SHORT ON HOPE 

by Jennifer Funck Sawvel

Leelanau School Class of 2000

My English class was taught in a two-story observatory on a sandy shore on Michigan’s Leelanau Peninsula. When I learned that I would need to don boots and gloves and brave the bitter cold of northern winters to attend a class, I wasn’t thrilled. Winter can stretch its cold embrace up there and hold you in its dark and cloudy arms until you have almost given up hope of warmth. 

I was short on hope. 

I was alone in a small sea of strangers, all of us drifting in some way or another. We had all come to the end of a line, shipped off from all that was familiar with boxes filled with God knows what to a place that promised new beginnings. “A fresh start” was how my parents had sold it, but I wasn’t in the mood for buying.

My first thought about the observatory was that the administration wanted to make better use of the space. Obviously, telescopes have no use during the day, so they might as well be used for something. And it wasn’t as though I had much of a choice. I was more than a girl but less than a woman. My life felt not quite my own. I wore adolescence as awkwardly as most, caping myself with angry words and dramatic exits. Hormones and whatnot. But beneath that facade was a rawness that threatened to bleed through if I didn’t keep moving. So I pulled on my boots, adjusted my scarf, and began the trudge.

The academic building, where all the other classes were held, was, in all honesty, probably only about 400 feet from the observatory. A short walk by almost any standard. Over the Crystal River and through a forest of old trees. A wooden boardwalk led out to the boundless arms of fresh water and translucent sky.

There, nestled between the sand dunes, was Norm Wheeler.

I remember taking a deep breath where a sandy, worn trail met the boardwalk. My eyes drifted towards the old tree, etched with the names of generations who had turned left. I succumbed to the temptation many times, sharing her long limbs and smokey shadows, skipping out on more than class.

But Norm’s class made me want to walk straight. It was a sanctuary. A place where I was encouraged to examine and express, to be both skeptical and open. To find my voice and let it be heard. If only by Norm.

That was how I met him.

In an observatory that opened eyes to the heavens. As magical as this may sound, I must tell you that it was more so.

I listened as he wove words, each syllable touched with intention. Each sentence molded, shaped, and infused with magic that I could see he believed. Not as others believe. He led as a shaman, transporting me to a different place and time and returning me to the present, changed—alit with newfound power.

The magic infused me.

Years later, I came to realize the observatory was a nest. A nest built by a man whose heart has broken through concrete facades a thousand times. In this nest, he kept trying. Asking. For you. For me. To share true words. From the soul.

Since our time together, my passion for the word has only grown. The seedling star that I carried away in my pocket has been tended and mindfully nourished. I read with my children and share the gift of my teacher. And I think of him often as I gaze up at the stars.