Saturday morning. Time to sleep in, relax, enjoy the weekend, and go out with friends and enjoy life. At least that is what a normal person would say. I rolled out of bed at seven in the morning, my head still hurting from having been so upset last night. I wanted to stay in bed longer, I had no desire to get up and face my problems, but the urge to pee was too strong. On my way to the bathroom, I carefully stepped over the trail of tissues and napkins that had scattered when I kicked over the wastebasket last night in a frustrated fit of rage.
In the bathroom, I saw my dirty underwear from last night tossed in a corner. Just more to be ashamed of. I am Catholic. I know what I did was bad. But I was tired of being alone every night, and that chat room girl last night was really hot… at least that’s how she described herself. You never can tell with the Internet, of course. But she disappeared, stopped talking to me just as it was getting interesting, and I had to finish using my imagination. All this shame for a night that wasn’t even very good to begin with.
I stepped back over the scattered trash again and got on my hands and knees to clean it up. It did not take long, and nothing wet had spilled. I lay awake in bed for another half hour. Then I tried reading for a while; I had recently finished Stephen King’s The Green Mile and was now reading another Stephen King book, The Dark Half. This book was about a writer who once used a pseudonym but stopped writing under that name, and now the false identity somehow came to life to haunt him.
My mind was in too dark of a place that morning to concentrate on reading, even reading a book with “dark” in the title. I ate a bowl of cereal and turned on the computer, getting back on IRC chat. No sign of the girl I was talking dirty with last night. Most of the people signed on this time of day were from Europe and Asia, where it was currently late afternoon and evening. My friend Renee, from high school, emailed me yesterday, telling me about her classes this semester at Valle Luna State University. She mentioned that maybe I could come visit sometime. I wrote back, telling her that would be fun and asking what her schedule was like. Valle Luna was an easy day trip from Jeromeville, only 70 miles away. I did not tell Renee anything about how miserable I was feeling. At least a possible trip to Valle Luna was something to look forward to.
Maybe a bike ride would make me feel better. I rode through the greenbelts to the north edge of town. I zigzagged through all of the greenbelts in north Jeromeville. I took 15th Street west to the park with the pedestrian crossing over Highway 117 and took city streets to the greenbelt in west Jeromeville. I headed east on Coventry Boulevard back home. I showered and dressed. I did not feel much better. I did math homework, then chemistry homework. If I was going to have a crappy day, at least I was being productive.
After lunch, I decided to try something different. I walked down Andrews Road, across Coventry Boulevard, and turned on Hampton Drive behind the Lucky grocery store. I had four friends from my dorm last year who shared two apartments there, one on top of the other. Liz and Caroline lived upstairs, and Liz’s boyfriend Ramon lived downstairs with Jason. I suddenly realized that this might not have been the best idea. Since I was just wandering around looking for people to hang out with, and not looking for any one of the four specifically, which door should I knock on first? I was still trying to make up my mind when the downstairs apartment came into view. Beside the regular front door was a sliding glass door leading to a patio; the sliding door was open, and I could see inside. Liz was in the downstairs apartment with Ramon and Jason, so I knocked on the front door of the downstairs apartment.
Ramon opened the door. “Hey, Greg,” he said. “Come on in.”
“Hey,” I said, looking around. The three of them were watching TV. A textbook and notebook lay closed on the coffee table.
“How’s your weekend going?” Liz asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Hmm,” I grunted. “I’m doing okay, but I had a rough night last night.”
“Aww. What kind of rough?”
“Well,” I said, “honestly, I was just really down and frustrated about life. Feeling lonely and bored.”
“You should have come to large group.”
“Large group?” I asked. “Is that the Jeromeville Christian Fellowship thing?”
“Yeah! We sing worship songs and hear a talk about the Bible. And during the week there are small group Bible studies too.”
“Large group is every Friday?”
“Yes. In 180 Evans.”
“Maybe I’ll give it a try sometime.”
“You should! We’ll all be there next week.”
A minute later, Ramon asked, “So how do you like your new apartment?”
“I like it. It’s quiet. Small, but I don’t need a lot of space.”
“You’re by yourself in a one-bedroom?” Jason asked.
“Studio apartment,” I said. “Just one big room, with a small kitchen and bathroom. No separate living room and bedroom.”
“It works for me, being by myself.”
“Where’s Caroline today?”
“She went home,” Liz explained. “Just for the day, though. She’ll be back late tonight. Did you need her for something?”
“No. Just wondering. Tell her I said hi.”
I hung out with Liz and Ramon and Jason for about two hours that afternoon, just talking about things and watching TV with them. The following week was uneventful; I spent most of it studying. I had exams in both math and chemistry; I felt like I did pretty well on both of them. I also made plans to go to Valle Luna on Saturday to visit Renee. But something else had been in the back of my mind all week since my conversation with Liz, Ramon, and Jason. On Friday, I got home from campus mid-afternoon as always, but a few hours later I attached the headlight to my bike and rode back to campus. I parked my bike next to Evans Hall and slowly, nervously walked inside.
A sign read, Welcome to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship; smaller letters beneath this read, A ministry of InterVarsity. My friends who were part of JCF had explained to me that the group was a chapter of a national nondenominational Christian organization called InterVarsity, and that they had sister chapters at thousands of universities in several countries. Two students with name tags that said “Eddie” and “Raphael” sat at a table with markers and blank mailing labels, making name tags for students who walked in. Two stacks of papers were on this table; one appeared to be a newsletter, and the other was a sign-up sheet for something called Fall Conference. When I got to the front of the line, I took a copy of the newsletter.
“Hi,” Eddie said. “Welcome to JCF. What’s your name?”
“Greg,” I replied.
G-R-E-G, Eddie wrote on a label. “Double G on the end or not?”
“No. That’s right.”
Eddie peeled the label off and handed it to me. “Have a great night!” he said, as I stuck it on my shirt. I nervously turned toward room 180, a medium-sized lecture hall with close to two hundred seats. People were standing around mingling. Guitars, drums, an electric keyboard, and microphones were set up in front, where the lectern would be during an actual class. I scanned the room for familiar faces. I saw Taylor, Pete, Charlie, Sarah, and Krista from my dorm last year, and a guy I knew only as Mike From Building J standing around talking. My friends who attended JCF had introduced me to some of their JCF friends who also lived in the South Area; this was how I knew Mike.
“Greg!” Sarah exclaimed when she saw me walking toward them. “You’re here!”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Liz keeps inviting me. I figured I’d actually try it and see what it’s like.”
“Hey, Greg,” Taylor said.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Krista added.
“I think you’ll like it,” Sarah said.
“I hope so,” I replied. “Where are you guys sitting?”
“Probably just here,” Pete explained. “We don’t really have a usual spot. But you can sit with us.”
I looked around the room again while the others talked. I recognized Tabitha, whom I knew the same way I knew Mike From Building J (Mike Knepper, I learned his last name eventually), and a skinny guy whom I had seen at Mass at the Newman Center. I thought his name was Sean, but I did not really know him; however, it felt comforting to know that I was not the only Catholic here tonight. I saw Liz, Ramon, and Jason walk in, and I waved at them.
“Greg!” Liz called, approaching us. “You made it!”
“I did,” I replied, thinking about how I still felt out of place even though I knew at least eleven people in the room.
A few minutes later, one of the musicians began speaking into a microphone. “Welcome to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship,” he said. “We’re gonna get started now, so find a seat, and greet someone near you.”
I looked around. Sarah looked at me and shook my hand. “Greetings!” she said. “Welcome!”
“Hey,” I replied. She turned to greet other people, and I did too. I turned behind me and saw a tall guy with reddish-brown hair, probably an upperclassman, wearing a Jeromeville Colts Track & Field shirt. “Hi,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve met you. I’m Brian.”
“I’m Greg,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s my first time. Nice to meet you.”
“You too! Welcome to JCF.”
The band started playing a song called “Lord, I Lift Your Name On High,” with the lyrics on an overhead projector transparency. I did not know the song, but the melody seemed pretty simple, so I sang along the best I could.
After the song, a woman who looked a little older, got up on stage. At first I assumed she was a senior, but as her announcements went on, I wondered if she might be a post-college young adult who worked or volunteered with this group. She had shoulder length brown hair and bright blue eyes, and she wore denim overalls over a green shirt. “Hi, everyone! Welcome to JCF! I’m Cheryl, and we have a few announcements. Who remembers what is coming up on November 3rd through the 5th?”
“Fall Conference!” someone shouted.
“That’s right! If you haven’t paid yet, we need your money and sign-up form! Next Friday at large group, October 27, that is the deadline to sign up and turn in your $100! If you want to go but money is a problem, talk to any of our staff or your Bible study leader about scholarships.” Cheryl continued with a few other announcements. I assumed that Fall Conference was a retreat of some sort, a trip that included opportunities to learn about Jesus and the Bible, something like that. I did not know where, though, and being brand new to this group I was not ready to commit a hundred dollars and an entire weekend. If I stuck with this group for a while, maybe I would be at next year’s Fall Conference.
The band played two more songs. I noticed during the music that some people clapped along to the faster songs, and some made other gestures like raising their arms. Why are these people doing this? Was this like those songs for little kids that have hand motions? Did those people come from the kinds of churches where people made a lot of unusual movements? Was it okay for me to just stand and sing and not move my arms? I hoped so, because that is what I did. No one seemed to have a problem with me.
After the music, a man with light brown hair whom I had not noticed before walked up to the stage holding a Bible. He introduced himself as Dave. Dave looked older than a student, probably around thirty, and he wore a wedding band. Was he like a pastor of a church, someone whose job was to speak to this group? Was he a student who came to UJ later in life? I put those questions aside for now and listened. “Turn to Matthew 4:18,” he said. Sarah noticed from the seat next to me that I did not have a Bible, and she shared hers. I knew from Catechism back home at Our Lady of Peace that Matthew was one of the four Gospels, telling about the life of Jesus, and one of the Scriptures every week in Catholic Mass was always from one of the Gospels. But I did not have a clear overall picture of the life of Jesus, I just knew bits and pieces.
Dave read aloud and I followed along, about Jesus calling his first disciples. “‘Come, follow me,’ Jesus said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men,’” Dave read. “Peter and Andrew, they were just hanging out there, doing their jobs. They were fishermen. And Jesus… who is this guy? He just shows up and says ‘Come, follow me.’ Why should they follow him? But they do. Jesus is God in the flesh, and God spoke a calling into Peter and Andrew’s lives. And they listened.” Dave continued for some time, speaking on this concept of God’s calling, mentioning other examples elsewhere in the Bible.
Dave’s talk was interesting, much more thorough than the brief sermons given on Sunday mornings by Catholic priests. He explained the historical context of the passage in more detail than I had ever heard before, and he did so using language that felt much more accessible to an ordinary secular university student like me.
After Dave’s sermon and one more song, the lead vocalist of the band said, “Pray with me.” I closed my eyes and folded my hands as he continued. “Lord, as we leave this place tonight, I pray that we will listen for your calling on our lives. Speak to us, and let us all hear your voice. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
People then began talking and getting out of their seats, mingling as they had at the beginning of the night. “So what’d you think?” Taylor asked me.
“That was good,” I replied. “I liked the talk.”
“Are you going to come back next week?” Sarah asked.
The others began talking about something else. I sat and watched people mingle for a few minutes, not really joining in conversations since I did not know these people. At one point, I saw Tabitha walking toward me and waved.
“Hey, Greg,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I replied. “This is my first time here.”
“Really? You never came to JCF last year?”
“No. I just have a lot of friends in this group.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize that. What did you think?”
“I liked it.”
“Good! I need to get home, but it was good seeing you.”
After about half of the group had trickled out, I said my goodbyes and rode home on my bike. What would that have been like, being an ordinary simple fisherman meeting Jesus, hearing him tell me to follow him? How would I have known that this man calling me was the Son of God? If something like this happened in my life, how would I know if the call was actually from God? Would I obey? Maybe one just knows these things when they happen. Maybe coming to JCF that night was part of God’s calling on my life. Liz told me at her apartment six days ago to come to JCF, and I did. This was not exactly the same as the disciples dropping everything to follow Jesus, since Liz had invited me to JCF two or three other times and I never went until now. But one thing was clear that night for sure: I would be attending JCF again next week.