I suppose there are worse things our parish's religious-education director could have asked me to do.

The day he asked me to substitute-teach a CCD class of eighth graders, though, it didn't feel that way. He probably felt comfortable asking me for such an enormous favor because he happens to be my husband.

Dan was forgetting, it seemed, that the class he was hoping I would cover was the same one whose teacher had just quit. It was also the same one Dan had taught the previous week. Discouraged, he had come home and announced, “They're all boys and every one of them has a behavior problem.”

As a mother of six, I can weather a fair amount of abuse. But eighth-grade boys? I didn't even like eighth-grade boys when I was an eighth-grade girl. In particular, I remember the boys in my eighth-grade CCD class years ago. Miss Goddard, a soft-spoken college student with aspirations for the convent, was their hapless victim. I am sure that quiet girls like me who sat in the front row were her sole consolation.

If my husband, who makes his living teaching adolescent boys, had difficulty controlling this particular class, what exactly did he expect me to accomplish with this rowdy bunch?

Despite my protests, Dan assured me that these particular hooligans might respond positively to a female teacher. He took the baby from my arms, handed me my coat and ushered me to the door.

I drove to the church with fear and trembling, then stood in the doorway of the classroom feeling even smaller than my 5-foot, 1-inch frame. I said a quick prayer, took a deep breath and stepped inside. As soon as I walked in, Joshua, a freckle-faced boy wearing a baseball cap backward, leaped from his seat and let out a whoop.

“Yes!” he shouted, pumping his fist in the air. “It's not Mr. Bean — I hated Mr. Bean!”

“Dude,” one of his friends interjected. “That's Mrs. Bean.”

Joshua's fist froze in midair. Color filled his face and he slunk into his chair as his classmates exploded with laughter. We were off to a roaring start.

I'd like to report that there were no problems as we took turns reading from the text and answering questions that evening. But, of course, that wouldn't be true. I endured some obnoxious noises, ignored some pencil-poking antics and confiscated two packs of gum, a motor-bike magazine and a Gameboy. We managed to complete the chapter, though, and I think a couple of those kids actually listened when I described the gifts of the Holy Spirit.

My moderate successes started me thinking. Doesn't Our Lord's message speak to these boys in their droopy jeans and oversized sneakers? In spite of their bad attitudes and disruptive behavior, doesn't our faith belong to them, too? When Christ told us, “Go into the whole world and proclaim the Gospel to every creature” (Mark 16:15), he did not offer the option of skipping over those who are uncooperative or reluctant to hear what we have to say. He never said to spread the good news only among polite, pleasant people who make us feel comfortable and welcome.

At the end of class, the boys joked and jostled as they shuffled from the room. They were still foreign creatures to me, but they seemed somehow less intimidating than before.

Joshua lingered by my desk for a moment. “Who's gonna teach us next week?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders and told him I didn't know who his new teacher would be. After he left, though, I had to admit that I did know. It would be me.

Danielle Bean writes from Center Harbor, New Hampshire.