In the end, Father John believed my commitment. I hope you do too. Here is our agreement: you will pay for graduate school, and I will write you letters that give an honest accounting of my life and school—and you will never write back. That simple, right?
Thank you for that, Mr. Knightley—your anonymity. Honesty is easier when you have no face and no real name. And honesty, for me, is very easy on paper.
I also want to assure you that while I may not relate well to people in the real world, I shine in school. It’s paper-based. I will do your grant justice, Mr. Knightley. I’ll shine at Medill.
I know I’ve said more than was necessary in this letter, but I need you to know who I am. We need to have an honest beginning, even if it’s less impressive than Lizzy Bennet’s.
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
APRIL 21
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Each and every moment things change. For the most part, I loathe it. Change never works in my favor—as evidenced by so many foster placements, a holdup at a Chicago White Hen, getting fired from Ernst & Young, and so many other changes in my life I’d like to forget. But I needed one more—a change of my own making—so I pursued your grant again.
But it’s not of my own making, is it?
Father John told me this morning that he was the one who proposed journalism for me—it was not an original requirement for your grant. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. My professor at Roosevelt College said I produced some of the best work on Austen, Dickens, and the Brontes he’d ever read. I’mgoodat fiction, Mr. Knightley. And I don’t think it’s right that Father John took away my choice. I’m twenty-three years old; I should be the author of the changes in my life.
I went to Father John and explained all this. I feel he has arbitrarily forced me into journalism—a field I don’t know and don’t write. “You need to undo that,” I pleaded. “They’ll listen to you.”
Father John closed his eyes. One might think he’d fallen asleep, but I knew better. He was praying. He does that—a lot.
Minutes passed. He opened his eyes and zeroed in on me. Sometimes I feel his eyes are tired, but not at that moment. They were piercing and direct. I knew his answer before he opened his mouth.
“Sam, I won’t . . . but you can. Write the foundation’s director and ask.” Father John stared into my eyes, measuring his words. “Don’t lie. Don’t tell them I’ve changed my mind. I have not. I am wholly against a change in program.”
“How can you say that?” My own shrill voice surprised me.
“I’ve known you for eight years, Sam. I’ve watched you grow, I’ve watched you succeed, and I’ve watched you retreat. I want the best for you, and with every fiber of my being, I am convinced that ‘the best’ is not more fiction, but finding your way around in the real world and its people.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Consider carefully. If the foundation is unwilling to alter your grant, you may accept or you may walk away. You always have a choice.”
“That’s not fair.”
Father John’s eyes clouded. “My dear, what in your life has ever come close to fair? That’s not how this life works.” He leaned forward and stretched his hands out across the desk. “I’m sorry, Sam. If I could protect you from any more pain, I would. But I can only pray and do the very best God calls me to do. If I’m wrong about this, I hope that someday you will forgive me.”
“ ‘My temper would perhaps be called resentful.—My good opinion once lost is lost forever.’ ” When Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t come through, one can always count on Mr. Darcy to provide the right response. I shook my head and, quoting no one, said, “I won’t forgive you, Father John. I don’t forgive.” And I walked out.
I don’t care if that was ungenerous, Mr. Knightley. He overstepped, and he’s wrong. So now I’m asking you: Will you let me decide?
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
APRIL 25
Dear Ms. Moore,
Please forgive me for violating our agreement already, but I felt your question warranted a personal reply.
I understand your anger. It is hard when others hold power over you. Rest assured, your situation is not unique. There is very little any of us chooses in isolation.
Through my foundation, Father John has helped five young adults from Grace House. One attended junior college; another, trade school; one graduated from cosmetology school; and two successfully completed residential treatment programs. Each individual has grown closer to whole.
Father John not only fulfilled all the grant requirements for your application, but wrote me an additional five pages outlining your writing abilities, your gifts, and your determination. His decision to recommend journalism school was not made lightly, as you well know. Remember that, and remember what he has meant in your life. Don’t throw away friends and mentors carelessly. They are rare.
