I was looking forward to returning to my classroom that fall, but I kept thinking about Laura, who had graduated the previous spring. Even as I eagerly anticipated new faces, I was already missing her enormous smile and infectious laughter. 

Ironically, I never had her in class. The first year I came to the high school she was assigned to my study hall.  That was the full extent of our classroom contact. In a sense I got to teach her anyway, as she asked for help quite frequently with her American Literature homework. Consequently we forged some kind of odd connection, and gradually she began to share stories about her life, asking me for some of mine in return. 

We discovered fairly soon that we had something very important in common: we had both known cancer all too intimately. My son had been one of cancer’s victims, and her mother had died of breast cancer when Laura was in the eighth grade. And so, one of the best stories Laura shared with me was one about her mother.

Laura’s mother had a very close, compassionate friend who journeyed with her through the land of cancer, through the land of dying. Laura’s mother confided to this friend that she was particularly sorry to be leaving her youngest daughter Laura, because Laura, just in middle school, was at a vulnerable age for such a loss. She still really needed a mother. It occurs to me now that Laura’s need for a mother may have been one of the reasons we connected so easily—she was perhaps on the look-out for potential mother figures to nurture her.

Laura loved bagels. She and her mom went out for a bagel and coffee whenever her mom was feeling up to it.  Those were times of laughter and confidences, times when perhaps the threat of death was held at bay for a bit.  Perhaps because of those small celebrations, Laura’s mom asked her dear friend for a favor.

During our first Monday study hall together, Laura was called to the office near the end of the hour. She returned with a bag of bagels. She shared one with a friend in the study hall, and quietly ate hers while she finished her math homework. 

I began to notice that this little ritual occurred every Monday. After we began talking together, Laura offered me a bagel every Monday too. One day I casually asked her how she managed to get a bag of bagels delivered so consistently. She hesitated only for a moment, and then replied, “Well, my mom and I loved bagels, and so she asked her friend to bring a bag to me every week during my high school years so that I would remember how much she loved me.” Then she added, “When I eat one, I think I can hear her laugh.”

Laura graduated from high school. I knew I would miss her. She was moving on to a bigger world, considering what career she might want to pursue. I gave her a small graduation gift and wrote her a note saying that I thought her mother would be very proud of what a lovely person she was becoming. 

Laura’s mother’s friend completed her task and kept her promise. I would like to be able to meet that friend to tell her that in honoring that small Monday ritual she taught Laura—and one of Laura’s teachers– that one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit is faithfulness.

Header photo by Robert Gareth on Unsplash