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As I welcomed a new class of 6th grade students into Life Science this year, we began by delving into the nature of biology with two foundational questions. The first: “What does it mean for something to be alive?”

Over the past few years at TSCS, I have seen many parents take up disciplines that most adults seem to abandon. I’ve seen parents relearning Trigonometry and learning to read Greek and Latin. Last year, I spotted a parent of one of my students walking around with a volume of James Joyce—and then another with Dostoevsky.

I always find this remarkable. But when I stop to consider, it makes perfect sense.

Several years back, at a Young Adult Ministry Retreat, my husband read to the attendees “The Parable of the Life-Saving Station.” Though the author is unknown, the lesson may be familiar to some. In The Parable, the writer recounts the story of a lighthouse, which, due to the expertise of the keepers on that dangerous coastline, became famous. Being associated with the structure and its workers was soon a coveted position, so folks did just that.

One of the hardest things for a performer to learn is how to function within one’s own imagination while simultaneously functioning within the imagination of another—while also maintaining a grasp on present, physical reality.

This balance of dwelling in duality is not only necessary for storytelling and the stage—it is also integral in the development of the spiritual life.

Merry’s newfound ability to see and honor “the heights” while also recognizing his place in the Shire is an expression of the kind of humility I hope my students will one day imitate. 

Immersed in images of Field Days, I began to notice patterns. Photos speak for themselves, we know this. It’s why we love sharing them: so that you can visually see and remember what the students experience.

My first year teaching was 1998, at Dunn Elementary in Aldine ISD. Due to overcrowding at the school, I taught third grade students in a temporary building that had no windows. When I married and moved to Kansas, I taught middle school math in the basement of a Catholic school. It was a beautiful experience working with faithful teachers and students, but no windows. I also had a gig at the same school, where I taught a small geometry class in a closet/office, and, you guessed it, no windows.

Our school, grounded in Orthodox Christianity, is enriched by teachers who come from various Christian backgrounds. Together, we embrace the task of promoting Orthodox teaching while respecting the diverse religious convictions that shape our community. This tapestry of faith and practice has shaped our triumphs, challenges, and continuous growth. 

Last fall I started grad school so that I could write about the Donner Party and have academics take me seriously.

That’s a joke—mostly.

Actually, I started grad school last fall because I realized that, over the past seven or eight years, I had developed both a passion for American history and plans for two books and (with a B.A. in Creative Writing) I simply lacked the training in historical research and methodology to write them well. Plus, you know the saying: When the going gets busy, the busy go to grad school.* What’s one more thing on the proverbial plate, right?

Well, a lot, it turns out.