Those words cost us something. They cost planning. They
cost resources. They cost energy. But they didn’t cost us our mission.
And here’s the irony: this conversation came on the
heels of another one where I had to tell a “potential family” that we didn’t
believe our school was the right fit for their children. Same day. Same office.
Same principal. Two completely different outcomes.
If you’ve ever wondered whether there’s an internal
battle between a principal’s head and heart, let me assure you—it’s not
theoretical. It’s daily. And sometimes it’s exhausting.
Like most of my blogs, there’s a back story. Inclusion
isn’t just a buzzword to me. It’s personal. My grandson Cole is on the
spectrum. My great-nephew Lucas has Down syndrome and is out there living life
with joy that could evangelize a stadium. These aren’t case studies. They’re my
people.
Recently, I saw a reel about the Rockwood School District featuring a former student of mine—an absolute rock star of a teacher—and her son, “Super Cooper,” who helps the assistant principal with bus duty every afternoon. I don’t know who needed that video more—me or the
algorithm—but I felt it in my chest.
Because here’s the truth: when the conversation turns
to special needs, I clock back in.
I try to clock out. I really do. My official
school hours run roughly 7 a.m. to bedtime. Weekends are for parish events…
unless we’re out of town… unless something comes up… which it always does. I
tell myself I’m “off duty,” but if someone brings up inclusion at a funeral
reception? Game on.
That happened last week. Between condolences and
catching up with old grade school and prep school buddies, the topic shifted to
special needs, someone’s deceased brother, a grandchild on the spectrum, and programs in parish schools. And I could feel the fire in one friend’s voice as
he talked about the miracles happening through inclusive efforts in Catholic
education.
That’s when I stop talking about academics and start talking about souls. Not methodologies. Not paperwork. Not funding formulas. Souls. This wasn’t about educational theory. It’s about whether we truly believe every child is made in the image and likeness of God—or whether that’s just something we print in the handbook.
I’ll be honest. There are still educators who quietly
(and sometimes not-so-quietly) wonder if students with significant IEPs and
extensive modifications are “fair” to the rest of the class.
When I hear that, my blood pressure does things that
would concern my physician. My response is usually simple: “Take your glasses
off and read the board from the back row.”
When you admit you can’t, I’ll hand them back to you. That’s not cheating. That’s not lowering the standard. That’s giving you the tools you need to see. If we’re willing to hand a child glasses, why wouldn’t we hand them the academic, social, or behavioral supports they need to flourish?
Inclusion doesn’t weaken a classroom. It humanizes it.
Children who grow up learning beside classmates with different abilities don’t
become resentful. They become compassionate. They learn patience. They learn
creativity. They learn that strength doesn’t always look like straight A’s and
varsity letters. They learn the Gospel without realizing it’s being taught.
Yes, programs like FIRE in Kansas City and One
Classroom in St. Louis have helped schools make this possible. Grants matter.
Training matters. Support matters. I’m grateful for the ways the Archdiocese
of Kansas City–St. Joseph and St. Louis are leaning into this mission.
But what moved me to tears today wasn’t a program. It
was a parent sitting across from us, bracing for bad news. It was the pause
before we spoke. It was the moment her shoulders dropped when she realized her
son wasn’t being shown the door. It was the sacred privilege of saying, “We see
him. We believe in him. He belongs here.”
I don’t cry because inclusion is easy. I cry because
it’s worth it. There will always be tension between prudence and compassion.
Between capacity and calling. Between what makes sense on paper and what feels
right in prayer.
But if we are going to call ourselves Catholic
educators—if we are going to talk about human dignity, community, and the
Body of Christ—then sometimes we have to live it in ways that stretch us. Sometimes
that means saying no. Sometimes that means saying yes. Sometimes that means a
middle-aged principal sitting in his office, dabbing his eyes, grateful that he
gave up his man card decades ago.
Because if loving and fighting for kids like Cole,
Lucas, Super Cooper, and the little boy in our office today costs me a few
tears? I’ll pay it every single time.
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