A Small Voice

Chapter Fifteen

"Sorrow is better thanlaughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better."Ecclesiastes 7:3

What had I gotten myself into? It was Orientation Day, and the dean was going through the rules, regulations, and standards young Christians were expected to abide by at Bible College. I had dealt with so many restrictions throughout my childhood and teen years, and now as an adult, I had hoped to be away from all the small-town religiosity. I hoped for a more relaxed environment.

Rachel and I were sitting close together. I was enjoying the warmth of her delicate hand in mine when the dean began to explain the six-inch rule. That is, keep six inches away from the opposite sex until married. Rachel quickly pulled her hand away, looking slightly embarrassed. It felt as though she'd also pulled a chunk of my heart along with it. Suddenly, the room felt simultaneously cold and stuffy. I can't even touch Rachel? I gave her a sideways glance, admiring her cheeks, lips, and wild black hair. She must have washed it this morning. I wanted to bury my face in it.

I had been planning my independence, freedom in a new city, a new adventure. It had seemed so exciting, and now the idea of being physically separated from Rachel for three years was incomprehensible. I felt sick to my stomach. The dean was still flapping his jaw about something. His baldness, his stupid mustache, his look, the sound of his voice all angered me now.

Fucking dork. I clenched my jaw, but quickly repented for being judgmental. I realized this was going to be a hell of a lot different than I expected.

***

Thankfully, the first few months flew by quickly. Getting used to the routine and environment was a bit overwhelming, especially for a small town, sheltered guy like me.

I'd get up extra early and meet Rachel at the entrance of the women's dormitory. I'd wait for her on the dewy, cool morning lawn, never complaining if she took her time. Walking to class with her seemed the only real motivation for me to get out of bed. In fact, if it wasn't for her I probably wouldn't; I loved hearing her voice in the morning. She'd mostly talk about her religious experiences and her plans to convert old friends from back home. These little chats were more than just spontaneous morning banter to me; they were a shot of morphine into a painful situation.

Rachel was blossoming at college, even more than she had after her conversion. Her fervor was boundless. I loved watching her pretty lips moving quickly as she spoke. Though bare of lipstick, even in their modest state they inspired me. I was earnest in my religion; she was zealous. She'd say hi to everyone as we walked down the cobblestone paths. She quickly made friends and became a favorite of all the professors. At this stage in Protestantism, "charisma" and "charismatic" were the popular key words. Rachel embodied them. It made me chuckle watching her at the school library, pulling out old, dusty Greek to English comparative Bibles, her forehead furrowed as she intently studied each word, looking for the true "hidden" meanings in the text. This was the same girl who used to carry around a flask of whiskey, and now she was a true and popular disciple of Christ. At times, I felt myself again becoming jealous. She was the prodigal come home, having so much attention. Campus recreation would find her surrounded by young, smitten men, and young women attracted to her confidence. I begrudgingly realized there was far more competition here than in our little church back home, or for that matter, our whole little town.

Me? I was struggling to buy into the messages. I had heard it all before, I could give the lectures myself. I felt distracted. I felt superior. A few of our professors had converted in their thirties and forties. They lived wild lives before Christianity, now they were the ones telling me how to live, how not to sin. These guys had embraced all the carnality their bodies could soak in for half their lives, and suddenly, with a simple prayer, they were now holy? Sanctified? It felt contrived to me. Enjoy the fruits of the world, and once full, tell young people, many of whom grew up in the church, how to live a proper lifestyle. They hadn't felt the weight of sin, like a thick blanket pressed heavy on their conscience, every day of their fucking childhoods. They hadn't felt the sinking guilt that envelopes the young who are born into religion; guilt because of a negative thought, because of a jealous twinge, or a normal, lustful yearning.