January 17-21, 1999.  Writing from a dark place. (#204)

My mind had been in a dark place all weekend.  Friday morning, in my student teaching class, I had problems with a student talking back to me.  I started to argue back, and Ms. Matthews told me condescendingly that I could not do that as a teacher.  Friday evening, I was at Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, but everyone was either too busy to hang out afterward or already had specific plans.  Sunday morning at church, I was talking to Pete Green and Caroline Pearson, and they mentioned having taken a day trip to Ralstonville yesterday for Sarah Winters’ wedding.

Sarah, a mathematics major like me, was one of my best friends during my undergraduate years. Sarah and I, and Pete and Caroline, were all in the same dorm as freshmen.  I had heard from Sarah much less frequently after she graduated in June and moved back home, where her fiancé was.  While weddings often left me feeling bittersweet at best, dwelling on my own lack of a girlfriend, I certainly would have gone to Sarah’s wedding, had I been invited.  “No one told me about Sarah’s wedding,” I said, feeling confused and left out.

“They wanted a really small wedding,” Caroline explained.  “There were only about twenty people there.”  This was no consolation to me, because if I were to get married right now, Sarah would probably be among the first twenty people I would want to invite.

To add insult to injury, I had a song stuck in my head: “Kiss Me,” by Sixpence None the Richer.  This song had been all over the radio in the last few weeks, and I was still making up my mind how I felt about this song.  I had heard of this band before; they got their start in Christian music, and these days, I took notice whenever a Christian band had a hit song on mainstream radio.  But this was not a Christian song; it was about kissing. I had spent the last three years listening to talks and sermons about taking things slow in relationships, not rushing physical contact, so I still had yet to experience my first kiss.  Now, vocalist Leigh Nash was over here singing in her soft, breathy voice about that thing I was not supposed to think about.  It was unfair.  Yet the song was hauntingly catchy, and growing on me.

What if I never met anyone?  What if I grew old and died alone?  Would anyone remember my life?  Would anyone care?  Would these intense feelings of loneliness and rejection, coupled with the romantic and sexual fantasies frequently playing in my head, drive me to madness?  I got home and made myself a sandwich for lunch, and by the time I finished eating, the ideas in my head were coming together to form a short story.

I sat down and started typing.  When it came time to name the characters, I still had that Sixpence None the Richer song stuck in my head, so the love interest character became “Leigh,” after the band’s vocalist.  I wrote for about three hours that night. I had time to finish a first draft the next day, because of the school holiday for Martin Luther King’s birthday. I did some editing during study breaks over the next few days.  By Thursday night, I had perfected the story enough to print and share.  I clicked Print on the computer, and the inkjet printer on my desk buzzed and whirred as five pages of my story emerged.


“Leigh’s Boyfriend”
By Gregory J. Dennison

“It’s good to see you tonight, Leigh,” Ryan said as they met outside the theater.

“Good to see you too,” Leigh replied, kissing Ryan on the lips.  “Shall we go in?”

“Sure,” Ryan replied, putting his arm in Leigh’s.  They walked into the theater and gave the employee their tickets.  The theater was not very crowded, so Ryan pointed toward the middle of the room, not too close to the screen but not too far in the back, and turned toward Leigh with a questioning glance.  She nodded.  He would have been happy sitting anywhere but the back row, though; the back row held bad memories for him.  The last girl Ryan brought here had wanted to sit in the back.  Ryan told her after the movie that he was interested in a relationship, and she turned him down.  Six days later, she started going out with his friend.  None of that mattered anymore, now that he had Leigh, but he still wanted to sit in the middle of the theater.  Leigh walked to the seats first, and Ryan followed her.

The lights dimmed a minute later, and the previews began.  Ryan took Leigh’s hand again.  He could sense her smile in the dark as her hand tightened around his, and he responded with a smile of his own.  He had felt so happy ever since he and Leigh had started dating.  Ryan had only had a girlfriend once before, in high school, and that had lasted about a month.  But Leigh was everything Ryan could ever want in a woman.  For years he had hoped for a woman he could take to the movies, or to dinner, or shopping, or just somewhere where they could talk and share each other’s lives.  And at last, Leigh was that woman.  He put his arm around her and began kissing her.

Ryan woke up Thursday morning at six to the sound of his alarm.  He looked at the empty bed next to him, and reconstructed the events of the previous night.  He brought Leigh home after the movie, and they snuggled on the couch for a while.  She left a little after midnight, and Ryan went up to bed.


Ryan showered, ate breakfast, and drove to work still thinking about Leigh.  When he arrived, he went to his desk to get his stuff prepared for the day.  He looked at his watch and saw that he was right on time, as usual.

“Good morning, Ryan,” his coworker Paul said on his arrival.

“Hi, Paul.  How are you?”

“I’m doing well.  Finishing up a project.  How about yourself?”

“Not bad.  I saw a movie with Leigh last night.”

“Which one?  How was it?”

Ryan gave Paul the movie’s title.  “I actually enjoyed it.  I wasn’t sure what to expect going into it, but it looked good,” Ryan said.

“I haven’t seen it yet.  I’ll have to tell my wife we should see it.  How is Leigh doing?”

“She’s doing well.  She started working at Value Foods a month ago.  She likes her job.”

“Good!  You’ll have to introduce me to Leigh sometime.  I’ve never met her.  Do you want to come over for dinner sometime?  You and Leigh, and me and Maria?”

The thought of a well-cooked meal appealed to Ryan’s bachelor taste buds instantly.  “Sure,” he said.  “When’s good for you?”

“How about Saturday night?”

“Sure.  I’ll check with Leigh and call you this afternoon to make sure it’s okay.”

“Sounds good.  Maria and I are looking forward to meeting Leigh.  She sounds nice.”

“Oh, she is,” Ryan said.  Another co-worker walked up to Paul’s desk as he finished his sentence, so Ryan turned his attention back to his work.


Ryan looked around the coffee shop.  “It’s not usually this full,” he told Leigh.

“You’re right.  I don’t know why it’s full tonight.”

“Excuse me.  May I join you?” a strange voice said.

Ryan jumped in his seat, startled, as if awakening from a dream.  He looked up to see a man standing next to his and Leigh’s table.  The man held a cup of coffee and was looking for an open seat.  Ryan’s table had only two chairs next to it.  “Sorry.  We’re busy,” Ryan explained.

The man looked at Leigh, then looked at Ryan, as if he were having difficulty processing Ryan’s response.  “Sorry,” the man said.  He walked away.

After the man walked away, Ryan turned back to Leigh.  “That guy scared me.  Is it just me, or was it rude for him to ask to share with us?  I mean, this is a two-seat table, isn’t it?”

Leigh nodded in agreement.  Ryan turned and looked out the window as it began to rain.  Rain used to make Ryan depressed, but he hasn’t been as depressed in general the last couple months.  He looked at Leigh.  “It’s raining,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.

Ryan looked into Leigh’s watery blue eyes and smiled.  She smiled back.  He took a sip of his mocha.

“I don’t suppose you’re up for a walk in the rain?” Leigh asked.

“Not particularly.  I’d rather do something indoors tonight.”

“Me too, now that you mention it.”

Ryan watched a car drive by out the window.  “You ready to go?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied.  Ryan opened the door of the coffee shop, holding it open for Leigh.  He opened his umbrella, and they both stood under it as they walked back to Ryan’s car.

“Where do you want to go now?” he asked.  “My place?  Yours?  Somewhere else?”

“How about your place?” she suggested.

“Sounds good.”  Ryan suddenly remembered something.  “Paul and Maria invited us to dinner Saturday night.  Can you make it?”

Leigh thought for a minute.  “Sure.  I don’t have to work at all on Saturday.”

“Paul keeps saying he wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet your friends too.  That’ll be fun.”

Ryan pulled into his driveway.  He opened the umbrella again and shared it with Leigh as they walked up to the porch.  He unlocked his front door, and she walked in, with him following.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she replied, smiling.  “Come on,” she said, taking his hand.  Leigh turned the corner and went into Ryan’s bedroom.  She sat him down on the bed and joined him.  She took off her sweater and then proceeded to remove Ryan’s sweatshirt.  She put her arms around Ryan and kissed him passionately.

Ryan put his arms around Leigh and ran his fingers through her straight brown hair.  Leigh grinned and giggled; he knew she liked that very much.  Leigh reached down and pulled Ryan’s pants down around his ankles; Ryan did the same to Leigh.

Soon afterwards, Ryan and Leigh began a beautiful love-making session.  Ryan told Leigh how much he loved her several times.  And he did love her.  She was everything he could ever ask for in a woman.  Ryan had always known that the woman he ended up with would be someone who knew him inside out, someone who could understand all his quirks.  When he was with Leigh, he felt like she did understand.  He could, and did, talk to her about anything, and he could always trust her to help him through.  And now he and Leigh shared the most intimate parts of themselves with each other.

“Hold me,” Leigh said after they finished.

“Of course,” Ryan whispered.  He pulled Leigh’s back toward him and put his arms just below her bare breasts.  This was the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep.


Ryan woke up to the sound of his alarm, as usual.  One more day of work, and then the weekend.  As he crawled out of his empty bed, he realized that something felt wrong to him.  He also noticed that it was probably time to wash the sheets again.

Ryan walked into the office Friday morning with a smile on his face.  He replied to an asynchronous chorus of greetings with a wave.

“Hey.  I saw you at the coffee shop last night,” Paul said.

Ryan looked puzzled at first, but the look of puzzlement soon disappeared.  “Oh, yeah.  I had coffee with Leigh last night.”

“With Leigh?  I didn’t see anyone else with you.  It looked like you were sitting by yourself at a table in front of the window.”

“Hmm,” Ryan said.  “Maybe she was hidden behind something.”

“Maybe.  Are you two still coming for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah.  I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting Leigh.”

“I have to go make some copies.  I’ll be right back.”


Paul had just sat down to watch a basketball game on Saturday afternoon when the telephone rang.  Maria answered, and then called out to Paul, saying that the telephone was for him.  Paul walked to the telephone and took the receiver from Maria.  “Hello?” he said.

“Paul?  It’s Ryan,” the voice on the phone said.

“Hi, Ryan.  Are you and Leigh still coming for dinner tonight?”

“Well, that’s what I was calling about.  Leigh just found out she has to work today.”

“Oh, no,” Paul replied.  “I was looking forward to finally meeting her.”

“I’m really sorry about this.  There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

“Well, Maria was still planning on having company tonight.  I know it won’t quite be the same, but do you still want to join us?  Just the three of us?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, sure.”

“Great,” Paul said.  “Tell Leigh I said I’m sorry she couldn’t make it.”

“I will.  Bye, Paul.”  Ryan hung up.

Paul replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle.  “Leigh can’t come,” he said to Maria.  “I told Ryan he could still come, though.”

“That’ll be nice to have him over,” Maria said.  “I just noticed a few minutes ago that we need tomatoes for the salad.  I’m going to run up to the store and get some.”

Paul thought about this.  “Can I get the tomatoes for you?”

“Sure,” Maria said.  “That’ll help.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  Paul grabbed his keys and wallet and left.


Something had told Paul that he should be the one to buy the tomatoes, and he thought he knew why.  He was curious about something, and in the heat of the moment his curiosity exceeded his patience.  He drove into the Value Foods parking lot and walked toward the store.  As he got there, he noticed a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair gathering shopping carts left in the parking lot.  Paul walked up to the young woman.  “Excuse me?” he called out.

“Yes?” the woman said, turning around.

Paul’s eyes instantly darted down to her name tag.  LEIGH, EMPLOYEE SINCE 1998.  Paul’s hunch was correct after all.  “Aren’t you Leigh Hawkins?”

”Yes,” Leigh said, examining Paul to determine how he knew this.  “Do I know you?”

“I’m Paul Richards.  I work with Ryan.”  Paul expected that Leigh would suddenly make the connections necessary to determine why she would know him.  However, her face maintained its prior look of confusion.  “Ryan Mathewson.  You and Ryan were supposed to have dinner with my wife and me tonight, but he told me you had to work.”

“Ryan?  He never invited me to dinner.  Are you sure you have the right person?  How did you know how to find me?”

“Ryan told me where you worked.  You’re Leigh Hawkins.  Ryan’s girlfriend.  Right?”

“I’m Leigh Hawkins, but I’m not Ryan’s girlfriend.  Ryan and I went out twice last month, but we’re not dating.  Things didn’t really work out like that.  What did he tell you about me?”

Suddenly, things seemed clear to Paul, and he did not like what he was figuring out.  “I’m sorry, Leigh,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“That’s okay.”

“I guess I got my stories a little mixed up.”

“That’s okay.  Have a nice day.  And tell Ryan I said hi.”

“Okay,” Paul said, although he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t.  It would do more harm than good at this point.


“Could you pass the mashed potatoes, please?” Ryan asked.

“Sure,” Maria replied.

“Thanks for still having me over.  I’m sorry I had to come alone.”

Paul waited for about a five-second lull in the conversation.  Ryan was about to break the silence when Paul spoke.  “I know why Leigh isn’t here,” Paul explained.

“Because she got called to work,” Ryan replied.  “I told you.”

“Ryan, it’s okay.  I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you can be honest with me.  I was at Value Foods today, and I talked to Leigh.”

Ryan looked at Paul.  His jaw dropped slightly.  No words came out of his mouth, though.  The look on his face was one of pure terror.  His last line of defense had fallen.

“Ryan, I want to help you.  I don’t know why you created this delusion, but you can get help for it.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to be embarrassed.  Let’s just finish dinner.”

Ryan stood up.  “I’m insulted,” he said.  “First you go spy on me by talking to Leigh behind my back, then you claim that I’m lying about our relationship.  Well, I’m not!  We—”

“Ryan, I didn’t spy on you.  I had to go to the store for something else, and I thought I would go meet Leigh.  And I’m trying to help you.  As a friend.”

“Some friend you are.  I’ll be sure to get your permission before Leigh and I go out again,” Ryan said sarcastically.  He stomped out the door, leaving his food uneaten.

Ryan started his car and pulled away from Paul’s house.  He had probably lost Paul as a friend for a while, but he thought that was all the better since he did not want friends who spied on him.  He was probably just jealous.

Ryan opened the door to his apartment.  “Hey, babe,” Leigh said from the couch.

“Leigh?  I thought you were at work.”

“I got off early,” she said.  “I thought I’d come hang out here for a while.”

Ryan sat on the couch next to Leigh.  She immediately snuggled up next to him.  Ryan put his arms around her and kissed her.  He loved everything about Leigh’s kisses, especially the way they always tasted like couch cushions.  He reached down and slowly unzipped Leigh’s pants; he felt her smooth legs as his hands ran along the surface of the cushion foam filling.  He took off his shirt and rubbed the cushion against it, with a blissful grin on his face.


“It’s weird,” Jed said after reading the story.  “But I like it!”

“Thanks,” I replied.  I wanted to share my story with someone, particularly to see how someone else would react to the twist in the ending, and since my roommate Jed was home, I started with him.

“What’s weird?” Brody, another of our housemates, asked, walking into the living room.

“I wrote a story,” I replied.

“Can I read it?”

“Sure.”  I handed Brody the printed copy of my story, and he said he would read it later.  Shortly before bedtime that night, he told me he thought the ending was hilarious.  That was not a word I would expect one to use to describe a serious, dark story, but he was right.  It was hilarious.

Fortunately, my actual life had not yet gotten to the point where I was making up an imaginary girlfriend.  But I had no one special in my life, except for a couple of silly unrequited crushes, and every time I tried to express interest in a girl, one of three things happened.  She was often not interested back, like Haley Channing junior year.  My words might get taken the wrong way, like what happened with Carrie Valentine last year.  Or I would get to know a girl as a friend first, the way that I was told to, and while I was getting to know her, she would run off and find someone else, like Sadie Rowland had.  This weekend, I would be attending something that I hoped might give me some answers about all of this, so I was feeling slightly optimistic and not completely consumed by darkness yet.  But that is a story for next time.  


Readers: Tell me about a time you channeled your dark thoughts into something creative.

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June 5, 1998.  Sharing my story while wearing a funny shirt. (#176)

I drove to campus that night feeling a little bit nervous.  I had been to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship almost every Friday night of every school year since October of sophomore year, but tonight was different for two reasons.

First of all, I was going to be speaking in front of the entire group tonight.

Three weeks earlier, Tabitha Sasaki was reading the announcements at JCF, and she asked all of us seniors to meet briefly afterward to plan our senior night.  Courtney Kohl, Erica Foster, and Sasha Travis were sitting behind me; I remember this because anything involving Sasha stuck out in my mind those days.  It was also the first time I had ever seen Sasha at JCF.  She was not a student at the University of Jeromevillle, she was still in high school, but she would be starting at UJ next year.  She knew me, and the girls she sat with, from church, and she was going to share an apartment with those girls next year.

I was making small talk with the girls after the last worship song and prayer ended.  About five minutes later, I said, “I should go to that senior meeting now.  Hey, Sasha, you should come.  You’re a senior.”

“Not the right kind of senior,” Sasha replied.  The three of them laughed.

I walked out to the lobby next to the lecture hall where JCF met.  After most of the seniors had arrived, we began to discuss the events for the upcoming senior night.  Three people would be sharing testimonies.  I had occasionally shared my testimony with small group Bible studies, and in individual one-on-one conversations, but I had never shared all of that with a large group.

“Anyone else want to share?” Tabitha asked after one person had volunteered so far.  Apparently she was in charge of planning the senior night.  “I think it would be good to hear from some people who haven’t shared a lot before.”

I looked around.  No one was raising their hand.  Maybe this was my chance.  I always wanted to be more of a part of this group, and since I was not in the inner cliques, I rarely got to share.  All I had to do was tell my story, and storytelling was something I was good at.  And maybe I had things to say that others might want, or need, to hear.  “May I share?” I asked.

“Greg!” Tabitha replied.  “Sure!”

“I think you have a great testimony,” Eddie Baker added.  “Thanks for volunteering.”

Now, three weeks later, even though I had volunteered for this, I was a little bit nervous.  I still wanted to share, and I was sure that I would do fine; it was just an unfamiliar situation.  And I was also nervous because I was wearing a silly t-shirt with Brent Wang’s face on it.

A few months ago, Taylor Santiago told me about a late-night conversation he had with Brent.  The two of them were talking about how most of the advice given in Christian youth and college groups regarding dating was, essentially, “don’t.”  I had heard a lot of preaching about dating with purpose, with an end goal of marriage, and of course about not having sex outside of marriage and setting boundaries to avoid this kind of temptation.  But, as Taylor suggested to me, these groups fell short of actually offering suggestions for Christians to form healthy dating relationships.  Taylor and Brent had had lengthy discussions among themselves about what such a group would look like.  As their idea began to take shape, they jokingly began referring to  the group as the Brent Wang Fellowship.

The group still had yet to plan any meetings, but Taylor had made T-shirts for the group.  I thought Taylor was joking when he first started talking about the T-shirts, but then a couple weeks ago he asked if I was still interested, and that he needed money if I was.  I said sure and paid him, and now I was wearing the shirt for the first time.  The shirt was white, with a picture of Brent’s grinning face, and the dark blue letters “BWF” at the bottom.

Brent was in the lobby of 170 Evans when I arrived.  He saw me and pointed at my shirt.  “Nice shirt!” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, laughing a little.  I entered the lecture hall and looked around, noticing two other people who were friends with Brent and Taylor wearing their own BWF shirts.  I chose to wear this tonight, but I still felt a little silly.

Xander Mackey saw me approaching.  “Hey, Greg,” he said.  “What’s with those shirts?  Is this the Brent Wang Fan Club or something?”

“Brent Wang Fellowship,” I corrected.  “Brent and Taylor Santiago have this idea to start a group to talk about healthy Christian dating.”

“Shouldn’t you name your group after someone who actually has a girlfriend, then?”

“Ouch,” I said, laughing.  “Harsh.”

“Hey, you’re giving your testimony tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I’ve never done this before, but I think I’ll be all right.”

“You will.  God wants us all to tell our stories.  And you know the story, because it happened to you.”

“That’s true.”

“Where are you sitting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come sit with us,” Xander said.  I followed him to an empty seat next to where he was sitting; Raphael Stevens and John Harvey, also seniors, were sitting next to him.

When I heard music start to play, I looked to the front of the room, where Brent, Tabitha, and the rest of the worship team began playing.  “Welcome to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship!” Tabitha said into her microphone.  “It’s senior night!  You’re gonna hear some great testimonies from three of our graduating seniors.  But first, let’s worship the Lord.”  The band played three worship songs, all of which were familiar to me by now after having attended Jeromeville Christian Fellowship for a while.  “Lord Jesus,” Brent said into the microphone after the last song ended.  “I pray tonight that you will be with all of our seniors.  Give them the words that you want them to share, and open the ears and minds of those hearing their messages.  I pray that we will send off our graduating seniors with the knowledge that God is with them wherever they will go, and that they will be shining lights in the world.  Amen.”

Janet McAllen, who was on the paid staff team who ran JCF, along with her husband, came to the front next for announcements.  This was the last JCF meeting of the year, with final exams beginning in a week, so most of the announcements pertained to next year, signing up for Outreach Camp and small groups.  I already had a small group, and I would not be at Outreach Camp because I would be student teaching already by that time.  One announcement caught my attention: there would be a Bible study meeting this summer at the De Anza house, for anyone who would be in Jeromeville over the summer.  I would definitely be going to that.

“A few of our graduating seniors will be sharing their testimonies now,” Janet announced.  “First up, please welcome Greg Dennison.”  I walked up to the front of the room nervously as over a hundred students applauded, their eyes now all on me.  I pulled a note card out of my pocket, where I had outlined the major points of my talk, and placed it on a music stand that the worship team had been using.  I could refer back to this to make sure I did not forget any of the major points.  As soon as I turned to face the group, people began to giggle and chuckle.  “Is that Brent?” I heard someone nearby say.  They were not laughing at me; they were just laughing at the BWF shirt.

My shirt, I thought.  Suddenly I thought of a way to begin my talk that I had not thought of earlier.  “Hi,” I said.  “So I don’t really get up here in front of everyone very often.  I kind of think that maybe that’s from God.  Like, he knows that if I’m in the spotlight too often, it might, you know, go to my head, and I’d do something crazy, like put my face on a shirt.”  I paused as I heard laughter slowly rise from the crowd.  “I’m just kidding,” I said, laughing a little at my own joke.  “Brent is a great guy.  Anyway, I’m going to share my testimony now.

“I wasn’t involved in JCF at all my freshman year,” I explained.  “I grew up Catholic.  My mom’s family has been Catholic since before any of my great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents came to the US.  Growing up, my mom went to Mass every week, but she didn’t usually force me to go all the time.  I went maybe once a month.  My mom’s church doesn’t really have much for kids, and when I did do their stuff for kids, the other kids teased and bullied me, so I didn’t want to go.  As I got older, though, I started going more often.  I had an unrequited crush on a girl from school who also went to my church, and I have to admit, that was one of the things that got me going more often.”  A few people chuckled as I paused.  I gestured in Sarah Winters’ direction in the crowd and continued,  “I told the crush story once to Sarah Winters, and she told me that that was God knowing how to get my attention and bring me back to him.  I had never really thought of it that way at the time.

“So I got to Jeromeville, and Mom told me to look for the Newman Center, the Catholic student ministry.  I went to Mass there every week and got involved with singing in the church choir.  I lived in a dorm, and I didn’t drink or smoke or party or anything, so I hung out a lot with other people who didn’t do that stuff.  And most of those people were Christians.  Sarah.  Liz and Ramon and Jason.  Caroline.  Krista.  Charlie.”  Also Taylor and Pete, I thought, but neither of them appeared to be here tonight.  They had become more involved with Jeromeville Covenant Church and less involved with JCF over the years.  “I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up, and it was nice to know that there were people who actually cared about me.

One night, some of those people were sitting in the hall near my room, during quiet hours, and they woke me up at one in the morning.  I was really mad.  I picked up something to throw, it was a cardboard box, and I threw it into the hallway and almost hit Sarah.  Sorry, Sarah.”  I looked up at Sarah; she started laughing, and others in the room joined in.  “I had a lot of issues with outbursts like this when I was young, and I was so upset with myself that I had let my new friends see that side of me.  I ran outside and sat in my car for a while, contemplating quitting school and running away.  I finally decided I would just go back to my room, try to get some sleep, and apologize to everyone in the morning.  Just hope for the best, I guess.

“But I never got back to my room.  I walked into the lobby, and all of the people who saw me get upset, they had all been sitting in the lobby the whole time, praying for me.”  I paused for dramatic effect.  “This was the first time I can remember really having a meaningful experience of seeing Christians acting like Christians, and it blew me away.  I was so used to being scolded and corrected when I got upset like that, and it felt nice to know that some people were actually concerned for my well-being.

“The following year, sophomore year, I lived alone.  By the time I figured out that I had to hurry up and sign a lease for the next year, all my friends from the dorm already had plans.  So I was alone much of the time.  It wasn’t like in the dorm, where I could just wander around the halls if I felt like hanging out with someone.  I was depressed a lot.  My friends from freshman year had invited me to JCF before, so I took them up on their offer and started going to large group with them.  I wasn’t really looking for a deeper connection with Jesus yet; I just wanted to see my friends.  But the more I got to know people from JCF, I noticed something different about these people.  I kept hearing, and seeing, more and more that knowing Jesus meant something more than just going to church and not drinking and partying.

“A few months later, I had another experience with people caring for me on a bad day.  I was feeling down and lonely because all my friends were busy one night after large group, so I just sat there as everyone left.  Eddie and Xander found me while they were cleaning up, and we had a good talk about life and God and stuff.  They invited me to hang out with them afterward.  That was the weekend of the pro football championship, and two days later I was hanging out with them, watching the game.  The game was terrible, because the Texas Toros won.”  I heard a few laughs from the crowd, mixed with a few boos apparently coming from Toros fans.  “But I still had a lot of fun.

The final piece of the puzzle came a few weeks after the football game.  It was a Thursday afternoon, February 15, 1996.  I was feeling discouraged again, and I ran into Janet while I was walking through the MU.  She asked how I was doing, I said I wasn’t having a good day, and then she asked the most important question anyone has ever asked me.” I paused.  “She asked, ‘Do you know Jesus?’  If she had said, ‘Are you a Christian,’ I would have said yes.  But, honestly, I really didn’t know Jesus, so I asked what she meant.  Janet explained to me about how we are all sinful, fallen human beings, and that sin separates us from God.  Jesus died on the cross for us, to bring us eternal life, and nothing we can do without Jesus can bring us back to God.  Jesus says that he is the way, the truth, and the life. Paul says that if you confess that Jesus is Lord, and believe that he rose from the dead, you will be saved.  Janet asked me if I believed this, and if I was ready to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior.  I was ready.  I said yes, and we prayed.

“Since then, life certainly hasn’t been perfect.  The Bible never says that things will be perfect.  But life has felt more hopeful.  I know that God is with me, and that he has a plan for me, even when I can’t see it all.  Janet gave me a few verses to memorize, and that night, I memorized my first verse, Romans 5:5.  ‘And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.’

“So, all of you, please remember.  If you have a friend who doesn’t quite fit in, if you know someone who is feeling alone, reach out to that person.  There are a lot of people out there who just need a friend.  Your actions reaching out to those people just might plant a seed that will make a difference in eternity, just like how my friends planted that seed for me.”  I paused, then closed awkwardly with, “Thank you, and God bless.”

I nervously took a breath.  It was over.  I had told my story.  The entire room erupted into applause.  I smiled.  These people, some of whom I did not even know, were all being supportive of me.  But this was not about me.  I was just telling them how God had worked in my life, and hopefully someone heard something that God needed to tell them.

I walked back to my seat, where Xander patted me on the back.  Raphael stood up and squeezed past Xander and me; he was scheduled to speak next.  He told a story about having fallen in with a partying crowd in high school, but Eddie was his freshman roommate, and he started attending the Bible study that met in their room.  Kelly Graham, who was there that first night I hung out with Eddie and Xander, was the third speaker; she spoke about having grown up in a Christian family, and how her involvement with JCF, along with a year of studying abroad in Hungary, strengthened her desire to do missions overseas in the near future.

After Kelly’s testimony, all of the seniors were invited to the front of the room.  We stood in a line, and each of the staff members prayed for us, along with a few others.  We then sat back down and sang along with everyone else as the worship team played one more song.  After the song, I stood up and looked at the guys sitting next to me.

“That was good,” Xander said.  “You really shared your story well.”

“Thank you,” I replied.  “And thank you for being there that night.”

“We kind of had a common theme of friends inviting us to JCF,” Raphael commented.

“Yeah.  It’s so important to be in community with the people around you.”

“Hey, are you going to Man of Steel tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I replied.  “I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah!  I love Man of Steel.  It’s so much fun.”

Later that night, as I was mingling with others in the room, a freshman whom I did not know well, but had seen before, came up to me.  “Thanks so much for sharing your story, Greg,” he said.  “It was perfect, because I invited my roommate tonight.  He’s been curious to know more about Jesus, but this is the first time he actually came with me.”

“Nice,” I replied.  “God knew he needed to hear these testimonies.”

I had no plans that night, but unlike the night I met Eddie and Xander, I was okay with going home early this time.  Tomorrow was the Man of Steel competition, and I was going to be hanging out with a bunch of the guys from JCF all day.  I had to be at the De Anza house at ten in the morning, and I did not want to be too tired.  I went home after the room had mostly emptied, feeling like God really was using my story to help people, and as I walked to the car, I prayed for that freshman who had come for the first time.

I got to share this story at JCF one more time, at Alumni Night in the spring of 2016.  The head staff at the time were former students whose years on campus overlapped with mine, and I had recently gotten together with them to catch up.  At one point, I told some of the stories leading to how I became a Christian, and how my friendships in JCF played a key role. They said that my story would be a good one to share at that year’s Alumni Night.  The theme for that night was “God Working Through the Generations,” and as part of the multi-generational theme, they scheduled testimonies from an older alumnus, a younger alumnus, an upperclassman, and a freshman.  I was the older alumnus, 39 years old at the time. Students at UJ in 2016 lived in a completely different world than the world I knew as a student in the 1990s.  But the point of my message, about reaching out to friends when they go through tough times, was just as true. A few students afterward came up and told me that they had either invited friends to JCF or had been invited by friends, and that my words meant a lot to them.

I had many more adventures over the years involving the BWF shirt.  But those are stories for later.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would remember me if I were to suddenly disappear.  Have I really made an impact?  Have I changed the world at all?  I may not have made the same kind of impact that others may have, I may not have my face on a T-shirt, but nights like that one, when I got to share my story, remind me that I have made an impact in some way to some people.  


If Don’t Let The Days Go By were a TV show, this would have been one of those episodes where the writers get lazy, and they just slap together a story using clips from previous episodes.

Readers: Has there ever been a time when you told someone about things you had been through, and it made an impact on them? Or have you ever been impacted by hearing someone else’s life story? Tell me about it in the comments.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.


February 29 – March 6, 1996. That time I thought it was a good idea to give my home address to some underage girl from the Internet whom I had only known for a couple hours. (#73)

Finished.  Done.  This English paper was due tomorrow, and I was expecting it to take all night to finish, because earlier in the week I just could not get myself motivated to write it.  But I was finished now, and it was not even eight o’clock yet.  I had a few good hours left before bedtime, and I planned on spending them not studying or doing homework.

I scrolled back up to the top of the document I had been typing in Microsoft Word, making sure my name was on the top of the paper.   Gregory Dennison.  English 101 – Dr. Paris.  February 29, 1996.  I always felt some odd fascination with writing the date February 29.  I only got to write it once every four years, after all.

After my English paper finished printing, I connected to the Internet, listening to the familiar beeps and whistles and clicks as my computer dialed the number to connect.  I hoped that those sounds would bring me a cute girl to talk to and flirt with on Internet Relay Chat.  I went to my usual channel and looked at the list of names; no one I recognized was on there.  There was someone in the room named “floridachick”; I assumed she was a girl, since she had “chick” in her name.  I sent Floridachick a message, and she never replied.  I said hi in the main chat, and a few other people greeted me back.  Someone named Psychogirl, typed “hi how r u?”

“Psychogirl, good, how are you?” I typed back.  As the messages scrolled past, I saw Psychogirl tell me that she was “not so good.”  I switched to private messages to continue the conversation with Psychogirl.

gjd76: what’s wrong?
psychogirl: my mom and i got into a fight and i ran away
gjd76: oh wow.  so where are you now?  are you safe?
psychogirl: ya im at my dads
gjd76: what’s your asl?
psychogirl: 15/f/ok

Nowadays, with it being such a big deal to protect children from sexual predators on the Internet, it makes me uneasy to remember that sometimes I used to talk to and flirt with underage girls when I was in my late teens and early 20s.  Granted, I was not that much older than Psychogirl, but by today’s standards a 19-year-old boy talking to a 15-year-old girl seemed inappropriate.  None of that crossed my mind in 1996.  I do not know if that was because it was not a big deal in 1996, or if online chat and messages were still far enough out of the mainstream that the general public did not realize that the problem existed.  Or maybe I was just sheltered.  Probably some combination of all of those.  I replied to Psychogirl, telling her where I was from, and that I was a 19-year-old male.

psychogirl: whats ur name?
gjd76: greg.  what about you?
psychogirl: stephanie
gjd76: hi stephanie, nice to meet you :)
psychogirl: u too
gjd76: i haven’t seen you in this chat before
psychogirl: i dont get on much.  my mom doesnt have internet.  i come on here sometimes when im at my dads but that isnt very often
gjd76: i see.  what do you look like?
psychogirl: 5ft5, 130lbs, dyed black hair, kind of pale, green eyes.  u?
gjd76: 6’4, dark brown hair, brown eyes, about 220lbs
psychogirl: oh ur tall, i like tall guys ;)
gjd76: aww thanks :) do you have a boyfriend?
psychogirl: no. i was with this guy for a while but we broke up.  he said he didnt think we were right 4 each other but i think he was cheatin on me
gjd76: wow, i’m sorry.  sounds like it was his loss
psychogirl: aww.  what about u? gf?
gjd76: i don’t have a girlfriend
psychogirl: y not?
gjd76: i liked this girl last year but she was a lesbian and i never knew it
psychogirl: wow that sounds awkward
gjd76: it was kinda
psychogirl: what do u do? like do u have a job or r u in school
gjd76: i’m a math major at the university here, and i tutor math too
psychogirl: u can be my tutor, i failed math last semester.  what university?
gjd76: jeromeville
psychogirl: i havent heard of that.  what’s that by?
gjd76: just outside capital city.  it isn’t very well known outside of the state

Maybe I was biased, but Jeromeville was a world class university, consistently one of the top-rated public universities in the United States.  It was unfortunate that it was not more well known; I suspected that this was because of sports.  The Jeromeville Colts were not a Division I athletic program, and football and basketball seem to be where the general public outside of academia hears about colleges and universities.

psychogirl: oic. have u ever been to oklahoma?
gjd76: i haven’t
psychogirl: ur not missin much.  i cant wait 2 get out on my own
gjd76: haha.  i know the feeling, that’s why i moved here as a freshman
psychogirl: my grades arent good enough to go away to college
gjd76: that’s a bummer… are there any classes in school that are your favorites?
psychogirl: english, i guess i hate english the least
gjd76: i was never good at english.  in high school i got a b-minus in 10th grade english, that was the lowest grade i got in all of high school
psychogirl: ur crazy, a b minus was the highest grade i got last semester, u must be smart
gjd76: i don’t know, school was just always easy for me
psychogirl: i wish school was easy for me. im not good at anything
gjd76: that’s not true
psychogirl: im not.  im a loser.  i only have 1 friend at school
gjd76: well you seem nice to me, all the people who aren’t your friends are missing out
psychogirl: thanks
gjd76: so, if i may ask, why did you run away?
psychogirl: my mom hates me, she doesn’t understand me
gjd76: what do you mean?
psychogirl: like i like to wear black and im into really dark stuff and she just doesnt get it.  she tells me to just be happy and go make friends but the kids at school dont want to be friends with me.  i dont wanna be like the other kids, theyre dumb
gjd76: haha i get that
psychogirl: but yesterday my mom was cleaning and she found an empty bottle of whiskey in my room
gjd76: oh… do you drink a lot?
psychogirl: so now shes yellin at me saying im an alcoholic and an addict and she threatened to send me to rehab.  i dont even drink, it was just that 1 time, my friend brought it over when she stayed the night and i didnt even like it that much
gjd76: i see
psychogirl: and i was crying and crying all day yesterday and she still came in just to yell at me.  so i packed a bag and got on a bus and went to my dads house but i still cried a lot
gjd76: you live with your mom? any siblings?
psychogirl: i have a little sister.  and moms bf is over all the time, he doesnt like kids
gjd76: that’s too bad :(
psychogirl: my dad wants custody of us, but my mom doesnt trust him because he hit her once
gjd76: oooh
psychogirl: he never hit me or my sis but i dunno if i wanna live with him.  i dont really wanna live with mom either.  i feel so alone.  sometimes i wish i was dead
gjd76: please don’t say that
psychogirl: but whats the point, mom doesnt care about me, dad only wants custody because he hates mom, and kids at school dont like me

It hurt to read what Psychogirl was writing.  I had felt alone before.  I had been through times when I felt like no one was there for me.  And I certainly knew how it felt for my parents to not understand me.  I always felt like they spent a lot more time and money on my brother Mark’s hobbies and recreation than they did mine.  That was probably because Mark was into things that my parents understood and enjoyed, like basketball and baseball, and I was into things that they did not understand, like math and computers and video games.  But my parents were still together.  I had no concept of being stuck in the middle of a contentious custody battle. And I had never been in trouble for hiding alcohol or drugs in my room. I believed Psychogirl that she was not an alcoholic, but I hated to think that all that was going on in her mind might drive her to more risky behavior in the future.  I continued typing.

gjd76: i’m your friend. i know we just met, but i would miss you
psychogirl: aww thanks :) ur sweet
gjd76: so are you.  the world needs people like you in it
psychogirl: but all i do is go to school and come home and cry, no one wants that
gjd76: it’s hard feeling alone.  i’ve been there.  i couldn’t find anyone to room with this year, my parents were willing to get me a small studio apartment by myself, but i get lonely.  last year i was in a dorm so a lot of my friends were right there in the building, and now i hardly ever see them.
psychogirl: ya
gjd76: i sing at my church, and i started going to a bible study last week through a nondenominational christian club at school.  i’ve made a lot of new friends there.  i will pray for you. 
psychogirl: im not really religious but thanks
gjd76: it’s ok.  you’ll be ok.
psychogirl: i just feel like such a loser, no one wants me around and i hate it at home
gjd76: you’re not a loser.  you’re a unique personality that some people don’t understand because they are too shallow to appreciate someone who doesn’t follow the crowd.  i’d probably be friends with someone like you
psychogirl: really?
gjd76: yes… i’m glad we met tonight… i wish i could give you a big hug and just hold you and tell you everything was going to be ok
psychogirl: and i would hug u back so tight… ur such a great guy… i dont deserve this
gjd76: stop.  you’re my friend, i’m here for you
psychogirl: thank u so much… this means a lot 2 me
gjd76: so will you be ok?
psychogirl: i guess.  i still dunno what to do, mom is probably still mad at me
gjd76: here’s what i think you should do.  it’s late.  go to sleep.  do you have school tomorrow?
psychogirl: ya but i dunno if im gonna go
gjd76: so in the morning, go back to your mom’s house.  and calmly tell her what happened with the empty bottle, that you just tried it once and didn’t like it.  tell her you understand why she’s upset, but you wish she would listen to your side of the story.  and also listen to her side of the story
psychogirl: i guess
gjd76: maybe your mom will still be upset and yelling.  if so, that’s her problem.  but if she’s calm, maybe you can make some progress
psychogirl: maybe
gjd76: you’re going to be ok.  really you are
psychogirl: :)
gjd76: i give you a big hug and little kiss on the cheek
psychogirl: thanks but my cheek has tears streaking down it, you dont wanna kiss it
gjd76: that’s ok.  i kiss it anyway.  we all have rough days
psychogirl: thank u so much :) ur so nice
gjd76: :) am i ever going to talk to you again?
psychogirl: i dunno, i dont get on here very often and i can only get on at my dads house
gjd76: i wish we could keep in touch
psychogirl: i know :( id get in so much trouble if i called u, phone calls are expensive
gjd76: do you have email?
psychogirl: no :(
gjd76: if i gave you my address, would you write to me? like in the mail?
psychogirl: sure!

I hesitated a little before I typed that last part.  One can never tell who is on the other end of an Internet chat, and horror stories about personal information falling into the wrong hands were becoming more and more common as the Internet became more mainstream.  But in the last year, I had already given out my address to girls I met on the Internet four times.  Two of those were girls who wanted to stay in touch but would not have access to email for a while, and the others were to exchange pictures, since scanners and digital cameras were not yet things that everyone had.  No one had broken into my house or stolen my identity yet, and Psychogirl really did not seem like a scammer to me.  If she was, she would have offered promises of sex or money, not a story about a distraught teenage girl running away from home.  I typed my address in the chat.

psychogirl: thank u so much :) :) :) ill write u for sure
gjd76: good, i look forward to hearing from you :) you’ll be ok, i care about you and so do other people.
psychogirl: so will u! i need to go to bed but i really liked talking 2 u tonight
gjd76: likewise :) take care… i tuck you into bed and kiss you on the forehead and smile
psychogirl: :) good night!


Life continued to move on for me, with classes, Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, and singing in the choir at church. I had two weeks left before winter quarter finals, and all my midterms had wrapped up.  I still had physics labs, and I had one more paper for Dr. Paris’ English class due a couple days before finals.

On the following Wednesday, March 6, I got home from a long day of classes and checked the mail on the way from the bus stop to my apartment.  Along with advertisements and coupon books, I saw a small envelope in my mailbox that looked like the kind of envelope my grandma would use to send a letter.  Upon closer inspection, however, the handwriting was not my grandma’s.  I noticed the postmark next: TULSA OK 741 – 2 MAR 1996.  Tulsa, Oklahoma?  I did not know anyone in Tulsa.  Next I looked at the return address in the corner: it was from someone named Stephanie O’Connell, with an address at an apartment in Tulsa.  Stephanie O’Connell, Tulsa, Oklahoma, I thought… Psychogirl!  That is who this is!

I opened Psychogirl’s letter as soon as I got back to the apartment.


March 1, 1996

Greg-
Thank you for listening to me and especially for letting me have your address… that meant a lot to me, more than you’ll ever know.

After I got home, my mother talked with me about what she saw and how it made her feel when she saw it, and it went well, I thought – no yelling or screaming from her or from me.  So I’m feeling happy about that today.

Daddy still wants to get custody of me and my sister and mom is really scared because of it.  I don’t know who I want to live with, honestly I don’t, and my mother doesn’t understand. I feel terrible, and I feel like crying a lot.  But you really did make me feel better last night.

Well, I have more things to do today, so I should get started on that now.  Bye!

Thanks again!

Stephanie (Psychogirl)


Stephanie wrote her address again at the bottom of the page below her name.  To me, that was an invitation to write back and stay in touch.  I did just that a few days later, starting my letter between classes on Friday and finishing it over the weekend.

Unfortunately, I never heard from Stephanie again, and I do not know what happened to her.  Hopefully things started to get better in her life.  Did she stay with her mom, or did her dad get custody of her and her sister?  Was there less yelling between her and her mom in the future?  Did she stop writing because something bad happened to her, or did life just get in the way?  Did she move on to something else like a typical whimsical teenager, or did she get in trouble for writing to me?  Was she actually a 55-year-old man named Chuck? If not, she would be around 40 today… was she still into dark stuff and wearing black, or was that a phase she grew out of?

Sometimes people only cross paths for a brief time, but that brief moment can make a huge impact.  I hope that I was like that for Stephanie.  Maybe she just needed someone to talk to, someone to care for her and tell her that everything would be okay, so that she would make it through the night.  Maybe God put me there to rescue her that night, because he was planting a seed for something that would come to her later.  I would probably never know, but maybe, just maybe, Stephanie was still out there somewhere, with a memory of the night she made a new friend who helped her see life, and herself, from a new perspective.

January 26, 1996. Pieces falling into place. (#68)

I had been in a bad mood all week.  I woke to rain Tuesday morning, and since then clouds had covered Jeromeville the entire time.  My week had been boring and uneventful, and I was feeling particularly grumpy about not having a girlfriend.  Earlier today, I saw Sabrina Murphy from church on campus, and she introduced me to her boyfriend.  I knew she had a boyfriend, I had been through the disappointment of learning that a month ago, but meeting him felt like a reminder that I was not good enough to date a girl like Sabrina.

It was now Friday evening, and once I got home from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship tonight, I would be alone studying the entire weekend.  The National Football League championship game was coming up Sunday afternoon, but this year I would probably be watching it alone in my apartment.  Maybe that was a good thing; the team I despised the most, the Texas Toros, was heavily favored to win.

Dave McAllen of the JCF staff team spoke that night.  “‘I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel,’” Dave said, reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians.  “If you look back in Acts chapter 19, it tells about when Paul first visited Philippi.  The first Philippian to receive the gospel was a woman named Lydia.  It says, ‘When she and the members of her household were baptized, she invited us to her home.’  Paul and his companions did not just baptize her and take off.  They started a church that met at her house.”

I had been attending JCF since October.  At first, most of my thoughts during the group meetings were on learning people’s names, figuring out how the group worked, and wondering whether they would have a problem with me being Catholic.  But now that I had been part of the group for a few months, I was paying more attention to the actual content of the message.  I got a different perspective on Scripture from JCF than I got from Mass at the Newman Center.  Father Bill’s homily was usually something fairly brief and general, vaguely related to that week’s Scripture, but the messages given by Dave and the JCF staff applied specific Scriptures in relevant ways for university students in 1996.  Relationship was a big part of spreading the Gospel at a large university.  It was also, unfortunately, something deficient in my life.

After Dave’s talk and the final worship song, I stood and turned to my friends.  I had been sitting next to Pete Green, Charlie Watson, Caroline Pearson, and Jason Costello, all friends from my freshman dorm last year.  “How’s it going, Greg?” Charlie asked.

“I’m doing okay,” I said.  “Except all my classes have midterms this week.”

“Good luck,” Caroline said.  

“Where are Liz and Ramon?” Charlie asked.

“They went to go see Ramon’s parents this weekend,” Caroline replied.

“Ramon said they’ll be back Sunday morning,” Jason added.  “I need to get going.  I had a midterm today, and I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Yeah,” Caroline said.  “I need to go too.  I need to start my paper.  It’s due Monday.”

“Good luck with that,” I said.  “Is anyone else doing anything tonight?”

“Not me,” Pete replied.  “I have to study all weekend.  I’m so behind in all my classes.”

“Pete’s my ride,” Charlie said, “and I’m behind too.”

“Good luck with your studying,” I said.  “I’ll see you guys later!”

The others said their goodbyes, and I walked around the room.  I knew that learning about the Bible should be the most important part of these meetings, but I was also enjoying the social aspect.  Dave spoke tonight about building relationships, so being social is important too, apparently.  Last week I went to a movie with those friends after JCF, and I was hoping something like that would happen tonight too.  If it did, though, it would not be with them; my opportunity had been stolen by studying, and by Liz and Ramon doing couple stuff.

A freshman named Brent Wang saw me and waved.  I approached him and the others standing next to him.  “Hey, Greg,” Brent said.  “How’s it going?”

“Not bad.  Just busy with school.  How are you guys?”

“I had a midterm today.  I don’t think I did too great.”

“I had one too,” said a tall curly-haired boy whose name I thought was Todd.  “I know I didn’t do too great.”

“That’s too bad,” I replied.  “But you never know.  What are you guys up to tonight?”

“We’re having an overnighter at our Bible study leader’s apartment,” Brent explained.  “Just something for the guys of our group to get to know each other.  We should actually get going; we told him we’d be there in just a minute.”

“Have fun!” I said.  “See you guys next week!”

Over the next twenty minutes, I had some positive small talk experiences but was ultimately unsuccessful in finding something to do.  By now, only ten people remained in the room, and most of them seemed to be helping clean up.  I sat in a seat by myself away from people and put my head down.  What was wrong with me?  Why was it so hard for me to make friends?  I hated being me sometimes.  I hated living alone and feeling out of the loop, and the only reason I lived alone was because I was out of the loop when people were making housing plans for the following year.  And would I ever know the feeling of being in love?

I looked down at the floor, fighting back tears, as I heard more and more of the few remaining students putting things away, saying goodbye, and leaving the room.  When the room was silent, as the last people were getting ready to leave, I heard footsteps approaching, probably to tell me that it was time to go, that they had to lock up.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked.  I looked up to see two guys of average height and build now sitting next to me.  The closer one had black hair and olive skin, and the one behind him had light brown hair and pointed features.

“I’m okay,” I said.  “I’m just having a rough night.  I feel like I don’t fit in around here.”

“Why’s that?  Did something happen?” the dark-haired guy asked me.  He was the same one who had spoken before, and I had seen him around JCF; I was pretty sure his name was Eddie.  I did not know the other guy.

“I haven’t been going here very long.  I don’t know a lot of people.  And the people I do know, sometimes I feel like I’m not really part of their group.”

“Your name’s Greg, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Eddie, and this is Xander.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Who would you say you know here?”

“Pete Green, Taylor Santiago, Charlie Watson, Caroline Pearson, Liz Williams, Ramon Quintero, Jason Costello, Sarah Winters, Krista Curtis… we were all in the same dorm last year.  A lot of them weren’t here this week, though, and the ones who were went home early.”

“Sometimes people just have stuff going on,” Xander said.  “Don’t take it personally.”

“I know.”

“So you’re a sophomore?” Eddie asked.  “We are too.  Do you have roommates?”

“No.  I was in a single room in the dorm last year, and when everyone was making their plans for this year, I didn’t know what was going on until everyone had plans already.”

“Living alone can be nice,” Xander said.  “We live in a big house with eight of us total, and it gets noisy sometimes.”

“Yeah, but it gets lonely too.”

“Can we pray with you?” Eddie asked.

“Sure,” I said.  I found this to be another difference between students at JCF and students at the Newman Center, the willingness to pray for people openly in public like this.

Eddie placed his hand on my back and began speaking.  “Father God, I thank you for bringing Greg to JCF and having our lives intersect tonight.  I pray that Greg will know that he is loved.  I pray that he will experience your love in a whole new way this weekend.  I pray that you will come in and transform his life.  Wash away all the hurt and the pain and show him your blessings anew.”

“Jesus,” Xander added.  “I pray that you will help Greg find his place in our community.  I pray that he will hear from you and know your plan for his life.  I pray that you will bring him into the community you have prepared for him, and I thank you that we got to talk to him tonight.”  After a pause, he concluded, “In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” Eddie asked.

“No.  Just study and homework, but it won’t take the whole weekend.”

“Tonight we’re going to play games with some girls from JCF who live down the street from us.  And we’re going to watch the football championship on Sunday.  You want to come hang out with us?”

“Sure,” I said.  “Where do you guys live?”

“I’ll draw you a map.”  Eddie tore off a piece of paper and drew a map to a street called Baron Court, near Valdez Street and Cornell Boulevard.  He marked two locations at opposite ends of the street, labeling one of them “2212 – Eddie & Xander” and the other “2234 – Girls.”  “Do you know where that is?” he asked.  “It’s in south Jeromeville.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I can find my way there.  Are you guys going there now?”

“Yeah.  We said we’d be there a while ago.:

“Sounds good.  I’ll see you in a bit then.”



Baron Court was about two miles from campus on the other side of Highway 100.  I had explored this neighborhood on my bike a few months earlier.  On one side of Baron Court was a large apartment complex with its main entrance around the corner on Valdez Street, and a row of duplexes lined the other side, ending in a cul-de-sac opening up to one of the Greenbelts.  The girls lived in the second to last duplex.  I did not know who these girls were, and I did not know if Eddie and Xander had arrived yet.  If I knocked, and they were not expecting me, would they be comfortable letting some strange man into their home at ten o’clock at night?  After waiting in the car nervously for over five minutes, I had not seen Eddie and Xander arrive, so I assumed that they had gotten there before me.  I walked up and rang the doorbell.

A shorter than average girl with dark curly hair opened the door.  Behind her I could see Eddie and Xander sitting on a couch, looking at the door as if they were expecting me.  “Greg!” Eddie said.  “You made it!  Come on in!”

“Hi, Greg.  I’m Kristina,” said the girl who answered the door.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied.  We shook hands, and I walked to the couch and sat next to Xander.  On a second couch, placed against the front wall out of view of the doorway, sat two other girls, one small and thin with brown hair and an athletic build, and one average height, but the tallest of the three, with bright blue eyes and straight light brown hair just past her shoulders.  I could not remember ever having met any of these girls before.  Around 150 students attended JCF on an average Friday, so I had not met everyone yet.  “These are my roommates, Kelly and Haley,” Kristina said.  “Six of us live here, but the other three went home for the weekend.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“You too,” Kelly, the small athletic one, replied.

“So you go to JCF?” Haley asked.  “I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

“I’ve only been going for three months.  I don’t know a lot of people yet.”

“I didn’t have that experience.  It seems like everyone knew me the first time I went to large group,” Haley said, and the others chuckled.  I got the impression that she was referring to something specific that I did not know about, and just as I was about to ask, Eddie explained, “Haley’s brother goes to JCF too.  He’s a senior.  Do you know Christian Channing?  Glasses, goatee, about the same color hair as Haley.”

“I think I know who you’re talking about,” I said.

“Are you a freshman?” Haley asked.

“Sophomore.”

“Me too.”

“All of us are,” Kelly added, gesturing toward the six of us in the room.

“How’d you find out about JCF?” Kristina asked.

“A bunch of my friends from my dorm last year invited me.”  I told Kristina which JCF people lived in my dorm, and she and the other girls nodded.

“Are you in a Bible study?” Xander asked me.

“I’m not,” I said.  Hoping that this would not make my new friends gasp in horror, I added, “I actually don’t even have a Bible.”

“I think I have an extra Bible,” Kristina said.  “I’ll go look for it before you can leave.  You can have it.”

“Thank you,” I replied.  “That would be nice.”

“So what do you want to play?” Eddie asked.

“We can always start with Uno,” Kristina replied.  “Is everyone okay with Uno?”

“Sure,” I said.  Kristina got up and returned a minute later with Uno and a few other games.  She dealt the cards, and we began playing, taking turns trying to match the color or the number of the previously played card.  We made small talk while we were playing, about classes and other things going on around JCF.

Xander played a red 3 card.  My turn was next, but Kristina jumped in and played the other red 3 card, out of turn.  “What?” I said.  “It’s my turn.”

“I had the other red 3,” Kristina explained.

“What do you mean?  Why did you play out of turn?”

“Because I had the exact match.”

“I don’t think that’s an actual rule,” Eddie said.  “Greg, you don’t play that way?”

“No.  It’s not a rule.  I read the rules when I was a kid.”

“That’s how we always play,” Kristina argued.

“That’s fine, as long as I know about it.  Are there any other made-up rules?”

“What about adding to draw cards?” Eddie asked.  “Like if I play a Draw Two, then instead of drawing two, Xander can play another Draw Two, and you would have to draw four.  And if you play another Draw Two, Haley would have to draw six.”

“I don’t know that one either, but that sounds interesting.”

We played three long games of Uno with these house rules that were new to me; I did not win any of them, but it was fun, especially when Kristina, after a great deal of playful trash-talking, had to draw twelve when three Wild Draw Four cards were played consecutively.  After Uno, we played Scattergories.  In this game, each player was given a list of categories and a short amount of time to write things in each category beginning with a predetermined letter.  Only unique answers, different from those of all other players, counted for points.  For the first round the letter was B.  I read the categories and began writing.

Heroes: Batman, but I made a note to change it if I had time, since someone else would probably say that.  Terms of endearment: Babe.  Same thing, someone else would probably say it.  Tropical locations: Bikini Atoll.  Items in your purse/wallet: Bucks.  As in money.  That was creative.  Things that are black: Barry Bonds.  Not exactly politically correct, but good for laughs, and I would get two points for using something with two B words.  I started to panic as the timer inched closer to 0.  At the last minute, I crossed out Batman and put “Bueller, Ferris” for Heroes.  In the movie, Cameron calls him his hero, so I thought I had a good argument.

When the timer went off, we began reading our answers.  “Heroes,” Kristina said.  “Batman.”  Kelly and Xander both groaned that they had also written Batman, so I had made a good choice to change mine.  “Bueller, Ferris,” I said.  Imitating Cameron from the movie, I added, “Ferris Bueller, you’re my hero,” in an exaggerated nasal deadpan.  The others laughed and agreed that my answer counted.

“Items in your purse,” Eddie said.

“Big bills!” Kristina shouted.  “Two points!”

“Isn’t that only one point?” I asked.  “Because ‘big’ isn’t really a necessary part of the answer.  It’s just ‘bills.’”

“Yeah,” Eddie said.  “I think you only get the point for ‘bills.’”

We continued reading our answers; I scored eight points that round.  We chose a new list for the next round, and Kelly rolled the alphabet die; it landed on C.  I read my new categories and tried to think of C words.  Famous females: Christina Applegate.  Things made of metal: Crowbar.  Medicine/Drugs: Cocaine.  Names in the Bible: This is where my lack of a Bible might hurt me.  I wrote Caleb; I was pretty sure there was a Caleb in the Bible.

“Famous females,” Eddie said as the timer went off.

“Christina Applegate,” I said.  No one else had that.

“Sheryl Crow!” Kristina exclaimed loudly.

“That’s only one point,” I said.  “Sheryl is spelled with an S, not a C.”

“Well, aren’t you the king of not letting me get two points!” Kristina said with mock indignation.

“And you’re the queen of answers that don’t count,” I replied.  Everyone laughed.

It was past midnight by the time we finished the third and final round of Scattergories.  “We should probably get going,” Eddie said.  “It’s getting late.  I’ll see you Sunday?”

“Probably,” Kristina replied.  “Wait.  Hang on.”  She walked out of the room, then returned a minute later holding a Bible, which she handed me.  “Here, Greg.  You said you needed this.”

“Yes!  Thank you!”

“It was nice to meet you, Greg,” Haley said, smiling.

“You too.”  I looked at her and smiled back.

“Yeah,” Kelly added.  “Nice meeting you, Greg.”

As we left, walking outside toward the sidewalk, I pointed to my left and asked, “So your house is right down there?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said.  “We’ll see you Sunday?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there.  Thanks for inviting me.”

“Drive safely,” Xander said.  “See you Sunday.”

“See you guys then,” I replied.

I got in my car and put Kristina’s Bible on the front seat.  Things really turned around tonight.  Dave spoke tonight about the ministry of the early Christians being built on relationships, and Eddie and Xander heard that message loud and clear, reaching out to me to build friendships that have lasted to this day, even though we now live far apart.  Decades later, I was given the chance to pass on this message about ministry through building relationships.  I was invited to speak at JCF’s Alumni Night in 2016, and I told the students about the night I got upset and threw a cardboard box at Sarah Winters and my friends prayed for me, as well as this night, when Eddie and Xander invited to play Uno and Scattergories.

I went to bed shortly after I got home that night.  It felt like pieces were finally falling into place.  I had many more pieces to go to solve this great puzzle of life, but I felt a little closer to figuring things out tonight than I had earlier.  As I drifted off to sleep, I felt at peace, thinking about my new friends, how Eddie and Xander had included me in their life tonight.  I was going to see them again on Sunday, and it was going to be awesome.

And I also thought quite a bit about Haley Channing and her beautiful blue eyes.  I really, really hoped that she did not have a boyfriend.

The actual bible Kristina gave me on that day, a bit more worn now.

October 31 – November 9, 1995.  In a funk. (#58)

I was in a funk.  I had been in a funk for a while by the time my physics lab got out.  My funk had stretched into its fourth day, and one of those days was an hour longer because of the end of daylight saving time.  One small consolation was that it was Halloween, and I had the pleasantly silly experience of seeing many full-grown college students come to campus in costume.  Earlier I saw a guy walking across the Quad in a very accurate costume of Jack from the Jack in the Box restaurant commercials, with a perfectly round clown head as from a child’s jack-in-the-box toy over a business suit.  I also saw at least three different Batmen walking around campus.

Batman… that reminded me of last Saturday, when this funk started.  I still was unhappy with myself about Saturday.

Friday night went okay.  I went to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship again, which was good, but I felt more like an outsider.  I talked to all my friends who were there, but I did not talk to anyone else, and everyone was talking about the Fall Conference next weekend, which I was not going to.  I woke up Saturday morning still feeling down, and that feeling worsened as the day dragged on.  I got some homework done, but I also moped around the apartment doing nothing quite a bit.

Saturday evening, I decided to go to campus, where second-run movies play on weekends in 199 Stone, the largest lecture hall on campus at the time.  Batman Forever was playing that night.  I had seen the movie once, and honestly I did not like it that well.  Jim Carrey, who at the time was building his career on annoying mindless movies where he made a lot of faces and funny loud noises, played the Riddler.  He played the character like the annoying people in his other movies, and I did not like it.  The movie did not help me get out of my funk, and I left about two-thirds of the way through.  That was the first time I ever went to a movie alone, and to this day, it remains the only time I have ever walked out of a movie that I paid for.  I went home, down two dollars and fifty cents and still in my funk.

Despite having won Best Costume my senior year at Plumdale High, I never got too excited about Halloween.  I outgrew trick-or-treating around fourth grade and spent the rest of my childhood staying home handing out candy.  The only reason I even dressed up at school that day two years ago was because Melissa asked me to.  She dressed as Mona Lisa, with a drawn replica of the painting and her face sticking through a hole in it, and asked me to be Leonardo painting her.  I had a big crush on Melissa at the time, so I probably would have dressed up as dog poop if she had asked me to.  The problem was that, during the one period that we were not in the same class, her costume worked by itself, but no one could tell what I was without her.  No, I am not Charlton Heston playing Moses.  No, I am not Father Time.  And during the costume contest at lunch, we were introduced as “Mona Lisa and Michelangelo,” which says something about the quality of education at Plumdale High School.

When I got home from my physics lab, I made sure the porch light was off.  Mom taught me as a kid that this tells trick-or-treaters not to come to your house, although many do not seem to know that rule.  I had no candy to give out tonight.  I did not know whether the local children of Jeromeville even went trick-or-treating in apartment complexes full of students.  (None did that night.)

I signed on to the university computer network after dinner that night, intending to get on Internet Relay Chat and find some girl to talk to.  But before I did that, I checked to see who else was signed on to the exact same server, as I occasionally did back then out of curiosity.  Every once in a while, I found someone I knew.  I looked through the thirty or so names and account numbers that scrolled past, and my pulse briefly quickened when I saw this:

stu042537 Megan McCauley

I typed “talk” and sent “hello :)” to account stu042537.  Megan replied about a minute later.

stu042537: Hi, Greg!  How have you been?  I haven’t seen you in a while!
stu049886: i’m doing ok, just busy with school.  it’s a lot of work but i’m doing pretty well in my classes.  what are you up to?
stu042537: Just the usual.  This chem class is kicking my butt!  But I knew chemical engineering would be a hard major.  Didn’t you say you were a tutor for the Learning Skills Center this quarter?
stu049886: yes!  that’s going well.  i’m working 10 hours a week with small groups of calculus and precalculus students.  i enjoy it.
stu042537: Good!
stu049886: how is your building this year?
stu042537: It’s definitely easier being an RA the second time around.  I have more of an idea of what to expect.  But, of course, my residents are full of surprises too.  I like this group so far.
stu049886: that’s good
stu042537: How is it being in your own apartment?
stu049886: it’s nice and quiet.  but i miss seeing my friends from last year.  some of them are involved with jeromeville christian fellowship, i’ve started going to that sometimes with them
stu042537: It’s important to find things you can be involved with.
stu049886: definitely!  any plans for halloween tonight?
stu042537: Not this year.  What about you?
stu049886: nothing.  halloween was never that big a deal to me.  i thought it was funny, though, i saw three people on campus today dressed as batman
stu042537: That’s great!  I should actually go in a few minutes.  I need to pick up the person I’m dating from the airport.  But it was good to hear from you!

I stared at that last message, heartbroken and crestfallen, typing my closing line in the conversation much more apathetically than I had typed earlier.

stu049886: you too, drive safely
stu042537: Bye!

I stared at those four words again before I closed the window… “the person I’m dating.”  Nothing can drain the last bit of hope from a crush more quickly than that.  I knew I probably had no shot with Megan anyway, but at least I could hope that maybe she liked me too.  Not anymore.  I could not compete with some cool guy who traveled on airplanes and knew how to talk to girls.

I turned on the television later that night.  It was Tuesday, so Home Improvement was on.   I liked that show, but Tim Allen’s stereotypical guy antics were not enough to lift me out of my funk.  I returned to the computer and signed on to the IRC chat channel I had wanted to go to earlier when I messaged Megan instead.  No one there was talking to me, and no one I knew I was on.  I halfheartedly replied to an email, but I needed to talk to someone in real time, not by email.  I could not get the image out of my head of Megan and some guy driving back from the airport in Capital City, across the Drawbridge and to his apartment, where he would probably invite her in and go to bed with her.  I wanted to be doing that, not whoever this jerk was.

I was tired of this.  I was tired of being alone, not knowing how to talk to girls.  I hated being different and not having grown up with all the experiences that the people around me had, like having friends and taking trips on airplanes and doing fun things on Halloween.  I wished I could quit life and start over again.  Or maybe go back to high school for another few years; I was finally starting to have some of those experiences or having friends senior year, but then everything else ended too soon, and I lost touch with everyone except Renee Robertson, Melissa Holmes, and Rachel Copeland, none of whom lived in the same place as me or as each other now.

Around 10:30 that night, desperate and with nowhere else to turn, I picked up the phone.  I had seen public service announcements for a suicide prevention hotline with a local phone number.  I was not sure if I was actually feeling suicidal, but at least these people could talk to me.  I dialed the number quickly.

“Suicide Prevention,” said the voice on the other end.  “This is Anna.  To whom am I speaking?”

“Greg,” I said.

“And how are you feeling tonight?” Anna asked.

“I need someone to talk to.”

“What’s going on?  Why do you say that?”

I told Anna the abbreviated version of my thoughts on feeling different, being alone, and not knowing how to talk to girls.  I explained that there was one girl I really liked who I did not have much of a chance with, and how I had found out tonight that she had a boyfriend (at the time, I did not understand that there was a distinction between the words “person I’m dating” and “boyfriend”).

“That is a lot weighing on your mind,” Anna said.  “Are you taking any medication for depression or anxiety, or other mental health medications?”

“No.

“Are you in any sort of therapy or treatment?”

“No.”

“How often do you use alcohol or drugs?”

“Never.”

“Are you thinking about ending your life or harming yourself?”

“I don’t know.  I know I shouldn’t give up like that, but I don’t want to go on like this either.”

“That is understandable.  Is your life in danger right now?”

“I’m sitting at home in my apartment.  So probably not.”

“Have these thoughts you’ve been having interfered with your day-to-day functioning?  Like your ability to work or attend class?”

“Not really.  I’m a student at UJ, and my grades are still good.”

“That’s good.”

“I guess.”

Anna asked me more questions about how I felt about things, as well as my day-to-day life and my history with mental health and medication.  After talking for another ten minutes, she said, “We are meant to be a one-time service, so I can give you names and phone numbers of some mental health professionals in your area, so you can call someone to set up an appointment and meet more regularly?  May I do that?”

“I guess.”

I got a pencil and paper and wrote down the names Anna gave me.  “So tomorrow, give one of those people a call, and set up an appointment.  Can you do that?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“I think so.  Thank you.”

“Thank you for calling.  I hope everything works out for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Good night!”

“Bye,” I said, hanging up the phone.  I did not feel great about this.  I was not looking forward to seeing a therapist, and I did not even know if that was what I wanted.  But I had calmed down to the point that I might be able to sleep now.

 

I arrived about five minutes before my appointment.  It had been a little more than a week since the night I called the Suicide Prevention number.  It was a cool, cloudy, depressing Thursday afternoon.  The address was in a small office building at the corner of Maple Lane and West Coventry Boulevard, less than half a mile from my apartment, behind a nondescript door with the names of two therapists on it.  The waiting room was small, about the size of my tiny dorm room from last year.  A few chairs were arranged around a table with outdated magazines on it, and two doors on the other side of the room led farther into the building.  I picked up a Time magazine from July with former U.S. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin Powell on the cover.  I started reading through the magazine in order until a man with graying brown hair, a mustache, glasses, and a button-up shirt emerged from one of the doors.

“Gregory?” he said.

“That’s me,” I replied.  “You can call me Greg.”

“Hi, Greg.  I’m Ron Kilbourne.”  Ron extended his hand for me to shake it.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.  I followed him into his office and sat down.

“So tell me again what brings you here.”

“I feel down a lot,” I said.  “I feel alone, I don’t see my friends as often as I used to, I don’t have a girlfriend, and I don’t know how to talk to girls.”

“Okay,” Ron said, apparently waiting for me to say something.”

“I haven’t seen a therapist in a couple years.  I was in and out of therapy all my life, going back to second grade.  We saw a therapist as a family for a while, because I was getting teased a lot at school and having trouble behaving, and my dad was dealing with a lot being a newly recovering alcoholic.”

“And how old are you now?”

“19.”

“Okay.”  Ron scribbled some notes on a clipboard, then looked at me.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me more.”

“I told you.  I don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t help you if you aren’t going to tell me anything.”

Who was this jerk?  Why am I paying him all this money just to sit there?  I did not know what to say to him.  I told him more about not having friends in school growing up, about how being in the dorm was good for me but I lived alone now, about never having had a girlfriend, and about what happened with Megan.

Ron kept writing on his clipboard.  “What else?” he said when he was done.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said angrily through clenched teeth.

“Then I guess we’ll just sit here until you’re ready to talk,” Ron replied calmly.

“Fine.”  I sat in the chair and stared at Ron for almost ten minutes, saying nothing.  He just sat looking at me, occasionally writing on his clipboard.  “Why does anyone pay you all this money not to do anything?” I finally said.

“Why did you?” Ron asked.  “Why are you here?”

“I’m here because I’m depressed and alone and I don’t know how to make friends or have a girlfriend.”

“What else?”

“I need to know what to do.”

“What are you doing now?” Ron asked.

I told him about my friends from the dorm last year, and tutoring, and singing at Mass, and Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  After he finished writing in his clipboard, Ron sat there looking at me, waiting for me to say more.  “And I don’t know what else to do.”  We stared at each other for another five minutes, saying nothing.  I clenched my fists, fighting every urge to punch this man in the face.

About forty minutes into the appointment, before the end of the hour-long session, I pulled out my checkbook and paid him for the session.  “This was a waste,” I said, walking toward the door.

“Greg,” Ron said in a flat tone.  “I can’t help you if you’re going to walk out.”

“And you can’t help me if I’m here either.  So what’s the point?”

“I don’t know.  You tell me.”

I left the check on his desk and walked out of the office, slamming the door and throwing the stack of old magazines against the wall on my way out.  I was still hot-headed and angry when I got back to the apartment.  I lay on the bed for about an hour, at which time I did homework for a while, and then ate dinner.  Was I really beyond help?  Was I so messed up that even going to a therapist could not help me?

I never saw Ron Kilbourne again.  I got a letter in the mail from him a few days later encouraging me to continue to seek therapy; I tore it into small pieces and threw it away.  I never did call any of the other names that I had gotten from Anna at Suicide Prevention; after my experience with Ron Kilbourne, I was convinced that there was no point to seeking therapy.

After Ron Kilbourne, I did not attempt to seek therapy again until 2002; by that time, I had long since graduated and moved from Jeromeville to Pleasant Creek.  I now know as an adult that I have had therapists who were good fits for me and others who were not; Ron Kilbourne was not, and I should have at least tried a different therapist at the time.  Although I have grown, and life has changed, many of the issues for which I sought therapy in the past are still struggles for me.  I have also learned that seeking therapy is far more complicated than just going through motions and having all of my problems fixed.  Therapy only works when the patient wants help, and to this day I feel like in some ways I do not want help.  I want the rest of the world to change around me, or to find a place where the world makes more sense than it does here.  This remains an ongoing issue for me.  On the day I walked out of Ron Kilbourne’s office, I knew that the only way I had left to deal with that funk was the way I have usually dealt with being in a funk all my adult life; just ride it out, put one foot in front of the other, and go through the motions, hoping that better days will come.


(Author’s note: I know that “talk” on a Unix-based system from 1995 did not format conversations the way my conversation with Megan was formatted in this story.  I changed it to make it easier to read.)


October 14-20, 1995.  Come, follow me. (#56)

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.”

“That’s good.”

“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.”

“That’s weird.”

“It works for me, being by myself.”

“Yeah.”

“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 will.”

 

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.”

“Thanks.”

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.”

“Thanks.”

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.

“Probably.”

“Good!”

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.”

“You too.”

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.

 

November 19, 1994. The Help Window. (#14)

After being in Building C for eight weeks now, it was inevitable that couples would begin to form.  And being that I was generally oblivious to this sort of thing, I’m sure there was probably more going on than the two obvious couples I knew about.  And, sadly, as usual, I was not a part of any of these couples.

It was a Saturday night, and I saw one of those couples, Pat Hart and Karen Francis, at the dining commons.  Pat was tall and athletic, with blond hair and a stereotypical golden-boy appearance. Karen was short and sassy, with brown hair and eyes and an occasional hint of Southern mannerisms, because she had spent the first half of her life in Georgia.  She was younger than the rest of us, since she had finished high school early.  But I didn’t know if any of that made Pat and Karen a typical couple, or an unlikely pairing, or what, because I knew nothing of relationships and was oblivious to a lot of things.

Pat and Karen sat at a table with Mike, Keith, and a girl named Gina Stalteri who lived next to Mike on the third floor.  Two other people who did not live in Building C were with them as well; one was Pat’s twin brother, Nate, but I did not recognize the other one.  There was one empty chair at the table; I approached and asked if I could sit there. They looked like they were almost done eating, so I might have the table to myself eventually.

“Go for it,” Mike said.

I sat quietly eating and listened to their conversation.  “We’re gonna have to take two cars there,” Pat said. “It’s too far to walk.  Can anyone else drive?”

“I will,” Mike offered.  “Where did you say he lives?”

“An apartment in north Jeromeville, on the corner of Andrews and Alvarez.  Las Casas Apartments, he said it was called.”

“‘Las Casas.’  That’s kind of a dumb name.  It means ‘The Houses.’”

“That’s kind of like one time, I was visiting my relatives in Bidwell,” I said, “and we went to this Mexican restaurant called ‘La Comida.’”  Everyone laughed, except Karen.

“What does ‘La Comida’ mean?” Karen asked.  “I took French in high school, not Spanish.”

“‘The Food!’” shouted Mike.

“There’s actually a restaurant called ‘The Food?’” Gina asked.

“It’s real,” Keith said.  “I’ve been there. My sister went to Bidwell State.”

“We should probably get going,” Pat said.  “You guys ready?” The others nodded and answered in the affirmative.  “Greg? You want to come with us?” Pat asked.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“My friend from back home, he’s a senior, he’s having a party at his apartment.  I’m sure he’d be ok with more people showing up.”

A party off campus was probably not my scene.  It was probably going to be loud, with lots of drinking.  But maybe I needed to get out of the dorm for a night. “Maybe,” I said.  “I was going to get stuff done tonight.”

“Just show up if you decide to.  It’s at Las Casas Apartments, number 109.  Somewhere near Andrews Road and Alvarez Avenue,” he said.  “Sorry I can’t give better directions. That’s what my friend told me”

“Greg will be able to find it,” Mike said.  “He’s good with maps and directions, remember?”

I chuckled.  “For sure,” I said.

“Bye, Greg!” Gina said as the seven of them began picking up their food trays.

“Maybe we’ll see you there?” Pat asked.

“Maybe.”

 

I got back to my room around fifteen minutes later.  I really didn’t want to go to that party. I didn’t hang around with partiers growing up.  If anything, the mere existence of these kind of parties made me angry that everyone else seemed to know how to get alcohol when younger than the legal drinking age, except for me, and that there were no consequences for these lawbreakers.  And yet, I had no desire to drink; I had seen and heard about too many lives ruined by alcohol.

I didn’t have any other plans tonight.  This was the last week of football season, and it was an away game, so there was no game to go to.  I had a very small TV in my dorm room; I got six channels from its antenna, four of them came in fuzzy, and none of them was showing anything good on a Saturday night.

I got on the computer.  I checked my email; I had a message from a girl in Wisconsin whom I had met in an IRC chat a couple weeks earlier. I wrote her back, nothing too important, just telling her about my day and answering some questions she had about what classes I was in and what UJ was like.

I got on IRC next.  Nothing exciting was going on in my usual chat room, nor did anyone I knew appear to be on.  I tried unsuccessfully to talk to a few people over the course of about fifteen minutes, after which I gave up and signed off.

I went to the bathroom.  I walked all the way up and down the second floor.  It was quiet. The only door that was open was Pat and Charlie’s room, and it was only open a crack.  I poked my head in the door to say hi, and Charlie told me that he had a huge paper to write by Monday, and he was thankful that Pat was gone for the night, so he could have the room to himself.  I figured he probably didn’t want to be bothered.

I went back to my room and played a few games of Tetris on the computer.  After I got bored with that, I walked down to the first floor. The common room was empty, and the only person I saw was Phuong, who was also busy writing a term paper.

I walked up to the third floor and thought about how lifeless Building C was tonight.  There weren’t many signs of life on the third floor either. When I got to the other end of the hallway, where the other staircase was, I saw the other Building C couple that I knew about: Liz Williams, thin with straight brown hair, who lived just down the hall from me, and tall, curly-haired Ramon Quintero, who lived in the room which he and Liz were just leaving when I saw them.  They were holding hands as they approached the stairwell. “Hey, Greg,” Liz said. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.  Just bored.  What about you guys?”

“We’re going out to dinner,” Ramon said.

“Have fun!” I said.

“You too!” Liz smiled.  “Hope you find something to do.”

“I’ll be fine.”

I walked back downstairs and down the hallway to my room.  I tried reading the chapter I had to read by Monday for Rise and Fall of Empires, but I couldn’t concentrate.  Something just felt discouraging about all these happy couples and drunken revelers out having fun, while I was here being bored.

I put the book down.

Depression sucks.

I got back on IRC.  I messaged a girl in the room.  “Hi! How are you?” I typed.

“Leave me alone, you ugly fat virgin,” she replied.

How did she know?

I signed off after about an hour of wasting time with nothing interesting happening.  I checked my email again; no one had written.

I tried reading for pleasure for a while.  I was currently working my way through all 1100-plus pages of Stephen King’s It.  This had been one of my mom’s favorite books, and I borrowed it when I had been home three weeks earlier.  Creepy book, but in a good way. That kept me occupied for about an hour, but I couldn’t become completely immersed in the story because I kept thinking about how I hated being lonely like this, and I wished I knew how to be more social.

Maybe I should have gone to that party at Las Casas Apartments after all.  Maybe it’s not too late.

No, I don’t belong there.  That’s not really where I want to be.

I went to the bathroom and walked up and down all three hallways again.  Still nothing going on.

I went back to my computer and played a few more games of Tetris.  By now, it was after ten o’clock, and I was starting to get tired. I tried going to sleep, but my mind was racing, and I couldn’t fall asleep.  I kept thinking about Liz and Ramon, Pat and Karen, the party at Las Casas, all the cute girls I didn’t know how to talk to, and all my friends back home who had mostly abandoned me.  The situation with my friends at home wasn’t all bad, though: Renee had finally gotten her email set up, so we had been back in touch for a couple weeks, and I had gotten a second letter from Melissa.  However, that wasn’t going to help me tonight

I eventually decided to give up on trying to sleep for a while; the clock said 11:19.  I was tired of being cooped up in this boring room. I put on the jeans I had been wearing earlier and my UJ hoodie, and I walked outside.  I circled the entire South Residential Area, then came back toward the dining commons building.

The dining hall was on the second floor, and it was dark this time of night.  The first floor entrance opened into a lounge with a pool table; no one was there.  In fact, the whole building appeared to be empty. To the left of the room with the pool table, a door opened up into a study room and small sandwich and yogurt shop called Betsy’s.  I had no idea who Betsy was, but her shop was closed this time of night. Behind the pool table, another door led to the mail room, and to the only place where I knew I would definitely find a conscious human being in this building.

The Resident Help Window was open all night, every night.  One or two of the twenty-five resident advisors for this area would take turns staffing the window at night, so that residents would have a place to go for questions and concerns after hours, when the RAs in their own buildings would (theoretically) be sleeping.  I walked through the door, looking down at the ground, into the space that contained the mailboxes and the Help Window. I had already checked my mail today, so in my mind, I was expecting to just peek up at the window and then leave after a few seconds, and if I got asked if I needed help, I would just mutter something about not being able to sleep.  But instead, I heard a friendly “Hi, Greg!” coming from the Help Window.

I looked up.  The RA on duty tonight was Megan McCauley from Building K.  I met Megan a couple weeks ago, when I sat with some of the RAs at dinner and Megan gave me some tips for biking in the rain.  Since then, I had seen her and said hi to her a couple of times around the dining hall. A textbook was open on the desk in front of her.

“Hey,” I said.  “How are you?”

“I’m good.  It’s a pretty slow night so far, so I’m studying for physics.  This class is a lot of work.”

“Which physics?”

“9B.  Are you going to have to take that?  What’s your major?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  Math and physics and chemistry were my favorite classes in high school, and they all need the Physics 9 series, so I’ll be taking it next year.”

“Sounds like you’ve at least narrowed down your potential majors to things that have a lot of the same freshman classes.”

“Yeah.  What’s your major?”

“Chemical engineering.”

“That sounds hard, but interesting.”

“Exactly!  A lot of Chem-E majors don’t finish in four years without taking really heavy class loads.  I’ve kind of accepted that I might need five years.”

“I feel like I need to hurry up and decide.  Most of the people I know in my building know their majors already.”

“There’s nothing wrong with not having a major right away, but the sooner you decide, the sooner you can plan ahead, and you’ll be more likely to graduate on time.”

“That’s true.”

“Are you considering engineering at all?”

I paused.  “I don’t know,” I said eventually.  But in those few seconds of thinking, I realized something: I grew up very sheltered, in a mostly blue-collar part of the state.  The true reason I hadn’t considered engineering as a major was because I really had no idea what an engineer was. But I didn’t say any of this to Megan.  It was a little sad and embarrassing.

“It wouldn’t hurt to look into it.  But engineering has different grad requirements, remember.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?  Where are you from?”

“Plumdale.  Near Gabilan and Santa Lucia.  But I won’t be going home probably until Christmas.  For Thanksgiving, my parents will be picking me up on the way to my grandpa’s house in Bidwell.”

“I love Santa Lucia!  Growing up, we’d go there every summer to go to the beach.  It’s so pretty there!”

“Yeah, it is.  Where are you from?”

“Not far away.  Oak Heights, just outside of Cap City.  I can get home in half an hour if there’s no traffic.”

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.  Nothing too big. Just my family.  And my great-aunt.”

“That’s nice.  We used to have it at my great-grandma’s house.  This is our first Thanksgiving without her. She was my last great-grandparent.”

“I’m sorry,” Megan said.  “Were you close?”

“Kinda.  We went to visit her twice a year, and we stayed at her house for a few days.  She lived up in the hills outside of town. There were great views from her house.  We’d go up there for Fourth of July, and from her front yard we’d be able to see two fireworks shows off in the distance.”

“That sounds nice!”

“It was.”  I yawned.

“Getting tired?” Megan asked.

“Maybe I should go try to sleep.”

“I think that’s a good idea.  I hope you’re able to sleep this time.”

“Me too,” I said.  “And, hey, it was good talking to you.”

“It was good talking to you too!”

“Thanks.”

“Any time, Greg.  You go get some sleep.”  She smiled.

“Good night,” I said, awkwardly smiling back.

“Good night!”

I walked back to Building C, swiped my ID card at the door, climbed the stairs, went to the bathroom, returned to room 221, and went back to bed, a little after midnight.  As I drifted off to sleep, I kept thinking about what had happened tonight. Megan seemed really, really nice, at least from our few interactions so far. She was cute too, with her dark blonde hair slightly above shoulder length and pretty blue eyes.  I usually like longer hair on girls, but that length worked on her. It seems like I think a lot of girls are cute, but in Megan’s case, talking to her didn’t really feel weird, like it did with some other girls. Was it bad that she was older? Could there be something there more than just friends?  Could she ever see me that way, or was I just a silly freshman to her? I didn’t even know how much older she was, although I guessed it was probably just one year, since the Physics 9 series is usually taken in the spring of freshman year and first two quarters of sophomore year. Was I mature enough to date a sophomore?  Of course, I was getting way ahead of myself, but these thoughts comforted me as I finally drifted off to sleep.

The resident advisors’ jobs were to help dorm residents with anything we might need, as well as to make sure that people were being quiet after eleven o’clock, and the Resident Help Window was open all night for any concerns we may need help with.  Now that I think about it, I don’t remember if I ever actually used the Resident Help Window for its intended purpose. But sometimes, a friendly face and a listening ear were all the help I really needed.