Childhood Dreamin'.... After all. I'm only 23.

Novelist. Journalist. Middle school teacher. Farmer. Lawyer. Oncologist.  Medical researcher. Chef.  Business owner. Street performer. Writer. Psychologist. Social worker. Public relations specialist.  Non-profit worker. Librarian. Actress. Orphanage manager. Mother. International missionary. Professor.

What do all of these things?  This random list of things, professions, occupations?  They are all things that at some point in my life, I considered pursuing.  Or at least all things that at some point my life I wanted to be.  How did I end up where I am?  How did I pick teacher?  Well it wasn't for the glamor.  And certainly not for the money. The decision making process was not instantaneous, it involved a lot of questioning, thought, discernment and prayer.  As I thought about it more, it wasn't that I couldn't see myself as a novelist or a business owner or a missionary. (Though I definitely could not see myself as a medical researcher or oncologist). It wasn't that the thought of working for a non-profit suddenly bored me.  It was that as I looked into the future I couldn't imagine myself not teaching.

There are certainly days when I wonder why.  Wonder how I ended up here.  Teaching Religion in a Catholic school in South Dakota.  I wonder how I, who wanted to teach MS or HS English, began teaching Church History.  A subject in which I have limited knowledge and even less interest.  There are also times I wonder what on God's green earth I would be doing, were I not here.  Were I not, of all places and things, teaching Church History in a small Catholic school in South Dakota.

Would I spend my days substitute teaching?  Waiting tables like many a young English major?  Would I be in Palmer?  Worcester? Boston?  Mexico?  I don't know.  None of us know.  Robert Frost reminds us that, taking the road less traveled by can make all the difference in life.  But if I had chosen a more traveled on road, things would still be different.  Either way I would be forging my path for the first time.  Either way I would have good days and bad.  Either way I would be missing my friends and my old life, in a way I didn't know possible.  Either way there would be questions.

And yes, there are questions.  There are doubts.  There are days when teaching is the last thing I want to do.  But there are also days when I laugh and smile.  Days when I love when I am doing.  Most importantly, there are lots of days.  Many more days.  And even if I decide come next May and graduation that I never want to teach again, there are many more days and many more options.  I can still become a novelist, a journalist, a writer, a lawyer, a chef, a farmer, a mother, an actress or a librarian.  After all.  I'm only 23.

"Did you use everything I gave you?"

       During Holy Week two of my students traveled to Honduras with Gehlen Mission Honduras. Today they had the opportunity to share their experience with our school system.  We had the opportunity to hear their stories, see their pictures, and watch a video Gehlen created of the trip.

        Though I have been on service trips myself, seeing the trip through their eyes provided another experience.  First, I am amazed that a small Catholic school system in Iowa maintains a fully operational, year-round mission program thousands of miles from their own town.  Their school is able to provide the financial and spiritual support necessary to run such a mission by volunteering their own "time, talent and treasure."

        Sitting next to Liam and Katy (the two students who had taken the trip) as the movie played, I could see tears in Katy's eyes as she relived the memories, and hear Liam patiently explain the pictures to his younger siblings. They answered their classmates questions, talked of lessons learned, and affirmed their own desires to return.  As the movie played, one quote stood out to me.

 "Did you use everything I gave you?"

   I was forced to ask myself, do I?  Do I use everything God gave me?  Do I truly use all my resources wisely - my time, my talents, my gifts, my treasure?  I know how I want to answer God at the end of my life, and I know I am a long way from reaching that goal... I know that there are days when I waste the valuable time I have been given.  Days when I rest in fear and anxiety instead of using my talents to serve others.  Days when I make excuses instead of use my gifts.

Sitting on my bureau is a glass of water.  It is room temperature.  It has sat there since I poured it last night, when I wanted some water before going to sleep.  It doesn't matter we think, water runs freely from our taps.  It is in this simple act, the fact that after finishing this entry that I will get up, dump out the water and refill my cup, that I am already failing to use what I am given.  80% of the world's health problems stem from poor water.  Poor water quality is the reason I met a child in Mexico whose mother thought he might die - he had diarrhea.  Poor water quality is the reason my students took month's worth of anti-malarial medicine before venturing to Honduras.

At the end of our lives, how will we answer.  What will we say when God asks, did you use everything I gave you?

Alleluias and Inspiration - Or A Weird Sermon at Mt. Rushmore

Easter 2010. My second holiday away from Home. It's safe to say I celebrated Easter a bit differently this year. There was no Easter egg hunt. I went to Easter Vigil at the Cathedral instead of morning Mass at Holy Cross or St. Thomas. There were 6 people at Easter dinner and I tied for second youngest. And, I started off the day at Mt. Rushmore with a Sunrise Service. Why did I decide to wake up early and leave my house at 6am for a service that it turned out could be described as "interesting" at best, and "offensive" at worse? The real question is, why not? As I said, the service was a bit bizarre. The 116 member drum corps was awesome, but their music was more downtown street performance or football halftime show than Easter inspiration. The sermon was given by a man in jeans and a cowboy hat. The topic? The magic of the Resurrection. He began by talking of how some of the magic has been lost in a culture which values the material, and on this we agree. I was lost however as soon as Islam was mentioned as one of the evils of postmodernism. You mean you haven't heard? News just in, we've all been deceived, Islam is not a 1400 year old religion, in fact it has only existed post-1980.... yeah, right.


What is my point with all of this? My point is why not? As much as I disagreed with (parts) of the sermon being delivered it led me to think, why not try something new? While at Mt. Rushmore I spied the adorable patchwork bag a woman two rows in front of me carried and thought, "I wish I could make something like that." But, having slightly tuned out the sermon, I thought some more and realized, I can. Not to say I could sit down this afternoon and whip up a purse before dinner, but what is stopping me from learning? And so I begin the fruit of this question. A quest to establish goals and work to reach them. A list just over 100 things long, things to do, accomplish, learn. Not to do before I die, or accomplish before I turn 30. Simply a list of things to do in the next year. Things to accomplish before May 31, 2011.


And what can you do? Peruse the list. (Click on this link, or where it says "101 Things" at the top of the page below the quote). Make your own. Choose one of my goals and decide you too want to accomplish it. Check up on me, hold me accountable. Most importantly step back and ask yourself the same question which led me here - What is stopping you?

Last Week.... In the City of Angels

Last weekend I had the opportunity to attend the Los Angeles Religious Education Congress, hosted by the Archdiocese of L.A. in sunny Anaheim California. Yes, the congress was at Disneyland. The happiest place on earth. If I'd known that my trip may have suddenly needed to be an extra day longer. Instead I walked a mile and a half during the lunch break one day and ate my meal in the air conditioned confines of the Grand Californian hotel. I needed some magic, didn't I? A little Mickey never hurt anyone, but I think my stay would have been magical even without the mouse. I had the opportunity to visit with West Coast relatives who I don't see often. Eat some delicious comida mexicana of the variety which simply does not exist in li'l old RCSD, and - very importantly - get my picture taken with the Easter Bunny..... and a 14 month old cousin.


The congress itself was magical as well. Over the course of the weekend I got to see and hear many great speakers such as Fr. Greg Boyle, Dr. Thomas Groome, and Mitch Albom. Also at the conference were individuals such as Sr. Helen Prejean and Fr. Jim Martin. Now I know that these names might be unfamiliar to those outside the Catholic education world, or who weren't schooled by the Jesuits. But I promise you every one of them is googleable. They are also memorable, inspirational, educational... and many more adjectives. Ultimately, the Congress was a great opportunity to learn, and to get rejuvenated. The PLACErs of LMU were excellent hosts. And staying with fellow UCCE teachers, was a great opportunity for fellowship with other young adults experiencing the same challenges of first (and second) year teaching as I am. I <3 LA

Ms. Brunault, are you writing a book?

Last week. In the middle of reviewing research requirements with the sophomores of period 5A religion, a student raised her hand and innocently asked, "Ms. Brunault are you writing a book?" Immediately my answer was no. No I am not writing a book. "But Ms. W said you were," the reply came, instantly rumored by voices throughout the room. Am I? I was forced to ask myself? Am I writing a book? The simple answer is no. No I am not a novelist. No I am not in the midst of some massive writing project with the goal of publication. But the bigger question remains, am I a writer? I still bounce between yes and no. Part of me, the part that would like to be a writer, says yes. Another part of me, the part of me that knows writing takes more time, talent and effort than I have, says no. No you are not a writer. What is a writer we ask? Is a writer simply someone who writes? A kindergartener learning to print her name, and string simple sight words into sentences. Or is a writer the Jodi Piccoults, Ann Rinaldis and William Shakespeares of the world? Our answer I believe lies somewhere in the middle, and it is thanks to a fellow blogger (if I can really use the term to describe myself) that I have reached this conclusion. "Someone I know is a blogger." I told a few friends and family members, "But she is not a blogger like me," I continued. "She is a real blogger. She doesn't just write about what she does. She really writes. She is prophetic." It is in this reading of words from someone I actually know that I realize we all have the potential to be writers. We write stories of our own lives. We have been given the paper and the ink, but it is our responsibility, our opportunity, to write a story everyday. Each day I visit As Simple As That I am given the chance to read someone elses story, and to be inspired to write my own. It is in reading Hannah's words that I am reminded that real people can be writers.... I am reminded that next time maybe I should answer my students a little differently when they ask, "Ms.Brunault are you writing a book?"

Yes. I am writing a book. Everyday is a new chapter. Every word I write is a lesson learned. I have a good teacher.

A New Englander in the Midwest

Growing up and throughout college, I had friends who were 100% of a particular ethnicity, or had their ethnic background neatly divided into two categories. People who spoke Spanish at home, visited relatives in Portugal, took pride in Notre Dame football because they too were "fighting Irish," enjoyed pierogi at Polish picnics, or ate a traditional fish dinner on Christmas Eve. This neat background, and grounding in a particular heritage were not true for myself however. My best attempt at an accurate count, shows at least 6-7 cultural backgrounds in my blood, though I suspect the number may be higher. I am not 100% anything. My parents are not 100% anything. Neither are my grandparents. At times I considered this the best of both worlds. I could join the DAR if I really felt the desire, can eat Linzer tarts at holidays, oplatek on Christmas Eve. I can enjoy Yorkshire Pudding, or homemade pitscelles, or lasagna. (Yes, I know - all memories seem related to food.) At other times I was jealous, felt that I was missing out on some mystical family bond which develops over shared culture and ethnic foods. It seems silly in some ways, to think that a close-knit and loving family could be enhanced over something so trivial. I know what I am. What we are. I am French like my name. Italian like my love for pasta. I am Polish, English, and German. I am things I don't even know about. I am American. I am a New Englander. A New Englander in the Midwest. I knew that our country was different. That throughout this great nation there was variety. From Redwood forests to the New York Island. From the mountains, to the prairies, to the oceans white with foam. For the past few months, these differences have smacked me straight in the face on a daily basis. I cannot even perform a simple activity such as pumping gas, without being reminded - "Lauren you are in South Dakota." Pulling off Hwy. 16 or a similar road outside of town into a gas station, means feeling the crunch beneath your tires as asphalt becomes gravel. There is no requirement to pay before you pump, and in fact, many gas stations do not have a pre-pay option. My initial avoidance of pumping gas on the bitter cold -10 days was somewhat alleviated when I remembered that outside Massachusetts gas clips are allowed, and I could wait in the comfort of my car while filling up. I am not in Italy or Africa or Mexico, and yet simple everyday tasks, also remind me that I am no longer in Massachusetts, no longer in New England. They remind me that even when I can not connect to any particular ethnicity, I am a New Englander. The title of this blog was started as a bit of a joke. Rapid City is not even on the prairies (it's part of the Black Hills, and the largest mountain between the Rockies and the Alps is visible from town.) The culture of the area however is far more different than I expected. Shockingly different. Soccer is not a sponsored interscholastic sport. Football is intense. High school games can lead to the type of heckling I'd previously seen amongst Sox-Yankees fans. The western, prairie lifestyle I'd imagined from Laura Ingalls Wilder books still exists. I have students who live "in town," during the week to attend school, and go home on the weekends. School districts have separate categories for "rural schools," many of which service K-8 with only one teacher. In Massachusetts there is no such thing as living "out of town," we consider Palmer and it's population of 12,000+ to be a "small town," and deem anyplace more than 45 minutes from the nearest mall "rural." Moving here has made me realize, that being a New Englander really can be an identity. I am a Sox loving, Yankees hating, Dunks drinking, Friendly's eating New Englander. I love seafood. I don't consider the Atlantic too cold or too rocky. I know the difference between whole belly clams and strips, between New England Chowder and Rhode Island. I love summer days at the beach and the smell of fall air. I like visiting small cities, college towns, and used bookstores. I ski on hills. I love local, homemade, hard-serve ice cream. I can navigate highway traffic and left hand exits just as well as rural roads and snowstorms.

I am a New Englander. A New Englander in the Midwest.

Finding God in Nothing:

“find God in all things.”

While I find all of the charisms both interesting and beautiful, and the general theology of the Jesuits to be sound, it is this principle of “find God in all things” that I am most attracted to. This principle could easily serve as a five word summary of my own understanding of God and faith. I see God in my family and in my friends. I see God in smiling faces. In crying eyes. I see God in children, and hear him in laughter. I see God at the top of the chairlift at Butternut, or at the end of the jetty at Dune’s Beach. I see God in my students and in my roommates. I see God in strangers.

I can – at least most of the time – see God in all things. There is one place however, where I have trouble seeing God. I am able to see God in something, but I can’t seem to find God in the nothing. Most often I see God in people or in nature, but finding God in the spaces between is my challenge. I can hear Him in the birds chirping, or the children laughing, even the people fighting. I have trouble however, hearing him in the silence. I can see Him in the shiny new snow, or the bright fall leaves, or the faces of my students as they return to their pews after communion. I have trouble however, seeing Him in the stillness, in the emptiness.

My goal now? My goal as we enter a new month, a new season of Lent, a new semester? My goal is to see God in both the something and the nothing, to hear Him in both the noise and the silence. To find Him both somewhere and nowhere.