"Wait Until Morning"

The car I drove in high school was not my father's Oldsmobile. It was my mothers.

By 1981, the car was only of kindergartner age, but the candy-apple paint job had long since faded. The interior showed bruises and bumps. The 1976 Olds Cutlass was a real babe maggot.

The car moved nervously through the parking lot of Tennessee Tech’s Hooper Eblem Center. Dozens of students already stood in an obedient alphabetical line dressed in your basic black Supreme Court Justice robes. Mortarboards feverishly awaited their tassel- moving moment. Clipboard carrying teachers herded the line toward the tunnel's dark entrance. The afternoon sunlight touched hot fingers across the shoulders of the class.

My wingtips pinched all the way across the parking lot. Wade Ledford broke ranks in the L section for brief conversation. Droplets of water hung at the edges of Wade's hair. With a swing of his head, the water fell, almost sizzling on the skillet black pavement.

"I hear Capt'n Bob's not gonna give us our diplomas until morning." Wade said, using the secret, affectionate name of our principal, Bob Holloway.

I tugged at the necktie hugging my throat. "He knows us too well, doesn’t he, Wade?" I said.

"Yep," Wade said. "Guess he wants to get us out of bed one last time. All he's gonna hand us tonight is an empty diploma cover."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," I said. "You going?"

Wade spat on the ground. "Recon so." Wade resumed his place in line.

As I stood at the sidewalk’s edge, I reviewed the mental photographs I had taken over the past three years. The clouds hung high that graduation day on our young lives of hope, of promise, and life. The Class of '57 may have had their dreams, but the Class of '81 had their dreams, too.

My mind drifts to a typical day.

It's Monday. I make my way across the Yard Ape Parking Lot; walk through the gates of the barbed wire fences, and toward my first period class. My football buddies and I still occasionally wear our faded jerseys, even though the clock reads 0:00 on our careers.

In first period, Mrs. Blair escorts us through a World History tour in fifty minutes. I walk across the courtyard and enter Mrs. Hatcher’s world of Psychology and Sociology. At 9:50 AM, the long-awaited bell rings for the ten-minute break.

I walk to the front hallway with the rest of the jocks, the foxes, the dorks, and the rednecks. After two solid hours of hard work, we needed recovery time from the whole ordeal.

At ten AM, I hand Mrs. Fernandez my essay, "Flags Of These United States." She doesn't look up as I lay the essay on her desk. The blue ink and white spiral-edged paper belies the labor of love contained in the essay. Lately my "grade boat" has sailed some rough storms in Mrs. Fernandez’ class. With a good grade on the essay, I might pull my grade point average above water and into the high C’s.

It's now 11:00 AM. Do you know where your history textbook is? Mr. Salee stands before the history class with tweed jacket, khaki pants and total recall of American History. He talks of King George and George Washington, of Thomas Jefferson and Jefferson Davis, of Benjamin Franklin and Franklin Roosevelt as if they could, at any moment, come through the chalkboard behind him and personally attack us.

At lunchtime, Vice Principal Carr swings the cafeteria doors wide. He smiles his way to the head of the lunch line in front of 15 hungry teenagers.

Someone needles him. "Coach Carr- you’re cuttin’ line again!"

Gertis Carr, the most misunderstood man in Putnam County, explains his act of selfless public service. His voice softens, his eyes fill with compassion- "I’m just making sure you folks don’t get any poisoned food," he says. He extends his hands warmly; bewildered we misunderstand his benevolent and protective work. Kings and Queens need wine tasters, and we needed Coach Carr. To my knowledge, terrorists never poisoned anyone in the cafeteria of Putnam County Senior High School. And we have Coach Carr to thank for it.

After lunch, it is grade time in Mr. Little's class. I receive my science grade and walk out of the class. The sun smiles brightly on the grade card I hold in my hand; a B plus. I hear tell Mr. Little now holds the high office of principal. I offer my grade as Exhibit A- Mr. Little secretly believes and practices social promotion.

At school day’s end, I make one last pilgrimage to the Eddie "Jelly" Watson Athletic Field House. The sophomores and juniors prepare for next season like lambs prepare for sacrificial offerings. Coach Wrasman notices me. His relaxes his jaw momentarily and almost smiles. "Joe Brooks, what are you doing in here?" he asks. A few months ago, I viewed life from the protective shell of a football helmet. And now, those days have already faded like last year’s jersey. "Just seeing how you’re doing without me these days, Coach," I shot back. He laughs, tenses his jaw once more, and goes back to the sheep.

With those memories tucked neatly away, we walk through the graduation exercises. Then, as swiftly as we entered the Hooper-Eblem Center, we exit the tunnel. Now we are alums of Putnam County High School and we scream at the top of our lungs. We hold our empty diploma covers high and wave our mortarboards. Principal Holloway had played one last joke on the Class of 1981. We would have to return to school on Saturday.

The joke’s on us… ha ha ha…. He’ll have one last look at our shining faces… ha ha ha….

But, nevertheless, we celebrate at ear-splitting levels. Boys laugh, girls cry. Rednecks shake hands with jocks, foxes hug dorks. We have finished the courses, we have kept the faith.

We exit the tunnel as the last fingers of sunlight bathe a path into the early evening. The clouds rolled back as the evening sky winks wishes and dreams for our futures. For delivery on the signed and sealed diplomas, though, we must wait until morning.

I often feel all these things happened not twenty years ago, but twenty heartbeats ago. Fourteen heartbeats ago, I married a girl named Lisa. Eight heartbeats ago, I held a boy- all nine pounds, fifteen ounces of him whom we named Kyle Joseph. Four heartbeats ago, we welcomed all eight pounds and six ounces of Graham Walton as he cried and peed his way into the world.

And then… in just a few more heartbeats, my boys will be in Junior High.

And the day after that, they will be screaming at the top of their lungs at their own high school graduations.

And the day after that, they will be reflecting on how wonderfully brief life is at their own twenty-year high school reunion. "Life is a vapor that appears for a short time and then vanishes away," said the Apostle James.

Since your life’s beginning, a warm and gentle hand has laid on your shoulder. He spilled sunlight on your path as you walked into your first grade classroom. He helped you love again even after the first heartbreak of Junior High. He squeezed your hand in his as you asked for His help during the trials of Senior High. Beyond high school, He saw you each time you fell. He held your hand as you got up again.

He’s been hoping you’d notice the path of light you and He could take together. He owns the cattle on a thousand hills and the golden paved streets of heaven. Yet, the thing He would treasure most of all is your presence at the reunion He is preparing in heaven with Him. "For God so loved the class of 1981 that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life" is the life He offers freely. If you would but believe Him and take Him at His Word, you could spend eternity in heaven with Him.

Until that day arrives, class of 1981, here's to our next twenty years. May all your dreams come true.

Even if we must wait until morning.