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Chapter 21

For his birthday Jerry arranged a weekend for him and Chloe to go to Ashland, Oregon. Home of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, this college town offered Broadway quality shows in a bucolic setting. Instead of super-sized billboards clamoring for attention, theatergoers were surrounded by the Siskiyou Mountains, with plenty of trails, parks and forests to get lost in. He purchased tickets for Death of a Salesman and Twelfth Night. It just happened to be Halloween week-end.

For the occasion, Chloe got a new pixie haircut that enhanced her soul stained eyes all the more. Together, they loaded up the Dasher and headed up I5. Chloe lit up a joint, and shortly after they pulled off the highway. Jerry slid over to the passenger side and Chloe hiked up her skirt and descended on top of him. He was so relieved that he stayed hard. Note to self, pot really helps.

They pulled into the Mark Antony Hotel after night fall. Jerry lugged their two bags down the dimly lit hallway and into their musty smelling room. Perky as ever, Chloe slipped by him, dropped her panties and bounced bottom first onto the fairy tale plush bed, and threw her splayed legs up into the air. Jerry swan dived on top of her, giving Chloe a fit of the giggles. Throughout the night, the dance continued. 

In the morning, they mooned into each others eyes. Breakfast was heavy and to work it off Jerry recommended a hike. They found a trail that followed a stream upwards into an ash forest. Its golden leaves shivered in the morning sun. They found a pool and skinny dipped in water warmed by the long summer.

Jerry had read Death of a Salesman in college and knew this would be no laugh fest. Chloe’s clowning went absent during intermission. After the play, she didn’t look at him. Jerry moved in for a hug, but she turned sideways. They shuffled up the aisle. Small talk surrounded them: “Where do you want to get a drink?”; “Are you going to put a costume on?”; “I hear the Mark Antony has a band.” That last one sounded good to Jerry. 

“Hey, let’s go dancing,” he said as they hit the street. Mist fell upon his face like cobwebs.

Chloe grimaced. “I’m tired. Must have been the hike. Let’s go back to the room.”

“It’s Halloween. The night’s young,” said Jerry.

“You go.” 

OK, that took him aback. Jerry chose not to remind her this was his birthday celebration after all.

They buckled up in the car, but Jerry didn’t turn on the ignition. He gazed through the windshield. A mass of droplets coalesced into a major drop and descended erratically down the glass. A pumpkin hued halo surrounded the streetlight ahead. 

He turned to Chloe. She turned her head away from him.  

He placed his hand between her shoulder blades. “Hey,” he said.

Her back trembled, then she gasped for air, followed by sobs. 

She turned back to him. Her face glistened. Jerry smelled the wet wool of her sweater jacket.

“That play was about my dad.”

Jerry’s eyes softened like pillows inviting her to rest hers there.

“When he died he didn’t have a job, and he never told anyone. My mom only found out after he was gone. 

“He was an advertising executive and when he was fired he kept commuting into the city, dressing up in a tie and jacket as if he had somewhere to go, coming back at night for dinner. 

“Then he got cancer, a very aggressive cancer, and he died within a couple of months.

“And,” her voice thickened, “I never went to visit him in the hospital. 

“I was awful to him, and that’s something I can never change. I never said goodbye, and I suck, I really suck.

“Oh man, I’m sure he knew you loved him.”

“No, no, he didn’t, that’s the thing.” Through gulps for air she said, “My mom begged me to go see him. I never thought he’d actually die. I don’t know why I didn’t go. Well…

“He would get drunk and come into my room and stick his tongue down my mouth and squeeze my boobs. And then he’d just laugh at my protests. 

“And when my mom came home and told me had had died, the way she looked at me, the scorn in her eyes, I couldn’t bear it.

“But tonight. I felt so sorry for my dad, what a shell of a life, and how alone he must have been when he died.”

“You did what you needed to do,” said Jerry.

“I was a brat.”

“That’s kind of harsh.”

“I was. Let’s go home.”

“Tonight?”

“To the hotel.”

They got back to the room, and Jerry stayed close beside her as they washed up. They slid under the covers, and Jerry pulled her in.

“Life has so much pain,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever wonder why?”

“No.”

Chapter 20

What did Chloe mean by his church being haunted and run by a coven of witches?

He entered the main sanctuary from the back and caught his breath. He resolved to step into the darkness. His heart pounded in his ears. He kept his arm out and shuffled through the vestibule. In the sanctuary, as if alive, stained glass windows, depicting Biblical scenes, glowed from the streetlights. He turned, a stunning rose window sang with color. He found a light switch. Byzantine Moroccan, wrought iron chandeliers, hanging from chains, burst bright. 

Was it him or this place? He had to admit, he was spooked. Ready to bolt, he proceeded to the chancel. The quiet pressed in. He could hear his blood flow. Hundreds of hymnals yielded a smell like grandma’s bedroom.

Was it possible for a building to be female? Was it possible for a church to be feminine and erotic? Sensual curved staircases tethered two pulpits to the chancel. He ran his fingers along its flesh-like bannisters. The domed ceiling was like a swollen belly. In the stillness, intimacy beckoned yet frightened Jerry.

 Jerry climbed up into the balcony and planted himself in the front row. Perhaps a sanctuary provided refuge from the Babel outside, enough to hear the whisper of God.  Or maybe God is experienced with the congregation assembled. With all the pews filled, magic ensues. 

Truly this was a place of magic, from transubstantiation, to baptismal washing away of sin, to the presence of God. But how about a coven of witches? Is that the same magic?

Suddenly he felt a hand descend, as light as breath, on his back, like Chloe’s had earlier. Gasping, he swiveled around. No one. He bolted upright and left the balcony. 

He reached the bell tower. This sentinel stood five stories tall. As he ascended the concrete stairs, he sang loudly Carol King’s You’ve Got a Friend to ward off phantoms. His sound reverberated off the stone walls. At the top he spotted not bells but two large loudspeakers. These Westminster chimes were a tape recording, he realized. A thick layer of dust covered everything. A handwritten message scrawled on the wall read “To all who read this, your day just got better.”

In the corner, a solid shadow, he froze. 

“You don’t mind if I don’t get up,” the shadow said.

Jerry almost fell backwards down the stairs.

“Who are you?” Jerry said.

A man rolled over and pulled down the sleeping bag. 

“It’s a little late to be asking questions, don’t you think?”

“Ya know, you better start talking, or I’m calling the police.”

“OK, OK, don’t get your panties in a bunch. I should actually be the one asking who you are. But since you asked first, I’ll go ahead. I’m Tom Byers, the minister, sorry, the former minister of this place.”

Stupefied, Jerry peered through the darkness. He perceived a protruding stomach, a dark beard streaked with gray and wild hair. 

“What are you doing up here?” asked Jerry.

“I live here, for now anyway.”

“You can’t do that.”

“What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

“This is vagrancy.”

“And this is church. Where’s your Christian spirit, Mr. I-want-to-take-action-and-speak-the-truth Princeton guy?” 

Jerry clenched his jaw.

“So give me a little grace,” Tom continued. “Anyway, I’m responsible for your promotion. You should thank me.”

Crushed beer cans and cigarette butts littered the floor; a large bottle half filled with dark yellow liquid rested in the corner, a red and white cooler in the other.

“Don’t you have family?”

“My wife kicked me out. Says I have a drinking problem. And spare me your judgment. This is fine. It’s private, quiet, except on the hour. I’ve been thinking about disconnecting the wires. Do you think anyone would notice?”

“Where are your clothes, your possessions?” 

“In my camper, so yes, I do have another place to stay, you caught me, busted, but I have some unfinished business here and don’t ask me what.”

“How long do you plan on staying here?”

“I don’t know, couple of days, weeks. I’m not bothering anyone. Relax. I might be able to give you a pointer, or two, or three.”

“Or not.”

“Or not.”

“Do you need help?”

“Well, now that’s mighty Christian of you. Yes, please bring me one of those food bags. I’d appreciate that.”

“I can do that.”

“Thank you, Jerry. Oh, and don’t tell Helen about this, in fact, best not to mention this to anyone. You know how churches are.”

Jerry nodded. He guessed he did.

“Our little secret,” Tom said with a wink.

Chloe was standing outside and popped into his car. They zipped over to Witherspoon’s and grabbed an outdoor table. The sun cast a golden glow on the trees. 

Jerry ordered an Italian cream soda – enough caffeine for today – and Chloe, a hot chocolate. 

“So, Mr. Jerry from out of town, fancy schmancy, what do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a minister.”

“Funny.”

“No. Really.”

“You’re a priest?”

“No, a minister. There’s a difference.”

She laughed. “I’m impressed. What church?”

“Westminster Presbyterian Church.”

“Wow. That place is haunted, you know.”

“Really.”

“Oh yeah. They say that someone jumped off the bell tower and its spirit refuses to leave.”

“Wow.”

“And the place is controlled by a coven of witches led by some old lady named Helen.”

“Wow.”

“You say wow a lot.”

“It’s an East Coast thing.” 

“So, how about you,” Jerry asked. “What do you do?”

“Well, I’m the manager, one of them, there’re six of us, at the Co-op. I also do photography.”

“Cool.”

They paused and smiled at each other. A cat sidled across Jerry’s leg, its tail lingering. He leaned down and scratched its ear. A passing car stirred the leaves in the street, then all grew quiet.

“You want to go to a movie?” he asked.

“How about some dinner first? I know this great place we can grab some burritos. You like burritos? Where from the East are you from? India?”

“New Jersey, and I’m embarrassed to say this but I’ve never had Mexican food.”

“Wow.”

Jerry pointed at her and laughed. “Got cha. I’m game. Let’s go.”

It was a hole in the wall, but the rice and beans, the pulled pork, the guacamole, all tasted divine to Jerry. Then there was the salsa. With insouciance, Chloe offered him a spoonful. Fire raged in his mouth. Water made it hotter. Tears streamed down his face as his body broke into a sweat.

“Not funny,” Jerry sputtered.

“You’ll get used to it. You build up a tolerance,” she said as she spooned some onto her burrito.

For the movie, they chose Ordinary People. Jerry lost himself in the story, about a thriving family ruined by the loss of one of their two sons in a boating accident. The surviving younger son, who was not the favored child, feels guilty still being alive. He is sent over the edge by the suicide of his best friend. At his emotional bottom he comes to realize the truth about his mother. By the film’s end, Jerry could barely rise out of his seat. 

“Drink?” asked Chloe.

“No thanks. It’s home for me.”

Back in the car, Chloe said, “That was quite the knee slapper.”

Jerry didn’t respond.

Chloe gave directions to her home, but he wasn’t listening. He pulled over to the side of the road. He dropped his head to the steering wheel and sobbed.

Ever so gently, he felt a hand on his upper back, moving in small, slow circles. Jerry kept his head down. He had just released something held onto for a long time. He picked his head up and leaned back in his seat. Chloe’s gaze fixed on him with compassion.

“Wow,” he said with a huge sigh.

“Please stop saying that.”

“I don’t cry. Actually I did cry not too long ago. It was with my kids. I mean, my church youth group. They were saying goodbye to me, all gathered around, and one kid fell into my arms and gave me a cross.” Jerry pulled it up from around his neck and showed her. “No big deal, right? But it got to me. Like this movie. It got to me. I don’t know. I guess a lot of things are getting to me.” 

“What about it?”

“I don’t know, the music for starters. What the hell was that?”

“Pachelbel’s Canon in D.”

They sat silent for awhile. Chloe kept her hand on the back of his neck.

“Everything can look so normal, ya know,” Jerry said. “But just scratch a little deeper, and you realize it’s a mess and hanging on by a thread.” He looked at her. “That’s me.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

Chloe, her eyes, fathomless pools, right there, not going anywhere. He leaned over. They kissed, tentative, then with glowing heat.

Jerry pulled away.

“Wo…” 

Chloe’s hand covered Jerry’s mouth before he could finish the word.

“This has been quite a day” Jerry said. “I preached for the first time in my life. I feel thoroughly inadequate. Fake. And I guess I feel kind of alone. I mean really alone.”

“Maybe you need California. Maybe you need to lose Jersey, loosen your tie. Get a little of the laid back energy we offer here, not to mention some granola and wheat grass juice.”

“I’m not even going to ask what that is.”

He drove her home, and they exchanged phone numbers. Intending to head home to his newly rented apartment along the Sacramento River, he unconsciously drove back to the church. 

Chapter 19

Jerry surveyed his congregation from the pulpit. There were about 150 of them scattered about, most in the back rows, most in the sunset of their lives, dreams behind them, eternity ahead. Indeed some of these people were probably part of the church’s heyday when 1,000 or more packed the place. He spotted Jack in the back, ramrod straight, in a navy blue blazer. Beside him sat Helen from the interview committee. She smiled up at him and waved. Close by were Jane and Tom also from the interview committee. Hmmm, power couple.

He launched into his sermon with a joke. “At a clergy convention, a minister started his sermon. As many of you well know, a sermon is usually twenty minutes. The other preachers from his district sat behind him in the choir section, giving him moral support and throwing in an occasional ‘Amen’. He preached his twenty minutes. Then 30, 40, an hour and still going. A brother sitting on the front row took a song book and threw it at him. The preacher saw it coming and ducked. The song book hit one of the ministers sitting in the choir section. As the man was going down, he cried, ‘Hit me again, I can still hear him preaching!’”

A few parishioners laughed.

“I promise you, I won’t be preaching for an hour, but here’s another joke.

“Jesus, hanging on the cross, spots Peter down below and calls out to him: ‘Peter, come up here, I have something to tell you.’ Peter claws and scratches his way through the packed crowd to get closer to Jesus. ‘Yes, Jesus,’ he says. ‘Peter, come closer, I have something to tell you.’ Peter pushes and shoves and reaches the cross Jesus is nailed on. ‘Yes, Jesus.’ ‘Come closer.’ Peter shimmies up the raw post, suffering ugly splinters. ‘Yes, Jesus, what is it?’ ‘Peter, I can see your house from here.’”

Jack just about spat out his teeth. The rest of the congregation also loosened up.

“A little seminary humor.”

OK, he thought, time for the three point stuff.

“I recently watched the movie Champions: A Love Story. Alone. I know. I lead an exciting life. It’s a hokey film, yet it stayed with me.

“It’s about a girl with a gift for figure skating. Her coach thinks she’d do better in partner skating. Enter talented hockey boy who just got tossed from his team, has a huge attitude problem and needs something to do. At first the two just fight and get nowhere. Gradually they learn to trust each other and experience success. And, of course – remember, I said hokey – they fall in love. 

“They’re headed towards the Olympics, nothing can stop them. Then tragedy hits. A plane carrying the boy to visit his mother crashes. The boy dies. The girl is crushed; she ceases to skate. After awhile, her coach asks her is that what Tony, her partner, would have wanted for you, just hang up your figure skates? Her spirit to compete reignites and burns hot, motivated by Tony’s encouraging spirit. 

“When she is about to go on before the Olympic judges, she closes her eyes and hears ‘Routine.’ You see, that’s what Tony would whisper in her ear each time they were about to perform. It relaxed her. ‘Routine.’ Magic takes over. Her nervousness melts away, and a confidence courses through her veins. It’s the best skating of her life, and she wins the gold medal. 

“Many of us have lost partners. 

“Jesus too is perhaps a lost partner. He’s waiting for you, with unconditional love, ready to whisper support into your ear. 

“In this hectic world it’s hard to hear that whisper. Yet in the quiet of the morning, in the break during the day, in the stillness of the night, he can be heard. He is always there and always will be there. Let us draw close and breathe in his very breath. 

“Routine. Amen.”

Helen elbowed Jack in his ribs, and he jerked awake. People shifted and riffled through their bulletins. 

Jerry scurried down the stairs from the turret-like pulpit and resumed his seat. The organist kicked into “A Mighty Fortress is our God.” With the choir of ten gray-haired women warbling along, the congregation followed, far from the rallying cry of the students back at Miller Chapel.

Jerry stood outside and greeted everyone. They all wanted to get a good look at their new pastor. Jane, with the Modigliani face, shook Jerry’s hand a bit too fervently and invited him to lunch, then she moved off and lit a cigarette. 

After the many smiles, welcomes and thank you’s, Jerry sought some way to celebrate his first service. The morning fog had cleared revealing a squeaky clean sky. Autumn leaves skittered along the sidewalk. He wandered across the street. 

He noticed two women in tight shorts and sequined t-shirts roller skating, laughing and sparkling. “Routine,” Jerry whispered to himself. 

Within minutes, in his jacket and tie and gray dress pants, Jerry was tightening up some rented skates and getting ready to propel himself down the sidewalk. 

Jerry stood like a new born fawn. He held on tight to the bicycle rack in front of the store. Saying routine again, he pushed off and headed towards the park. He repetitively pushed off one foot to gain speed. He laughed as he imagined this being his Olympic routine. As he plodded along, he drew sympathetic smiles from passersby. 

No matter. Jerry beamed right back at them. 

After the skating he wandered about downtown. A red brick coffee house named Witherspoon’s called to him. He purchased his first ever cappuccino, floral pattern carved into the foam. After his second cappuccino, he contemplated rereading the Bible…all of it… now. His hands shook; his heart pounded.

He speed walked back to the church. On the way, he passed by eye-catching Victorian and Craftsman homes that gave the downtown area a genteel feel. Modern condo structures added a hip vibe. And then there were these monuments to fraternal organizations, monoliths for the Moose, Masons, Elks, Shriners and V.F.W. Jerry reminded himself that it wasn’t only the Presbyterian church that was losing members. All these groups were dying.

Jerry spotted a co-op grocery story and stepped in. He perused its aisles, appraised its organic produce. Wouldn’t it be great to make this quality food available to the homeless, he thought; wouldn’t it be great to have a farmers’ market that accepted food stamps. That’s a fantastic idea. I’m going to make that my first project, he decided.

As Jerry fondled a voluptuous white peach, he heard “You poke ‘em, you own ‘em,” said with a New York snarky tone.

He swiveled. A petite woman with short auburn hair stood before him with a gotcha smile. Her large brown eyes danced, yet betrayed a deeper sadness.  

“Gotta be fresh. How else can I know,” quipped Jerry.

“Smell.” She took one with her slender fingers and brought it up to her nose. “How many do you want?”

“I guess just one. I’m just checking the place out. Not really shopping.”

“And you’re new in town and don’t know your way around.”

“Exactly. Is there a sign on my back?”

“You’re wearing a tie and jacket. Nobody wears a tie and jacket in California unless you’re going to a funeral.”

“Well, we from the East coast dress up for everything, including grocery shopping.”

“OoooKaaay then,” she said.  “Anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you.”

She turned to go.

“Unless,” Jerry, uncharacteristically kept yapping, “you’d like to share a most amazing coffee drink. Something called a cappuccino.”

She spun around, “And you got it from Witherspoon’s.”

“Exactly. Popular place?”

“The only place.”

“And so…”

“Sure, why not. I can help an out of towner. Come back around 5pm. I’m Chloe, by the way.”

“I’m Jerry.”

OK. This day just got better, he thought. He raced back home, showered and put on something a bit more Californian, like a t-shirt, then hopped back to the Co-op.

The Rev. Jerry Cradleman zipped into Westminster Presbyterian Church’s back parking lot for his first day at work. He cut sharp into a parking space, killed the engine and remained still. He stared straight ahead; his hands clutched the steering wheel. After a deep breath, he opened the door and pushed his lean six foot frame out. 

 He adjusted his tortoise shell glasses. Before him, next to the church, stood a bedraggled bunch of homeless men in various modes of inattention, some standing, some squatting, some leaning. One gaunt man sported a shirt, tie and business jacket, yet the jacket bore snot stains, the tie was impossibly knotted and the shirt splayed open at the belly. With a hollow stare, he listed to the left, propped up by the church wall. Next to him a man with a soiled yellow bandana tied around his neck bent over his grocery cart. He rummaged though a bag of empty cans. A third man squatted, holding a small dog in his arms, a short haired mix, Chihuahua and something. He shared his water bottle with the dog. 

About 30 men, no women, homeless, stared at Jerry. Awkward moment. 

Jerry’s first instinct was to slowly back into his car, lock the doors and haul ass out of there, but then he reminded himself that this was his new job and this was his new flock. Taking another deep breath, he steeled himself and strode forward. One by one, he sought out their eyes, as best he could since most averted theirs, shook their hands, albeit as briefly as possible, and bid them good morning. 

When he got inside the church, he bolted for the nearest bathroom and scrubbed his hands. Recomposing himself, he returned.  A tall, lanky, older man, sporting horn-rimmed glasses and a baseball cap pulled down low, carried grocery bags. Patches of scaly, raw skin covered his arms. 

He leaned in, up close and personal. “You the new boss?” he rasped conspiratorially. His eyes darted about. 

“Me?” Jerry said, starting, “Uh, no, unless you mean am I the new assistant minister and, in that case, yes, I am.”

“Jack Hawkins.” He grabbed Jerry’s hand and shook it vigorously, eyes still glancing all about. “They’re ready for you.”

“Who?”

“The gents outside.” 

“Me?”

“Yes. Feed your sheep. Here’re the bags. Let’s get going.”

“What do I do?”

“I’ll let them in. They’ll each get one of these bags of food. That’s it.”

He shoved the door open and toed down the stopper. In well-rehearsed fashion the men shuffled in and took their seats on the pews situated on either side of the wide hallway. A gag-inducing odor rolled in with them, a complex bouquet of sweat, urine and vomit, with sweet upper notes of cheap alcohol. They sat quiet, passive, yet expectant. 

“Captain.” Jack nodded towards Jerry.

Jerry turned his hands out and mouthed, “What?”

“Grace?” he hissed.

“Oh, yeah.” 

Riiiight. Of course. Prayer. That old thing. He sucked in some air and held it. If this wasn’t the most repellant bunch of congregants he could have imagined back at Princeton.

“Let us pray.” Hands folded and heads bowed. “Father, you know each of us by name. You watch over us every day. Your love is boundless. We thank you for this food. In Jesus’ name. Amen.” 

That wasn’t so bad, Jerry thought. Not the usual, self-conscious discomfort. Must be the crowd. No judgment.

As they raised their heads, Jerry spotted an innocence in their eyes, borne from infancy when their little tabula rasas held hope of a good life to come. Then the clean slates vanished, muscled out by who knows what kind of abuse followed by addictive patterns of self medication.

Jerry handed a grocery bag to each man, pack of English Muffins, can of peaches, can of beans. All mumbled thanks and shuffled out into the blinding hopefulness of a new day.

“We’ll be doing this on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,” said Jack. His eyebrows bounced up and down as if on a trampoline; his nose snorted like he was trying to dislodge something. “Well, that’s it. Good work.” He wrung Jerry’s hand once more for good measure and with one more that-ought-to-do-it snort scooted out the back door.

Jerry let out a giant exhale as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. After washing his hands again, he headed for the office. The pretzel lady and another shorter woman bustled about. As usual, neither one acknowledged him. 

“I’m Jerry Cradleman, the new assistant pastor,” he announced to the room.

Now seated at a desk, the shorter, stout woman studied Jerry through her cat-eye glasses. “Huh,” she said. “Well, I got some bad news. The head pastor left. Said he had some mental issues, and we’re scrambling to find a new one, so you’re the new guy in charge until we do. I need to get your sermon title, scripture passages and hymn choices by tomorrow for the bulletin. I’ll take you to your office. FLORENCE!” Jerry jolted back. “Say hello to the new pastor. I’m Betty.”

Florence, younger, thinner – These two made a good Laurel and Hardy duo. – whisked into the room, smiled, said “Hello,” and exited without breaking stride.

“Follow me,” Betty said. 

He scurried to keep up. The stairs creaked as they marched upstairs. They continued down a dark corridor, took a left, then entered a wood paneled office with an enormous walnut desk. Its steadfast virility could have withstood a siege. Betty cranked open two windows with latticed leaded glass panes. Gardenia from the courtyard below perfumed the room.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable here, not sure how long you’re going to be occupying this office. But might as well use it, since no one else is.”

And she tromped back out, leaving him alone. 

Jerry slipped into the leather swivel chair behind the desk and spun around. He luxuriated in the office’s inherent privilege, and then he panicked at the thought of preaching a sermon Sunday. Better get on that, he chided himself. 

He caught his reflection in a mirror on the wall and averted his eyes. His cheeks flushed. He felt like such a fraud.

Chapter 17

Jerry was about to marry the church, and despite what some newlyweds denied, he knew he would be a changed man from that moment on.

Back in Princeton, he prepared the ordination service. The guest list of about 100 included relatives, friends from seminary, friends from home and official attendees like The Rev. McCracken, the Moderator of the Presbytery, the Clerk of Session, the senior minister of his church and, of course, Rog, or more officially, the Rev. Roger Bogard. 

He embellished the service with an original piano composition composed by and to be played by an Oberlin Conservatory of Music friend. As well, he asked Nancy, his seminary friend, to read Wild Geese by Mary Oliver, a constant inspiration for him.

Then there was a robe and stole to be purchased. What’s with the costume anyway, he wondered. He looked it up. The robe covered his body so that the congregants would not be distracted. The stole symbolized taking on the yoke of service.

The Sunday in September turned out to be an Indian Summer day. The sun lay low, and the shadows long.

Jerry processed with his parents up the middle aisle and took a seat in the front pew. He turned around and there were all the children from his youth group beaming at him.

He reflected on his evolution in this church: first baptized, then squirming in the pew during unending services yet enjoying the organ and the choir, on to communicant’s class, then to adult membership and now ordination. 

Rog preached a sermon entitled “The Superman Complex.” He cautioned Jerry not to feel like he had to fix everyone’s problems and offered advice on avoiding burnout. 

The congregation spoke in litany with Rog:

There are different gifts

But it is the same Spirit who gives them.

There are different ways of serving God,

But it is the same Lord who is served.

God works through different people in different ways,

But it is the same God whose purpose is achieved through them all.

Each one is given a gift by the Spirit.

To use it for the common good.

“Moderator Weeks, speaking for the people of the Church, I bring Jerry Cradleman to be ordained as a minister of the word,” said Rev. McCracken.

Jerry’s knees shook as he stood before the congregation. 

The Moderator asked Jerry, “Do you trust in Jesus Christ, your Savior, acknowledge him Lord of the world and Head of the Church, and through him believe in one God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit?”

“I do,” Jerry answered. He had concluded it was one great mystery, let’s not quibble with the details.

“Do you accept the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be, by the Holy Spirit, the unique and authoritative witness to Jesus Christ in the Church universal, and God’s word to you?” 

“I do.” And to say that, required some exegetical juggling. The Holy Spirit was the inspired writings of countless authors; first the oral composers, then the writers, then the editors over the centuries by the developing churches. And, sure, that works, they all contributed as God’s word.

“Will you be instructed by the Confessions of our Church and led by them as you lead the people of God?”

“I will.” Jerry made a mental note to read the damn Confessions of the Church.

“Will you be a minister of the Word in obedience to Jesus Christ, under the authority of Scripture, and continually guided by our Confessions?”

“I will.” He didn’t like that word obedience. It rankled him.

“Do you endorse our Church’s government, and will you honor its discipline? Will you be a friend among your comrades in ministry working with them, subject to the ordering of God’s word and spirit?”

“I do and I will.” OK, OK, so he might get a little undisciplined now and then.

“Will you govern the way you live, by following the Lord Jesus Christ, loving neighbors, and working for the reconciliation of the world?”

“I will.” He knew a lot of people out there who might challenge his answers, but then, hey, viva la difference.

“Do you promise to further the peace, unity and purity of the Church?”

“I do.”

“Will you seek to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination and Love?”

“I will.”

“Will you be a faithful minister, proclaiming the Good News in word and sacrament, teaching faith, and caring for people? Will you be active in government and discipline, serving in courts of the Church, and, in your ministry, will you try to show the love and justice of Jesus Christ?”

“I will.”

He kneeled. He felt the weight of hands on his back, the hands of his mother and father, the hands of his church elders, the hands of his youth group. The moderator prayed. In this human baptismal font, the water of love christened him. As Jerry arose, he felt like he was levitating.

Jerry prayed aloud as directed: “Almighty God; you have chosen me. Now give me strength, wisdom, and love to work for Jesus Christ.” 

The moderator placed the stole around Jerry’s shoulders and said, “Jerry, you are now a Minister of the Word in the Church. Whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God through him. Amen.”

They all shook his hand and hugged him.

The newly ordained reverend turned to the congregation and said, “As a wedding band reminds me of the vows of marriage, so this service will remind me of my vows as minister.”

He lifted his right hand — Oh, Jesus, what is the appropriate way to raise my hand for the benediction, he wondered. Should I crook my arm? Should I trace the Trinity? — to a partially raised crooked position and pronounced: “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you all. Amen.”

The Reverend Jerry Cradleman processed down the middle aisle with a shit eating grin on his face.

***

Jerry’s mom and dad, Roger and his new wife, Sam, Nancy and Randy, who had played the piano solo, convened to a local restaurant to celebrate.

“Jerry, I never thought you’d do it. I’m proud of you,” said his dad.

“Well, thank you for your help.”

 “You’re heading back to where I was born, California.”

“Yeah, pretty strange.”

“I have to say, I’m sorry you’re not going to work at Deoderex, but the offer stands.”

“Good to know.”

“Your mother and I got you something for the occasion.”

Jerry tore open the gift box to find a self-winding Timex wristwatch with a black band and jade green face.

“We figured you’re going to have a lot of appointments to keep track of and we don’t want you to be late for a single one,” said his mom.

“Thank you, Dad. Mom. Thank you.” He suddenly had a headache.

“You know, as a baby you always yelled,” said his mom. “You just liked to yell, at any moment, in a grocery store, in church, anywhere. It sent me through the roof; it was like a sonic bomb. Land sakes. Well, now, you can just throw in a yell here and there during your sermon.” She got the giggles.  “That’ll keep everyone awake.”

“I remember how you got lost at the Sussex County Fair,” said his father. “You must have been ten. When I found you and grabbed you, you started crying. I was sure glad I didn’t have to come home and explain to your mother how I lost you.”

Jerry remembered that. He also remembered that immediately afterward his dad put him on a rocket ship ride. Inside, still recovering from the panic over being separated from his dad, he watched on a screen, as his ship blasted into space, Earth getting smaller and smaller. He never felt so lonely.

***

Jerry stood at the front door beside his mom and dad, ready to go, yet yearning to stay. How strange. Now that he was finally free to leave, he wanted to stay.

 “Dad….Mom.” He couldn’t hold back the tears, nor could they. They hugged for a long time, then Jerry turned, trudged out the door and climbed into his packed car.

He sparked the engine and blasted off, horn honking, hand waving. In his rear view mirror, his mom and dad grew smaller and smaller.

Chapter 15

Jerry dashed up to his parents, gown billowing behind, cap in hand. His dad wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the lips. His Mom allowed a quick hug.

“Didn’t think you were going to make it,” dad said.

“I didn’t think so either,” Jerry said.

His dad’s stomach pooched; his face sagged; his hairline…what hairline? Eyes, once pin prick sharp, were cataract clouded. His Mom clutched her handbag with both hands. She wore a tight smile and looked like she needed to be somewhere else. 

“You are graduating, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I am.” He drew in a big breath. “But the Candidate’s Committee decided not to endorse me for ordination.”

“Oh no,” Marvin’s eyes darkened. “What happened?”

“Well, these vocation tests say I’m not right for the ministry. And, guess what? You’re gonna love this. They say I’m best suited for sales.”

Marvin burst out laughing; the sparkle returned to his eyes. “A chip off the old block.” He lightly punched Jerry’s shoulder. “You can be minister of Deoderex. We’ll start where you left off and work you up the ladder. That’s just great. It’s all taken cared of.”

“Uh huh,” said Jerry. He suddenly wanted to crawl back into bed.

His fellowship kids swooped over. They had their parents drive them up so they could see Jerry graduate. A flurry of hugs ensued that resuscitated him.

The ceremony took way too long, but it allowed Jerry time to ponder. No way would he work for his dad. He’d stay in Princeton and circulate his resume to churches on his own.

When it was over, mom and dad snapped some pictures, took him out to lunch and were on their way home ahead of rush hour, apologizing for the rush but they both had urgent work to attend to. 

As Jerry drifted off to a much needed sleep, failure weighed down upon him. He had his degree, but so what? No church called him. The road was a dead end. Still, Rev. McCracken’s words lingered: If this was his calling, he must find a way.

Chapter 16

“Jerry, hey Jerry, how are you?” said David Crawford, the seminary Admissions Director. Just before he answered the phone, Jerry had been trying to get himself to mow the lawn of the Princeton house he was care taking for the summer.

“I’m fine, Dean Crawford. What a surprise. Where are you?” There was a din of activity in the background.

“I’m in Sacramento, California, which is why I’m calling. Say, do you have a job?”

“No.”

“Good,” he shouted. Maybe he was in a bar, Jerry thought. “Listen, I was talking to the head pastor of a wonderful social activist church out here, and they have a position open. I think it would be a perfect fit for you with your activist gifts. You’d be working on the hunger issue. You can draft legislation; you can help homeless people; you write your own job description. It’s a great opportunity. You interested?”

“My Candidates Committee no longer sponsors me.”

“How’d that happen?”

“The Career Counseling Center said I wasn’t fit for the ministry.”

“Aw, heck. Look, do you want the job or not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I’ll take care of the rest. My secretary will call you with the interview appointment. You just be there. “

“Thank you so much Dean Crawford.”

“Say hello to your father for me.”

 He sat down. He stood up. It felt like he had just reentered the current of his life after floating around in flotsam. He was going to be a minister!

Time to mow the lawn. 

***

In a few days, he found himself in a fog at the corner of 13^th and Capitol in Sacramento. A raw chill penetrated through his light suit. He peered up at a medieval-looking bell tower lost in a shroud of mist. Next to it, a circular rock hewn sanctuary was unlike anything he had ever seen.  This church was better prepared to fend off barbaric invaders than entice churchgoers. 

Jerry stepped inside. A fluorescent lit office buzzed with activity. While a copy machine spat out page after page, a matronly lady with a pretzel braid fixed to the top of her head flitted away with a stack in her arms, then returned. 

Jerry poked his head through a service window and waited for someone to notice him. Her trained eyes refused to look up. 

“Excuse me,” Jerry said.

She stopped in her tracks. Her piercing eyes took Jerry aback. “I’m supposed to be meeting with a nominations committee at 9 a.m. Where should I go?” 

The woman appraised Jerry, and he passed.  “They’re upstairs,” she said. “Across fellowship hall, go down the hallway a bit and to your left. That’s the head pastor’s office. I think that’s where they’re meeting.” 

Jerry followed her directions. Upstairs he entered a dark hallway and heard voices further down. Jerry spotted a door ajar and pushed it open. Inside five people sat around a table. 

“Well, here’s the man of the hour,” said a middle aged woman with a narrow face like a Modigliani painting. Her gaze sized him up as if he were in a bar. 

Jerry wore a navy blue jacket, white shirt, burgundy tie with silver stripes and gray slacks. It was the only suit he had. He put forth his best smile.

They all stood up and introduced themselves: Bryce, with crew cut blond hair, was chairman of the Ministerial Relations Committee for The Sacramento Presbytery; Tom, with nerd pack in his breast pocket, was the chairman of the Candidate’s Committee; Jane, the Modigliani woman, was chairwoman of Session; Paul, still trying to rise, was pastor emeritus; and Helen, round and doughy, was a congregation member. 

“So Jerry, what are your ministry goals?” asked Paul after they all settled back down.

“I’d like to work with children,” said Jerry.

“In what way?”

“Adolescence is a tough time. It’s easy to get lost. I’d like to help them find their way.”

“What are your feelings about the hunger issue?” asked Tom.

“It’s a disgrace that the richest country in the world has that going on.”

They all nodded.

Bryce asked, “What do you think you might accomplish as Pastor of Hunger Ministries?”

“Let me toss that back to you. I imagine creating a position like this involved extensive discussion in your congregation,” said Jerry.

“Oh yes,” said Jane. “Here we are in the bread basket of the bread basket where two thirds of America’s produce is grown, yet we have an extensive hunger problem. There are tent cities along the Sacramento River. That’s unacceptable.”

Jerry nodded his head. “These are the abandoned sheep Jesus is looking for; these are the ones we must bring back into the fold. But an even greater problem, if I might add, is spiritual hunger. Though we can’t see them, there are encampments everywhere of the spiritually starved. I will make it my mission to feed these people as well, with the body and blood of Jesus.” 

“Jerry, Jerry Jerry,” said Helen. She burrowed into Jerry’s eyes with a knowing look. He felt a strange warmth. “Those words sound minty fresh from seminary. Now why don’t you just tell us who you really are. What you really think. Do you know why you’re here?”

There’s that goddamn question again, Jerry thought. Do I have a sign on my back that says “Lost?”

“No, I don’t, if you really want to know,” he said. “The telephone rang. I answered the call and came. Now maybe I’m not the best qualified candidate, but that’s not how I roll. Excuse my audacity, but my calling is from God. He called me to be here. And here I am. “

 There was a long silence, then Tom coughed. “Could you excuse us for a moment?” he said.

Back out in the hall, under a Moroccan styled sconce hanging from the ceiling, Jerry pushed open an iron window grille. Too strong back there? Jerry wondered. He stuck his head out and viewed the courtyard below. A fountain in the center gurgled. A crushed granite walkway circled it. Fat gardenia bushes bloomed in each corner; their sweet perfume intoxicated the air. He inhaled deeply and let go. What will be will be, he thought. A shaft of sunshine sliced through the lingering mist and warmed Jerry’s face.

“Jerry, please come back in,” said Bryce.

They all stood.

“We prayed together and are of one voice when we say welcome to Westminster Presbyterian Church.”

***

“So, I heard you’re going to be a preacher,” snarled a bleary eyed Chris.

Jerry had come to say goodbye. Chris was enthroned beside the kitchen table in his bathrobe, double fisting, coffee steaming in one hand, pipe smoking in the other.

“I don’t know. It’s more a social worker job, fighting for the little guy. I don’t know if they’ll let me preach. I might rile them up too much.”

“Reinholdt Niebuhr said the good minister has the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Preach away, baby.” He appraised Jerry with a gleam in his eye. “I like you Jerry. You’re fresh. There’s something about you.”

“I like you too, Chris. There’s something about you too,” Jerry said with a smirk.

Chris laughed. “Shut the fuck up,” he said in his juicy way. “Don’t lose your edge, Jerry. Tell the truth. Serve the pain. There’s an awful lot of hurt out there.”

Jerry leaned over and wrapped his arms around Chris. “You’ve been like a father to me. Thank you so much.”

Chris allowed the hug, and then pushed him away. “Ok, Ok, get the hell out of here.” His moist eyes matched Jerry’s.C

Chapter 14

Long before Jerry was born, a young Marvin Cradleman, recent Columbia Business School graduate, encamped next to an equally young man on a commuter train to New Haven. They both wore business attire; they both read The New York Times. The car was packed, with a liberal dose of World War II vets in full dress. It was 1947.

The young man’s thigh glanced against Marvin’s. Marvin reciprocated and a rhythm developed between the two of them as the train gently rocked along. Marvin got an erection. The man stood up and headed down the aisle toward the bathroom. He caught Marvin’s eye as he went in.

It was tight in there. The man unbuckled Marvin’s belt, hoisted him onto the sink and hungrily went down on him. The train whistle screamed with delight. They kissed afterward. Marvin took his phone number.

The call turned into a job. Marvin became the private secretary for millionaire Herbert Van Clief. The young man was his son. Who knew?

The son of a Congregational minister, Marvin entered a lifestyle unbeknownst to him. It wasn’t so much the opulence, and there was plenty of that, like the family train car or the staff of twelve to manage the estate, it was the behavior. His boss never arose before noon and then descended the stairs in formal attire for lunch. Alcohol consumption was practiced like a Protestant ethic gone bad.

While drunk, the fellatio man wrapped his car around a tree. Thus his life came to an abrupt end. The evils of alcohol were treated like a penance during mourning, then life returned to normal.

With proficiency, Marvin managed Van Clief’s home, staff and business affairs. He catered to his boss’ every whim no matter how frivolous.

“Marvin, Marvin…”

As Marvin’s head wobbled back and forth from Van Clief shaking his shoulders, he made out the time, 4:13 a.m.

“Get me a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island,” he said. His breath reeked. “And I want it on the beach. I’m not going to let that damn John Astor one-up me. By the end of the day, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

And he did. It wasn’t beach front. Walking distance would have to do.

For Thanksgiving, Van Clief’s retinue traveled to New York from Virginia in his private train car. Once there, they occupied an entire floor at the Plaza Hotel. The first evening they went to a private performance by Ella Fitzgerald at the Copacabana.

Back from the show, around 4 a.m., in the Oak Bar, Marvin caught the eye of a bus boy. In the men’s room, Marvin was treated to a blow job. While the man’s head bobbed up and down, Marvin noticed how rank the bathroom smelled, and in a five-star hotel, no less. It bugged him. A eureka moment came with his drum roll climax: deodorant for urinals.

Van Clief loaned Marvin start up money. As well, he connected Marvin with his friend Pierre duPont. Within a month, one of his scientists devised a prototype urinal cake. Van Clief filed patent and incorporation papers, and Deodorex was born. Marvin was designated president and CEO. A reconfigured factory in Mexico churned out the cakes for pennies a piece.

With clever marketing – “Our cakes have a special place!” – sales soared. Deodorex appeared in restaurants, hotels, schools, theaters, churches and yes, the Plaza Hotel. In two years, they expanded into Canada, Mexico and Europe. 

When Marvin, ahead of schedule, paid back his start up loan in full, he learned Van Clief was – “Didn’t you read the small print?” he said. – the sole owner of the company. Marvin winced at his rookie mistake.

“Oh, and, by the way,” Van Clief said as he dismissed Marvin from his office, “you need a wife. An unmarried man your age is suspect. I don’t want the Board whispering about you.”

That night he twisted in bed. At 2 a.m., he ripped the covers off, his body drenched with sweat, another Eureka moment. He scratched her name down.

The next day, Marvin checked with the Columbia Business School alumni office and obtained Marie Lacy’s forwarding address. He remembered her well. Not that they were dating, much less close friends, but they were in the same social circle.

By evening, he was on a train to Lynchburg, Virginia. The following morning, with the sparrows in song, he taxied over to the address, rang the doorbell and was greeted by a disheveled old man with shocks of white hair.

“Is Marie here?” said Marvin.

“What is your business?”

“I am a classmate of hers, and I was in the area, so I wanted to say hello.”

“And who are you?”

“Marvin Cradleman.”

The old man scrutinized him long and hard. “Just a moment.”

“Well, land sakes,” cried Marie. Her hands shot up to her blushing cheeks. Her brown eyes shone bright through her rimless glasses.

“Good morning,” said Marvin in a casual tone as if out on a morning stroll.

“I’m speechless.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. I’m working at a local bank while I take care of my father. My mom passed away. Lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

They sat on the porch with a couple of You-hoo’s admiring the parade of cars with their white wall tires. Old magnolias lined the street on both sides. Marie wore a light cotton dress; Marvin, a not so crisp white business shirt and khakis. They both were trim and of moderate height.

“Marie, with my work demands, I haven’t given any time to my personal life. I want to change that. I want to settle down and raise a family, and I now have the financial freedom to do that.

“I’m really not one to beat around the bush. I think we would make a great team. I would like to share the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

Marie went pale. “Marvin, we don’t know each other.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, are you currently engaged with anyone?”

“No,” she said.

“So, it’s possible?”

“Yes,” she said and blushed.

Their eyes met.

Marvin dropped to one knee. “Marie, would you marry me and stay with me till death do us part?”

“Marvin, I don’t know what to say. I wish you wouldn’t crouch there like that. Sit back down, please.”

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m crazy. I’ve lost my mind. Look, I lost too many friends from the war. I know how swiftly life can be taken. I don’t want to miss out. I want it all. I do know you. I was aware of you all through business school. You and I can have it all.”

“Yes, Marvin, yes,” she blurted out. “I can’t tell you how much I want to get out of this town.”

Marvin took care of the wedding; he paid for everything. The Van Clief estate made an impressive spot for the ceremony and reception, and it was not that far from Marie’s home town. Her attending relatives gawked. 

Marie’s wedding dress was straight out of a fairy tale, satin white with a never-ending train. Wearing it transported her into a dream she was afraid to even acknowledge having. She couldn’t have been more swept away. How she wished her mom could have seen it.

They honeymooned at the Plaza Hotel. With Marvin holding the door open for her, Marie entered the Oak Room where the maitre d’ greeted Marvin with a wink. Their theater tickets for that evening to A Streetcar Named Desire were orchestra center. Marie marveled how he had all these connections. Afterwards, he whisked her into a horse and carriage in Central Park. As the horse clopped along, Marvin tucked a blanket around Marie’s legs.

Back at the hotel, Marvin waited anxiously in bed while Marie seemed to take forever in the bathroom. Finally, she emerged and doused the light. He heard her pad over to her side of bed, then he heard the airy descent of her nightgown. She slid in beside him.

She lay inert, face up, eyes closed, legs spread apart. Marvin got to work before she fell asleep. He practiced romance as if he had learned it from a book, and he had. Just before they married he purchased The Ideal Sex Life off an advertisement in Real Men magazine. He attended to her every need, and asked for nothing in return.

From the Plaza, they moved into a newly built home in Tenafly, New Jersey, an upscale bedroom suburb. 

Marvin played the part of husband to a T. If they were going out and running late, he waited without complaint while she finished dressing. Each birthday he presented her a tasteful article of jewelry, each anniversary, a dozen long stemmed roses with an appropriate note of sentiment.

About a year later, out from those same inert, splayed legs emerged Jerry Kradleman.

Marie grappled with this wailing baby. Stranded in an empty house, with a husband who was never home, a distant family, and no friends, she struggled to contain her panic. Dr. Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care became her Bible. She soldiered on. Her dream of business ownership would have to wait, relegated into the shadows of her mind, like a favorite piece of jewelry mislaid in a forgotten drawer.

The building was red brick institutional. Long shadows darkened its front. The doors hissed open as Jerry crossed the threshold. He was directed to a room. He knocked on the door and heard a feeble, “Come in.” 

Andy, the child Peter and Jerry had spoken about at the party, was seated next to the window, dressed as if going to school, upright, frail, alone.

With forced cheerfulness, Jerry warbled, “Hello!”

Andy smiled wanly.

“You weren’t at my goodbye party.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say, I was tied up.”

“How are you?” Jerry asked taking his forced enthusiasm down a notch.

“Everybody told you how crazy I am?”

“No. Peter shared that you tried to end your life.”

“Yeah, well.”

Jerry groped for something to say. “Tough times?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My parents hate me.”

“I’m sure they don’t. “

“I’ve really blown it this time.”

“They’re lucky to have you.” 

“I thought I’d just make things easier for them. And I even messed that up. They’re making me take pills. It’s hard to think straight.”

Silence shoved itself into the room.

“So what do you like?”asked Jerry, grasping for something to say.

“Hmmm.” 

Just when Jerry figured Andy had checked out, he said softly, “I like grace notes.”

“Come again?” Jerry couldn’t believe what he had heard.

“Those little notes. I don’t know why I thought of that just now. Funny, you ask me what I like, and that’s the only thing that comes up.”

“I had a dear friend who loved grace notes.” Jerry flashed back to that night on the roof. “You play the piano?” 

“Yeah, alot, well, used to.”

“Me too.”

More silence. 

Slowly, like the miracle of a seance, Andy raised his arms.

Jerry leaned in and hugged him but not too tight. His frame felt as fragile as a bird’s. 

***

“I never cry,” said Jerry to his therapist during his final Monday session. “I feel like I’m becoming a little unglued. I’m crying all the time. It’s a little scary. I hope those kids didn’t think I’m crazy.”

“Jerry, you mentioned everyone else was crying too, right?”

“Right.”

“So, no, no one thought you were crazy.”

“Right.”

“They love you, Jerry.”

“Hmmm…”

Chapter 13

The night before commencement Jerry bolted awake. 3:30 am.  A dream lingered. As he scribbled the dream down, he felt like he was stealing information he wasn’t supposed to have.

I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom. Dad comes in and slips under the covers. He has an exposed erection. He masturbates until he ejaculates. I’m furious. I kick him off the bed. I go into the bathroom and grab a towel. In the bathroom, on the blue tile floor is a giant egg yolk with clear albumen around it. It’s like those peach halves that come out of a jar. I return to the bedroom to wipe things up. Dad is on the floor cross legged. He looks up at me like a confused child. He’s crazy.

What the fuck?

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.