Michael Cornelius

Michael Cornelius paces furiously on stage in the old gym.  Bombastic and angry, he portrays the father of twelve children in GICC's fall production of Cheaper by the Dozen.

Senior Michael Cornelius

I watch him striding across the stage in his turn-of-the-century suit yelling irritably at his long suffering stage wife, the poised and lovely Mallory Woods. Michael has channeled the perplexed Frank B. Gilbreth to a tee, and he and Mallory charm the Central Catholic audience.

There is nobody quite like Michael Cornelius. He fills every activity with his unique brand of energy. In my American Lit class, he immerses himself in the novel A Prayer for Owen Meany and finishes Of Mice and Men before anybody else. During our class discussions, he is quiet and absorbed. After class, however, some part of the discussion triggers a memory about his grandparents, and he is eager to share the age old stories he finds so fascinating about these people he loves.

When Michael first arrives at Central Catholic in middle school, he neglects to tell any of his teachers that he is deaf in his left ear. It is up to his mother to inform us of her son's hearing loss. Michael stubbornly refuses to elaborate.

"I hate asking for special treatment," he says with quiet loathing. So he doesn't. Unobtrusively, he sits toward the front of the classroom to hear his teachers. Although he loves football, the helmet prevents him from hearing the plays. Silently, he lines up on the left side of the formation in order to listen with his good right ear.

"I don't let my hearing hold me back," he shrugs. At the very most, his deafness is a nuisance. It has not changed his life, he insists adamantly, in any way, shape or form.

But Michael is wrong. Whether he realizes it or not, the determination with which he stubbornly overcomes his hearing loss makes him different from other kids. Now in his last year of high school, he is the executive president of the Student Council, the highest honor our kids bestow upon one of their own. He snares the lead in the fall drama production, is a state qualifying speech team contender, wails on his trumpet in band, and writes for the school newspaper. He doesn't merely participate in these activities, however. He excels.

"You need to step it up!" he encourages kids during Christmas Cheer. As executive Student Council president, it is up to Michael to challenge our kids to raise thousands of dollars for local charities - Hope Harbor, Race for Grace, and other institutions. The donations are slow in coming, and Michael is frustrated.

"It's for charity!" he vents after school one day. "Why isn't anyone giving?"

They will, I assure him. But to Michael, meeting the donation goal is a reflection of himself. "It's like I judge my self worth as Stu-Co president by Christmas Cheer," he shakes his head. He's not doing a good job, he reasons, if he can't get our students and staff to dig into their pockets for those less fortunate.

To his relief, his persistent persuasive powers triumph at the end of the day, and Grand Island Central Catholic raises the money by the last day of Christmas vacation.

If graduating from Central Catholic has taught him anything, Michael says, it's that pitching in and serving the church and community is vitally important. And while he refuses to pat himself on the back for growing into the self-assured, hardworking and generous young man he is, he gives credit to Central Catholic for helping him to discover his leadership skills.

"I guess Student Council has really helped to give me courage," he says. "And competing in speech has made me brave, too." This spring, he qualifies for the state meet in two categories: humorous and serious. It never occurs to him that it's at all unusual for a boy who's deaf in one ear to compete at state speech. In fact, he makes light of any success he's enjoyed at Grand Island Central Catholic. But he does not take his faith lightly.

He's grateful for religion teachers Father Richard Piontkowski and Father Mike McDermott who have taught him so much about his Catholic faith. Fr. Scott Harter, the GICC chaplain, has given him a brand new pespective about being Catholic, and he will never forget Miss Mary Wiles.

"In middle school, we sat on the floor in her room and talked about our faith," he remembers with affection. It was a meaningful part of his younger years at Central Catholic. "My faith has grown so much stronger at this school," he says. "It's not that I ever doubted, but I question some things about my faith. I always want to be a stronger Catholic, and school has helped me."

Learning to trust God has been part and parcel of his Central Catholic experience. In spite of his hearing challenges, Michael believes in the bigger picture. His struggles have made him stronger, more generous and compassionate.

Last year in American Lit, I ask the kids to write an essay patterned after Patrick Henry's famous speech to the Virginia Convention. "Write about the very thing you believe most,"  I instruct them.

The juniors wax poetic about believing in family, patriotism, and the simple act of offering a helping hand. They read them aloud, and I am stirred by their passion. Then Michael reads.

"I believe in my Catholic faith," he says in his straight forward fashion. "I believe in Jesus Christ and his death and his resurrection. I believe that all things are possible with faith."

It is such a firm declaration, and it is everything we're trying to teach our kids at Grand Island Central Catholic. His classmates listen, quiet and reverent. They stare in awe at this boy, their classmate, who has risen above his own struggles without complaint and, in doing so, encourages them to do the same.

Without ever intending to, Michael Cornelius touches us all and is a shining example of how young people should live and pray and work.

And how one old teacher should, too. 

Father Scott Harter

Right away you notice the hair, barely restrained, that seems to possess a life of its own.

Father Scott Harter with GICC students Mallory Woods, Molly
Magana and Laura Lowry.

The long, lanky man beneath the shaggy mane smiles nicely. He is young, I think. Too young to wear a collar. Is it too much to ask that a priest be older than my own children? I am an old teacher and cannot be expected to confess my sins to this wild-haired boy.

Father Scott Harter, however, our new Central Catholic chaplain, weaves his way seamlessly into the school community and charms us all. He is young, to be sure, but he is exceptionally smart, funny and passionate. And he gives a dynamite homily. With the skill of a stand-up comedian, he reels us in with big laughs. In an instant, though, he is fascinating young and old alike with the compelling idea that God loves us, is proud of us, and has big plans for each of us.

Except nobody delivers that message quite the way Scott Harter does.

Senior Bryce Sealock loves Wednesday morning Masses at GICC. He is not Catholic, but he considers Wednesday morning his "church" time. Father Scott, he says, has helped to give him a new perspective, especially during this difficult year after the death of Bryce's father. "None of his homilies are ever about judging," Bryce says. "Father Scott just has this great, positive energy. He's pretty cool."

Father Scott shrugs off any praise. "What do I do? I say Mass," he says. "And I show up."

He does more than show up. He runs with the cross country athletes, practices with the boys' tennis team, applauds the kids in their One Act performance, and even sits with the kids to cheer at athletic events.

Clowning in college - fake
senior picture.

Last December, as part of a Christmas Cheer fundraiser, he surprises kids in their classrooms bellowing out Christmas carols as he accompanies himself on the banjo. One cold morning, he arrives with a burst of energy to my fourth period English class to serenade senior Jackson Anderson.

"I'm tired of singing carols," Father Scott apologizes to Jackson. And no wonder. Kids have paid good money to send him and his banjo all over the school. "Instead," he grins,  strumming a chord, "I'm singing 'The Ballad of William Bloat.' "  It turns out to be a vociferous Irish ballad about a man who attempts to murder his wife but ends up committing suicide. Very Christmasy. We dissolve into laughter. The kind of laughter that makes your sides hurt.

Father Scott Harter's joy, zest and passion for his faith is more than contagious. It's life changing. One teacher, a lapsed Catholic, confides to me that he has begun to attend church again with his family. Father Scott's homilies, he says, have profoundly stirred him.

Scott Harter, though, will be the first to tell you he didn't always have a remarkable faith. Back in Elm Creek, Nebraska, he grows up as the youngest of five children -the only boy and a long way behind his four sisters.

"I always wanted a little brother named Kevin," he jokes with a straight face. But he had a few friends in high school, he says, who filled the brotherless gap.

I imagine him in high school and can see him sitting in my own classroom. He has more than a few friends, of course. "Legions" is more like it. I know he is a kind, earnest, outrageously funny kid who grows quickly absorbed with a good story, a basketball, and the thrill of a twanging banjo.

Scott Harter considers himself a model Catholic in high school and all the way into college. He attends Mass every Sunday. But he never examines his faith very deeply, he admits, and he's not even remotely aware of the mystery of the Eucharist.

At UNL, he earns a major in fisheries and wildlife.

"I took a class on dirt called SOILS 153," he cracks. "But don't ever call it 'dirt'. That's offensive."

In his junior year, during a trip to Ogallala to catch turtles, he strikes up a friendship with a fellow UNL student. The friendship will change his life.

"Ed was a cool guy," Scott recalls. A devout Catholic, Ed goes to Confession, reads the Bible and is extremely knowledgeable about his faith. "He was alive and very confident," Scott recalls. Ed wakes Scott up to all the Church has to offer and makes it abundantly clear that God has a special vocation for Scott Harter.

Back in Lincoln, Scott begins to attend a Bible study. He is invited by a friend to attend daily Mass. Scott stares at him, bewildered. "Did you not go on Sunday?" he asks. Surely, the friend is not aware that Mass once a week is all that is required. But in the brief space of two months, Scott's world is turned completely around. He is intently learning about his Catholic faith.

More than anything, Scott Harter is attracted to the idea that he is meant for something special - that God has a vocation for him. From that point on, he explains, everything about his faith turns from obligation to attraction. It is all about, he says, a relationship with Jesus.

Eventually, the vocation question is forceful. To be the person he is meant to be, Scott realizes, he has to be a priest. Just like that, the pieces fall into place. He feels nothing but joy and peace and a strange sense of freedom. Walking outside, he observes the world with wonder.

"Did somebody turn the colors up?" he thinks in awe.

After graduation from UNL with the coveted fisheries and wildlife degree, Scott enters St. Mary of the Lake Seminary just outside of Chicago. In May, 2014, he is ordained a priest.

As an associate pastor at Grand Island St. Mary's Cathedral, he is knee deep in parish life. He loves his life as a priest but understands only too well the necessity of praying. Prayer all throughout the day means survival, he says. And in spite of his busy parish demands, he is devoted to the kids at Central Catholic. And they are devoted to him.

If he wants GICC students to know anything about their faith, it's that it's really only about a relationship. "And a relationship," he says, "that makes all the difference. Jesus is saving us from being distant with God. The truth is, we're already God's kids - we always have been. And he loves us."

One day, my husband and I see Bishop Joe Hanefeldt at school.

"Listen," I plead with him, "you've got to leave Scott Harter with us for a while. We need him."

The bishop smiles. And I get it. After all, there's half a state in this diffuse diocese that needs the likes of Father Scott Harter. We can't be selfish. Dammit. So I will hope that for another year, or even two, Central Catholic kids will soak up Father Scott like sponges - that they will passionately grow in their relationships with Jesus and bask in the freedom of knowing, like Father Scott Harter knows, that they are all God's beloved children.

And maybe, one more time, we could all hear the banjo ballad about the guy who tried to kill his wife.

Monica Kozisek and Greg Kozisek

Monica Kozisek breaks me up.

Even in high school, she is queen of the one-liners. Her quips during English class make me laugh so hard that sometimes I have coughing spasms. But I am the teacher. Should we be having so much fun? It doesn't matter. If Monica's in class, everybody has fun.

She is the eleventh of 12 children. Or, as she likes to remind her siblings, "I'm number one. Twice."

Greg and Monica, Christmas 2015

Her crazy sisters Alice, Margaret and Barb are her best friends. But as well, she is part of a tightly knit group of friends in the Grand Island Central Catholic Class of 1982. They are some of my very favorite kids. Perhaps because my own sister Mary is in that class or maybe because I am so young myself, I enjoy those kids to no end.

Mary and Monica play volleyball for Coach Sharon Zavala. I am an assistant coach. As much fun as those girls have practicing and playing together, there is a grit to them that is unusual. Several of them have suffered tragedy in their families. My sister has just lost our mother. Karla Rork loses her brother. Monica has lost her 14-year-old sister to complications from diabetes.

It is the 80's, though, a time in which we don't talk much about the heavy burdens in our lives. After Monica's sister Mary dies, the Koziseks continue with their lives. Monica knows her parents are suffering, but they do not speak of Mary. Volleyball becomes Monica's lifeline. She and her teammates leave their heartbreak and difficulties at home and abandon themselves to the sport.

Everybody is delighted for these nice girls when they earn a berth to the state tournament in Lincoln. Nobody expects too much. So it is nothing less than astonishing when Central Catholic claws its way to the finals. Monica's mother and sisters send a note scrawled with loving messages to Lincoln with her. Although Monica is a bench player for most of the season, inside her something comes alive. She wants this state championship more than anything. By the end of the state tourney, Monica is a crucial starter with a determined focus and a killer serve.

She and her team will win the school's first ever state volleyball title. The Central Catholic faithful is frenzied with excitement. Suddenly, anything becomes possible, and there is a seismic shift in girls' sports at GICC. For the next 30 years, little sixth grade girls enrolling at Central Catholic will believe they, too, can achieve the impossible. After the historic 1981 win, eight more teams will go on to win the big title for Coach Sharon Zavala and GICC.

Monica Kozisek believes she can do anything, too. She is only the second of her brothers and sisters to graduate from college. Although she earns a teaching degree, she discovers she prefers sales. Eventually, she becomes a lottery sales rep for IGT and enjoys both teaching store clerks the business and the camaraderie she shares with her clients.

Monica is in her 30's living in Lincoln, however, when she loses her lovely mother. It is up to her and her sisters to keep the big Kozisek family together, and they care for their father and organize holiday gatherings. But Monica misses her mother and yearns for more in her own life.

"Please," she prays to both God and her mother, "give me a new direction."

As if in answer to her prayer, the life of foster care presents itself. Monica plunges in. During the months ahead, she cares for five or so foster children for sporadic weekends until permanent shelter can be arranged. One day, however, a six-year-old boy with big dark eyes comes to her clenching a small bag in his hand. He is called Greg.They appraise each other.

"Would you like to watch a movie?" Monica asks.

Before they settle down, he carefully puts away his clothes and situates his room. Monica is amazed at the enormous courage it takes for a small boy to walk into a strange home. They settle down to watch the movie. Greg looks at her.

"I was hoping you'd be hotter," he says. They suddenly laugh, and Monica knows she's been gifted with a kid whose humor is as quirky as her own.

But it is a long process for Greg to develop trust. A self-reliant little boy, he has grown up as the youngest of several siblings. His own mother collapses under the weight of her struggles. Every morning, Greg wakes himself up and makes his own breakfast. Then he walks to the bus stop to go to his Lincoln public school. His mother has not registered him for the first grade, but Greg will not let that deter him. He presents himself to the school office, a small grave boy, and waits patiently for whatever must be accomplished to allow him to attend school.

Now he does not quite believe that Monica will take care of these important details. One day, he comes down with the stomach flu and is forced to stay home.  "You have to call the school!" he urges Monica. "Don't forget to let my day care know!"

She reassures him. "I know what to do, Greg." When he finally understands he does not have to be a first grade adult, Greg visibly relaxes. He excels in school, transforms into an exuberant little boy, and grows closer and closer to Monica.

When it becomes clear that Greg's own mother will not be able to care for him, Monica and Greg make the monumental decision to officially become a family. After a long and emotional wait, the adoption becomes finalized, and Monica and Greg, along with Monica's sisters, assemble at the Lincoln courthouse for the big day. In the austere courtroom, heavy tables are lined with microphones. Clowning, Monica's crazy sister Barb speaks into what she believes is a dead mic.

"Excuse me, Senator, but I refuse to answer the question." She is mortified to hear her own voice echoing back and leaps away from the microphone. Somehow it adds to the flavor of the whole crazy day. Greg realizes with a shock these funny, wonderful women are now his family.

It is almost nine years since the fateful day a little dark eyed boy arrived at Monica Kozisek's door. She and Greg now live in Grand Island. Monica wants him to be closer to aunts and uncles and cousins. As well, she wants him to graduate from her own alma mater, Grand Island Central Catholic.

It has not always been easy for Monica, a single mother, to scrape together the tuition for a Catholic school. She is grateful for the school's financial aid, scholarships and work study which have made Greg's education very affordable. "All you have to do is ask," Monica says. Whatever sacrifices are required on her part, she says, are completely worth it.

Greg feels his life opening up before him at Central Catholic. As he learns about his faith, he also experiences the joy of belonging to a tightly knit school community. He is a high honor roll student, an athlete, and most of all, he is a boy who is loved by his mother.

There was a time in his young life when Greg Kozisek worried relentlessly about every new uncertain moment. Now he looks forward to his future without fear. "God helps us. He's always been there for me," Greg says, "and he put me on the right track."

Someday, he says, he hopes to have a solid job and a solid family. Like the one he belongs to now. "I just want to be happy," Greg says.

Long ago, such a thing would have seemed impossible. But his good mother has taught him otherwise.

With a little faith, she assures him, anything is possible.

Fred Northup

I am 16-years-old waiting outside the counselor's office at Grand Island Central Catholic. And I am scared to death.

My brothers and I are starting our first day at this new school. Everything is odd and unfamiliar, and I want to be home. Where I belong. But my parents have moved themselves, ten kids and a dog from our beloved Denver neighborhood to plop us down in this small town in the middle of Nebraska.

Fred and Donna Northup, 2011.

It is hard for me to breathe.

Then a short man with iron gray hair slides out of a nearby classroom. "VOLAAARE!" he croons like Frank Sinatra and waltzes up to me. He laughs when he sees my startled expression. "Hee hee!" And it really is hee hee. Gripping my arm, he looks all the way up at me. I am six foot one. He is five feet five. "How are you, young lady?" Then he disappears into the school office.

I blink.That odd little man is like my own crazy father. And just like that, nothing feels quite so strange any more.

It develops that the Sinatra crooner is Mr. Fred Northup - "The Wizard of Ruby Street". He is an iconic fixture of the school, a long time beloved basketball coach and history teacher. My history teacher. I learn in those first few weeks at Central Catholic that Mr. Northup was raised in Rhode Island, is married to a saint of a woman, has nine kids, and can never remember to put the false tooth back in his mouth.

"Fred!" Sister Sue, the office secretary, roars through the intercom yet again during history class. "Get your tooth off the faculty lounge table!"

He laughs with glee. "Thanks for the reminda, Sistah!" he shouts up at the wall speaker in a strong Rhode Island accent.

But "The Wizard of Ruby Street", a coaching legend, is no pushover. When the best basketball player in the school mouths off in practice, Coach Northup kicks him off the team. And it doesn't matter that he loses almost every game after that. Fred Northup is a man of principal.

He is deeply respected and enormously popular all across the state. No matter where he and his family travel, somebody calls out. "Freddie!"

One day, he and his wife Donna become stranded on the interstate in eastern Colorado. Fred plods over to a farmer working in a nearby field to ask for help. Donna thinks, "Finally! Somebody he won't know!"

Fred returns to the car with his arm around the smiling farmer. "Donna, would you look at this?" He laughs delightedly. "I taught this kid at Burwell!"

As I am graduating from college, my mother is diagnosed with cancer. I return to Grand Island to help out at home, and the next time I enter the halls of Central Catholic, it is as a teacher rather than a student. Mr. Northup is still there and still belting out Sinatra medleys. I am very happy to see him.

"Good to see you, Mr. Northup!"

He looks around and feigns surprise. "Who's Mr. Northup?" he teases. "That's my dad! You call me Fred."

But I cannot call him "Fred". Not for many, many years.

One day, a tall, handsome young history teacher strolls through the doors to teach at Central. John Howard is 6 ft. 8. In spite of their age and height differences, he and Mr. Northup become fast friends. Fred invites John, who is far from home and family, to spend Christmas with all the Northups.

In the small Northup house, filled to the gills with 60 or so small, energetic Northups, John feels like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. All the Northups scramble around and over him and make him feel at home.

Fred's family - Donna and three generations of Northup kids at the
annual Northup family reunion.

Later in the new year, John Howard and I fall in love and by summer time are planning to marry. John asks Fred to stand up for him at our wedding.

"You don't want me!" Fred protests.

John throws his arm around the little man who has become like a father.  "I need you up there with me, Old Man."

When we give birth to our first son Kenny, Fred's angelic wife Donna becomes our day care provider. She is as sweet and soothing as Fred is charming but cantankerous.

"That woman!" Fred shakes his fist at school when he and Donna have an occasional argument.

"What'd you do, Fred?" John asks laconically.

"You always take her side!" Fred huffs indignantly.

"Because it's always your fault!" John laughs.

One day, Fred makes Donna so angry she holds up a single finger. Because she is Donna Northup, she cannot bring herself to hold up her middle digit. Instead, she thrusts up her index finger.

Fred explodes in laughter. "What's that mean? Are you telling me I'm number one?"

She glares at him. "You know what it means!"

But no couple is more devoted to each other than Fred and Donna. One sad day, they cry as they move their adult son Charles, severely mentally challenged, to an institution where he can be properly cared for. Donna is diagnosed with breast cancer, and Fred undergoes double bypass. They lose a grandchild. But they come through those times together.

Fred and Donna are like grandparents to our boys Kenny and Tommy. When first John's father passes away and then my father, Fred reassures us.  "I'm their grandpa now," he nods at our small boys.

Our son Kenny and Fred and Donna's grandson Chris are in the same class. They become doubles partners on their high school tennis team, and the Northups regularly pile into our car as we follow the boys to tennis meets all across Nebraska. Fred is so excited before the state meet, he can't buckle his seat belt.

John sighs heavily, leans over to buckle Fred in, then looks at him in mock disgust. "Why do you have to be so damn old?"

Fred laughs. "Hee hee!"

On our trip to the Lincoln meet, Fred and Donna point out to us where they lived in Lincoln as newlyweds. They show us the hall where they first dance and fall in love.

"Oh, I thought he was so handsome in his uniform!" Donna giggles. Fred is in the service when they marry. He is 20, and Donna is just 18.  I love hearing about their lives as young people. Even as grandparents and great-grandparents, they are still youthful and vigorous and fun.

Fred Northup and John Howard
from the 1984 Central Catholic
yearbook.

We celebrate Fred's 80th birthday at a special reception in the Blessed Sacrament Church Hall. Fred becomes more and more forgetful. Donna pretends it is nothing. One day, though, Fred goes to the back yard to try to attach two wrong ends of a garden hose together. Donna becomes frightened.

In my English class one afternoon, I see Fred and Donna's granddaughter MiKayla crying. My heart skips a beat.

Fred is diagnosed with Alzheimers.

Donna is determined to care for him at home, but as Fred becomes worse, Donna is exhausted. Her children lovingly help her to understand that Fred will receive the professional care he needs living at the Veteran's Home. It is a long time before Donna allows them to make the arrangements. She has been advised not to tell Fred that he will never be coming home.

"Tell him he's just visiting," the staff instructs.

As the time nears, Donna is filled with dread. It is the last night they spend together in their own home. Fred, oblivious to Donna's silence, switches channels on the remote.

"Fred," Donna is determined not to weep. "Come lie on the couch with me."

He looks at her, surprised. "Why don't you go to bed? I'll be there in a while."

She swallows. "Because I want you to lie with me on the couch."

He grumbles, tosses the remote aside, and finally comes to be with her. They are two small white-haired people in their 80's folded in each other's arms. Fred never knows it's his last night with his wife of more than 65 years. Her face away from him, Donna lets the silent tears fall.

Fred has resided at the Vet's Home for almost five years now. He is confined to a wheel chair and doesn't speak much or recognize his children. But every day he waits patiently for Donna. She feeds him and brushes his teeth. Then together they sit in front of the window overlooking the lovely grounds of the Vet's Home. Fred is content to hold Donna's hand, and she is happy to be near him. An 18-year-old aid observes them.

"Someday," she tells Donna, "I hope I have what you two have."

Donna smiles. "Treat your husband like a king," she tells the young aid, "and he'll treat you like a queen."

This Christmas Eve, Fred Northup will turn 90-years-old. His children will throw a party for him. He won't know them or understand what an important occasion they're celebrating. But his good family knows. And that's enough.

Fred may not remember us. But we remember him. He is father and grandfather to four generations of Northups. To three decades of kids and teachers at Grand Island Central Catholic, he is still Coach, Teacher and Friend.

He is our Wizard of Ruby Street. And we remember.


Postscript: Fred Northup died July 1, 2019, at the Grand Island Vet's Hospital surrounded by his loving family. For the last ten days of his life, Donna refused to leave his bedside.

Dr. John Goering and Sadie Goering

Johnny Goering is a blonde, blue-eyed, 12-year-old in my seventh grade classroom. The day I unwittingly sit on a whoopee cushion, he laughs harder than any other kid in class.

Nearly 30 years later he performs my colonoscopy. My husband calls this the definition of "perfect irony". I call it "really super awkward".

Sadie Goering and her father, Dr. John Goering

Except it's not. I am snoozing on the gurney just before my procedure at the Surgery Center when I feel a reassuring hand on my own. I glance up to see not the laughing 12-year-old I taught so many years ago but the kind, gentle eyes of my doctor. Doctor John Goering. In that moment I am suddenly proud. Our roles are reversed. This boy-turned-man now takes care of me.

My husband says John Goering was born to do great things. He remembers teaching and coaching Johnny more than a quarter of a century ago at Grand Island Central Catholic. Whether he is competing in football, basketball or track, my husband recalls, John Goering works as hard as he can and is humbly grateful for his older teammates who take him under wing and demand his best.

But there is something else about Johnny.

At Central Catholic, Eric Kayl is Johnny's best friend. Pat and Julie Kayl, not only Eric's parents but John's teachers, invite John out to their family farm in Hemingford, Nebraska. One day, John and Eric, small 12-year-old boys, are helping to herd cattle when Johnny spies a small crippled calf struggling to keep up. John jumps out of the pickup, runs to the calf, and half coaxes and half carries it all the rest of the long way home.

"He couldn't leave that lovely animal out there alone," Julie Kayl says. "I knew then he'd be a doctor."

Now Dr. John Goering and his beautiful Katie send their own daughter and sons to Central Catholic. Sadie, the oldest, is a senior. She is the stuff made of high school beauties - homecoming queen, captain of the volleyball team, editor of the school paper.

But like her father, Sadie Goering is so much more.

"Sadie is the most positive and nicest person I know, and she never refers to us as 'the freshmen'," Megan Woods, a young volleyball teammate says. "Whenever I need help or advice, I know I can go to Sadie."

It's no accident that Sadie is kind. It is what she admires most about her dad.  "Wherever we go, people love my dad," she says. "Even my friends who are quiet and shy feel comfortable around him. He gets them to talk."

And he makes them feel safe, she says. "I want to be like him," Sadie says.

Central Catholic means everything to Sadie and her father. Sadie remembers the first day of middle school. She doesn't know anybody, but she wears a shirt emblazoned with "GOERING" across the back. It comforts her to know her dad once wandered these same infinite hallways.

My husband, who is 6 ft. 8 and frightens small children, stops her when he sees the name on her shirt. Sadie stares open mouthed at the huge man whose head hovers somewhere around the ceiling.

"I'm Mr. Howard," the man booms, "and I coached your dad in track." Then he leads her to a window. "See that tree out there?" he points. "I made your dad throw up by that tree."

Sadie is enveloped in the same loving school community but carves her own path at Central Catholic. She is not a track runner but a championship tennis player like her mother Katie, a three time state runner-up tennis champ from Grand Island Senior High. Sadie also plays for the state bound volleyball team, writes a student column for the Grand Island Independent, and works as hard as she can at school. Next year, she plans to study journalism and pre-law in college. Sadie Goering has "success" written all over her.

She is not at Central Catholic, however, to build her resume. John and Katie Goering choose Grand Island Central Catholic for Sadie, Jack and Will for more important reasons.

"Their spiritual development is important to us," John explains. "Whenever you walk through the doors of GICC, you walk into that family feeling. Sadie's been able to participate in art, journalism, volleyball and tennis. It's opened up so many opportunities for her."

But his children's faith lives are most important. John remembers how significant the priests and religion teachers were in his own life as a student. He remembers particularly Miss Mary Wiles."She was so sweet. We talked about our faith and our lives in her class."

Sadie enjoys Father Scott Harter, the GICC chaplain, and his unique talent for teaching students of all ages about their faith with his humor and wisdom. But she credits Mary Wiles - just like her dad - with starting her out on on her faith journey. The kids can talk to Miss Wiles about anything, Sadie says, and her classroom is a haven.

In seventh grade, when Sadie's grandfather, Dr. Bill Fowles dies suddenly, Sadie seeks the refuge of Mary Wiles.

"She gave me a great big Miss Wiles' hug," Sadie recalls.

Her grandfather's death is very difficult. That her healthy, golf playing, Husker loving grandfather can be gone in an instant is too much to absorb. For the first time Sadie questions her faith. "Where's he gone?" she thinks. But she is comforted by all that she has learned from Miss Wiles and her other religion teachers at Grand Island Central Catholic.

Her grieving grandmother tells her that one day she walks into her room to discover a golf tee and a cross lying on the dresser together. Sadie understands it is a sign for all of them. "We have a guardian angel," she says simply.

Sadie will leave Central Catholic after graduation to pursue her own adult dreams. But growing up at GICC has given her a strong faith, life long friendships with students and teachers, and a unique connection to the father she adores.

In November, she plays her very last home volleyball game in the old gym at Central Catholic. She thinks, "My dad played his very last basketball game in this gym."

Like her father, she has absorbed her Central Catholic roots and will carry them wherever she goes for the rest of her life. She will make a difference in the world and make her old teachers proud.

But I hope she never performs my colonoscopy.

Bryce Sealock

Bryce Sealock never tells us his father is dying.

One cold day in January, he and his sister Brynn, as conscientious and sweet as Bryce is funny and flippant, fail to come to school. Tumbling into class, my American Lit students tell me the news.

Bryce Sealock

"Bryce's dad died."

We stare at each other, our faces mirroring shock.

Then we pray. For Bryce. For his sweet sister and good mother.

A day or two later, we all attend Tom Sealock's wake. Bryce greets my husband and me. He is pale but composed. And very grownup.

"Why didn't you tell us?" we say.

Bryce shakes his head. "Couldn't deal with the attention," he says.

Later, his mother Shari will tell me that Bryce, when the time comes, reassures his dying father. Tom Sealock struggles against death unwilling to leave his young family. But Bryce holds his hand.

"You can do this, Dad," he urges his father. "You can go. We'll be okay."

It has been nearly a year since Tom Sealock's death. Bryce is a senior at Grand Island Central Catholic, a kicker for the football team and a speech enthusiast. He is the same, he says, but different.

"I'm more serious about the decisions I make now, and I get on my friends if they're not making good long term decisions." He grins. "They get a little annoyed with me."

Since Bryce has been eight, he's lived with his father's health issues. Tom Sealock's kidneys fail him. Because his own parents and two siblings succumb to early deaths, Tom never talks about a future or retirement. Instead, he teaches his son Bryce.

"Mostly mechanical stuff," Bryce says. Bryce is mowing the lawn when he's in third grade. His father teaches him to change the oil in their vehicles, and Bryce understands he's being prepared for life without his father

Now in his senior year, Bryce throws himself into the busy world of high school. But he is protective of his mother and sister, and he is nagged by the relentless regrets that haunt all of us after a traumatic loss.

"I should have made more of an effort to spend time with my dad," he says. "I guess I thought we'd have more time."

School, however, is helping him to heal. "Everybody supports me. My faith is more personal for me now," he says, and the atmosphere at Grand Island Central Catholic is helping him to move on with his life.

Bryce and his sister have grown up in the Methodist church, but he has never felt awkward about attending a Catholic school. His religion teacher, Father Richard Piontkowski, is the "best in the region," Bryce says. "He's so knowledgeable about not just the Catholic faith, but all faiths. He's down to earth, respects everybody and is a great teacher."

Father Scott Harter, the GICC chaplain, has helped Bryce with his perspective on life. "He's pretty awesome and cool," Bryce says. "None of his homilies at Wednesday morning Mass are ever about judging. He's just got this great positive energy."

Wednesday morning Masses, in fact, have become very important to Bryce. "It's like my church, The school, as a whole, is all about making you a better person spiritually and morally."

With the support of his mother and teachers and friends, Bryce says his faith has grown. "I sometimes question God, but I believe in Heaven. I know my dad is there with Jesus. It would petrify me to wonder where my dad is. But I know he's okay,"

Grand Island Central Catholic has helped to give him "closure" and to look forward to the rest of his life.

Next year, he'd like to play football, possibly at Drake University, and study pre-law.

But now he's enjoying his senior year. He misses his dad at his football games, he says, even though his dad, because of his health, always had to watch from the car. "My dad really enjoyed watching me play last year."

When I ask to take his picture, Bryce pulls out a jacket. "Can I wear this?" he asks. It's a Grand Island Central Catholic football letter jacket.  "My dad gave it to me last Christmas just before he died. It's the last thing he ever gave me."

Pulling it on, he smiles resolutely into the camera. I look at the boy in the lens, this 17-year-old kid who has stepped up to the plate to take care of his family.

And I know his father would be proud.

The Ortega Triplets

The Ortega brothers are teasing their sister.

"Jacqui's bossy," Alex claims. "The only time she talks is when she wants something."

His sister shoots back. "If I wasn't bossy, you'd always be late for school. You don't pay attention," she eyes her brothers, "so I have to."

Alberto, Jacqui and Alex Ortega

Her brother Alberto concedes that Jacqui really does keep them all on track. If he forgets his lunch, which he frequently does, Jacqui packs it for him.

In the Ortega home, a modest house with a manicured lawn and abundant flowers, I am treated like a special guest. We are settling back to watch a DVD of the triplets' quinceanera, the traditional Latin American custom of celebrating a girl's fifteenth birthday and her transition from childhood to adulthood. Maria Ortega, however, mother of the triplets, is adamant that both her sons will be included in this festive occasion, too.

The DVD begins with a very, very pregnant Maria. She recalls the shock of seeing, for the first time, the ultrasound which reveals three babies. "I only have two arms!" she wails to her husband. "It will be very hard!"

Her good husband, Alberto senior, assures her they will manage, and they do. Sister Ann Ference, a wonderful nurse, comes to Maria's hospital room the day after the triplets are born. "I'll help," she promises, "and I'll bring others."

For the first year and a half of their lives, the triplets are cared for not only by their parents but also by a round-the-clock team of six or seven people. Sister Ann, however, loves Alex, Alberto and Jacqui like her own, and they adore her. She becomes their surrogate grandmother.

When they're toddlers, she tells them it's time to abandon their pacifiers. "You can't go to college with a pacifier!" she scolds.

The triplets nod solemnly and obediently remove the pacifiers.

As soon as Sister Ann departs, however, the toddlers pop them back into their mouths. Every day after that, they take turns keeping watch by the window. When Sister Ann arrives, there is a mad scramble to hide the pacifiers.

On the DVD, the triplets grow up before our eyes. They are in kindergarten sharing the swing their father has made for them in the backyard. Elementary school is a collage of Halloween costumes, First Communions and happy smiles.

When they are 11, Sister Ann urges their parents to send them to Grand Island Central Catholic. It is a monumental sacrifice, but Alberto and Maria are impressed with the school. It's small, their kids are taking religion classes, making good friends, and receiving a great education, Maria says.

Before the kids leave for school every morning, Maria tells them, "Pay attention and be nice. Remember this is important for your future." She and Alberto were not able to attend college, and they want their kids to make the most of this opportunity.

The triplets love GICC.

"I like learning about my faith," young Alberto says. "It's a family environment, and you know everybody. It's made my relationship with God very strong."

Alex loves band performances and trips they take together, and Jacqui loves Art Club. She enjoys, too, her religion classes with Mrs. Dee Hanssen.

Central Catholic is everything Maria and Alberto want for their kids. "I see the good things that are happening for them," Maria says.

The sacrifices their parents make are not lost on the triplets."They do without to give us the best," Alex says of his parents. "They've always given us everything they have, and even when we get in trouble, they stay calm. I don't want to disappoint them."

One day the Ortega kids say they will give back to their parents and make them proud. All three plan to attend college. Jacqui wants a career and a family, and Alex hopes to one day be an orthopedic surgeon. Alberto is leaning toward law enforcement.

Sister Ann is always on the watch to steer them carefully to their goals. She reminds them of the great "checklist", and the reminders are more and more urgent.

"First high school, then college, then the religious life or marriage, and only after marriage," she fixes her gaze on Alberto who has a serious girlfriend, "can you start on the babies."

The triplets are in good hands, it seems, from every direction. "I ask God for help every day," Maria says. But she needn't worry. God is alive and well in the Ortega house, a home full of love and faith and laughter.

Before I leave their house, Maria packs a Hefty bag of homemade tamales. "You and your husband enjoy these," she smiles. "Freeze them and eat them whenever you want." I accept them gratefully and do not tell her they will be devoured long before the day is over.

On the step outside, Maria and I talk alone. During her own struggling youth, she confides, she prays to God fervently. "Please," she begs him. "All I want is a happy family of my own."

Maria Ortega is 35-years-old before she delivers three babies.Be careful what you ask for, she laughs.

From inside the house, I hear the commotion. Maria's patient husband talks to his children. Alberto will no doubt sneak away to call his girlfriend while Jacqui nags her brothers to pack their lunches for school the next day. They are the sounds of a happy home.

And I know a sweet mother's prayer has been answered.