It was one of those fall evenings where the light starts to fade earlier and everything feels much later than it should be: the night, the projects due, the dinner that no one’s gotten to yet. The symposium had gone well…what little I could understand of it. Sometimes I wondered how I even got into college and even now I felt like an infiltrator, sitting in the back of the classroom, pretending I could actually be a part of this world where people defended their papers to their peers.

At least I can be a chauffeur if the whole academic thing doesn’t work out, I thought as I accompanied a small group of students outside who were helping our Literature professor get settled into my car. She had fallen off of a ladder a couple of weeks ago and broken her leg.

It took a little while to get her situated – my car was low to the curb, tricky to navigate with crutches. As she got situated, I glanced around at my peers: the philosophy student moonlighting as a literary critic for the night, the girl with a passion for theater, her roommate who attended every kind of research symposium she could, one of the few male literature majors, and the dear friend who made everyone feel like they had significance. An eclectic bunch to be sure, drawn together by our love for literature and for our professor – a single woman who encouraged her students to dream big.

“You sure you two will be alright?” The male literature major asked me.

I nodded, but double-checked to see if our professor felt comfortable traveling with a literary imposter.

She grinned up at all of us. “Oh yeah! Getting in a car is difficult, but I have a much easier time getting out. Plus, I have a friend at home who can help us if we have trouble.”

“Ok.” He carefully closed her door and glanced at me. “Thanks for driving her.”

“Of course,” I murmured and walked around the car to get in, a little nervous. I’d had another student with me to pick her up, but it was just going to be me taking her home. I dreaded starting a conversation, but not as much as I dreaded an awkward silence the whole way to her house.

She was far from a difficult person to talk to. Oh no, the problem, as always, was me. I don’t know how to have small talk. I don’t know how to ask the right questions that will lead to a conversation longer than five minutes. I envied my classmates’ ability to talk with anyone about anything. They were all so smart in so many different areas, whereas I struggled even talking about things that I loved.

I slid into the driver’s seat, every move deliberate and slow. Engine started, lights on, seatbelt buckled, shift into drive, pull out of the school. The dark quiet of the road swallowed my black car, save for the few feet my headlights illuminated ahead of us.

The atmosphere felt thick to me, but a glance at my professor showed that she was perfectly relaxed. She caught me looking and smiled, “You’re graduating this year, right?”

“Yes.” I licked my lips, knowing which question she was going to ask next.

“Any special plans for afterwards?”

“Not particularly. I know I want to get published, but I don’t know what to look for in a job.” I decided to go ahead and fend off the inevitable next question, “I don’t really want to teach.”

“Ah.” She didn’t sound disappointed by the fact, nor did she follow up with What else are you going to do with a Literature Degree? I felt some of my tension slip away as she continued with warm consideration, “Will you stay in the area?”

“I’d like to, but I don’t think that will happen,” I tried to keep the frustration of my own unknown future out of my voice, but I don’t think I was successful.

“I was the same way when I graduated college, I did nothing related to my degree the first few years. It was kind of fun actually – I got to learn a few things I wouldn’t have otherwise. It gave me a chance to figure out what I really wanted to do.” I could feel her looking at me and her understanding tone warmed my heart. “It’s okay to do that, you know?”

“Yeah.” My throat felt tight. “It’s just hard not to know what comes next.”

“It is, but don’t make a hasty decision just to feel secure. You don’t want to get locked into a career you hate. Get your feet wet, explore a little, God will make it clear what you’re supposed to do.” She settled more comfortably into her seat, content. “Even if you end up doing something completely different, the stories you get along the way are well worth writing down.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

She hummed in agreement and pointed to the street ahead of us. “My house is right off there.”

I don’t think she realized how important this conversation was to me. God knew I needed to hear those words just at that moment, because He knew the struggles I would be facing for the next couple of years. The difficulty of finding a full-time job, the nagging fear that I was never going to do anything of value, the disappointment I would see in the faces of loved ones when I ended up working retail for the first couple of years. He knew I would look back to that night and find hope in getting my feet wet and exploring, collecting stories to write about along the way.

And He knew that I would treasure the memory of that last conversation with my beloved Literature professor, because He knew He was bringing her home a few weeks later and I wouldn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye.

I will always be thankful for her. Her story touched mine and gave me the words to navigate the plot twists that keep coming. I know she’s still writing her own adventures and I hope to do her proud while I’m still plodding in the shadowlands. Until we meet again, my friend.