All it took was an Oreo. Hot, sticky eight-year-old tears flowed down my face, and all I needed was an Oreo cookie. Sometimes the biggest acts of compassion are stuffed into the tiniest of packages. And that’s why I believe in Oreo cookies. I ran in from recess that day with the imprint of the red bouncy ball still tattooed on my face. At least that’s the way it felt to me. An innocent victim trapped in the crossfire of a dodgeball game, my head was still ringing from the impact when I rushed into the door of my 2nd grade classroom. Mrs. Lott, my angelic second grade teacher, was the closest thing to a motherly figure for me at that exact moment. “It looks to me like you could use an Oreo, sweetie,” she stated matter-of-factly as she adjusted the glasses on her narrow nose. “O-o-okay,” I stuttered between sobs. She helped me wipe my tears with a Kleenex from the industrial size box of tissues on her desk. As she went to the cupboard to pull out her magic stash of Oreos, I looked around our classroom. Stacks of books just waiting to be read were lined up next to bottles of Elmers glue, soldiers ready for battle. Mrs. Lott’s lovingly-watered plants sprang to life on the windowsill; everything about the room exuded learning and comfort. Mrs. Lott neatly arranged two Oreos on a paper towel on my desk. My tears had now subsided, and the chocolately goodness was just the comfort food I needed. Mrs. Lott’s hug didn’t hurt either. “Now this is our little secret,” Mrs. Lott whispered as the other students started marching back in from recess. “Oreos are only for special occasions like today.” Her compassion came in words and in the form of a simple cookie. Years later Mrs. Lott’s lesson in compassion still echoed in my heart. I was in my early twenties when I learned that Mrs. Lott was dying of cancer. When I closed my eyes to picture her, I saw her gray halo of hair and that smile that made every student feel like her special pet. She couldn’t be dying of such an ugly disease. I didn’t know if a package of Oreos would be comfort food to Mrs. Lott, so I used the form of compassion that I’ve learned best through the years since that lesson in second grade -- my words. William Wordsworth wrote that we should fill our papers with the breathings of our heart. That’s what I did that day in my letter to Mrs. Lott. I told her just how much her Oreo meant to me, and I promised her that I would always try to be a teacher who showed compassion just as she had taught me. Her husband later told my dad that her feeble fingers wore the edges of that letter as she read and reread it in the days leading up to her death. A simple letter to say thank you for a simple cookie.
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