She was with someone.
His name was Loren Bullard—a junior, a superjock, at least a foot taller than me and that much wider around the chest. A starter on the basketball and football teams. A weightlifter. He played classical piano with scale runs, rapid arpeggios and vast chord extensions. He drove a great car. And he was a nice guy, really. He was bold and confident, devoted to the Lord, and wanted to be a missionary.
I stood there a moment, watching them go down the brick walkway across the campus, talking and laughing, just the two of them. They were a charming couple. Marian had made a good choice, I had to admit.
Which didn’t say much for me. My credentials—shipyard-working, bar-playing banjo picker—looked pretty dim next to the glimmer of Loren Bullard’s.
Well, sometime I would say hi to her, just to say hi. Perhaps she would remember me.
A WEEK OR SO LATER, my roommate, Ben, and I were trying to play a few tunes in the Hub—that was what we called S. J. Marquardt Hall, the place where we bought snacks, got our mail, and socialized. Ben had learned to play guitar from a Peter, Paul, and Mary songbook and had no idea how to play a bluegrass rhythm. I wanted to play Foggy Mountain Breakdown, but for that song to work, the guitar has to be going boom-chunk boom-chunk.
All I could get out of Ben was sling-ading-adinga and it sounded awful. I set the banjo aside, took the guitar again, showed him again, talked it through again. “Okay, bass string first, then brush down, then alternate bass string, then brush down—”
And then she came in. Not since the hospital had I seen her so close. She had her hair in a ponytail this time, and wore a colorful blouse with a denim skirt, kind of like a cowgirl. Our eyes met and, having no words come to mind, I smiled.
She stopped and looked at me, and I could see recognition working its way into her expression. “Have we met before?”
“Sharon Iverson,” I said softly, knowing the delicacy of the subject matter. “Christian Chapel. The hospital.”
She put her hand over her mouth and replied with wide eyes, “You look so different!”
“Well, so do you.” And I meant every word.
She shook my hand. “What was your name?”
“Travis Jordan. This is Ben Springfield.”
We exchanged introductions and majors: Ben and I were both Bible majors. I was heading for pastoral ministry, Ben felt called to missions. Marian was undecided as yet, but leaning toward a business major.
She noticed Ben’s guitar still in my hands. “That’s right! You said you were a musician! I love the guitar!”
Ben grinned at me.
“We were just, uh, playing some bluegrass,” I said.
Her eyes brightened. “Bluegrass!”
And then he came in. The whole room seemed to sink under the weight of his glory, and he drew attention like a black hole sucking up all the light.
Marian jumped up and hurried toward him. “You’re late!”
“Sorry,” was all he said, moving toward the piano in the corner of the room.
Marian and the other two King’s Carillons followed after him like baby quail after their mother, and gathered around the piano to work out a new song.
Loren Bullard took one look at the sheet music they placed before him and began to pound a veritable symphony out of that old upright—scales, arpeggios, minor sixths, thirteenths, dominant sevenths. The tall girl, Julie, started singing her lead part, then Marian and Chris joined in, and it sounded better than good.
Conversation in the room stopped. Kids out at the mailboxes came into the room to see what record was playing.
I turned to Ben. He was watching and listening, his face—and his mind, I suppose—a blank.
I handed him his guitar and reminded him, “Boom-chunk, boom-chunk.”
WINTER QUARTER, Marian Chiardelli and I finally landed in a class together, Old Testament Survey, and occasionally sat near enough to each other to exchange greetings and how-are-yous. The prof put us on a committee to create a huge banner of an Old Testament time line. She liked my cartoon renderings of Moses and Abraham, and I liked her lettering.
“So you play the banjo too?” she exclaimed when I finally told her. “You have to play it for us sometime!”
Loren Bullard accompanied me on that same upright piano in the Hub, and what he could do for the King’s Carillons he did for Foggy Mountain Breakdown. That a guy with such musical ability would deign to boom-chunk for a banjo player really impressed me. He deserved Marian.
Thus Marian and I became friends, like a brother and sister in the Lord. We served on committees and tackled school projects together. She gave me advice on how better to socialize; I gave her advice on Loren. The King’s Carillons even asked me to critique how they looked on stage—I used to be a professional musician, after all. It was a comfortable and mutually affirming relationship.
Even so, the better I got to know her, the more I could sense she had a hidden side. We could talk about Creation vs. Evolution, or whether we were Pre-, Mid-, or Post-Trib; we could discuss politics and how involved we should be; we could talk about my family and her family and how each of us was raised and how we’d want to raise our own kids whenever we had any with whomever we married.
But we couldn’t talk about her. Not really. There was some kind of terrible wound deep inside her, and every time our conversation came too close, she’d shy away, change the subject, find something to laugh about. I knew she was hurting and I hurt for her, but I couldn’t help.
The other two Carillons, Julie and Chris, had to be privy to whatever it was, because the three girls always made it to the altar after Saturday night chapel so Julie and Chris could pray for Marian. The way she would cry and her two friends wail and speak in tongues over her, I grieved to think what awful burden she had to be carrying. I determined I would pray for her as well. I couldn’t pray for her in chapel because guys could only pray with guys and girls with girls, but I had a workable alternative.
Our church’s missionaries always give out prayer cards to remind people to pray for them. Prayer cards are usually a photograph of the missionary or missionaries and their family, along with their name, the country in which they are serving, and whatever additional information will fit. You get a prayer card, take it home, post it somewhere, and it serves as a prayer request every time you see it. In the spirit of that tradition, I loaned Ben my camera so he could sneak some pictures of Marian. Her image measured less than an inch tall on the three-by-five prints, but I trimmed off the D. R. Smedley Residence Hall, the H. L. Boren Library, and four of the trees along the M. T. Herschieser Memorial Walkway and taped what was left to my desk. While studying, or while flossing my teeth before bed, I’d see that miniscule photo of Marian Chiardelli and I’d say a simple prayer for her: “Dear Lord, please take care of Marian. Take away the pain in her heart and grant her your grace and peace. Amen.” Then I’d pray for Loren Bullard just to keep everything in balance.
THE HARVEST TIME SOCIAL at West Bethel College was, for all practical purposes, a Halloween party with all the evil elements expunged. Everyone else in the Western world was dressing up in costumes, bobbing for apples, and acting silly on October 31. The students at West Bethel wanted to do the same, but in a Christian context, and so it came to pass. Each year we decorated the B. R.
Maguire Gymnasium with fall colors, autumn leaves, and dried cornstalks, then set up the hoop shoot, cakewalk, pie throwing booth, and dunk tank. The guys would bring dates, we’d have a talent show and costume contest, and we would go as nuts as kids at West Bethel College could go.
This year, the King’s Carillons had their eyes on the costume contest and were determined to win it. The Christmas before, Julie’s church in Anchorage had gone to great lengths to put on a gala Christmas musical with a singing Christmas tree and choreographed nativity scene. They’d constructed camel, sheep, and cow costumes for actors to wear and dance around in, and a special donkey Mary could ride. That donkey was the best part, somet
hing right out of Disneyland. The guy playing the front end could bob the donkey’s head, make its mouth move, and even bat the donkey’s eyelashes with a little lever. The guy playing the back end had the tougher job: he had to carry Mary on his back. When Julie returned from Anchorage in the fall, she brought that donkey with her, and she and Marian stashed it in their room, keeping it top secret until they could spring it on the rest of us.
Marian, Julie, and Chris signed up for the costume contest, putting down their names for the judges in case they couldn’t be recognized—something worth extra points, by the way. They bought brown cloth and sewed in shifts, repairing rips and tears, adding row upon row of brown fringe, and tailoring the donkey’s body to fit theirs. Since Chris was the smallest, they appointed her to ride. Since this was a Harvest Time Social and not a Christmas Social, they fashioned a beard and ragged robe for Chris and dubbed the donkey “Balaam’s Ass.”
The party was set for October 31.
October 30, Julie came down with the flu.
The day of the party, Marian pulled me aside and, with Julie and Chris’s blessing, broke the code of silence.
I wanted to help, but . . . “You’re sure you can’t find someone else?”
She was begging me. “Lori’s going as Lot’s wife and Sue’s going as Noah’s Ark. I can’t go asking all around because that’ll spoil the surprise.”
“Can’t Chris be the rear end?”
“She’s supposed to be Balaam!”
I thought it through. I couldn’t be Balaam; I was too big. “Uh, what about you being the rear end?”
She was getting disgusted with me. “We tailored the front end to fit me, and besides, I can’t carry Chris on my back, and besides that, the donkey in the Bible was a girl!”
“I have to carry Chris on my back?”
“Not all of her. You’ll be holding my waist so I’ll carry some of the weight.”
Holding her waist. Wow. I may have been sinning, but boy, what a thought. It almost kept me from suggesting my final out:
“What about Loren?”
She looked down and even blushed a bit. “He’s the one we want to surprise!”
Oh, he was going to be surprised, all right.
We got into the costume behind a van in the gymnasium parking lot.
Chris kept repeating her lines as she put on her ragged robe and white beard. “Because you have abused me. I wish there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill you!”
Marian was already wearing the donkey’s front legs—baggy, fringie things with knobby knees and round black hooves, held up by thick suspenders. It was the first time I’d ever seen her in pants.
She held the rear legs while I stepped into them. “What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?” she said, rehearsing the question Chris had already answered.
Chris and I lowered the donkey’s neck and head over Marian and then I bent over and grabbed Marian’s waist while Chris draped the donkey’s body over me, and then a striped wool blanket for a biblical-looking saddle. Marian and I crouched, and Chris climbed on.
“Ohh,” I said when Chris’s weight settled. This was going to be a long night.
Chris whacked me with her stick, not meaning for it to hurt the way it did, I’m sure. “C’mon, you old donkey! Let’s go!”
Marian led the way across the parking lot and I, with arms propped on her waist and Balaam on my back, followed. I could see the ground passing below me, then the steps up to the gymnasium, and finally the gymnasium floor. The party was already in full swing as we entered, and the reaction from all the partygoers was tremendously favorable. I could hear the gasps, applause, and cheers.
Whack! Balaam hit me again.
Marian wiggled the donkey’s head around and said, “Ha-wHEEE! What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times?”
Chris hit me again, and I felt it, and she said, “Because you have abused me. I wish there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill you!”
I could see the feet of the students gathering around to see the show. They caught on right away. “Balaam’s Ass!”
“Try donkey,” said someone else.
Marian kept walking around and I kept watching the gym floor passing under my feet: the center line, the three-point line, the foul shot line. She jerked that head around so much I thought we’d fall over. “Am I not your donkey on which you have ridden, and . . . you know, taken you places and stuff?” If Scripture memorization was good for points, we just lost some.
We made several circuits around the floor, repeating the same little scene as Balaam beat his donkey on the backside, and then someone finally helped Balaam get off and lead his donkey by the halter. I thanked the Lord.
We stayed inside that costume for another half-hour because Marian insisted we let the judges get the full effect. I could see drops of my sweat falling to the gym floor and I could smell myself.
Finally I heard the voice of T. N. Nelson, the dean of students, announcing that the judges had reached a decision. The place fell quiet. Balaam got on my back, gave me a whack, and we trotted to the front of the gym where a platform was set up. I could hear the tally sheet rattling in the hands of T. N. Nelson as he spoke.
“Third place goes to . . .” Suspenseful pause. “Loren Bullard, as Samson!”
I could hear everyone applauding and I knew Loren was stepping up on the platform. I’d heard that he borrowed a long hairpiece from one of the girls. The chest and arms he didn’t have to borrow. No doubt he was scanning the crowd, wondering where his date was. Maybe we wouldn’t win. Maybe we could just lose quietly and get out of there.
“Second place goes to . . .” Same pause. “Sue Dwightman, as Noah’s Ark!”
The crowd hooted, cheered, and laughed. Sue was a real character and a notable scale-tipper. I knew she’d be playing this for laughs.
“And . . .” This time he really milked the pauses. “First prize . . .”
My back was aching. “The winner is . . .”
“Balaam’s Ass,” somebody whispered wishfully.
“Julie Ford, Marian Chiardelli, and Chris Anderson—” the crowd went nuts—“as Balaam’s, uh, donkey!”
Marian squealed with delight while Chris bounced up and down on my back cheering.
“HaaHEEEE!!”
“C’mon, you old donkey!” Whack!
We went up the steps onto the platform, still one cohesive donkey and rider, as everyone clapped and cheered and brayed like donkeys.
As if being rescued from under a collapsed building, I felt the weight of the prophet lift from me, then the saddle blanket, then the donkey’s back. The air in the gym wafted over my body, cool and refreshing. I stood, dripping wet, squinting in the light, stretching my spine.
From the expressions on the faces of all the biblical characters and objects standing below me, I quickly surmised they were expecting to see Julie Ford. Their eyes were wide. The guys were roaring. Some of the girls had their hands over their mouths.
There were some red faces. I saw a few thumbs-up.
I looked at Marian, just taking off the donkey’s head. She was drenched in sweat herself, her hair stuck to her forehead, but she was beaming. Loren just stood there grinning, shaking his head, applauding. She had surprised him, all right.
Victory!
Chris, Marian, and I took a bow and received our blue ribbon.
It was a great moment.
But it wouldn’t last.
I GUESS Chris didn’t get in trouble because she remained above it all. Marian got in trouble because she headed up the team. I got in trouble because I was right in the middle of it.
“You had to be aware of how inappropriate it would be!” T. N.
Nelson said, glaring at me across his desk.
I was standing in his office the morning after the Harvest Time Social, prepared to receive my blindfold and last request. Sister Dudley, the iron-jawed dean of women, sat to Brother Nelson’s l
eft. Brother Smith, the balding and tough-surfaced dean of men, sat to his right. All three looked grimmer than any Christian should ever look.
“Well?” Brother Nelson asked me in the arched manner of a holy inquisitor, weaving and wiggling a fountain pen through his fingers.
“Sir, my main concern was how much they wanted to win.”
Sister Dudley mimicked Brother Nelson’s expression, but with her tight lips and narrow eyes, she looked a lot scarier. “And what else were you thinking about?”
“How much my back ached.”
She sniffed a derisive laugh and rolled her eyes. “You enjoyed it!”
I thought she was getting personal. “Ma’am, I could hardly enjoy sweating under a hot blanket with a girl on my back and— ” I fell silent as the dual meaning of my protest washed over me.
Don’t stop there, Jordan. Your grave’s almost deep enough.
Sister Dudley fell backward in her seat as if she’d been slapped.
Brother Smith looked away so she wouldn’t see him laughing.
“Uh, I don’t think we need to pursue this any further,” said Brother Nelson.
But Sister Dudley pursued it further. “You did enjoy it!”
Well, she pushed me. “Yes, ma’am, I did. I enjoy everything about Marian Chiardelli, whether I’m in the same room with her or in the same donkey.”
Sister Dudley gasped. She even put her hand over her heart. It looked like bad acting. “Well I never!”
I had once heard Robert Mitchum use a line in an old western, and it had to have been stored in my memory for this very moment. “No, ma’am, I don’t suppose you have.”
Well, I didn’t have to submit to their corrective action. I could have just left West Bethel forever. But to me, that would have been handing the administration a victory, another notch to carve in their big black Bibles. I was doing well at this school. I had good relationships with most of my teachers. My grades were excellent.
I’d made some wonderful friends. Ben was getting to be a pretty good guitar player. Most of all, God had called me to this school and to the ministry that would follow, and I owed it to him to see it through.
The Frank Peretti Collection Page 75