th grade religious education classroom, the discussion was getting heated.

The topic of the lesson that day was the Sacraments of Service: Holy Orders and Matrimony. The class was fairly evenly split between boys and girls, and as we read through the chapter, it became very clear that my girls were less than thrilled that women can’t be priests.

“God made everyone equal,” argued one of them, the ringleader for the others, who nodded. One of my most inquisitive students, she was involved in 4-H and rarely seen without her best friend. The two of them talked incessantly about softball. “It just isn’t fair.”

“Well, that’s how God meant it!” explained one of the boys.

The utter indignation in her face sparked something inside me. As I watched her face fall and her glance lower to her notebook, I decided I could not stand in front of another class of impressionable young students and tell them this was right.

The damage was already done with this class, even though I attempted to soften my student’s response with support from Scripture. I saw my girls’ frustration and took it to heart because I knew they were very well in for a lifetime of feeling marginalized. I wished I had had their spirit and eagerness at their age, and more importantly, I hoped they would never let it be squelched.

When I took the volunteering position, I thought it would be easy. All I had to do was teach them what we, Catholics, believe. That was before I realized that these students were just at the age when they began to seriously question what they believe. Why was this rule in place? Who decided that this was the way things should be done and why?

Back at home on July 15, I got an email telling me that my beautiful, bold softball star had died of a sudden illness. I was devastated. My mother cried with me, and told me that she will get to find out the answers to her questions.

Meanwhile, I was left with my own: "What if this happens when I start teaching?'" "Oh, her poor friends and classmates, what are they going to do?" and "Why?' Just why?" As she had taught me, her death taught me something as well. It taught me that students can and do die. I had known that, of course, but it is a much different thing for it to actually happen. It never gets less cliché or more true: the death of a young person defies nature. More to the point, it taught me that the biggest moments of growth, discovery and connection of a person's whole life could be playing out right in your classroom.

Once you realize that, it changes the way you interact with young adolescents. It makes you consider your students anew as individuals, each with his or her own experiences, ideas and thoughts to bring to the classroom. Theodore Roosevelt once said, "Students don't care how much you know until they know you care." I am a pre-service teacher, which means I am completing my internship at an elementary school under the guidance of a mentor teacher as I prepare to graduate and have my own classroom. Alongside classroom management skills and best instructional practices, I am learning that simple things like greeting students by name each morning, asking about their day and their family and attending games and concerts go a very long way in how they respond and the effort they put forth. Teaching is frustrating work at times, but deeply rewarding because I get to be someone who cares. As long as I am their teacher, I will know that they know they have at least one person who definitely cares about them. That assurance becomes most precious in the face of tragedies like this.