With the Seminary Board of Trustee’s rejection of a motion to divest, Jerry’s political activism devolved into campus mischief. Sam and Jerry broke into their dorm’s bell tower and disconnected the electrical power. The following morning, there was only silence to acknowledge the end of American Church History class. The professor looked at his watch, kept going, looked at his watch, asked a student what time it was, and finally, with existential angst, dismissed the class. Jerry got a kick out of that. 

Later, Sam and Jerry staked roadside signs that read “Honk If You Love Jesus” and “God Loves You,” “And So Does PTS,” in front of the administration building. Strangely, no one took them down.

The rest of the semester frittered away like a lopsided basketball game running out the clock. In reflection, three years had given Jerry a much stronger intellectual appreciation of Christianity. No longer did he see it as a giant absence of reason while professing fantastical stories. Though God was unknowable and invisible, the Bible was rife with stories of personal encounters. The secret sauce of Christianity was that Jesus made direct encounter with God available to anyone. In effect, Jesus democratized God.

Jerry yearned for this direct encounter. He realized that was really why he came to seminary, and he didn’t get it.

*** 

The plan for the final senior high fellowship gathering was to go bowling, but when Jerry arrived to pick up one of the boys and all the others jumped out from their hiding places and yelled “Surprise!” it was clear the kids had something else in mind.

Jerry never expected thanks, much less that that they considered him as important a part of their lives as he did of them.

The kids cavorted through charades and water balloons, then wolfed down burgers and early corn on the cob, prepared by their moms hovering on the edges. 

“Where’s Andy?” Jerry asked Peter, one of his favorite kids. He was a smart ass, with an emphasis on smart, always putting down the fellowship program, yet never missing a single one. He reminded Jerry of himself.

“He’s in a loony bin,” Peter said.

“What do you mean?”

“He tried to off himself. That kid’s weird. Nobody likes him.“

“Connect the dots. Maybe that’s why he did that.” 

“Who knows.”

“My best friend killed himself. And he wasn’t wacko, just so you know. He was a great guy with a great future.”

“That sucks.”

“It does. It really does.”

“It’s creepy. Let’s stop talking about it.”

Later, Peter placed Jerry in a chair. The dozen or so kids gathered around him in a circle, then each youth came forward one by one, thanked Jerry and wished him well. 

Peter was the last to go. He limped towards Jerry, hampered by a congenital spinal defect. As he tugged at something in his pocket, he tripped and fell into Jerry’s arms. 

Jerry cried…hard. Something broke, something held back behind a wall for a long, long time, and try as he might, it was too much to be stopped. Unloosed, the emotional release knocked down everything in its way, every brick of a wall Jerry had built between himself and the world, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. The kids wrapped around him like a human bandage to stanch the tears.

Peter pulled out his gift for Jerry: a cross. And pressed it into Jerry’s hand. “For good luck,” Peter said. “Like a rabbit’s foot.”

“Yeah, right,” Jerry said.

When he got into his car, all the kids stood at the front door, some crying. He couldn’t bear to look, but he did and started crying all over again. Peter ran to Jerry’s car. 

“You gonna be OK?” he asked, his eyes ablaze. 

Jerry looked up and smiled through his tears. “It’s the best day of my life,” he said and slowly backed out of the driveway.