I'd dare say some professors revel in watching their students struggle. They ply their pupils with crushing amounts of work and then sit back to witness the ensuing meltdowns. They withhold affirmation and praise like they've got the last canteen of water on a desert expedition. They value answers more than questions and find fault with open minds.

Others have seen time and cynicism steal their spark—the reason they chose to educate others in the first place has become a mystery to them. I'm unable to count on both hands the number of times my excitement to learn has been drenched by a professor's apathy.

So you, I must say, stand out like a white flag in a sea of red.

I imagine you must wake up every morning with the singular thought, "How can I help my students succeed?" Because day after day you enter the classroom possessing a vibrant, adventurous spirit that never seems to leave you. Even as the discussion devolves into theories and shoots off on unexpected tangents. You understand that sometimes the greatest discoveries made aren't on the syllabus.

When one of your students doesn't make it into class, your first response is neither anger nor derision—but rather concern. Attendance matters little to you in comparison to your student's well-being, and as a result your students make a pointed effort to never miss your lessons. Or, at least, I do.

You hold tightly within yourself a knowledge that others forgot long ago: learning is an adventure. The endeavor to know more ought to be fun, in your opinion. My own spirit is bolstered by this, and the belief that should I stumble in this endeavor, you will be there to lend a helping hand. Not because it's in your job description, but because you wish to create a standard to which others aspire.