I remember sitting beneath a cherry tree on a bench in front of the library with Dr. Shelley. I remember a sense of disappointment in my heart as he pleaded with me to not drop his writing class.
I signed up for his writing course because I wanted to learn how to write. At the time I was headed into curriculum writing for youth ministry and my writing was horrible. (It still is). I had always wanted to be a writer and had never really put anything on paper except in my own personal journal. The first day of class we were asked to write something, anything. And when I did, I got lots of red scribbles and a critique that left me speechless. I was destroyed. My entire career planning had hinged on my ability to write well. My hope in becoming a writer crumbled to pieces.
It was my first ever writing course, my first ever assignment, my first ever critique. And I gave up. I didn’t have tough skin to deal with the criticism. I was young, perhaps too young to be in seminary taking this kind of course. I was too young to take constructive criticism. I was too young to find a way to trust and believe that a man like Bruce Shelley could teach and mold me into a writer.
And so I gave up. I walked into Dr. Shelley’s office and asked him to sign my withdraw slip. He signed it with a look of disappointment. I walked out and didn’t even think about it. But then he called. He emailed. He wanted to meet with me.
I didn’t want to face him. I was a failure and insecure about my writing. I didn’t want him to change my mind. After several days of ignoring him, I couldn’t do it any longer. Under that tree on the bench, I experienced and heard a man who had a passion for people, for God, for writing.
He pleaded with me to return to his course. He had never had anyone withdraw and he wanted to see me succeed. Sensing his heart and passion, I was letting him down. With a lump in my throat holding back the tears, I couldn’t bring myself to reconsider. He begged and pleaded with me. While I sat there and listened to a man I respected, I couldn’t get over the idea that I was failing him as a professor. I knew I was failing myself too but I was frozen.
He apologized for failing me as a writer. He pleaded for me to give it another chance. I couldn’t look him in the eye because when I did, I could sense that...
...he saw something in me that even to this day, I have yet to see in myself.
...he saw potential. I think he saw someone who had passion.
...he saw an opportunity to invest in a young, perhaps too young, seminary student.
I failed him. I disappointed Bruce Shelley.
He didn’t fail me. I failed him.... I failed myself.
He prayed for me on that bench under the cherry tree. Then he stood up and walked away.
This past month, I found out that Dr. Shelley passed away.
And so I write to remember the day I disappointed him.
And I write to redeem that disappointment.
And I wish that I could go back to that bench and reconsider my decision.
But I move on. And I will write. I will write to honor him.....and honor Him.
