Bridge to a Distant Star (27 page)

“I won’t. I mean—” she laughed again, an awkward staccato sound. “I would like that. To go to the game. With you.” She couldn’t believe she was actually hearing herself accept the invitation. “You’re right; I could use a break.”

“Awesome. Pick you up at seven? Peterson Dorm, right?”

“Yeah … um, that would be great.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Allistair was quickly engulfed in the press of students. But Michal was momentarily paralyzed, the second time that morning she’d felt like her limbs couldn’t move as her mind instructed. But someone rubbed against her arm—she realized she was standing in the middle of the aisle—and the sensation brought her awake for the second time that day.

Almost like a blind person, Michal felt her way toward her seat. Friends around her mumbled greetings, most expecting no response. Any “hellos” were immediately drowned out by the deep, pulsating chords of the organ as it surged from pianissimo to forte. The worship leader stood, raising his arms, the signal to stand. And they began the familiar strains of “We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations.”

Michal tried to size up the speaker who stood on the platform. She took in the limp, worn suit, the dull, striped tie, the generally disheveled look.
He’s such … so obviously … a missionary.
Looking beyond the clothes—which were totally out of style, even to her usually oblivious eye, Michal quizzed herself irritably.
What is it about us missionaries that sets us apart? Is it our demeanor, too? Are we so accustomed to another culture we no longer feel comfortable in our own?
Michal shook her head, sighing out loud. And then immediately glanced around her to see if anyone had noticed.

Noting that just about everyone around her already appeared bored, she turned her attention back to the missionary. As he sang, his eyes never once looked down at the hymnal.
He knows every word,
Michal thought wryly.
Just like I do. Bet we sang it at every church we visited during furlough.

“We’re so pleased to have Reverend Gideon Coleman with us today. Reverend Coleman’s a missionary to Chile, a man of God who’s made tremendous sacrifices to reach the indigent peoples of the remote desert region,” President Williams began. “He’s been there—how many years is it now? Thirty-two? Is that right?” He turned around to acknowledge Reverend Coleman’s humble affirmation. “He has amazing stories to share, so prepare to be blessed. Now, before Reverend Coleman comes, let’s pray together, shall we?”

Listening to more disguised moans and sighs from the students around her, Michal wondered if the speaker had already lost his audience. Won’t keep him from preaching, she thought, grinning to herself.

“Please turn to Matthew twenty-eight, verses eighteen through twenty.”

At she opened her Bible, Michal had to remind herself not to shake her head yet again. Couldn’t he come up with something original? The Great Commission?

“I know … I know. Every missionary uses this passage, right?” Coleman asked. “Well, after we read this we’re going to focus on just one important word. Then I’ll list some principles you’ll need to jot down in a notebook. Follow along with me now. ‘Then Jesus came to them and said, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”’

“The word we’re going to look at this morning? The word
go.
A small word, but it carries a big meaning: It’s in present progressive tense. Grammarians will understand that means the word
go
should actually be translated as
going.
Because it assumes we’ll all be doing this in our daily lives.

“But this is what I want to focus on today, young people. You are the missionaries for your generation. Behind the assumption of you going are these imperatives. Number one: If you feel a call on your heart to go, then you must put that first. Above everything else. Above current relationships, and above potential relationships.”

Coleman constantly shifted his gaze all around the auditorium, attempting to meet as many students eye to eye as he could.

“You should not marry someone who isn’t feeling the same call to missions that you are—that’s a potential to be unequally yoked. And you shouldn’t be dating someone who doesn’t have the same call as you either. Young people, hear me on this important point: It’s God’s will to break off any relationship unless both of you agree you’ll go wherever God sends you.”

There was noticeably more movement around Michal. She could hear students shifting in their seats, either slumping further or sitting up straighter; notebooks were furiously written in or pointedly closed. She caught sighs, grunts, and whispers that all seemed to announce, “I’m reacting to this. Whether positively or negatively, I definitely have an opinion.”

“Secondly, I’m hearing a frightening new demand from young couples. It goes something like this: ‘We won’t go anywhere we can’t keep our children with us, from newborn up through high school years.’ Suddenly boarding schools have become the enemy—Christian boarding schools that have been in existence for decades and have proven track records of putting out well-adjusted and intellectually prepared graduates.

“Turn to Matthew ten, will you? Verses thirty-seven through thirty-eight.” He snatched a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses from his pocket and placed them on his nose. “Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.” He put down his Bible. “Okay, who’s speaking here?”

Several volunteered, “Jesus.”

“Anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.” His gaze wandered around the room again, connecting with numerous students, eye to eye. “I have a tough time seeing that as anything less than a direct command. Anyone else agree?”

Several “a-mens” reverberated across the room; many came from administration and faculty members in the first two rows.

“Now, let’s stop a moment. I’m going to ask for a show of hands.” Coleman leaned forward over the pulpit, symbolically getting as close to his listeners as possible. Hearing a stirring again, Michal glanced around and was surprised to note how many consciously—or subconsciously?—responded by leaning toward him. “How many of you are MKs?” He raised his own right arm, holding it straight above.

Some jerked their hands up immediately, proud to be singled out. Others were more hesitant, not wanting the attention, like Michal.

“And how many of you were fortunate enough to go to a Christian boarding school so your parents could remain on the field?” Coleman’s arm remained upright, and it appeared that nearly everyone who responded earlier kept their hands up also. Michal’s was among those, but she could feel her heart pounding. Her face flush red.

“Now this time I don’t want you to raise your hands. Instead, I want you to answer this question in your heart. I challenge you to consider it later in your prayer or journaling time, will you? But here’s my question to those of you who went to boarding schools: Your parents made incredible sacrifices to go where God called them. Are you thankful for that?”

Michal stared down at her Bible, eyes unfocused, seeing only blurred words.

“Let me state that again: Your parents made sacrifices. Yes, you made sacrifices. But to what end? So the unsaved could hear the gospel. And young people, that’s good reason to give up so that others may receive, is it not?”

Coleman paused dramatically. Waited patiently for the effect. He wasn’t disappointed, for a lone listener was heard clapping. Cautiously, others joined in. And then it became awkward for the rest—Michal included—not to applaud, for the clapping built and grew, spreading throughout the auditorium like an infection.

Coleman continued hammering his points, going nearly ten minutes over his allotted thirty; Michal caught snatches of his voice and then sporadic applause, even laughter a couple times. But she actually heard very little of his message. Her attention kept drifting to Ethiopia, and what she heard ringing inside her head: the lilting, animated Amharic language of the people she so loved.

Rustling around her—everyone was reaching for hymnals—finally signaled chapel’s end. Michal hadn’t heard the page number, so she peeked over at her neighbor. “Send the Light.”
But of course,
Michal thought, allowing herself a slight smile.

After the benediction, a few worked their way to the front of the auditorium, eager to speak with Reverend Coleman. Most crowded toward the doors, intent upon escape—whether to the library, a class, the snack bar, or merely to get out.

Michal had just stepped outside when she felt the slightest touch at her elbow.

“A lot of that was pure crap, huh?”

Horrified, Michal looked up to see who dared utter the words. It was Allistair.

“Allistair. What are you—?” Michal glanced around to see who was near. Who might’ve overheard. She whispered, “What are you talking about?”

“The chapel speaker. I’m not arguing against us going to the mission field. ’Cause I fully agree we should all become missionaries—but to wherever we are. You don’t have to go to a foreign country to be a missionary. But the part that really ticked me off? Laying the guilt on some of those poor kids who went to boarding school—and had a lousy childhood because of it.” Allistair’s eyes sought Michal’s. “I’m sure your experience was great, but others?” He shook his head, vehemently. “I have a good friend who—”

Michal interrupted, almost in a panic. “I think we’d better talk about this some other time, Allistair, since I’m running late. See you later, okay?” She nearly sprinted away from him, regretting she’d agreed to see him the next evening.
I can’t go with him to the game,
she thought, berating herself for submitting simply because she’d felt flattered.
I certainly don’t want to talk anymore about boarding schools. And I’m only allowing myself to be … distracted. Gotta focus on getting back to Ethiopia. Where I belong.

As Michal took her seat in class—it was Bible Study Methods, a requirement—she shivered, a delayed reaction to Allistair’s defiant attitude, his rebellious words. It was beyond her comprehension to even think of criticizing a chapel speaker, and again she worried about who might’ve overheard.

Glancing quickly around the classroom, she caught a glimpse of Stephen. He was hunched over his desk, studying.

The quiz. Michal suddenly remembered.
I completely forgot to go over the material last night.

Frantic, she turned to the assigned chapter, skimming through the sections she’d highlighted. By the time the professor walked into the room, Michal had reviewed her notations. But whether she’d recall everything was debatable.

That first class was only a preview of how the remainder of her day would play out. A feeling of being a step behind became her shadowy nemesis. When she’d finally finished her last class—in which a returned paper received a B rather than the A she’d hoped for—and was heading back to her room, inwardly grumbling, she childishly kicked stones out of her way. It felt good to take her frustrations out on something.

Once again Michal was so preoccupied she didn’t notice another had joined her until he kicked a rock into her line of vision. Glancing up, she saw Stephen Jones had fallen into step with her. The sight of him hunched over, cap pulled down to cover his ears, kicking at stones in tandem, was enough to strike Michal as funny. She giggled. “I take it you’ve had a rotten day too?”

“And I take it you weren’t at the first lunch hour?”

She gave him a lugubrious look. “I was late leaving New Testament class because … oh, forget it … too long to go into. Let’s just say it wasn’t good. Then I needed to ask Dr. Brown something. Things went downhill from there.” Michal shook her head, frowning. “Sorry. That’s my sad story. So what happened during the first lunch hour?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear. The Nerd,” Stephen stopped momentarily, comically pointing to himself, “managed to drop his lunch tray.”

“Oh, no. With all your food, I suppose?”

“But of course. Why bother doing it otherwise?”

Michal giggled again. “I’m sorry. It sounds like something I’d do. Actually, I’m surprised I haven’t dropped a tray already.”

“I hear my faux pas may be on YouTube. Isn’t that grand?”

Michal’s mouth dropped open. “No. I can’t believe anybody’d be that mean.”

“Well, apparently somebody is.”

“It’s nice to talk to you, Stephen. But we’ve never officially met.” She smiled, happy to have a conversation with the mysterious outcast. She held out her hand to him. “I’m Michal McHenry. MK. Originally from Kansas City but really from Ethiopia. Near Addis Ababa.”

Stephen took her hand somewhat tentatively, but as he did so, he popped the green cap off. Inclined his head, blond hair falling over his forehead and catching glints in the bright sun, flashing her a huge smile. Dimples highlighted. “I’m Stephen Jones. Studious nerd who provides video for others’ twisted humor. From Ohio. Pleased to meet you, Michal McHenry.”

The effect on Michal—who was so often oblivious—was close to dazzling. She was nearly speechless at the transformation, stammering, “Um … you’ve got dimples. I didn’t know—” Too late, she realized she’d pointed out the obvious. Clearly something a girl should never mention. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was just stupid.” She could feel the heat going up her neck, knew she was blushing.
How many times today?