Before working at Southern High School, I was a second-grade teacher and I had the pleasure of meeting Maddie. Let me introduce you.

Blond ringlets springing out in all directions. Clothes slightly wrinkled, sometimes mismatched. That was Maddie.

Papers scattered all around her desk ... rulers, pencils, notebooks sticking out the side. Maybe a hastily sketched picture drawn onto the desktop with markers. Maddie. Stubborn as a mule.

"Open your book to page 54."

"No," Maddie would say.

"Maddie, now!" was my reply.

"Maddie, rewrite this paper. You have erased holes all in it."

"No."

"Then you'll do it during recess."

All year long Maddie and I battled for control. Probably because we both knew what it felt like to lose it.

You could say that Maddie and I were just plain lucky. I was lucky to have this second-grade teaching job. Before taking this position, I didn't know if I would ever work again after being placed on disability due to an illness.

Maddie was lucky, too ... lucky to be alive. It hadn't been long ago that she and her older brother survived a car wreck that killed both her mother and older sister.

So battle lines were set. We were out to prove we could live again.

"Maddie, get in line. You're making us late."

At the end of that year, I took my class to the auditorium for the awards ceremony. All 13 students sat proudly in a row, heads held high, waiting to hear their name. Ready to move across the stage, to another grade level, another adventure.

As the principal stepped up to begin handing out awards, I noticed a head full of blond curls moving toward me. Those familiar blond ringlets that sprang out in so many directions, refusing to be tamed. As gracefully as a cat, Maddie slinked across the legs of her classmates, moving slowly in my direction. Next she crawled into my lap and nestled in.

"Maddie, you're supposed to be in your seat," I whispered. "Maddie."

"Oh well," I sighed, "You can stay." "It will be OK."

"We're going to be OK."