This post was written by Jane Henderson, winner of the 2025 Humanities Center Essay Contest.
Ross Gay said joy is “a room at the top of a flight of stairs.”
I was standing in a room in a community center in the middle of Herriman, Utah. It was warm with bodies. Colorful posters breathed life into concrete walls, and the air smelled like the pastries passed around at break time.
María Lionza stood by me. “Profe, thank you. See you the next week.”
“María Lionza! Thank you for coming.”
She started to leave but stopped. “You good teacher. You, you—”
She switched to Spanish.
“You have good pedagogy. I was a teacher too, in a high school. Then I received a degree in administration. You can explain the same thing many ways so it is simple. Thank you for volunteering.”
I avoided the tears that pushed at the back of my eyes by looking at her Amazon sweatshirt. I thought about her coworkers, the ones that were always impatient and unkind to her. If she could learn English, she could get a better job—one where they didn’t mistreat her, where she didn’t have to spend long hours in a cold warehouse lifting boxes despite stiff joints, trying to work with people who pretended to not understand her.
Maybe joy is a room at the top of an impossibly steep flight of stairs.
“Thank you, María Lionza. I love being here. Thank you for coming even though it is hard.”
When she left, her overflowing tote on her shoulder, she passed Vicente in the hallway, his hair tied back to expose a forehead full of worry, but eyes that proved years of smiles. He was holding his young daughter; she embraced his neck and kissed his cheek. Sure enough, he smiled.
He left his home to bring her here. He left behind degrees and certifications in sociology, psychology, political science, and law to work a minimum wage job in the US so his daughter could live free of war and hunger. He worked all day, then brought her to the community center at night so that he could study English.
I turned away from the door, my throat tight.
Maybe joy is a room at the top of an impossibly steep, infinite flight of stairs.
My hands trembled as I erased the whiteboard, closed the computer cart, straightened the chairs. My tears had dried by the time I turned off the lights and left the room.
María Lionza should be a principal at a school nearby, helping children succeed. Vicente should be practicing law, guiding families like his to stability.
Maybe joy is a room at the top of an impossibly steep, infinite flight of stairs.
People crowded the hallway. Students with arms full of books, children laughing as they searched for their parents, volunteers collecting binders and delivering welcoming reassurance. As I passed the office, I saw Anna.
“Jane! How was class?” Her smile was intense, and I wanted it to swallow me and soothe the ache. She looked at me. “Are you ok?”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Our students just have really hard lives.”
She hugged me. It was good.
Jeremías saw me. “Teacher!” His embrace smelled like earthy cologne and felt just as good as Anna’s.
Leu, his wife, was there, and although her head barely reached my chest, her hug was firm and just about banished the ache. “Hola, preciosa.”
Jeremías looked at Anna and pointed to me. “He is—”
His wife swatted his arm. “No, cariño, she, she.”
“She is my first English teacher. My teacher in English and my teacher in Dios.”
I responded to Anna’s confused look. “I taught them on my mission.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you served here! How fun you get to keep seeing them.”
Suddenly, “Profe!” I turned.
María Lionza was there, a loaf of bread now precariously balanced on her overflowing tote. Her teenage daughter was beside her. “Profe, she is my daughter.” She pointed at me. “Mija, my English teacher.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” the daughter said.
“You are so beautiful,” I said. “You look so much like your mom.”
They both grinned. I grinned. With classes ending and everyone pouring out of the classrooms and into the hallway, there were smiles and saludos and hugging and one pair was exchanging loaves of bread. It was good.
I said my goodbyes and found my car. I rested my head against the cold steering wheel and prayed. There were no words, just the crushing feeling in my ribs, and María Lionza and Vicente and Jeramías and Leu and their shining souls, and the souls of every student and every volunteer, and the fear. The fear. The anger. They deserve good lives. They deserve to be with their families. They deserve to not be followed by conflict and hatred. They are your children, God, and their lives are so hard. I love them, God, I love them. I know you do too. Without English and American degrees how can they climb the steep, infinite stairs to the room at the top?
Silence.
Then I saw in my heart some stairs. An infinite flight of stairs made of worn wood that disappeared into darkness above me. God was beside me, holding my hand, helping me lift my feet to the next step.
God pointed at the banister. “Beautiful. Such attention to detail.” The banister was also made of wood and hand-carved, some sections worn down by time and hands and others astonishingly detailed.
María Lionza was a few steps ahead of me. She turned. When she saw me, she grinned. She carefully made her way down to meet me, holding the banister that snaked its way into the darkness. She took my hands and looked into my eyes, reading my soul.
“Come,” she said. “Go together.”
“How far until we get to the room at the top?” I asked God.
With a strong hand on my shoulder, God looked around, prompting me to take in the crowd marching along the stairwell.
There were people all around me—people from the community center. I could see Anna up ahead, holding hands with a man, probably her husband. I watched as they turned and reached for people behind them on the stairs, descending to grab their hands and help pull them up.
Leu and Jeremías were there, holding each other. They did not try to keep up with those around them, but simply laughed and took their time.
Vicente and his daughter were sitting on a step. Vicente held his daughter to his chest, perhaps to protect her from the weariness in his face. Suddenly God was there, and Anna, too. Anna took the girl in her arms, and as she faced the climb, there was excitement in her movements.
Vicente shook with weeping in God’s embrace, but when he pulled away, he was smiling. He and God climbed together, catching up with Anna and the little girl, and the four of them slowly ascended.
Then God was beside me again. We climbed together, God on one side and María Lionza on the other.
God looked at me and asked, “What could a room offer that this journey cannot?”
So many people. Some struggled as they climbed, breathing hard and moving as if through sand. Laughter danced through the air and sank into my skin. Many stopped and rested. Someone was singing. I could hear brief moments of conversations filled with curiosity and fear and compassion.
Maybe joy is the people who climb the stairs with us.
