classroom behind me, immeasurably grateful for all the silly, angsty, joyful, and challenging young people that God has entrusted to my care for a short while.

I fight back tears as I close the door to my classroom behind me, immeasurably grateful for all the silly, angsty, joyful, and challenging young people that God has entrusted to my care for a short while.

Author’s Note: Names have been changed.

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Ashley Lenz

Ashley Lenz holds a BA in English and Theology and a Master’s in Education from the University of Notre Dame. As a former teenage convert to the faith, she finds particular joy working with today’s teenagers and pointing them towards Christ. She credits Tolkien and Lewis for first bringing her to the faith and is gratefully indebted to the communities of women who have continued to nourish her love of God over cups of tea and late-night chats.

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