The gathering wasn't typical professional development. On August 18, approximately 500 Catholic educators filled St. Boniface parish in Waukee. Three days later, on August 21, about 75 more educators assembled in the Council Bluffs area. Both groups had come for the Diocese of Des Moines Catholic Schools' annual convocation with a theme that promised something deeper than curriculum updates or administrative procedures: "You are God's Beloved—Living Joyfully in Christ Jesus."
Tom Quinlan from the St. Joseph Evangelization Center would deliver identical messages to both audiences, creating a unified experience across the diocese's geographic expanse. As he prepared to address each group, the Gospel reading of Mary and Martha set the stage—the eternal tension between doing and being, between the busyness of service and the stillness of presence.
At both gatherings, Quinlan opened with a observation that would resonate through the day's sessions.
"I have this feeling as I go around the diocese and around the country that we don't know it. We know it, but we don't know it—how precious each of us is to God."
It was a paradox that struck at the heart of Catholic education. Here were teachers and administrators who daily taught students about God's unconditional love, who guided young people through lessons about divine mercy and grace, yet who struggled to fully embrace that same love for themselves. The irony wasn't lost on the 575 educators who would hear this message across both convocations.
Quinlan structured the day around three movements: Healing, Gratitude, and Joy. But before diving into these themes, he challenged a fundamental assumption that permeates American culture and, by extension, American Catholic education.
"You can't heal yourself. You can't form a profoundly grateful heart, and you cannot give yourself joy," he said. "God initiates, and we cooperate."
The statement cut against the grain of self-reliance that educators face daily. In a profession that demands constant problem-solving, lesson planning, and student guidance, the temptation toward self-sufficiency runs deep. Yet Quinlan pressed further.
"God initiates. Not us," he said. "The world tells us we're in control—that gets us in trouble as a person, and it gets us in trouble as a society."
During reflection time at both gatherings, he asked participants to consider their "why"—the deep motivation behind their work. Responses varied: to make Jesus known, to make students feel loved, to bring young people into relationship with Christ. These weren't mere platitudes but the evangelical heart of Catholic education, the reason schools and dioceses exist.
"The church exists to evangelize, and to evangelize means to share the good news of Jesus," Quinlan said, adding that this mission extends far beyond traditional door-to-door ministry.
At this point in both presentations, something shifted. Quinlan moved from theological instruction to deeply personal storytelling, sharing a journey of vulnerability that would model the very healing he was teaching about.
"We are all screwed up," he said. "The early version of me would have said, 'I've got this together.' "
There are two problems with this way of thinking, he said. One, it's probably not true. And two, it means you're not in need of a savior.
He described self-sufficiency as "a danger and a delusion," particularly dangerous in American culture that celebrates pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. His own story became a counter-narrative to that myth.
In his twenties, he began experiencing anxiety attacks while driving. In his thirties, a relationship ended after he heard what he believed was God's audible voice saying simply, "Wait." His forties brought the deaths of both parents—his mother dying in the same hospital room where his father had passed a year earlier. He recalled twice finding himself standing at dangerous edges: the high side of a parking garage, and the side of a busy highway.
"I felt I needed to get away from the edge," he said.
The story paralleled the biblical account of Elijah, who fled to the desert wanting to die, only to hear God's instruction: get up, eat, or you will not have the strength for the journey. For both audiences, Quinlan's transparency created space for their own honest assessment.
"Some of the messy stuff in my life is choices I made. Own the responsibility," he said. "Some of it is a mixed bag, but some things, yeah, I sinned, I was stupid. What do you do? Do you pivot to God? Or do we retreat into ourselves?"
The question hung in the air at both gatherings. Too often, he suggested, people choose isolation over vulnerability, what he called "living a lie." The alternative required surrendering control, something he acknowledged wasn't easy.
"When we pray the Our Father, how many of us are lying?" he said. " 'Thy will be done,' but it's not what we mean. 'My will be done.' It's not easy."
But the journey through his own darkness had yielded unexpected fruit. By God's grace, he said, he didn't succumb to hate during his lowest moments. More importantly, he came to see his suffering not as something to erase but as chapters that had "deepened and enriched" him.
"Don't strive to hit the delete button. That's a terrible lost opportunity," he said. "These difficult chapters in our life can be more than just things to survive."
This transformation from self-sufficiency to dependence on God led to one of the day's most powerful moments. Quinlan acknowledged his own fears about potential future trials.
"If the stage 4 diagnosis comes from me, I don't think I'm going to handle it very well because I think I'm a coward," he said.
But then came the deeper truth, the joy that transcends circumstances.
"But I also believe this, that should this come, whatever the path from there, the pilot light that is joy deep within me, knowing the love of God for me, will not be extinguished, and that it will rise again and will rise in meaningful flame again, regardless of what happens."
This distinction between happiness and joy became central to his message for educators. When parents are asked what they want for their children, he noted, the immediate answer is usually happiness. But happiness depends on circumstances—sports victories, stock market gains, favorable weather.
"I think what you actually want for your kids is joy. Joy is from God, and the world can't take it away," he said.
The distinction mattered for educators who would face struggling students, difficult parents, and their own personal challenges throughout the year. Quinlan's final theological point drove home the foundation for such resilience.
"There's nothing you have done that can keep you from God's love for you," he said.
The response from participants at both gatherings reflected the depth of the experience. Jeremy Hulshizer, who teaches 8th grade theology and middle/high school STEM, captured the uniqueness of beginning the year with spiritual preparation rather than logistical training.
"This sends a message that this starts with Jesus," he said. "You're a Catholic school educator. We're not here for the nuts and bolts, how to make the copier work, and that sort of thing. You can figure that out later. Spirituality is an important aspect in our students' lives."
Ellen Tjaden, who teaches 6th through 12th grade vocal music, appreciated the broader perspective the day provided.
"It's always good to have time to reflect on our bigger purpose and things that are bigger than ourselves," she said. "This helps to reinforce and remind us of the bigger reasons and to build community."
The community aspect proved particularly significant given the diocese's geographic spread. By holding identical convocations in both Des Moines and Council Bluffs, all 575 educators received the same spiritual preparation, the same call to recognize themselves as beloved, and the same challenge to live as "joyful witnesses of Christ's love" in their classrooms and communities.
As participants departed from both gatherings, they carried more than new insights or teaching strategies. They bore the fruit of a day spent in honest reflection about their own need for healing, their capacity for gratitude, and their calling to joy. The question that lingered wasn't whether they felt equipped with new techniques, but whether they felt renewed in their fundamental identity as beloved children of God called to share that love with the young people in their care.
From Des Moines to Council Bluffs, across the schools of the diocese, these educators would return with what Quinlan had promised: fuller tanks for all that would be asked of them in the year ahead. The work would remain demanding, the challenges real, but the foundation had been reset. They were not merely teachers managing classrooms; they were beloved of God, called to help others discover that same transformative truth.