The Village. They say it takes a village to raise a family. Even if you come from a good home with good parents. And for me it took a village: a church, a community, a group of educators, and a group of coaches that unknowingly bonded together to produce what I would become. I am confident there were days deep in the trenches of my youth, that each of my village people would ponder if their efforts would pay off, or if I would truly survive.

Early on in my youth, lets say between 5-7 years old, my grandmother, my Dad’s mom being the direct woman she was, she would take every opportunity to remind me the importance of God and the church. My grandmother, the most Godly person I knew talked to God daily. I watched her talk to God. I watched her shake her finger at God, which I thought was a sin. I mean can you really shake your finger at God? She did. Maybe she was shaking her finger at him because she was sad with how fragile life was. Maybe she shook her finger at God because she wanted Him to step in, much like we want Him to step in and make Himself known in a BIG way, our way. I guess its the one question I never asked my grandmother. “Why did you shake your finger at God?” What I learned was that my grandmother talked daily, multiple times a day with God. And so began my journey to find God. I found God in the church. I remember one day my Grandmother telling me that finding God and going to church were the utmost of importance. In those moments never would I have imagined what the church would become for me. The church became my family, and not just my spiritual family. The church became a village of mom’s, and dad’s. Where most kids growing up have a mom and a dad. I soon realized I had way too many mom’s and dad’s. Like in this small town, I felt trapped. I couldn’t go anywhere without one of those “parents” seeing me. I wasn’t an angel, but I wasn’t unlike any normal child. I just had an added flare to my style of life. Granted these additional parents didn’t live inside my home, so they didn’t have complete authority over me, but they definitely had a great pull on me. And I made my fair of mistakes, and they forgave me, but what I learned from this group of people was love and family. I got to experience life with them. I watched a husband love his wife, and a wife love her husband, and a dad, a mom love their children. I watched a mom, a dad discipline their children. I watched a mom, a dad, hug their kids, kiss them on their cheeks, and say the words “I love you” I watched them say prayers before dinner, serve a family meal, and play/interact with their kids. I watched, I observed, and I wished and prayed that I could feel that same love and sense of family. I think I felt  enough of their love and belonging to secure me to wake up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. This church family also brought me to Jesus. They gave me the greatest gift of all. This church family showed me Jesus, represented the hands and feet of Jesus, loved me like Jesus loved me, and guided me into the greatest relationship I would ever experience. My faith was started here inside the walls of this church at the age of 7 and grew. And I failed many times in my faith journey, I disappointed people with the choices I made, but each time I failed I picked myself back up from the ground to which I had fallen to look back into the word of God, where I found grace. I still fail in my faith. I still disappoint. I am human. Each time I fail and fall to the ground, I do what I did as a kid, scrap the dirt from my knees, pick myself back up and turn my eyes back to the One who can mold my broken spirit back together. This is part of the faith journey. I was told my faith isn’t something we put on and take off; our faith is something that grows inside of us. It gets watered, fed nutrients, and sometimes weeds get pulled, its a process. And its not always an enjoyable process, but it is what strengthens me. My faith that started at 7, and it is what has sustained me throughout my life.

A community:

The community in which I lived was small. I like to refer to it as Mayberry.  Maybe its not quite that extreme but its close. I can reflect back and be thankful that I was fortunate enough to grow up in this affluent town given the constant feeling of being the poorest kid in the neighborhood. My memories of this community are filled with more of me having to prove I was enough to be accepted. I didn’t quite fit into the mold of my affluent community. It doesn’t mean that I am unappreciative of it, I am greatly appreciative of it. I just never felt like I belonged in it. I was so different then my classmates, but within this community I found a smile, a friendly neighbor, a best friend from the 7th grade, a church, a coach, a youth group, and so much more. My feeling that I didn’t belonged here in this town, would eventually fade over time, a long time. My Mayberry town, represents where I came from, it contains the highs and lows of my youth, but it also represents the faces of a community that despite my feeling of disconnection, I am connected. This community, is a body of people that have continued to represent well and have become the village of faces to my kids.

A group of educators:

Like my affluent community, my school was affluent as well. And I can’t say enough about the educators that I was fortunate enough to pass in front of. They inspired me. I am sure some of them had to think I would not make it, but they never led on that they thought I might fail. Each of them provided encouragement, and a sincere devotion to making sure I had a chance at surviving.

In my lower elementary years, it started out a little rough for me. I may have made a few trips into the principal’s office, I may have smarted off to the one principal, once. Remember that earlier statement about how I was normal but had an added flare. Well, that added flare would get me into trouble occasionally. I had learned the art of lying. My home life was a bit unpredictable, so I learned to lie so in turn hoped that I could offset a home explosion. Sometimes it worked, others times it didn’t. My educators never knew the unpredictability of my home life, it was top secret. I am not sure what made me not tell, I just didn’t. I think sometimes, I was embarrassed by my home life. After all, I had witnessed such healthy homes, that I was afraid that if I told anyone that my home wasn’t like that, maybe the families that showed me love, would stop loving me. And I needed them to love me. I needed them to believe in me. By the time I got to the upper elementary I was doing well. I had no more trips to the principals office, so I figure thats a good sign. I, of course paved my way through Jr. High with a gamete of teachers, who despite me not being a straight A student embraced me, taught me, invested in me, and pushed me. High school approached, and that was to be a bumpy road for me. I was a teenager. It’s hard enough being a teenager, but I had some added distractions. Again, I met what I would consider some of the best educators ever.  Some of them pushed me, a couple of them I didn’t like, at first… usually because they got me and knew I needed to be pushed. It’s some of these same educators that if I see them on the street, I immediately want to thank them for their investment in my life.

Being an educator, is more than teaching math, science, or english. Being an educator is helping to shape the lives of the students that flood their door everyday. These educators are the eyes I looked into every school day, I under appreciated what they taught me. As I reflect back, on their faces I am reminded of the extra time they spent with me, the smiles they gave, and their encouragement.

A group of Coaches:

I had several different coaches throughout my athletic years. Most of which I have remained in contact with over the years. From my Jr. High Volleyball and Basketball coach. Coach Woods. She was more than a coach, and more than an educator, she was invested in the lives of her athletes. She deeply cared.  She didn’t get mad when I fouled out of basketball games. Basketball was definitely not like a soccer game. She was firm, had standards, enforced her standards, but also had compassion. And to this day when I play volleyball and I do something not technically correct I can hear her voice in my head. Or when I randomly run into her in the store, I want to pick her brain about the lessons she taught me, or what she thinks kids need to know these days. She is a part of why I coach kids the way I coach them. She didn’t look at me like I was the poorest kid in the neighborhood. She looked at me as a kid who needed a coach, a coach who cared about who I was not just as an athlete but as a person.

I had few different soccer coaches as well. One, in particular I met when I was in Jr. High, he took me to my first Notre Dame Women’s Soccer game. It is one of the most vivid memories I have, was watching that college game, dreaming that one day I could do just that. I often wondered what compelled him to take me, but his small invitation has multiplied because when I became a coach I started taking groups of players that I coached to Notre Dame games as well. I wanted their eyes to be opened like mine were all those years ago.

I had another soccer coach, well he never got the fascinating opportunity to actually coach me. I was his team manager as an 7th & 8th grader, while he was the Head coach of the Varsity team, but we connected. He called me “hacker” It was back when he was young and his reflexes were quicker and he would move the ball ever so quickly and I would hack at him. He wasn’t a warm fuzzy coach, but when I got to my adult years and needed to work with him, I realized he like the many other Dad’s I had, he was there to put an arm around me, lift my chin and remind me he was proud of who I had become. Back in 8th grade he and his wife supported me, gave me a safe place to rest, took me fishing, and invested in me for a short period of time. I am forever grateful for the time they took to share their lives with me.

My village people. There are so so many of them. The represent ordinary people doing the extraordinary to a girl who needed someone to care. They shaped me, molded me, yet allowed me to be me. They embraced my added flare, my extra thorns, and sass that accompanied me. They knew if they told me to jump right , I would jump left. My village of people, were also the people that could be found next to me when I had to pick myself up off the ground to which I had fallen, broken and bruised. They were the ones’ who hugged me, told me they were proud of me, and loved me. I am thankful for my village people- all of them. Each village person, who has crossed my path has impacted my life, some more than others, but each left an impression on me that planted a seed inside of me. I am forever indebted to my village.