I was fifteen and awkward and insecure and shy.

Having four years in an itty-bitty private school before transitioning to public high school proved to be quite the shock.  I had a few friends, which helped, but deep down I was tense.  Freshman geometry class became my perpetual bad dream with a chain-smoking, frosted haired teacher who abhorred questions, and whose complete lack of patience made me wonder why on earth she was ever allowed to lead a classroom of any kind. 

So, on the first day of tenth grade I swallowed my panic as I exited homeroom and entered my Algebra 1-A classroom.  The “A” stood for average. 

First one in, I sat down and pretended to search for something, anything in my bag.  Tears threatened. Math had never been my friend.

“Hello there, young lady!” boomed a voice.  I looked up.

My new teacher.  Mr. Munroe.

Well.

He could not have been any different from chain-smoking geometry teacher.  Tall and large and freckled, with a Santa Claus belly, he reminded me of a fifty year old version of John Candy with a wise-guy smile.

Others drifted in to class as the bell rang.

Mr. Munroe stood by the blackboard.

“Let’s get one thing straight.  I am the teacher and you are my pupils.”

Snickering all around. He grinned.

“We will work on algebra in this classroom.  I like class participation and I love to joke.  First we do math, and then sometimes we will have conversation.”  He looked over the top of his glasses.

“My goal is to help my students understand this math and not be scared of it.”

Let me tell you.  We worked hard that year.  Mr. Munroe was the master of the classroom.  We were to be punctual.  No speaking while he was teaching.  Raising our hands and respecting others in the classroom was paramount.

Also, no “almost” answers in his classroom.

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” he quipped weekly.

Mr. Munroe might have been patient with math questions, but he was not patient with students who crossed the line.  We endured his quick Irish temper more than once.

One day, Megan, a bit of a wild thing, kept passing notes and talking while Mr. Munroe was scratching out problems on the chalkboard.  I felt my heartbeat quicken; I just knew he was going to call her out.

As he was working the problem, she kept up the whispering.  He did not turn from the chalkboard, but his hand stopped moving.

“Get out.”

The classroom grew still, and no one budged.

His voice, now louder:  “I said get out of my classroom.”

Silence.

“NOW!” he hollered.

Megan picked up her books and fled.

He turned and looked at us.  “No.Talking.While. I. Am.Teaching.  Got it?”

We got it.

“Now, let’s start this problem over.  If x=3, then….”

And so it went.

Towards the end of the term, I realized that I was actually understanding algebra.  My grades were mainly B’s, which was a tall victory in my world.

And then one Monday something was different.  We came into class, where Mr. Munroe was quietly leaning on his desk.

“Turn to page 198.”

We did.

He stared off into the distance.

“Nope. Close your books.  No math today.  Today you will get my two cents.”

And we did.  The night before, a teenager in a nearby town had died and killed someone else because of his drinking and driving.  So Mr. Munroe took the entire 40 minutes of class to warn about the stupidity of such decisions; decisions that could in one split second change our lives permanently.  He spoke to us from a place of deep concern.

He had our complete attention.

30 years have elapsed since that year of average algebra, and I have decided there was nothing average about it.  To this day, I can hear Mr. Munroe’s voice clearly:  “Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.”  I still remember how to solve for ‘x’.  And I still remember what it feels like to have a teacher care deeply about his students’ life outside of algebra.

Thank you, good sir.

It was the fall of our senior year at college.  Jon and I were recently engaged, and I remember the excitement and busyness of those days.  Wrapping up college and planning for a brand new future is no small thing, and my days were full of final term papers and short stories, working part-time at a campus office, and wedding planning.  There is just something about autumn time in the Midwest, all cold and beautiful and crisp.

It was in one of those senior writing classes that I met Karl.  I believe he had been in some of  my underclassman electives and composition classes, as he too, was a writing major.  I had just never really paid attention.

Karl was as thin as a rail….gaunt really.  Pale and wide-eyed and ever so quiet.  He seemed to be perpetually cold, wearing a beanie in between classes to keep the Indiana autumn wind at bay.  His backpack seemed to pull him earthward; he was that small.  Melancholy, you might have thought of him.

Our common major threw us together in more classes that senior year, but it was in our short story class that we became better acquainted.

Karl could write.

Good gracious, could he write.

The stories that poured themselves from his mind appeared effortless.  Penetrating, deep, and appropriately witty, Karl drew the reader in immediately.  When the story was over, one was left with the imprint of God.  This was done winsomely and sweetly and quietly.  Like Karl.

One day our professor had us swap papers.  “Kristin, you and Karl switch papers.”  We took them back to our dorms overnight, and were asked to read them and make red pen suggestions in the wide margins.

Karl carefully tucked my paper in his backpack and waved goodbye.

I took his and placed it in my notebook, wishing I didn’t have another class to go to.

His story, of course, was phenomenal.  When I reached the conclusion, my eyes were full of tears.  The story, I then believed, reflected who Karl was.  The main character felt invisible to his peers; his family.  Was I guilty of making Karl feel invisible during those college years?

I thought back to those many times that Karl ate supper alone in the Dining Commons, while most everyone ate with friends.  I recalled him reading a book before class started….rather than chit chatting.

I gave the paper back to him the next day; with scarcely a mark on it.

“It was wonderful,” I said quietly.  “Really, really good.”

He smiled briefly.  “I enjoyed your story too.” His voice was small.  He started to say something, but instead handed me my story as the professor began the lecture.

I flipped to the end of my story, and saw Karl’s steady, even handwriting.

“You write well.  But you don’t need to have a perfect ending every time.  Life isn’t that way.  Not everything can be fixed.”

My eyes smarted.  He was beautifully and painfully correct in his assessment.

I wonder what happened to Karl.  I made a point of saying hello to him often that year as we passed one another on that wide open campus. 

Karl knew God and understood that His ways are not our ways.  His stories reflected his assurance of faith in Jesus.  While on this earth, not everything can be fixed.

Nearly 25 years have passed and I still see that thin wisp of a boy, walking alone, backpack leaning heavily, shivering in the wind.