As an undergraduate at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, I majored in English. I didn’t say a word – at least not aloud, in class, as response to a question or to ask a question. I was silent, except when I visited with another student, someone who sat next to me in class, say. But I was listening. I had been silent in high school, too, although I joined a forensic society and was able to make presentations to my classes with ease. It would take several years – long years – after I’d graduated and moved on to my first position with the Federal Government as a Claims Representative for Social Security, assigned to the Field Office in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and even later, when I moved across country to study at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, to settle into life in Northern California, before I’d break through the shell of the shame that kept me silent as my busy mind answered questions, wrote papers.
The name of the class intrigued me. “Theology and Literature.” And so, as was my way, I sat silently in class as the instructor – an Episcopal Priest who seemed to enjoy teaching (I remember that!) began the first meeting by explaining that we’d be writing papers, and that to receive an “A” in the course, we would also be expected to take part in class discussions. I knew that an “A” was out for me then – because I never spoke up in class. But I was an avid student; I loved the literature and I loved the focus we took. And I knew this: I had a mind for what we were reading, what we were studying, for what the professor brought to us.
I wrote the requisite papers and completed the semester without having said a word. And I waited along with the other students as the final paper of the semester was returned. And I waited also, to receive my final grade in the class. There it was: “A.”
I’d done it! And that “A” got my attention. It confirmed my thought that I had a way with this kind of thinking, for theology, for a way to bring together literature – which I loved – and theology – which I also loved.
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My semester in a student in “Theology and Literature” came to mind today as my husband and I looked over the collection of a lifetime of poems I hope to have published. I’ve always thought: “someday.” It seems that in these elder years, the “somedays” of life are having to step into the light, or be banished forever from my hopes, my dreams. “Someday, I’d like to have my poems published.” The sting of jealousy that accompanies my experience when a friend publishes still arrives some days. But someday – my someday – seems to be now.
