No requirement. No insistence. Just a chance, if they wanted to take it.
The points themselves—they hardly meant a thing to this talented bunch. The chance to return to their work, to their selves—that was the thing. We find the heart of our stories not the first time we write them, not the second time or third. We find the heart of our stories when we begin again, or look again, when we say, Maybe this.
After a long day, after an afternoon of such crushing corporate pressures that I could not go, as I had wanted to, to church, I have read the work of the four students who chose to revise their memoirs.
Two wrote newly, from scratch.
Two amended from within.
Each of them soared. Each of them soars.
I am the proudest prof alive. This is God's goodness to me, on this Good Friday.
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