As you may remember, I religiously read the obituaries every day. Last week one caught my eye. Included in the list of survivors was my fourth and fifth grade teacher, Sister Rose Cecile, a member of the Order of Saint Joseph. I have thought of this woman often. She saved my life.

    It is no secret that I did not appreciate some of the nuns who educated me: those who told my parents I was not working up to my potential or checked the box on my report card that said, Distracts Others. Or cut tiny little squares in letters my sister sent me at boarding school-each incision protecting my pure mind from a forbidden swear word.

    But Sister Rose Cecile was different. I can't say I held her in high regard the day she selected me to clean the desk of a classmate who had lost her lunch as we prayed the rosary. But most days, I thought Sister was the nicest teacher in my school. She smiled at us all day long and never wagged a pointing finger in my face or made me feel like I had committed an unforgivable sin. Instead, on the last day of fourth grade, she asked me to stay after school to help straighten the closet and pack books-an honor.

    Along with a few other chosen students, I worked as hard as I could to put away fourth grade, dreaming of fall when I would take my place on the other side of the classroom as a fifth grader. When we finished cleaning, Sister opened a drawer of her desk and took out a gift for each of us. Mine was a small locket on a silver chain. Painted on the white porcelain was a tiny pink rose. Sister slid the front away from the back to reveal a medal of Mary, then placed it around my neck and hooked the clasp. Afraid to let the other kids see my tears, I gave her a hug and ran from the room, throwing a thank you over my shoulder. My footsteps echoed as I hurried down the flight of stairs and outside to my mother's car.

    With my sisters and brother in the rear seat and me in the front, Mom headed east on 50th Street. I don't remember where we were going because we never reached our destination. A driver who didn't heed the red light on Lyndale Avenue smashed into our car. I heard the officer tell my mother the man in the back of his police car had alcohol on his breath. A kind woman led us to her nearby house so we could use the telephone. While we waited for Dad to arrive, we watched a truck tow away our mangled car.

    I felt blessed a few weeks later when my father drove us to the body shop of an automobile dealership and pointed skyward. There on a pedestal, high above the parking lot, was our red and white station wagon. A sign proclaimed it the "Wreck of the Month." As I fingered the chain around my neck, I was certain Sister's gift had insured our safety that day and I vowed to wear the locket forever.

    For Sister Rose Cecile