“Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.” Proverbs 16:24
“What do you think?” I asked our high school yearbook teacher. We both poured over my latest article about the football team, a topic I usually knew nothing about. Ms. Dawson’s jolly cheeks were flushed as always, a little bit of perspiration glistening on her upper lip. She was a rather round and lovely lady with a Dorothy Hamill bowl-cut hairdo; a woman I had come to love and respect for her caring ways. She hobbled around the room, making sure that everyone was working hard and had what they needed. Today was no different. Out of breath, she leaned over my shoulder and paused to read my work.
“S-”, She sighed. Then she sat down as if she had some heavy news to unload, a concerned look etching lines between her brows. “What do you want to do with your life?”
“Be a writer.” I said without hesitation.
She nodded. “I see. Well . . . “ She looked to the floor, searching for words. “It’s just that when I envision your future, I see you not so much in a writing career, but maybe a . . . . hospitality career.” Ms. Dawson ended with a pleased look, as if she had just handed me a better alternative to my dream of writing.
And I’ll never forget it.
I entered a community college the next year and decided that, despite Ms. Dawon’s well intentioned advice, I would pursue a journalism degree. I walked into the guidance counselor’s office and sat down in front of a peevish little man with ill-fitting glasses.
“Journalism?! Oh, well, you don’t want to go into that. It’s really competitive. Maybe you should pursue a communications degree.”
I dropped out of community college less than a year later. I officially hated school and had lost my way.
But, a new opportunity arose, and I was soon walking the halls of a four year university in scenic Virginia. I quickly chose to study English and visited regularly with my guidance counselor, a curly red haired lady I adored. I sat in her Adolescent Lit class and American Lit class, soaking up her knowledge, marveling at her sophistication and confidence. She was what I wanted to be. I would pursue my masters degree after college, teach English at the collegiate level and be a writer. This was my plan.
Graduation was quickly approaching, and my sophisticated red headed teacher asked me to call her. She needed to discuss my paper with me. As I sat on my bedroom floor, anticipating her praise, I dialed her number.
“Thanks for calling, S-. I just wanted to ask you about your paper. I don’t think it was your best work.”
My heart sank as I listened to the rest of her relentless degradation of my work. But, it was her last words that stung the most.
“At this point, I wouldn’t recommend you for the graduate program. I just don’t see you in a writing career. I’m sorry.”
I thanked her and abruptly ended our conversation so that I could dissolve in tears and gut wrenching wails of angst. I was numb with disbelief.
I never attended graduate school.
Words are like honeycomb . . . healing to the bones.
10 years later. . .
I visited a well crafted and immensely creative blog last night, one I frequent often. What I found surprised me. Words of encouragement. Someone liked me. So, thank you pendrops. With your words, you have put a smile on my face that will last for a very long time.
