Back to school jitters. It’s not just the students who have them or the parents dropping their children off at school for the first time. It’s the teachers, too. In the past few weeks, I’ve loved watching my social media newsfeed burst with photos of back to school.

It seems a difficult task sometimes to write this column. As I read – with horror, shock and disgust – of the crimes committed by the priests in six dioceses in Pennsylvania and the possible culpability of the bishops, part of my shrinking stomach was due to the fact that I couldn’t simply let this moment go by without comment. 

The “chubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff” is making its way back into the hearts of movie-watchers. Though, if you’re like me, Winnie the Pooh has never left. 

“From the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans, white with foam.” I’ve known the lyrics from a young age, having sung them in music classes. I’ve seen the pictures accompanying American history textbooks of golden lands, rolling hills, and majestic mountains. 

We live in a world of self-help manuals. The genre itself used to leave behind a bad taste – almost like a social stigma. No longer. Millennials have revamped and updated the genre, buying into a movement that focuses on living your best self. The genre now markets itself as self-improvement or personal development. A rebrand has occurred. Increasingly, I’ve noticed a shift in my students – they’re more conscious and focused on their own personal sense of well-being. Self-care – whether through exercise, volunteering, retreats, habit-building,  etc. – has become a trending concept. It’s no longer frowned upon to admit to staying in, lounging and binge-watching Netflix rather than going out – because you’re participating in “self-care.”

Scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, I came across a post from a high school classmate questioning maintaining friendships as an adult. Later that week, on Instagram, I noticed a post from “The Jesuit Post” on the same theme. Why are adult friendships so difficult? It’s a question that has plagued my marriage as well. Throughout the past six years of marriage, I’ve been in school – whether as a graduate student or as a faculty member.

June will always be a month filled with celebration in my family. Mine and my siblings’ birthdays, my mom’s birthday, my brother’s anniversary, my anniversary and Father’s Day are just a few of the celebratory moments. This year, everything seemed a bit more poignant. It was a turning point – turning 30, struggling and facing personal crises.

Last year we planted strawberries. They were off on their own, in a corner section of the garden reserved for edibles. We researched companion gardening: which plants thrive when grown together with others, and how to increase the yield of the plants. So, alongside the strawberries we planted borage. The strawberries would be sweeter. They would grow in harmonic abundance with their companion plant. Except they didn’t.

At my undergraduate graduation ceremony, the one thing I remember most was the heat. It was an outdoor ceremony, under the beautiful oaks at Spring Hill College. I also remember worrying that it was outdoors. As an allergy sufferer who spends much time indoors, away from the film of yellow coating everything in sight, willingly sitting in the midst of the trees was a big deal.

The end of each semester brings its own sense of relief – to both students and teachers. As discussions start lagging and increased silence becomes the response to questions, I can feel my patience wearing thin. This year was particularly difficult.

About a week ago, I noticed three bright blue eggs, somewhat hidden beneath our fire pit. Looking around, I saw a mama robin perched on the pitch of our garage, seeming to watch me intently. I backed away, curious at the location.

A year brings about many  changes. With the end of the school year approaching, I find myself grading a large stack of papers. As I read, I’ve been pleased by the number of check marks I write in the margins, or the comments focusing on strengthening analysis rather than “analyze, not summarize.” 

“Home is where the heart is.” It’s a cliché we’ve heard over and over as the distinction between a house and home. A house is a place of dwelling or the physical substance. But a home is something that’s intangible – it’s family and the feeling of belonging.

Lately, with all of the gray, cold and dreary weather, it’s seemed that when the sun makes an appearance, it’s best to take advantage of it. So, that’s what we did.  When my husband and I woke up to a beautifully clear sky and the staggering brightness of the sun, we decided to head to St. Louis’ Botanical Gardens.

Joyfully we continue our  Easter celebrations in the knowledge that Jesus has risen and that we have been redeemed. But, we ourselves have also undergone a transformation. In reaffirming our baptismal promises, we make a conscious choice to believe and practice our faith.

One of the most difficult things about teaching college composition is getting students to understand that there is an audience beyond me, the teacher. Part of this struggle lies in their unwillingness to see themselves as part of a larger public beyond my class, as holding authority.

I’m lucky to have many memories with my great-grandparents. They were the ones to pick us up from school, up until high school. They invented games for us to play, always had hidden surprises in the house and gave us a model for living a faithful life and trusting in God. My favorite image of my great-grandfather is his church attire: always in a suit, with a tie, his nice belt buckle and a fedora.

A few weeks ago, I sat in the pew listening to a pre-Lenten homily. My mind immediately asked the familiar question: What am I giving up this year? As I was mentally running through the list of my usual Lenten promises, the priest seemed to divine my thoughts. Why do we give up the same things each Lent? Usually, I refrain from eating in between meals: no snacks, just three meals per day. At first, it’s difficult. Like any dietary change, the first few weeks are constant reminders of what my body is going without.

I’m not a sports fan. I rarely watch the games on television. I openly admit to attending baseball games for the sport of “people watching.” When the Super Bowl comes around, I watch with a notebook for the commercials. Those advertisements are useful for teaching appeals to persuasion. And yet, every four years, you’ll find me returning home to sit in front of the screen and watch certain sports. The Olympic Games.

When I found out I had an actual office – and not a cubicle – the first thing I noticed was the door. I controlled who was able to enter the threshold. If I needed space, or just time and privacy to work alone, I could shut the world out.