On my final day in the United Kingdom, I took one last walk through the courtyards of my college at Cambridge. Its walls were the remains of a medieval abbey, some of the oldest operational buildings on campus. At its center, a green courtyard filled with jonquils gave way to a high brick wall split by a narrow arch, through which stood the heavy, dark door of my dissertation supervisor.
Given the hours I’d spent on my master’s dissertation—a long slog on Reinhold Niebuhr and Saint Augustine—I knew that door better than any other on campus. I couldn’t pass it by without knocking on the old wood and poking my head inside for a final time.
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