Chapter 6, part 2: End of School

I called Alicia with the news as soon as I got home. “Bummer,” she said. “But at least I’ll have you back as my break and lunch buddy for the last few weeks of school.” 

“Yeah, I kind of disappeared on you, didn’t I? Sorry about that.”

“No problem, I totally would have done the same thing if Chet went to this school. The tragedy of dating an older man, I’m telling you.”

The following Monday, I was surprised to see a girl in Quan’s seat. He looked up from the back of the room and caught my eye. He shrugged as if to apologize. I nodded slightly, confused. When he told me we couldn’t see each other I never expected him to cut off all contact like this. Why couldn’t we stay lab partners? It felt so strange to go from spending almost every possible moment of the school day with him to having to practically avoid each other. 

Thankfully, getting ready for the performance of Grease that weekend helped me put Quan out of mind. And Alicia, faithful friend, made sure the rest of my free time was spent in cheerful company.

My drama teacher had said he was casting me against type when he gave me the part of Rizzo. “It will be a challenge, and I’d like to see you stretch yourself. Don’t worry, we’re doing the school version, which skips the whole pregnancy plotline and other racy scenes from the movie.”

“I’ve never seen it,” I’d confided. Although my whole family loved musicals, my parents only let us see ones they deemed family-friendly.

“Even better. You have a blank slate to create your own version of the character without mimicking Stockard Channing.”

Playing a sarcastic, tough party girl ended up not being as much of a challenge as I thought. “Look at Me I’m Sandra Dee,” I sang with gusto. Ironic considering that if Rizzo met the real me, she’d mock me as mercilessly as she did Sandy.

Even in the G-rated version, it was pretty clear that Rizzo was way more experienced with boys than I was. I sometimes caught myself imagining what Rizzo and Kenickie might have been doing in those racy scenes from the movie.  Somehow I eked out enough willpower to stop the fantasy each time. I hoped Jolene would be proud of me for keeping my vow so well.

The play’s three night run was a huge success. Before we broke up, Quan had promised to attend every show. Each night I scanned the audience, looking for him. It was hard to see in the darkened theater against the glare of the spotlight, but I was pretty sure he didn’t make it. 

***

The last few weeks of high school flew by in a blur of tests and classes and friends and assemblies. Finally the week of graduation arrived, and with it a trip to Disneyland. My family had passes and we went all the time but it was still a treat to go with my fellow students. Mid-morning, Alicia and I took a break from the rides and relaxed on a low brick wall near the Haunted Mansion.

Molly Green, senior class president, plopped down next to us with a big friendly smile. “Hi! How are you two? Isn’t this a blast?” 

Senior Week, or maybe just Disney must have out the best in people I guess, because Molly didn’t normally give us the time of day. 

Molly continued, “Mind if I sit with you while I wait for my friends to come out of the Haunted Mansion? It gives me the creeps.” She took off the light jacket she had worn to ward off the chill of the morning overcast that locals liked to call May Gray. “So glad it burned off and didn’t rain today like they said it would!” she exclaimed, then sighed. “I’m going to miss coming here all the time when I’m up at Stanford.” 

Of the 450 students in the graduating class, fewer than one out of ten planned to leave Southern California, and even those few weren’t venturing much farther than the Bay Area. 

“Stanford, that’s really great,” Alicia said. “I’m sticking with community college for now. I couldn’t even imagine living so far from home. Won’t you get homesick?” She pointed at me. “Then there’s this one, going off to the snows of Ohio. I think I’d rather die!” 

“Why are you going to Ohio, Giselle?” Molly queried. I thought I detected vague disgust in her voice.

While had been feeling ever-so-slightly superior to Alicia and her fear of leaving home, suddenly I felt the need to apologize for my choice.

“Um, well…” I stumbled over an explanation about Oma paying my way, finishing up with, “She went Elk River, my uncles went there … I guess you could say it’s a family tradition,” hoping that the Molly would read between the lines and guess that I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“Oh, Elk River! That’s a Christian school, right? Good for you!” Molly responded with unexpected enthusiasm. 

That’s when I remembered that Molly was not only class president but also president of the Christian club on campus.

“Yeah, I guess you could say I felt led to go there,” I said, dropping a Christian catchphrase to establish my faith credentials with Molly. 

“Wow! That’s amazing. I wish I were so in touch with God’s will. I wish I had gotten to know you better, Giselle. Well, there’s my group, so I’ve gotta go. I’ll be praying for you!” She waved and walked away. 

It felt good to be on a pedestal, even though deep down I worried it couldn’t be further from the truth. I had based my decision on the flip of a coin and called it the voice of God. Maybe Elk River wasn’t God’s will for me at all. Had I really made the right decision?

***

Grey clouds greeted me the morning of graduation, but that wasn’t at all unusual for a Southern California May. Usually it cleared by noon or so, and the ceremony was scheduled to be held in the school’s outdoor amphitheater at 3:00. It was the only facility on campus large enough to hold all the students and their families.

The phone rang and Mom brought it to me. “It’s Alicia,” she said.

“We’re going to graduate today!” she sang out. “Ready?” 

“Am I ever,” I said. “But I wish we could skip the ceremony and go directly to the Grad Night party. We’re going to melt out there in our oh-so-attractive polyester gowns.” At least ours were white. The guys would be even hotter wearing orange fabric.

“More like get soaked. Haven’t you seen the weather report?”

“Chance of rain. That doesn’t mean much. They’ve been saying that all week.”

But true to the forecast, the clouds darkened as the day went on. At noon, it began to sprinkle. By the time I left the house at two thirty, it had stopped.

“Here, take this umbrella just in case,” Mom urged as I headed out the door.

I felt stupid clutching the folded umbrella as we lined up alphabetically, preparing to march into the amphitheater. But just as we began our procession, the sprinkles returned. By the time we were all seated, it strengthened to a heavy downpour. Only a few students had an umbrella, a few more wore ponchos. Most of my classmates tried in vain to improvise some sort of protection from the deluge out of graduation programs and caps. 

We were quite a sight as we made our way across the stage one by one to accept the congratulations of the principal and a diploma holder. The girls were just soggy, but the orange dye from the guys’ gowns bled onto their white shirt collars.

After the ceremony, we reported to the gym to pick up our actual diplomas, then joined our families to celebrate. A few hours later, we returned to the gym and loaded onto buses that took us directly to the secret location of the official school Grad Night party.

The secret location turned out to be the same German-American club where prom had been held. Inside, the parent volunteers had set up a full casino’s worth of table games, and we were each given a stack of chips to bet. Outside there were supposed to have been carnival rides, but the continuing rain prevented their safe operation. Some of the outdoor booths of crafts and games had been hastily recreated indoors.

Thankfully, there was other entertainment to get us through the night. A hypnotist, a comedian and a magician all wowed us with their acts while waiters served midnight snacks. 

As dawn approached, we started passing yearbooks to gather signatures. Then we went outside to wait for the buses to come take us back to school. Some, including Alicia, sat down against the wall of the building and fell asleep. I passed the time reading through the notes in my yearbook. Most people signed mine with generic things like, “Stay sweet!” At least Alicia had filled a whole page with inside jokes and her favorite shared memories. 

I looked up from reading her mini-novel to see Quan. 

“Would you sign my yearbook, Giselle?” he asked.

I silently handed mine over and took his. What should I write?

It was great while it lasted? I wish we could still be friends? Tell the next girl you date that she has me to thank for teaching you how to kiss?

I settled for, “You were a great lab partner and better friend. Best of luck in the future.”

We exchanged yearbooks again just as the buses pulled up. “Well, I guess this is it. Goodbye, Giselle.”

“Goodbye.” What else was there to say?

I flipped through the pages again until I found what he wrote.

“Beautiful Giselle, I will never forget our extra-special relationship. I still say you will have to beat the boys off with a stick in college. I will remember you always in my prayers. Love, Quan.”

Suddenly I felt as beautiful as I had on prom night. Maybe in college I’d look like that all the time. Maybe I’d meet the love of my life in Ohio. Maybe that’s why God was leading me there. I could hardly wait to find out!

Chapter 7, part 1: Summertime

The summer before college passed too slowly and too quickly all at once. Too slowly because I couldn’t wait to get to Elk River and start the next chapter of my life. Too quickly because I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth extracted in mid-August.

Week by week, month by month, I put in my two hours a day at Daddy’s insurance office, filing paperwork and folding mailings. I’d earned enough during the school year to pay the $500 required, but still worked Mondays with Pastor Jim to earn my part of the insurance on the Miata and get some extra cash. During my free time, Alicia and I went to the mall to window shop and look for cute boys to talk to. I managed to save most of my earnings, paltry though they were.

But when the cloudless skies of a Southern California August arrived, I was at loose ends. Things got slow around Daddy’s office. The last Friday in July he said I could stay home the rest of the summer. He suggested I use the time to pack for college. I figured I had plenty of time left and decided to take it easy for a while.

“Giselle, enough lounging about,” Mom said after I woke up at noon for the third day in a row. “All you’ve done the past few days is sleep and stare at that computer. You even missed church yesterday. Kirsten and Ruth got up at eight to go to vacation Bible school. Wasn’t Pastor Jim expecting you today?”

“Nope, he takes August off,” I said, turning back to the Internet word game I was playing. “And Alicia’s gone with her mom on vacation. I’ve been working hard all summer and I think I deserve a few days off to just enjoy being a kid, don’t you?”

“You’ve had a few days. If you really want to enjoy just being a kid, get off the computer,” she said. “There are so many other things to do.”

“I can’t think of anything,” I said. “Plus, reading really relaxes me.” Most of my computer time had been spent dawdling on social networking sites and keeping up with random blogs of interesting strangers.

“In that case, read a real book. There’s a whole shelf of them over there,” she said, pointing into Daddy’s study.

“Okay, just let me finish this game,” I said, hoping she’d wander away and forget about me. No such luck. She stood behind me and as soon as the game was over, turned off the screen.

“Hey, I was getting up!” 

Her knowing look said she wasn’t buying it. 

“Fine, I’ll see if there is anything I haven’t read yet,” I said and sauntered into the study.

Not bragging, but I’ve always been somewhat of a speed-reader. By the end of the week, I’d read most of Mom’s collection of self-help books. The parenting manuals and books on finance didn’t hold much allure, so I drove over to the library to get some lighter reading material from the young adult romance section. Mom kicked me off the computer if I spent more than 30 minutes at a time, but I’d sometimes get up after everyone else was in bed so I could catch up with my favorite websites.

***

Two weeks later, all of a sudden, the deadline to pack up and leave for college which had seemed distant and far away loomed large, and with it the dreaded day of my wisdom tooth extraction. With so little time left and so much to do, packing felt overwhelming and I didn’t know where to start.

Boxes of winter clothes Mom had ordered for me from her favorite catalog piled high in one corner of my room, and shopping bags full of dorm room necessities cluttered the other.

Mom got Ruthie and Kirsten to help me. We spent the afternoon loading up suitcases and storage bins, all the while reminiscing over funny family stories and singing selections from our favorite praise albums and family-friendly musicals.

Before we knew it, the afternoon light started to fade. Mom checked her watch. “Look at the time. Giselle, we’d better get you dinner. Remember, the dentist said no food or drink within twelve hours of the surgery.”

“Nervous?” Kirsten asked. “I would be.”

“A little. I’ve never gone under anesthetic before for one thing. And when Alicia got hers out at the beginning of summer, she was swollen up like a chipmunk and in pain for days.”

“We could pray,” suggested Ruthie. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Why did I never remember to turn to God first?

“What a good idea, sweetie,” Mom said. “Father God, guide the hand of the surgeon and give Giselle peace. Amen.”

Chapter 7, part 2: Surgery Fears

The prayer didn’t do much to calm my nerves, unfortunately. Though I’d had a big dinner, just knowing I couldn’t eat or drink made me feel thirsty and hungry. The sticky heat was the final straw. No way I was getting to sleep. I’d never understood why my parents would pinch pennies on the A/C when they had no problem spending money for trips and fancy cars. 

I crept out of my room and padded quietly out to the family computer. When I logged into one of my favorite social networking sites, “New Friend Request” blinked in bold blue on the left side of the screen. One click revealed the name Mandy and a picture of a girl with impressive cleavage squeezed into a tiny midriff-baring halter top. 

Our computer was in a public area, and during the day, I would decline such invitations without even looking at them. It totally wasn’t worth the hassle of Mom’s lecture if she happened to look over my shoulder. She had a really annoying way of entering a room at the most inopportune moment. But in the middle of the night, I was so bored and restless, I just couldn’t resist the temptation to click.

I’ll be good. No harm in reading her profile and comments. I don’t have to look at the pictures. Besides, I’m almost 18 now, and what I look at is my business.

A bunch of lame animated image files with cutesy messages dominated Mandy’s comments section, and her profile didn’t have much of interest either, except for an invitation to check out her blog. I was always up for a good blog, so I clicked through.

The raunchy description of a sexual fantasy in the first entry was so detailed as to be almost repulsive, yet it still left me hungry for more. My body responded in ways familiar from unbidden dreams and focused fantasies of early adolescence. A niggling voice told me to turn off the computer and go to bed, but I pushed the warning aside. Just one more story, then I’ll go to bed. No harm done by just reading. Besides, it’s not like I don’t have any self control at all. I can read about this stuff and not do anything about it.

Even though I had told myself I wouldn’t, I clicked into Mandy’s pictures. The woman’s breasts were obviously fake, but their perfectly round shape was fascinating. Nothing like these pointy B-cups I was stuck with. Mandy was gorgeous, blonde, voluptuous and worldly. I’d never look like that. Boys would never drool over me like they probably did this woman.

Disgusted, I shut down the browser and went back to my room. As I lay in bed, tears burned my eyes and nose, as the familiar litany of self-recrimination began. I broke my vow. Five months of sexual purity, down the drain in a single night. Back in the center of God’s wrath, a special spot reserved for wanton sinners like me.

Or maybe there was a category worse than sinner. Sinners could repent and be forgiven. I worried that a twisted flaw ran down through my very core. Everyone knew that God didn’t approve of horny guys looking at porn, but girls weren’t even supposed to be tempted by such things. No question, I was a freak, a depraved sex maniac, that’s all there was to it. And the worst part was, it wasn’t a recent bad habit or a phase of hormones. I’d always had a curiosity about women’s bodies in underwear ads, always had little fantasies of romance and wondered what it would be like to be with a boy, had dreams that felt so real…

Since Jolene’s challenge, I’d really tried to keep my vow. Until now at least. I cringed at the condemnation I felt as I recalled her words. The standard is absolute chastity.

Maybe I hadn’t been keeping the vow as well as I thought. Had it been a mistake to read romance novels the past few weeks? Maybe they were like a gateway drug or something. I had thought reading about the seduction of young maidens in medieval realms was a harmless diversion. 

 Too late, Jesus’ words about lust being the same as adultery sprung to mind. It didn’t seem fair for it to be a sin just to be turned on, but it was scary how helpless I had been to resist temptation.  I knew that eventually I’d have to confess, but I felt too dirty to come before God now. Maybe in the morning it would be easier. I rolled over and tried to put the sin out of mind. 

As sleep finally nestled around the borders of my brain one last blurry thought bubbled up: the hope that at Elk River College, I’d be safe from such corrupting influences. It was a church-affiliated school after all. Surrounded by fellow believers and true disciples of Jesus, kept safe by the accountability of a roommate, I could make a new vow and stick to it. 

***

Before I knew it, Mom dragged me out of bed and to the surgeon’s office. Nerves about the surgery and lingering guilt from the night before kept my mind off my growling stomach.

Soon enough I was drifting away on a fluffy pink cloud of anesthesia. All my worries melted away and I started daydreaming: me, back on stage, putting on a one-woman variety show.

“Gigi, honey. Wake up. The doctor says you need to keep your eyes open.”

Mom’s voice came through a cottony fog. A warm hand squeezed my shoulder and shook gently. Finally I managed to force my eyelids to flutter open.

“Hi, Mom,” I slurred. I yawned, leaned my head on her shoulder and let my eyes start to close again. I was too tired to be annoyed that she called me Gigi, my childhood nickname.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Mom said, jerking me back into a sitting position. “C’mon, you need to shake off the anesthesia so they can release you.”

I stared vacantly down at my lap. Release me from where? The last thing I remembered was lying on a table. The white ceiling. Doctors and nurses scurrying, waiting for something. Someone had been singing in that room, belting out the lyrics that went along with the piped-in Muzak.

Oh, no! That someone had been me! The doctors must have been waiting for the anesthesia to kick in so they could dig out my wisdom teeth, just as Mom now waited for it to wear off.

I shook my head from embarrassment. The motion helped clear my senses.

In order to keep from falling back into delirium, I catalogued the simple facts of our surroundings. We were on a low bench, covered in blue industrial upholstery. The ceiling was very high.

“Mom, why do they have such flaring glourescent lights?” I giggled at the Spoonerism.

Mom cocked her head as if wondering if I’d lost my wits along with the wisdom teeth.

The oral surgeon finally sent us home with detailed instructions on how to limit the post-operative swelling. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said as we prepared to leave. “I recommend you swish with hydrogen peroxide or warm salt water after each meal to ensure that sockets are clear of debris while they heal.”

With wisdom teeth gone and our drive across country to Elk River days away, I felt perched on the edge of adulthood, ready for a grand adventure with God. To make up for that awful late night indiscretion, I banned myself from using the computer. The Bible and The Purpose Driven Life became my only reading material. Inspired by the gospel of Rick Warren and letters of Paul, I felt unlimited possibility stretching before me – I could be the next Mother Theresa, a female Billy Graham. As long as I could stay pure, God had a special plan for me. I just knew it.

Chapter 8, part 1: Arrival

Twenty miles east of Avondale, Ohio, the Elk River cut through the landscape of the Appalachian foothills, tracing the pattern of a scar left behind by an ancient glacier or, as I was raised to believe, the Great Flood. 

 The river flowed wide and with stately calm, though I’d later discover the places where it tripped merrily over rocks and down small falls further upstream, where the floodwaters—or possibly a glacier—scraped a narrower path. On the lower side of the wide gorge, the rolling hills gleamed with crops destined for the dinner tables of America, but on the steeper northern side, the austere brick of Elk River College lined the rim.

From the off ramp of Interstate 70, I caught the first glimpse of this new home, more spectacular than the advertiser’s photographs could render it. In the brochures, I’d seen the campus at the height of each season, and had built up a detailed plan for how to spend time over the next eight months.

Autumn afternoons would be for studying under a golden sycamore, the stately academic halls of Elk River rising behind me under a windswept sky, the bricks all leafed with ivy and shimmering against a cloud of golden amber and deep russet.

In deepest winter when the delicate lace of an ice storm frosted the squares of pavers and grass on the Quadrangle, I’d be one of the students scurrying between classes in their warm yet fashionable down and woolen jackets, tightening coats against the bitter cold winter wind.

In spring, when white and pink trillium fringed the edge of the gorge, I’d frolic and dance on the hills, throwing arms wide and lifting praises to the skies like a nun escaped from the convent for the day.

As all these ideal images flashed through my mind, our Expedition and all my worldly possessions trundled up the winding driveway that led up through the campus’s main entrance and back to the dormitories. We unfolded ourselves from the leather seats and stretched. My sisters continued the bickering that hadn’t ceased since we left Columbus that morning, and our parents tried in vain to barter peace between them.

I could barely pay attention to them; I was so completely absorbed with drinking in the surroundings. Somehow, the repertoire of seasonal fantasies had left out the first days on campus. Having no template to compare, the gorgeous thrumming life of the stately campus at the height of an Ohio summer delighted and enthralled me. Spreading branches of sycamores, dogwoods, red buds and tulip trees shaded the lawns of Elk River and the air buzzed with insects whose vibration of the air made tangible my rising anticipation and anxiety.

By the end of the day, the Gottliebs would start the long drive back to California and I, Giselle, would face this exciting new world all alone. Well, not quite alone, as of course, God is everywhere. And since I’d been baptized as an infant, my heart was in some mystical sense home to Christ Himself. Yet even as good as I had been lately, I wondered why I couldn’t really feel Him in there.

***

The Sunday before classes started, I had a literal rude awakening. There were no Lutheran churches in town, so I’d just picked a random church that offered an evening service. After years of going to the eight o’clock traditional liturgy, I planned to enjoy sleeping in for once.

Then Lacey’s alarm clock went off at seven o’clock. Worse, she proceeded to turn her radio to loud praise and worship music. 

I heard my loft creak and a hand gently shake my shoulder. Then a nasally twang. “Better hurry, sleepyhead, or you’ll make us late for church.”

Muttering that it was not a big deal to miss church once, I tugged the covers over my head and turned my back to Lacey. 

Lacey quoted something with a lot of “thees” and “thous” about not forsaking the fellowship of believers. Then she began to sing cheerily along with the music, about a half-step flat.

Now I was wide awake, annoyed and feeling a little mischievous. “What was that old-fashioned thing you just said? It sounded familiar. No, wait – let me guess. Shakespeare, right?” 

After spending my elementary years in a private Lutheran school, of course I knew very well that Lacey had quoted Scripture. Could even identify the chapter and verse if called upon to do so. They didn’t call me Bible brain in Sunday School for nothing. 

Lacey’s hand stopped in mid-air, clutching a fake eyelash. She turned from the mirror above the room’s built-in chest of drawers, the hot rollers on her head making her look more like my Oma than a freshman in college. “Don’t you recognize God’s Word when you hear it? I thought you said you were a Christian.”

I climbed down from the rickety loft bed and turned off the blaring music before speaking. “Relax, that was supposed to be a joke. But really, I don’t see what’s wrong with skipping church once in a while. Sometimes life gets in the way.”

“All the more reason to go to church – to keep life from getting in the way in the first place.”

“Just going to church isn’t going to stop bad things from happening to you, you know.” 

Lacey countered, “What I meant was, if your relationship with Jesus ain’t touching every part of your life, what good is it? Might as well find a new country club to join, one with fewer rules.”

“Good point,” I said, “and all kidding aside, I’m pretty much agree with you. Being a Christian really does affect every part of my life. My parents had my baptized as an infant. I grew up going to church and Sunday School every week, and even went to a private Christian school. I’ve been on two mission trips, and…”

“That’s not exactly what I meant.” Lacey turned back to the mirror and applied her second eyelash before unwinding the hot rollers from her caramel colored locks. “Though I don’t exactly believe in infant baptism…. Well, never mind all that. Any way, now that you’re up will you still come with me? I hate sitting in church alone.” 

I agreed, determined to prove to myself as much as to Lacey that I was a “real” Christian. 

I took a cue from Lacey’s pink skirted suit, complete with nylons and matching pumps, and threw on a flowered dress. Fingers flew through my curly mass of hair, trying in vain to rein in the frizz. I’d let it grow out from my prom night cut, and it was looking shaggy. When it became obvious that I was stuck looking like a blown-out Q-tip in the humid environment, I gave up and slapped it back into a simple pony tail. 

“What church were you planning to go to?” I asked, hoping Lacey would say College Drive Presbyterian. Some of Mom’s family were Presbyterians, so at least I could be sure they weren’t wackos. 

“The Pentecostal congregation on the corner. No offense, but the stuffiness of those other mainstream denominations drives me crazy.” 

Warning bells went off. Pentecostals? In confirmation class in eighth grade, my teachers took us through all the major denominations, listing how they fell short of the absolute truth of Lutheran doctrine. I couldn’t remember anything about Pentecostals. That could mean either that they were okay, or that they were one of the insane fringe groups that the teachers didn’t want to spend too much time on.

I guess I was about to find out.

Chapter 8, part 2: Revival

Despite my initial misgivings, I enjoyed the visit to Main Street Pentecostal, though it turned out we roommates were horribly overdressed. The better part of the congregation appeared to be college students, and most wore jeans. Some even wore the type of clingy knit pantsuits that had been in style in California several years before. It was a little shocking to see “Juicy” printed across someone’s rear end in church!     
 

I nudged Lacey with an elbow and hissed in her ear. “A little suggestive for church, don’t you think?” 

Lacey didn’t respond except for to close her eyes and sing more loudly along with the worship music.

With drums, video clips and a light show, the worship service was like a rock concert compared to the formal liturgy accompanied by pipe organ at Blessed Redeemer Lutheran back home. I joined in the clapping on the first few songs, and even swayed and moved my feet a little to the groove of the beat, though it felt a little sacrilegious to dance in church.

Then the band slowed the pace. The worship leader, a man with a comb-over and a sweater vest, cried out some unintelligible phrases, drawing a huge response from the congregation. Lacey and everyone else in the room but me murmured “Hallelujah,” and “Praise you, Jesus,” and lifted their hands in the air. A few older women waved flags printed with pithy slogans as the music continued in a hypnotic repeating pattern. Still the worship leader spoke, uttering words in a language I didn’t recognize. One man near the front sank to his knees and fell face to the floor.

Unsettled by the bizarre scene, I stood rigid with hands clasped behind my back. I felt like a voyeur, an unwelcome guest. I’d never been so emotional or passionate about worship like these people were. Was it possible I’d been doing something wrong my whole life?         

I couldn’t help but wonder again if I was a “real” Christian, whatever that meant. Back when I was five or six, I thought that my family was very close to God. We went to church every Sunday. We prayed before (almost) every meal, and to me, that’s what a Christian was.

Did I say we prayed before every meal?  I’m not sure it counts. It was just the trite recitation of the old Lutheran favorite. We three girls would holler and jostle around the table, but when Daddy said, “Let’s pray,” suddenly everyone would settle down and say in a sing-song cadence:

Come Lord Jesus

Be our guest
And let thy gifts to us be blest
Amen

… and then we would dig in. The fact that Jesus died to give us the privilege to talk directly to God was pretty much forgotten about until the next day when we all sat down to dinner again. There were exceptions though. No prayer in restaurants, or when Daddy was out of town. Somehow macaroni and cheese or pancakes for dinner didn’t rate inviting Lord Jesus to be our guest either.

Of course, there were a few other times when we Gottliebs prayed. At church, toward the end of the service, the pastor would get up and face the altar and intone formal prayers that always began with lofty phrases such as “Almighty and everlasting God, since…” and when he got to the part when he said, “Lord in your mercy” we’d respond with “hear our prayer.”  Finally he would wrap up with the line, “as you taught us to pray” and the congregation would launch into a sing-song recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. My whole understanding of prayer in a nutshell: formal words brought out and used at specific times, under the leadership of a parent, teacher or pastor. The concept of personal prayer was utterly foreign until the summer I stayed with my Mom’s sister.

The first night there, Aunt Martha prompted me to start saying the grace at dinner. I parroted the little sing-song poem, and was bewildered when each of my cousins in turn continued the prayer by telling God one thing they were thankful for about their day and one thing they needed. They didn’t exactly talk to Jesus like he was an ordinary person in the room, but they made him sound a whole lot closer than someone who had to be implored to “let thy gifts to us be blest.”  I felt left out.

Later that night, I overheard Aunt Martha talking to Uncle Vince. “Didn’t that sister of mine raise the child to know Jesus?  It’s no wonder what with her married to a Lutheran of all things. I always said it was a mistake for her to marry him. That church of his is so stuffy it would suffocate anyone’s faith. I’m sure the Lord has a few souls in that dreary place, but there can’t be many.” 

At bedtime, Aunt Martha tried to teach me how to pray properly, but it was no use. I couldn’t forget what she had said. If I gave in and prayed her way, it would be tantamount to admitting my parents and the church I loved were wrong. The rest of the summer, I stubbornly refused to join in the evening grace or bedtime prayers, earning the nickname of “little heathen” when they thought I was out of earshot. Ever since then, I’ve never felt like I could be sure whether or not I was a “real Christian” or just a “little heathen” like they said.

As worship ended, the cavernous hall echoed with the din of the congregation settling into the rows of padded folding chairs that served as pews. An elderly man in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt climbed the steps leading up to the platform in front of the members of the praise team, who were still clearing away their equipment.

“Thank you, Brother George, for giving us that refreshing outpouring of the Holy Spirit,” he said. “I’m Brother Thomas, senior pastor of Main Street Fellowship. I see old and new faces here today. For those of you returning to campus, welcome back. For those of you just arriving, thank you for joining us. We hope you come again.” 

We sat only one row back from the stage. Brother Thomas paced as he spoke, and came to a stop immediately in front of us.

His intense blue eyes bored into me. “It’s no accident that God brought you here today,” he continued, not moving or even blinking. “Someone here needs a deeper experience of Jesus. Someone here needs to be made holy. Someone here needs to confess her sins and be washed in the blood of the Lamb. This is the place for all that and more. The Spirit says ‘Come.’”

He closed his eyes and led the congregation in a long rambling prayer, his wrinkled arms stretched to heaven. I barely paid attention. Had Brother Thomas really been speaking directly to me?  Or was that my guilty imagination?

At the end of the prayer, Brother Thomas began a simple sermon about eternal security. I grabbed a pen out of my purse and took notes in the margins of the bulletin. My spidery scrawl covered every inch of available white space long before the message came to a halt. Putting my pen aside, I leaned forward, resting elbows on the back of the chair in front of me, chin in hand.

That’s when I noticed that the left side of my jaw ached.

I straightened up in the seat and ran fingers over every millimeter of flesh between ear and chin to discern the source of the pain. A lump, just in front of the bony outcropping of the mandible joint. It was small, no bigger than a sesame seed, but undeniably there. Was it something bad?  No, that was unlikely. More likely a swollen lymph node. I was probably just fighting off the summer cold that had made its way from Mom to Kirsten to Ruth on our trip east.

Brother Thomas raised his voice to emphasize a point, bringing me back to the moment. Of all the places in the world, here in church, in God’s very presence, wasn’t the place to worry. “Cast your cares on the Lord,” had been my confirmation verse. So, after making a mental note to see a doctor if the tiny lump didn’t clear up on its own, I willed myself to leave it alone and refocus on the conclusion of the preacher’s message.

“The only way to have eternal security,” he said, “is to confess with your mouth and believe in your heart that Jesus Christ is Lord. ‘Confess with your mouth,’ it says. Silent prayer just isn’t enough.  Even if you think you’re already saved, even if you were baptized as a baby, if you’re wondering at all today about the reality of your salvation, there’s only one way to answer that question once and for all. You must stand up, come to the altar, and confess Jesus as Lord this very day!” 

I stood up.

It was worth the humiliation if I could just be sure. I was tired of wondering if I was a little heathen. Maybe Lacey was right and infant baptism wasn’t enough. It would make sense if the reason I’d been unable to keep that purity vow was because I wasn’t really saved. 

I wanted to feel born again. The right words said now, as long as I followed the preacher’s instructions exactly, would surely be what I needed to feel Jesus in my heart and have more willpower. Then I could keep mind and body pure once and for all.

Chapter 9, part 1: First Day

After a quick breakfast on Tuesday morning, Lacey and I headed to the quad for our first day of classes. We were disappointed to find out we were in different sessions of the required freshman course, Religion 101, even though they were both scheduled for 9:30. In fact, we didn’t have any classes together.

Elk River’s campus was spread over three large hills, with the academic buildings arranged in a quadrangle overlooking the gorge. Lacey and I lived in one of the three dormitories on East Hill. Our hall, Warner, alternated male and female floors. Another, Klein, housed only women, while Paxton was for upperclassmen in sororities or specific academic programs.
 

I hadn’t yet made it over to West Hill, where there was an all-male dorm, two others co-ed by floor and Fraternity Row, but one of the girls down the hall from us said there were tons of cute guys over there. It seemed wise to make a point of eating in the Reid dining hall every once in a while, even if the food in Paxton was reputed to be better.

To go anywhere on campus on foot required going down one steep hill and up at least one other. My calves and upper thighs ached from the repeated climbs we had already made going from our dorm to the Quad for orientation activities over the past few days, not to mention our walk to the Pentecostal church down the street from campus on Sunday.
  

On the way to the Quad, a few unlucky souls who had 8:00 a.m. classes passed us on their way back to the dorms. Each one smiled, waved, or said hello.

“Is everyone in Ohio this friendly?” I asked Lacey as we climbed the stairs to the Quad.

“It’s the Elkie Hi,” Lacey explained. “An Elk River tradition. Everyone greets one another when passing. It’s actually how my oldest brother met his wife more than 20 years ago.”

“You have a brother that much older than you?”

“Yeah, I’m the youngest of seven brothers and sisters. My whole family are alums. Anyway, Benjie and Neely passed each other every day on the bridge, and always said hi. One day Neeley stopped on the bridge, the one over the lake we just crossed. Benjie stopped to talk to her and the rest is history. They even started CSF together.” 

“What’s CSF?” I asked as we approached the steps of Montgomery Hall. 

Lacey appeared not to have heard me. “Well, this is where we go our separate ways. Wanna meet up for lunch?”

“Sure, let’s meet back here by the steps at 11:30.”

I waved good-bye, thankful that Lacey and I were getting along so well. There were two girls on our floor that had already requested room reassignments due to irreconcilable differences. 

I headed into the building, excited to meet more of my fellow freshmen and learn about our awesome God.

There were two other students in the classroom. A heavy-set guy with an unruly shock of white-blond hair hanging down over a unibrow waved and smiled at me, revealing a mouth full of snaggly teeth. With his ragged-looking plaid shirt and ripped jeans he looked like one of the panhandlers that frequented the off-ramps of Southern California freeways. On the other side, a tall dark-complected girl with close-cropped hair and a piercing through her lip doodled in her notebook. 

I sat in the middle of the room. The girl leaned over to me.

“Hi, I’m Breanne,” she said. “I love your hair! What fun to have all those curls to play with.” She reached a hand out as if to touch me, but stopped short.

“Thanks. I’m Giselle.” I eyed her notebook and instead of doodles saw a rough but still lovely sketch of the view out the window.

“What an unusual name. Mind if I call you Zell?”

“I guess not.” I didn’t really care for nicknames, but “Zell” was at least better than the cutesy “Gigi” that my family always used for me. “That is so cool,” I said, gesturing to her notebook. “I wish I could draw like that.”

“Just doodling. Sucks that this class is mandatory, huh, Zell? Not exactly how I want to start my week.”

“Oh?” What did she mean? Wasn’t this a church-affiliated school? Why would anyone choose to come here if they didn’t want to go to a religion class?

Breanne continued, “Hey, at least chapel’s not mandatory. My RA was telling us that up until her sophomore year, everyone had to go. So, where are you from?”

While I explained what brought me from California to Ohio, the seats around us filled with students.

The professor got class started about 5 minutes late. “Welcome to Religion 101. I want to assure you, this is not a Bible study. We’ll spend the first half of the semester examining all the world religions, and then the second half taking a look ‘Is the Bible True,’ a book that summarizes the latest critical scholarship on the origins of the biblical myth.”

My heart sank. Church-affiliated didn’t mean anything. This wasn’t a Christian school at all. I wasn’t safe from the world’s temptations, I was right in the middle of them. I was no better off than if I had gone to UCLA. In fact, I might have been worse off, without my family and church to keep me on the right track. At least I had Lacey for fellowship.

On the way out of class, Breanne caught up with me. “Hey, Zella-bella, want to grab lunch with me over in Reid?”

“Oh, I would love to, but I already promised my roomie I’d meet her on the other hill. How about after class on Wednesday?” It would be just the chance I’d been waiting for to check out those cute guys over on West Hill.

“It’s a date,” giggled Breanne.

As we said goodbye, a bulletin board with various announcements caught my eye. A hot pink one stood out from the rest: “Christian Student Fellowship meets TONIGHT in the top of the student center.” 


I mentioned the meeting to Lacey on our walk to the dining hall for lunch.

“Yeah, that’s the CSF I was telling you about, the club my oldest brother started.”

“How neat to be the founder of a club.”

“It’s more than a club, really. His vision was that it would be the body of Christ on campus. It’s modeled after the early church, you know, like in the Book of Acts. Instead of twelve apostles, it’s led by twelve leaders called Shepherds. All my brothers and sisters were Shepherds when they went here, and I’ve always wanted to be one. It would be such a honor to serve God that way.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great at it.”

“Well, it’s not a sure thing. Each leader is selected after prayer and discussion by the current Shepherds.”

She made the group sound so perfect. Could I measure up to such high standards? Lacey seemed to have a vitality to her faith that I’d never felt for myself. I’d been hoping to feel something extra after responding to that altar call on Sunday, but so far, nothing. But, I’d been so busy with meeting new people and settling in to our dorm room, so maybe the silence was my fault? I’d get up early tomorrow and read the Bible and see if that made a difference. 

That night at the CSF meeting, we arrived a little late and there weren’t many open seats. Lacey waved as if she recognized someone and started walking. I followed, and saw the big blond ragamuffin from my Religion class wave us over.

“Hi, Ian,” said Lacey. "This is my roommate Giselle Gottlieb. Giselle, this is Ian Fletcher. He’s a family friend. We practically grew up together.”

“Giselle Gottlieb, nice meet you.” He had a firm, warm handshake. “Anyone ever call you Gigi?”

Before I could answer, a petite woman in a denim shirt dress called for our attention.

“Welcome to Christian Student Fellowship. I’m Phoebe Daniels, Chief Shepherd of CSF. I’ll introduce the rest of our Shepherd team and then we’ll have an open discussion time so we can all get to know each other.”

During discussion time, Ian told a story about an experience he had crossing the bridge over the lake at the center of Elk River’s campus. “One goose stood on the shore honking, and the others all turned toward it like a congregation, and I thought, I wonder if they need to know the gospel too?” 

He participated heavily in the discussion, his words a strange mixture of the silly and sacred. He obviously had a deep love of God. I’d never met anyone quite like him.

As the meeting went on, I idly traced a finger over my jaw, wondering if I could find the lump from yesterday. It was still there, and once I found it I couldn’t leave it alone. Was it my imagination running away with me, or was it actually bigger? It was definitely a little sore. It wouldn’t hurt to get it checked out. Better to have a doctor tell me I’m fine so I could quit worrying.

When the meeting came to a close, Phoebe asked for prayer requests. 

Ian raised his hand. “I’m having a hard time settling into college life.  For one thing, my roommate’s feet stink something awful, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings about it.  I need the Lord to show me how to speak the truth in love.”             

I smirked at Lacey, but she didn’t appear to find it as funny as I did. I originally wasn’t going to share any requests, but hearing Ian changed my mind. If he could pray for stinky feet, I could ask for prayer for my own silly worry.

“I have a little lump under my jaw that is probably nothing, but could be something. So, I think I’d better go to the health clinic and have it checked out,” Faces around me furrowed with concern. “It’s probably nothing,” I repeated, more to assure myself than anything. “Pray that God gives me peace.”

“You’ll need prayer that you survive the health clinic,” an upperclassman called out, and suddenly the room was abuzz with anecdotes of all the ways the doctors had demonstrated their incompetence or uncaring or simply an inability to keep up with the heavy case load in the too few hours the clinic was open.

“Alright, alright,” Phoebe said at last. “Enough scaring the poor girl. Let’s pray.”

I went to the campus health clinic the next day. The doctor on duty didn’t seem too concerned, but noted that my temperature was slightly elevated and wrote a prescription for antibiotics just in case it were a sign of some sort of infection. Instructions were to return if I didn’t show any improvement by the time the antibiotics ran out. 

Chapter 9, part 2: New Friendships

Thursday morning the phone rang before my alarm. It was Mom. I looked at the clock. It was 4:00 in the morning in California. Something had to be wrong.

“Giselle, honey, it’s your Oma. She’s had a stroke.”

“How bad is it? Should I come home?"

“There’s no immediate danger. Your father and I don’t want you to miss your studies unnecessarily. We’ll buy you a plane ticket if and when you do need to come home.”

Lacey sat up in bed when I hung up, “What’s wrong?” she asked in a groggy voice.

“Sorry to wake you. My grandmother had a stroke.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll keep her in my prayers.”

“Thanks.”

“You ok?”

“Sure, sure. I’m fine. Let’s just go back to sleep.” 

In bed, sleep was elusive and I just tossed and turned. When the alarm went off, I dressed and headed to class as planned. But I understood next to nothing of that morning’s lecture on the history of Buddhism. 

As we were dismissed for the day, Breanne caught my eye. “Ready to eat, Zella?”

“What? Oh, right. I’m afraid I won’t be very good company today. I’m not even very hungry.”

"You look so down. Something wrong?”

In a rush I spilled out all my fears that Oma would die before I got a chance to go home and say goodbye.

She squeezed my arm. "I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. Come eat with me and tell me more about your grandmother. Or just chill, whatever you feel like.”

Her kindness touched me. Over lunch, I discovered that talking about it did help. Breanne reached across the table to pat my hand whenever my voice got choked up.

“Wanna hang out later?” Breanne asked as we cleared our table.

“Sure.”

“Okay, I’m in Reid 213. Just come over any time you need to talk.” She let her hand linger on my shoulder and gave me a meaningful look.

“Reid 213. Maybe I’ll stop by after my afternoon classes.” 

“Great, see you later then.” She gave me a tight hug. 

I wasn’t used to so much affection, especially with a new friend, but figured folks were just more affectionate in the Midwest or something. I returned the hug. “Later.”

I didn’t make it back to Breanne’s room that afternoon, but I ran into her on the Quad between classes the next morning.

“Sorry about yesterday. I ended up Skyping with my friend Alicia back home, and by the time we got off it was almost time for dinner.”

“No worries. Are you going to Wet and Wild tomorrow?”

“Not sure …”

“My RA says you can’t miss it. They turn the hills down into the Hollow into a giant slip and slide! There’s also mud football, swimming in the lake, water balloon fights. I think it sounds like a blast.”

I pulled at the collar of my shirt, sticky with sweat. “I’m ready to jump in the lake right now. But the one thing I didn’t pack for college was a swim suit,” I said.

“Just wear grungy old clothes you don’t mind throwing away at the end of the day. See you out there tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it. Probably. Even if I don’t get wet, it will be fun to watch!”

Back in my dorm room, Ian and Lacey were sitting on her bed, an open Bible between them. 

“Hi, Gigi!” Ian said. “Lacey and I thought it would be cool to read through the Bible together. We just finished Genesis 1 and 2. Wanna join us?”

Lacey made room for me on her bed. “We’re just taking turns reading aloud and stopping to discuss anything interesting.”

“Sure, I’m in. Either of you planning on Wet and Wild tomorrow?”

“Is a frog’s butt watertight?” Ian said. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

Lacey grimaced. “That’s definitely not my thing. You’re not thinking of going, are you, Giselle?”

“If I can figure out what to wear.”

“Just buy something at the thrift store,” Ian said. “I was already planning to drive into Exeter later. Field trip!”

“I’ll tag along for that,” said Lacey. “I never pass up an opportunity to shop. Let’s go right after we read Genesis 3. Ian, you start.”

We didn’t even get past the first verse before getting pulled off into a tangent about talking animals, C.S. Lewis, magic, and spiritual warfare. Ian told an amazing story about participating in a real exorcism.

“Wow, didn’t expect to be talking about that today,” Ian said. “And all because of one little verse. But we’d better scoot if we’re going to make the thrift store before it closes.”

At the thrift store, I bought beat up sneakers, a forest green t-shirt that said “I’m not Irish but kiss me anyway,” and grey sweatpants, all for $11. 

I went to sleep that night content and excited about the next day. Who knew? Oma had met Opa here. I could be about to meet the love of my life.