The two-lane road, still covered with the previous night’s snowfall, blends into the surrounding drifts in the predawn. My eyes search the dark corridor of trees as far ahead as I can see, watching for any movement or flash of an eye that might signal a deer about to leap. The sun is nowhere near the horizon at this hour, but I am bound for the long-term care facility in the neighboring town where my novice nursing students will continue their experiences with actual patients. They are assigned to work in pairs for these first days to facilitate efficiency, safety, and self-confidence. My task at this hour is to consult with the night shift to determine the best assignments for these earnest learners.

Our school is located in a small town that sits a mere hour north of Minnesota’s main metro area. And yet, the leap from urban to rural is more than geographic. It is as if a mountain of impassable proportions lies between us. This community has its own history, shared experience, and expectations. The challenges I had found in the many countries I called home over the past decades of my life are as present here as they ever were there. If anything, there is a more resistant cultural code to crack, as to all appearances I should belong. Minnesota is the land of my birth, yet it contributed little to my upbringing – with the exception of college. But then, college is its own world.

Suitable residents selected and delegated, the students research and prepare for morning cares. Though details of each student and resident are destined to fade from my memory, one picture will remain indelibly etched there.

As I round the corridors, checking with and checking on my students, I pause outside the door of a middle-aged woman whose MS has bound her early to a wheelchair. Her relative youth contributes to her robust mind and spirit, though her body is seriously compromised. Her instructions to the two students in her room are crystal clear: after bathing her edematous legs, she would like the students to massage them with her preferred skin cream before wrapping them carefully with elastic bandages.

The students drop to their knees side by side to carry out these instructions – one beside each leg at the foot of her large electric wheelchair. And this is where the memory sears itself into my mind. I note the confident movements of their hands as they work and know that they have learned these things through practice in lab, so allow my attention to shift to their heads, which are bent intently on their task.

The head of the first sports a stylish cut and color; she is a trained beautician. She was born and raised in this area. When not in uniform, she is trendy and confident, from perfect make-up to perfect nails. Though her previous profession contributes to well-being and helps many, her ambition is to achieve this by following a different path.

The head of the other is covered with a modest hijab. I cannot see her ears or her hair. Her custom-made student uniform consists of an ankle-length skirt in the same color as her school tunic. She is Somali, the daughter of a businessman who has traveled the world. Her long-term ambition is to develop her chosen profession and perhaps contribute to the elevation of healthcare in her former country. She is soft-spoken, but equally confident. Her hands are tiny but competent.

I cannot imagine a more dramatic picture of two worlds meeting in harmony. It is urban and rural; it is worldly and local. And it works beautifully. These two heads are linked by one heart – a heart devoted to caring and to making a difference to this woman – and in the world.

I wish that everyone could see it.

Mary Satre Kerwin © 2026