give it the old college try

R is in the midst of writing his college entrance essays. Nine years later, I wish I could give him sound advice; tell him to get his application in early. To call the department in which he has particular interest and introduce himself to the department chairs. It's never too early.

I remember I wrote my essay about Suzan, my AP English teacher. And friend. The woman who taught me to love words - to love reading them and writing them. I wrote about the two-toned brown VW bus with no seat belts and coasting down 800 South. I wrote about her sandals from Mexico, worn year-round. Her egg and tomato sandwiches. The time she wrote "definitely" in red pen around the entire border of one of my papers. (I never spelled it wrong after that.) I wrote about Stuey and Stauzee and the Le Chien Lunatic sign on her front door. About McDonald's at Laird Park and how she taught me to always show, never tell. Any one of her hundreds of students know exactly what I mean when I write that, red pen memories popping into periphery.

Tonight I wished I could give R the words. I wished I could have written his essay for him. I wish I could explain to him that sure, he's had it good growing up. His friends are great. The things he's gleaned in his almost 18-years of life will play a role in who he will become over the next six or so years of college life (mission included). He will have his own Peggy Honeys and David Taylors. Those who will take the world he knows now, his world of Yale Avenue Sundays, Thursday nights in the basement, and summers at the cabin and turn it completely upside-down. Shaking it like a kaleidoscope. Creating new shapes and variations. He'll discover parts of himself he never knew existed, patterns he'll ooh and aww at. He'll have nights he can't sleep because he's so sleep deprived his body has forgotten how to shut down. And, he'll have classes he'll struggle not to sleep through. He'll meet the most interesting people and some not so interesting ones. He'll long for home. He'll rejoice in the freedom of no curfew and his own space in which to do whatever he wishes.

One thing I know for sure: while those years were some of the best years of my life, it's the people at home I care the most about; those who I hold most dear to my heart. They continue to shape who I am. Parents who impress me on an everyday basis as they continue to guide me in life. A grandmother who, 11 children and 45 grand-children later, still forges on in faith and good works, as the head of the family. A best friend who calms her two year-old while on a walk that ends up being a bit longer than we planned, while her newborn sweetly slumbers in the stroller spot adjacent to big sister. These are the lessons not taught in any lecture hall. The things long-remembered after entrance essays are submitted. The answers to life's tough questions not on any final exam.

I will never forget Peggy Honey, David Taylor or Camille Fronk. They have shaped me in so many ways. I owe my love and understanding of color to Peggy; my fondness of federal architecture to Professor Taylor; my simple understanding of the New Testament (I've got a long way to go!) to Sister Fronk. They became a part of me during those formative years where I was searching for myself when I already knew who I was. But, those here at home continue to become apart of me as the thread of our memories continue. The essay grows ever-longer, as does my gratitude list for all I have learned walking in their footsteps.

Good luck, R. I'm excited for what awaits you!