Sheena

Well, it all depends on the day. We brainstormed in a recent training what it means to be a youth-care worker, and this is what we came up with:  We are peacemakers and homework enforcers. We are how-was-your-day-ers. We are listeners and mentors, tutors, fight-breaker-uppers, chefs, chauffeurs, and report-card-rewarders. We are parent contactors, hall monitors, hand-shakers, congratulators, band-aid tapers, and pumpkin carving supervisors. We are detectives and disciplinarians, affirmers, cheerleaders, and please-go-to-your-roomers.  We are confidants and coaches. We are Blockbuster frequenters, computer regulators, dirty laundry sniffers, cold medicine distributors.  We are joke tellers and joke stoppers.  And we are the sit-back-and-be-amuseders, audiences for everything under the sun: for kids being kids, for spontaneous opera singing (true story) and hip hop dancing (in the living room), for keyboard playing and poem reciting.  

These guys keep us on our toes.  They make me proud. They make me laugh. They make me frustrated.  They knock me off my pedestal and humble me.  They insult me. They test the relationship we've built to see if it will break. They challenge me. They make me want to scream. They surprise me in great ways. They give me a hard time. They ignore me. They cuss me out. They apologize in hidden ways when I expect it the least. They cry to me. They make me cry. They challenge me. They show me up in basketball. They offer me spaghetti and hot dogs (in the same dish) and teach me how to fry chicken.  They offer me their Vicks vapor sticks (no, I do not want what's been up your nose!)

They test me again and again and again. They act tough all day and then ask for fingers to be wrapped in band-aids when no one else is watching. They challenge me. They teach me. They show me Christ and give flesh to the responsorial psalm "these are the people that long to see your face". They ask questions that are deep and honest and real. They heckle me in the van. They refuse to sit down and give up. They assert their independence. They ask for advice about girls.  They claim their right to just be kids. They show me hope, and strength, and courage... and on and on. 

When it comes down to it, my job is to spend 40 hours each week building real and authentic relationships with these young men, to watch them grow and to grow so much in the process.  How many people get to be so lucky?

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