All day yesterday, I was at a conference on using technology in education, and all day yesterday I was thinking about Sister de Lourdes. Sr. de Lourdes, who now goes by her given name of Sr. Rita Redmond, taught many of my friends from Paola, and she taught religion on Saturday afternoons to public-school rebels like me. I'm sure my thoughts strayed to her because I had just learned that she is very sick. But I also had her on my mind because just a year ago 30 or so of her former students surprised her with a reunion. It was what happened at that reunion that kept coming back to me as I sat hearing about how technology is the key to improving instruction.Too bad more of us don't have Sister de Lourdes's secret--the secret that so many of her students appreciated--even 50 years after sitting in her classroom. Caring. That's all that it was. She cared for her students, and they cared for her. And they credited her with their success, and thanked her for the caring that many of them, especially the boys, had not experienced before.
Because I hadn't been a full-time student of hers, I positioned myself at the edge of the group for much of the reunion, contented with taking pictures and enjoying the exchanges with this lady I know to be so shy, quiet, and fragile. What struck me and stays with me was the number of men--very successful men--who were there to thank her. In fact, the day had been organized by one of the class trouble-makers, who was also one of her greatest admirers. The keynote speaker was another man who would have turned his remarks into a marathon of praise if time had permitted. What had this woman done to make such an impression on 10-year-old boys that 50 years later they wanted to say thank you?
A woman who had returned to Paola for the first time in 40 years just for this occasion gave the answer. Sophie reminded us all of Sister's special gift when she said, "I came back because you were the only person who understood how out of place I felt as a child of first-generation Americans." And then she added, "You always called me 'Child of God,' especially when I did something wrong." That phrase meant so much to her that she raised her children with the same words.
Child of God. What a blessing and what a responsibility. Person after person at the reunion refined the story as they related the personal consequences of being labeled Child of God. She would use it as a reinforcement: "My dear child of God." Or it could be her best effort to control her temper: "Oh, you Child of God." Whatever the tone, they all had received the same message: They were valued. God was with them, and so was she. With that support, they had great potential--and she expected them to use it.
They did. We can only guess at how much her heavy doses of self-esteem affected our lives, but clearly something had happened. For a town as small as Paola, that room was filled with a disproportionate number of the best and the brightest--financial experts, attorneys, medical professions--and average folks like me, too, who have made their own little contributions. She was the teacher that so many of these people regarded as the one who made the difference for them, the one who had set them on the right path as a student, and as a person. In this time when students are filled with so much artificial self-esteem that ends up being equated with a false sense of entitlement, I find it valuable to think about her efforts that came from the heart.
And I hope it wasn't lost on any of us that, in addition to her caring, is a tremendous humility. She really didn't know what to do when we showed her how much we valued her. She just sat on a chair in the middle of the room, looked around at all of us with her shy but mischievous grin, and then said very quietly, "I'm going home to my room, now, and think of each of you."
We're thinking of you now, Sister.
