I looked over the sea of twelfth grade faces. Some of them did not want to be in that English class. Yet I, the substitute teacher, was left to take care of the matter for the next eighty minutes.

However, I myself was not having the best of mornings. If I could, I would have likewise chosen to be somewhere else.

What really was the nub of the whole class period was that each youth had to write his own senior essay. These then were going to be attached to their entrance forms to various colleges and universities.

Naturally there were some of the students who were not planning to further their education after high school. But most in that room were excited about applying to one institution or another.

"Where are you going?" I asked one tall fellow in the front row.

And so the input began. It did not take long for some of the more extroverted students to open up. They had wild dreams, anticipations of taking on the world, or just plain buckling under to learn as much as they could.

True, several were bored with the whole scene. They would have rather walked the streets of our little village that school day. Yet after awhile, one felt that even they caught hold of some of the adventure in the air.

"All right. I know you have a lot of work to do to perfect that essay. Now you are to pass in the rough draft at the close of this period. So let's get to it," I announced.

With a bit of tussle here and there, gradually each student settled into the assignment. The place became quiet.

After some time, one by one the youths sauntered to the front of the classroom with their essays scratched out. Some had even asked to type them on the classroom computers. Those were the young upstarts who were really diligent about making that first-class impression on those prospective colleges. As the papers were placed in front of me, I scanned some of them. They proved quite revealing, especially concerning the youths' biographies.

One young man in particular spoke of his parents' divorce. This led to his siblings being separated from one another over their growing up years. Two brothers lived in Connecticut. Two sisters lived in Massachusetts. He lived with his mother. His father lived in Oregon. And with that, my heart ached.

He wrote that the most meaningful time of each year was Christmas when as many of the family as possible got together. In detail he explained how they exchanged gifts, promised to keep in touch for the next year and then bade one another farewell. He added that his joy in life was to keep in touch with his brothers and sisters.

I checked the class' seating chart. It took a bit of searching, but I was able to locate Matt. He was the one in the back corner--handsome, over six feet, well-dressed and looked like he could paint a smile face on life any day. How we can belie the suffering within. One would never have imagined that that young man had an anguished childhood as he had written in his senior essay.

Another essay caught my attention. It's author? Jesse. I lifted the paper above the stack and then pondered who Jesse was. Back to the seating chart. Oh, yes, there he was, over by the window.

"Now that most of you have completed your essays, I am wondering if any of you would grant permission for them to be read aloud. You may read them or you may ask me to read them to the class."

Several offered, Jesse being one of them. That is, he himself did not want to read it aloud, but he nodded that I could share it with the students. I had purposefully saved his for the last, just before the bell rang for dismissal.

Therefore, standing from behind the teacher's desk, I walked to center front. Pausing to make certain that I had each student's attention, I began to read Jesse's essay. It was not about himself at first, but instead was about someone else. And so it began:

"I have a best friend. I want to tell you about him. I hope that you too come to know him as best friend.

"You see, without him, I would not have been here today. I was getting pretty close to the edge, almost dropping off more than once. I was not going to make it alive through high school, let alone college. However because of him, I have come back on center--truly.

"Let me tell you more about this friend.

"First, he was a Carpenter who lived nearly two thousand years ago. He was poor. He came from a place called Nowhere. He had little education. Yet he..."

And so the essay continued--about Jesse's best friend.

As I slowly and carefully read every word in front of me, I could not help but be aware once again of the community of faith that weaves its way around us all.

And in that we never really know when one of the community faithful may just show up at the time we need his witness most.

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