Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(11)

“My name is Maggie,” the lovely brunette with hazel eyes states. “And I’ll be your RA this year. Let’s join in prayer before we get to introductions.”

The twenty of us form a large but tight circle, joining hands and bowing heads.

“Heavenly Father, we thank you for bringing us together tonight. Let this year be Spirit filled…” Maggie’s voice is soft and fierce as she calls us into prayer.

My mind wanders and I find it hard to focus on the words she’s saying.

God, I don’t know what I’m doing here, I say in my head. I feel like I need to be here, but I’m more confused than I was when I applied. I’m scared, I admit as my closed eyes fill with tears. The worst part is…I don’t even know what it is I’m scared of. Help.

As I finish my private discussion with the Unseen, I realize Maggie has finished her prayer and the group is enjoying a moment of silence. I assume there are lots of private prayers being sent up.

A minute later, a humming causes me to look up and find Eden with a smile on her face. Slowly, smiles spread around the circle like fire, as more voices join in the still-wordless song. Thanks to my independent study in Christian music, I recognize the tune, but bow my head to make it look like I’m praying, which will—at least temporarily—excuse my participation.

Eden’s voice rises above the hums, as she sings in breathtaking melody:

“It is well with my soul

It is well, it is well with my soul.”

She starts that verse again, a few voices in high pitch joining with her. They sing, “It is well,” and several more girls join in in a round-style, echoing my roommate and those who had joined her earlier.

They sing in a slightly lower octave, and it’s beautiful. They repeat the verse again and again, more of our floormates joining in each time, the volume increasing along with the size of the lump in my throat.

Soon, everyone is singing except for me. This time, it’s not because I don’t want to. I can’t. My chin falls to my chest and my lip trembles as the pressure in my throat and chest sends tears streaming down my cheeks. Then, I feel it.

Goosebumps. “Hugs from God,” I always called them as I sat in the dark wooden pews on Sunday mornings. They don’t always come, but when they do they typically accompany tears, and immediately follow a specific prayer I’ve sent to God. The goosebumps now explode across my back and race down my arms as I fall into the tears.

You’ll be okay.

My eyes fly open and I look left and right for the source of the voice. Everyone is still singing. All of them. A fresh wave of goosebumps close my eyes and pull me back into the place in my heart where I’ve always found solace.

I might not know all of the words to the songs, or the right things to say in prayer, and I certainly don’t know the right words to say to those around me but, in this moment, the one thing I do know is God is with me. The same God the women to my left and right are singing to. He’s with me, and I really will be okay.

As the song comes to a close, I beg God silently to let this feeling of contentment and grace stay with me as the school year starts on Monday, when my knowledge and faith will be put to the test. I beg, with tears rolling down my cheeks and chin, that when I finally come face-to-face with Roland, I will know what to say.

And that I won’t be hurt.

“Amen,” Maggie whispers before we all squeeze hands and take our seats.

Looking around, I see several girls wiping under their eyes, and I grin in relief that I appeared to have an appropriate emotional reaction.

“Thank you, Eden, for that lovely addition to our prayer time,” Maggie says as she pulls a clipboard onto her lap. It doesn’t surprise me that she knows Eden’s name already.

Typically, I’d roll my eyes at a girl like Eden—thinking her a brown-nosed snob. I’m physically incapable of thinking these things about my striking and spiritually connected roommate. Her love for God seems impassioned and genuine. She likely helped our RA with something the second she moved in, making sure to introduce herself and get connected. Not for selfish desires, I assume. But rather to create a community for herself, something I know Christians are instructed to do. Encourage fellowship.

One thing I’ve always been horrible at.

Stick with Eden, I think as I tuck my hair behind my ears. You need to learn from her.

“Okay, ladies,” Maggie continues, “I assume you’ve all familiarized yourself with the student handbook?”

Playful groans and chuckles ripple through the group. I partake in the group grumbling. Maggie makes eye contact with each one of us, seeming to allow us our group complaint.

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Okay, okay. I’m sure most of you are familiar with these guidelines—or versions of them—from your high schools, church groups, or camps. Regardless of how you each individually might feel about them, you all know that these guidelines are designed to help the student body, as a whole, function safely and Christ-like.”

“Also,” she continues, “you might notice that they’re called guidelines or codes. That does not mean they’re suggestions…”

As Maggie goes into her canned spiel about demerits and other moral consequences for straying from these “guidelines,” I study her. Another beautiful CU woman. Her hair—like the hair of many around me—is past her shoulders. It’s cut into long layers that swing gracefully each time she moves her head. When she smiles, tiny lines form at the creases of her eyes, indicating she’s likely spent most of her life smiling. I find myself wanting to cling to her as well.