I am going to leave the names and locations out because they are unimportant. This happened to me about ten years ago when I was working as an English teacher at a private all-boys Catholic high school. It was my first job out of college and was still wet behind the ears, learning the ropes of the profession, learning how to be responsible and take charge of a group of rowdy teenagers—when I myself was in my teens not more than two years before.

I was chaperoning my group on an outreach at an orphanage for children with severe mental and physical impairments. Before we left campus, our chaplain gave a talk to my class of knuckleheads. He told them these children we were visiting have a special place in the Lord’s heart: because they were born without the same mental capacities as us, they did not possess the same ability to commit conscious sin. To wit, these children—if baptized—would go straight to Heaven upon death. And because all souls were equal regardless of the physical or mental state of the body they inhabited, they would recall with full clarity everything that occurred to them during their life. If my students demonstrated compassion towards them, it would be remembered well in Heaven.

At the orphanage, they all unhesitatingly jumped in, not wincing at even the most physically disabled of the residents. They read to them, they fed them, they fluffed pillows and folded blankets, they did all they could to be of service. Though commendable in itself, it did not seem thoroughly genuine. It was like they were doing it only because they were prompted.  Or, to show off.

Then I noticed one of my students had separated from the larger group. He was attending to one orphan in a cot in an isolated ward. I decided to eavesdrop. Perhaps I could finally have a story to share with our chaplain about how only this one student demonstrated true Christian compassion with humility. Sure enough, he was having a casual conversation with his new friend as he spoon-fed him.  I felt warmth in my heart: I knew then what it meant to be a proud teacher.

When he was done, he wiped the orphan’s mouth.  He gave him a loving pat on the head.  He  looked over his shoulder but did not see me.  He leaned in closer and whispered to the child: “Pssst.” He pointed to his own face. “Remember me after you’re dead, okay?”

If it would not have cost me my job, I would have slapped him in the back of his head. Knuckleheads….

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