From Poets & Presidents to Saints & Angels

When I look back on what formed me — not just as an educator, but as a person — I sometimes trace the path through the names of the places that shaped my journey.

As a child of the late ’60s and early ’70s, I grew up watching shows like Room 222 and Welcome Back, Kotter. Those shows unfolded in schools named after poets and presidents — Walt Whitman High and James Buchanan High — and though they were fictional, they left a real mark on me. They taught me that education wasn’t just about curriculum; it was about compassion, courage, and connection.

Whitman, the poet of democracy and the everyday, taught me that every human being holds beauty and potential. Buchanan, though an unlikely hero, reminded me that even unremarkable places and people can become sites of transformation. Those television schools modeled empathy and understanding in the most ordinary settings — and somehow, they stirred something sacred in me before I even had language for it.

Years later, my ministry led me to serve in schools with names of a very different sort — St. Joseph, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Stephen Protomartyr, St. Michael the Archangel, St. Pius V, and Holy Innocents. The names alone tell a story:

• Joseph, the steady worker and protector.
• Francis, the joyful reformer who built peace through humility.
• Stephen, the witness who spoke truth with courage.
• Michael, the defender who leads with strength and faith.
• Pius V, the steadfast shepherd who upheld truth and tradition with clarity and conviction.
• Holy Innocents, the silent witnesses whose purity reminds us of the sacredness of every child’s life.

Looking back, I see the quiet poetry of that transition — from the secular classrooms of my imagination to the sacred halls of my vocation, from poets and presidents to saints and angels.

The shows of my youth taught me empathy, inclusion, and humor — the very qualities I would later find at the heart of Catholic education. They showed me that leadership isn’t about status or control; it’s about service and presence. In the classrooms of Whitman and Buchanan, I learned how to see the best in others. In the classrooms of Joseph, Francis, Stephen, Michael, Pius V, and Holy Innocents, I’ve learned how to call that goodness forth — in faith and in love.

Perhaps that’s the quiet miracle of formation: we never really know when or where it begins. Sometimes grace first finds us through the glow of a television set, whispering that compassion, justice, and joy can change the world.

And if we listen closely enough, we eventually discover what God was showing us all along — that every classroom, whether named for a poet, a president, or a saint, is holy ground when it’s filled with love.

A Song for the Saints

As I finished writing these reflections, Kenny Chesney’s “Song for the Saints” came through my speakers — and it felt like a gentle wink from heaven.

His lyrics tell of those who stay behind to rebuild, who find grace in the rubble, and who keep loving when the world feels uncertain. It struck me that that’s what educators — and saints — do every single day. We show up. We stay steady. We continue to believe in the goodness around us.

Maybe that’s the real music of vocation: the quiet rhythm of faithfulness, the chorus of compassion that keeps us going.

Whether in the classrooms of Whitman or the halls of St. Stephen Protomartyr, we’re all still singing that same song, a song for the saints among us.