Metanoia

Yesterday in my school mailbox I spotted a small white envelope scribbled with what appeared to be female handwriting.  I opened the envelope with curiosity and gazed upon the first graduation invitation of the year.   Mind you, I do get many of these, complete with portraits and announcement cards, but this one shook me up for two reasons: first because it was from my last school (where I toiled for six years and wrote about in most of my previous entries), and second because it contained a personalized letter.  Through her prose, this girl wrote of a man who was one of the most influential adults in her life.  She told of memories where she watched seniors at graduation walk across the stage, and then run to the band to hug him.  She marveled at how he smiled and beamed as the students left the humid and noisy stadium for the world of adulthood.  This girl confessed yearning for the day when it would be her turn, and how heartbroken she was when he left after her sophomore year.  Her last sentence was a plea, “Please come hug us.”  Up to this point I pictured this scene at a distance, as an observer.  But as I read word after word, my emotions swelled as scales from my heart melted into pure flowing joy.   My anger and scorn at the administration of that school district was bested by the love of a young soul.  I left the office and returned to the bandhall, carefully folded the letter, tucked it back into the invitation and placed it on my desk.  Then I booked a hotel room.