Austie

Clumsily seeking goodness this side of the veil. Catholic. Yankee enthusiast. Raiser of Monarch butterflies. Grammar nerd. ☕️🥂🦋

[The Ways of A Gentleman @Gentleman_Ways]

One of the most beautiful renditions of the Star Spangled Banner, the American National Anthem.

Turn up the volume!

[Talkin' Yanks @TalkinYanks]

Yankees honored John Sterling with a moment of silence. Michael Kay and Suzyn Waldman placed bouquets of flowers at home plate 💙

[The Babylon Bee @TheBabylonBee]

Mental Health Experts Confirm Sunny Day At The Ballpark 1000 Times More Effective Than Antidepressants https://t.co/Gegddw723v

[Saint Adaugoijele ✝️ @JustAdaugoijele]

Christmas eve!!
🎉🎉🎉😍😍

[Travis Akers 🇺🇸 @travisakers]

A message from a Kindergarten teacher:

After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old:

“My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.”

No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.”

My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me.

When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic.

But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe.

My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown.

And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice.

They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer.

The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.”

As if kindness were a weakness.

Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure —
a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.”
a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.”
a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.”

Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up.

But this last year broke something in me.

The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival.

I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times.

So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998:

“Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.”

I sat on the floor and cried.

No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications.

I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced.

I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers.

So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try.

Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

[SNY Yankees @snyyankees]

Yankee Stadium ERUPTED for Aaron Judge’s game-tying Game 3 homer 🗣️

[Talkin' Yanks @TalkinYanks]

Jays beat the Rays 5-1 to keep the AL East lead as we head to the last day of the season

Yankees need a win tomorrow against Baltimore and a Toronto loss to Tampa in order to win the division and receive a bye

Otherwise the Yankees host the Wild Card series beginning Tuesday

[Nancy Charles @cancelwok3]

St. Paul said, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).

There are moments however, when you can’t offer anything to take away someone else’s suffering and pain. That’s brutal though. Violence in the soul that you must bear. Because there are limits to our human help. To love someone and to not be able to save them, feels helpless.

The world teaches us to value action, solutions, outcomes. But God does not measure love in success—He measures it in presence. In staying with the suffering soul, even when your hands are empty. Especially when your hands are empty.

That’s what Our Lady did at the foot of the Cross. She could not take the nails out of her Son. She could not stop the mockery or the blood or the pain. She could only stand there. Silent. Pierced. Faithful. Present.

And yet… who among the human race loved Christ more perfectly in that moment?

So when you feel helpless in the face of someone else’s suffering, when the ache of their soul crashes into you and you weep because there is nothing you can do—you are closer to Mary than you know. Thus closer to God.

[Tim Young @TimRunsHisMouth]

Another perfect response. ✉️✉️✉️

[Joe Pompliano @JoePompliano]

There seems to be a lot of confusion about the Yankees new torpedo-style bats, but they are perfectly legal.

MLB bats must be made from one piece of solid wood, be no more than 2.61 inches in diameter at their thickest part, and not exceed 42 inches in length.

No problems here.

[Eric Hubbs @BarstoolHubbs]

This is for the Freddie Freeman pitch

[Vince Langman @LangmanVince]

Victor Davis Hanson eloquently explains why Zelensky is an idiot

[Ian Haworth @ighaworth]

Kamala Harris faking a phone call with a supporter...and shows the camera app to everyone.

SHE IS SUCH A FRAUD.

[Pray The Rosary @PrayTheRosary]

Jesus, I trust in You

[Talkin' Yanks @TalkinYanks]

Billy’s is INSANE!

[Austie @Austie818]

@arielhelwani Trash

[Austie @Austie818]

@TalkinJake @TalkinYanks Needed to see this. Thank you