Chapter 1

Crusader handed me my travel bag as I stepped onto the Greyhound bus. “Here, you might need this.”

Without replying, I took the bag and began looking for an empty seat. The untimely events that had cut short my college career were still reeling in my mind.

“Morrie, come back here,” he ordered. Had I offended him by not saying “goodbye”? I jumped back down onto the pavement. Crusader, ten years my senior, placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. The wise expression on his face was always disarming.

“Don’t be so glum. You’ve become a man these past few months, and I have the utmost confidence that you’ll handle this next crisis as well.”

“But you don’t know my father,” I said. We were talking about my going home to face my folks now that the president himself had expelled me from BethlehemCollege. Two hours earlier, I had been sitting in his office as he ranted about my “scandalizing” this respected Christian institution.

Crusader continued, “Take courage, old buddy. In the days to come, the value of these experiences will prove their worth. Then you’ll understand.”

I sighed. “I’m not the same person who came here last fall, but please understand that, yesterday, the idea of me getting kicked out of college was the farthest thing from my parents’ minds. I was in the room when the president called home. Dad refused to speak to me, which means he was furious.”

For once even Crusader had nothing to say. His sad eyes confirmed that tough times awaited me. It was I who took up a more positive note. “By the way, thanks again for vouching for me down at the police station. I thought they were going to throw me in jail! What did you say that changed the captain’s mind so quickly?”

“Let’s leave that between the captain and me,” he said, smiling. “As far as your parents are concerned, you’ve overcome thornier plights in recent days. Now climb on board and find a seat. I’ll be right here in Milwaukee for most of the summer, so keep in touch.” Crusader, who was taller than I, put his arms around me, and I rested the side of my head against his chest. “Your integrity has impressed me deeply, Morrie.”

“Goodbye, Crusader, and God bless. My strength would have failed without you.”

The bus was over half full as I climbed aboard. I wanted to sit alone, but all the window seats appeared to be taken. Then, toward the back, I spotted two vacant places and nimbly skirted past those passengers who were still standing. I threw my luggage onto the aisle seat, took the place beside the window, and slouched down. I was now totally unavailable.

Inside the depot, the bus motor revved and filled the garage with diesel fumes. Then our silver coach shifted into gear, rolled outside onto Michigan Avenue, and crossed Sixth Street. Within five hours, I would be in my hometown of St. Paul, Minnesota.

Through the tinted windows, I blankly watched the office buildings pass by as our bus chugged up the circular ramp leading to the freeway. On Interstate I-94, we drove by County Stadium and the familiar green exit sign that pointed to the fair grounds. Then, off to my right, came glimpses of a barely visible BethlehemCollege as its ivy-covered buildings flashed through the elms. The bell tower peaked over the treetops. While I could not hear the chimes, a glimpse at my watch revealed that it was chapel time, and I knew that the endearing toll was calling young men and women to prayer. I was lost in an unfettered reverie and closed my eyes to relive the events of my last nine months at that school.

The year was 1994, just before the outbreak of e-mail and the Internet. Cell phones were unheard of, but computers were common, and I was the proud owner of a new laptop.  Looking back now, it seems that everything was less complicated then. It was like a kind of dusk, those fleeting moments between day and night. Beyond the horizon of time lay the dawn of a new millennium. It was the twilight of the gods.

This particular day in September was my first day of school at BethlehemCollege. I had just transferred there as a third-year student from TwinCities Junior College. My father helped me carry boxes of books and things into my room. The midday sun was hot; the air was sticky, and the sweat spots on his shirt clung to his burly chest.

Mom did the unpacking. “Morrie, I’ve placed your socks and underwear in the top drawer.”  She flung back the long strands of graying hair that fell over her glasses. The humidity was unbearable. “Look over here. I put a cardboard box in the bottom of your wardrobe for dirty laundry.”

She, like many mothers on this day, was ritually releasing her son into the adult world. After the car was unpacked, Dad changed his shirt and paced about my new world, restlessly looking down the hallways to check out the other parents. He had never been to college himself, and for him this was an important day. Together with my sixteen-year-old sister Mary, my parents had driven me all the way down from St. Paul.

Bethlehem College is located on Milwaukee’s far Westside and borders smack against the village of Wauwatosa. According to the student handbook, German immigrants led by Gregorius Richter founded the school in 1865. They were descendants of the legendary Wilhelm Lutz and the Pomeranian Brethren who were Anabaptists from the sixteenth century. Brethren history included brutal persecutions in Old Country by Lutheran magistrates who in the seventeenth century strapped Wilhelm and others, both men and women, into “dunking chairs” for their “third baptism,”—in other words, drowning them in the OderRiver. As a group, they almost became extinct had not one pious Lutheran, Count von Mecklenburg, hid them on his estate on the Baltic Sea. Here a remnant survived for a few generations, and in the eighteenth century, the Pomeranian Brethren were among the first Germans to immigrate to America.

Bethlehem College is an Evangelical Christian college. One’s first impression is usually favorable and for good reasons. On opening day, everyone from the students to the women who serve lunch at the cafeteria seemed to greet us with friendly smiles. Even a gardener, an elderly man with snowy white hair, came up to me with a welcoming smile and asked me if I needed any help.

“Guess what!” exclaimed my sister Mary while basking in all the congeniality. “I walked right into this empty classroom only to find five students holding a Bible study.” The had invited my sister, who was bright, ever cheerful, and easy to accept, to join them even after learning she was only a visitor. Mary, who still had two more years of high school, decided at that moment that she too would one day enroll at BethlehemCollege.

Bethlehem’s high academic standards separated this liberal arts college from many other Christian institutions. The school had been an obscure Baptist school for its first hundred years. In the last decade, however, especially under the leadership of Dr. Frederick Lentzner, its reputation for higher learning had swelled, and today students from around the world and from every denomination were attending.

Earlier that morning, President Lentzner had addressed the new students and our families at a special meeting: “Parents and students, out of the hundreds of young people who yearly apply for admission, only the smartest are accepted. Thank God for the great privilege of studying in a Christian environment with some of the most brilliant minds in the country today.”

Dad listened attentively, believing that he was playing an important role in that greatness. His ambition was that I study theology at this reputable school. But I wasn’t so sure. If their standards were so high, why had they accepted my application? Previous report cards could prove that my grades were only slightly better than average.

“Grades aren’t everything,” Dad had said with a grunt.

When a Bethlehem recruiter came to the Twin Cities to interview that year’s applicants, my father also had a few words with him. Dad is a master salesman, and he even owns a third of a car dealership. Perhaps it was his skills that had helped get me enrolled. He had already made several donations to the school.

My dream had been to study journalism at the University of Minnesota. Ever since the sixth grade, school publications had been my passion, and I had just finished a stint as a summer youth reporter for the St. Paul Sentinel. However, Dad did not seem to care about my interests, nor would he hear of any other school. Because I was sure my merely average grades would disqualify me, I had agreed to attend Bethlehem if accepted.

Unfortunately, this strategy didn’t work, and, upon reading my acceptance letter, I was devastated. BethlehemCollege did not even have a journalism department.

“Congratulations, son.” Dad was overjoyed but not surprised.

“I refuse to study theology,” I said.

“But their theology faculty is among the best,” he insisted. “At any rate, I hold you to your word about enrolling.”

Finally, we compromised, and he accepted my decision to major in philosophy if I promised to consider a theology program after graduation. So here I was at BethlehemCollege, partly against my will, but still looking forward to studying at an excellent school.

Things looked better when I looked at the magazine rack in my dorm’s lobby. Look at all the student publications here, I thought. Of special interest were several back issues of The Forum, a very attractive tabloid published by the student council. Very soon, I would be contacting the journalism staff. With a degree in philosophy from BethlehemCollege and with the experience that a college newspaper could give, a fine university with a master’s program in journalism would surely enroll me.

After my family had left for home, the registration process continued, and I got in line to sign up for my classes. Out from the registrar’s air-conditioned office, a threadlike file of new students wound its way down a wooden staircase and ended on the sidewalk outside the red-bricked administration building. It was here on the lawn, beside a hedge of rosebushes, that my story at BethlehemCollege really began.

I and hundreds of other new students waited in a line that moved ever so slowly. Late summer humidity, hot and muggy, always makes my thick, curly hair very unmanageable. In vain, I slicked it back with my hand. Was everyone as uneasy as I was? No matter which way I turned, as a new student, I knew every move I made would make a first impression, perhaps a lasting one, on those who saw me.

I shifted from one heel to the other and wished that the line would move faster. Then I saw her. Over by the rose bushes, five or six students ahead, stood an attractive young woman. She wore a loose summer dress, and her long blonde hair, which flowed down the back of her bare shoulders, entranced me. Whenever she turned, I strained to catch glimpses of her face, which was as flawless as a polished statue of a Grecian goddess.

My casual awareness became a discreet stare as the line moved forward and moved us along into the administration building. I tried to look away, but my focus always drifted back to her. As we edged our way up the staircase, her milky complexion and high cheekbones created an image worthy of veneration. I, from below, watched her ascend, step-by-step, to an ever higher pedestal. The sublime symmetry of her curves enraptured me; it was as if all my aspirations had appeared in physical form to generate within me a knot-like longing that held me spellbound.

I dared not reveal my frenzied state to those around me. Behind a feigned wall of indifference, I inched my way forward so that, as we turned the corner in the hallway, I was standing right behind her. I now viewed her at close hand and could smell the fresh scent of shampoo in her hair.

What was special about this girl? Yes, she was pretty, but BethlehemCollege had many beautiful women. Why her? Had the mere sight of her sparked off in me some new kind of consciousness, an inner dawning that allowed me—and only me—to appreciate this unpretentious, womanly being? With growing interest, I noted her every subtle move. Though she tried to project an air of sophistication, slight fidgets betrayed her unease. Never mind, I could look beyond it all, for my eyes saw something else, something wonderful.

We were just outside the registrar’s office, and although I had been watching her for nearly an hour, she had yet to notice me. Who was I to her? Twice she had looked right at me. Surely, she had seen me, but to her I was part of the landscape, a one among many and nobody in particular. Nor did I do myself any favors since I only dared to look at her when she had turned the other way. Whenever she did look in my direction, I lowered my head and pretended to read my registration papers.

Once I was inside the registrar’s office, a young man came over and looked at my papers. He then pointed to the booth where philosophy students signed up for classes. The girl, whose name I did not yet know, had taken off in another direction, and I almost lost sight of her as she reported to another table on the far side of the crowded room. In all haste, I signed up for this class and that, following her every move out of the corner of my eye, worried that our ways would part and I might never see her again.

Luckily, I had finished registering first and reestablished my position behind her as we stood in line to pay our registration fees. Would she acknowledge me now? While removing her checkbook from her purse, she turned her eyes upward and looked right at me, blankly, without a hint of recognition, and then turned toward the cashier to pay her fees. She had registered everything but me!

She was about to go, and I prodded myself to ask her where the bookstore was. Even a casual question could be an identifying moment the next time we passed in some crowded hallway between classes. She had already packed her papers away, and she seemed so out of reach. She was walking away, and all I could do was chide myself for a spineless performance.

Our impasse ended, dramatically, for just as she was about to make her exit, the girl stepped on my foot. Startled, she jerked backwards and spilled all her registration papers across the floor.

“Oh, no,” she gasped and caught her balance by grabbing my—now blessed—arm. “My papers, I mean, your foot, I’m terribly sorry...”

With these ungraceful moves, her composure had evaporated. As if some unseen power had torn up the script, I entered her life’s drama, pell-mell.

“Here, let me help you gather your things,” I said. While others stood by and stared, I had become the protagonist in a plot turning in my favor. To my delight, the girl was just as concerned with me as with her papers.

“I’m so sorry,” she said with horror at the mess of papers strewn about. “Are you all right?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you,” I replied. To everyone’s amusement, I squatted down and gathered up her things while she shuffled them around into a semblance of order.

“I feel so stupid,” she sniffed with tear-filled eyes. “Everyone’s looking at me.”

I arose and offered comfort with my warmest smile. “Of course, they’re watching, but who’s paying any attention? Why should they care? Let me help you straighten everything up.”

My comforting words had bypassed her, completely, as she wiped away the tear-washed mascara from beneath her lovely eyes. “Yes, they are paying attention. If only I could disappear.”

“Here, let me put these papers back into your folder.” I tidied up her things until everything looked presentable. “For heaven’s sake you look great. Believe me, you do.”

“Do you honestly mean that?”

“Verily, verily I say unto thee...you look fantastic.”

At that nicely timed line, her clouds of despair dissipated, and she beamed a radiant smile. “C’mon, stop teasing, and thanks a lot for helping. It was sweet of you. What…” —her penetrating stare made me teeter— “is your name?”

“My name? Morrie. Morrie Schiller.”

This girl became prettier with every passing moment, especially since she was now focusing on me, paying no mind to those who might be watching. Her sunshine eyes, still moist with tears, now glistened like a blue rainbow. In my momentary infatuation, I forgot to pay my registration fees.

“Morrie? What kind of name is that?”

I laughed. “You’re not the first to ask me that. Actually, it’s a long story. You see, my father named me after Morowitz Roth, who is a converted Jew. But everyone called him Morrie. He owns the car dealership where my dad works. Well, actually, they’re partners since Dad owns a third. Anyway, although Dad was still an atheist about the time I was born, he liked Morowitz so much that he named me after him.

She smiled again. “That’s funny. Is your real name Morowitz then?”      

“Thank God, no. Actually, my legal name is Morris, since Mom didn’t think Morrie was a proper name. But nobody calls me that—except my mother when she's mad.”

She smiled again. “That’s funny. Is your father still an atheist?”

“Oh, no. When I was nine years old, Mr. Roth took our whole family to a Billy Graham Crusade at Metropolitan Stadium. Upon hearing Dr. Graham’s message, my father repented and became a Christian that very night. You should have seen him. He wept so hard that two ushers had to hold him up at the receiving platform.”

“Were you saved that night, too?”

“Well, my sister and I were only kids back then, and though we went forward, it was more in the flow of things. My mother, who was a devout Catholic, had already been taking Mary and me to church every Sunday and had told us all about God. You could say that she followed my father, mainly after seeing the way Dr. Graham’s sermon affected him. Our whole family sort of became Christians that night, if you know what I mean.”

By now, the girl and I had left the registrar’s office and were walking alone down the hallway. “Say," I said, "you haven’t told me your name yet.”

“Oh, I’m Tracy Johnson. Morrie Schiller... I’ve heard that name before. Morrie, Morrie...”

“Does knowing that I’m from St. Paul, Minnesota help?”

“Morrie Schiller. St. Paul. I know about you. Have you ever heard of Eileen McFirmich?”

“Eileen? Why, yes, she goes to our church.”

“Yes, your church. What’s the name again? It starts with a B, doesn’t it?”

“Bourgeous Road BaptistChurch.”

Her beautiful face lit up as I entered a step higher in her consciousness. “Yes, I remember now. That’s incredible.”

The pleasure of this delightful conversation stimulated my affections. “Mr. Roth brought us there, after Dad got saved. Everyone in my family is a member there now. How would you know about my church?”

Tracy suddenly stopped in silence. Her mouth opened in awe; her eyes widened like oval sapphires. She gasped and drew me deeper into her life. “You’re the guy that Eileen wrote would be here at BethlehemCollege. I’m supposed to look you up if I need a friend. I'd forgotten all about it. I’ve known about you for some time, and here you are in the flesh. That’s incredible.”

I blushed. “Eileen said that about me?”

“Yes, according to her you’re a very nice guy, and trustworthy too.”

“Eileen said that I could be trusted? Are you sure she didn’t mean my sister Mary? Where did you meet her anyway?”

“At a place called Camp Zion in northern Minnesota, two summers ago. We’ve been writing ever since. She told me about you, Morrie. How could I forget a name like that?”

“Well, since she wrote that about me,”— I smiled sheepishly—  “how are your friendships going?”

“What do you mean?”

I shyly put my hands in my pockets. “Eileen said you should look me up if you needed a friend. Put it this way, now that you’ve made contact with me, does that mean you still need a friend?”

She turned her face to hide the fresh wash of tears. “Oh, Morrie,” she said, “I’m so unhappy. Everyone belongs here, except me.”

“Tracy, you're now a part of this school too.” Suddenly, I was force to take action. “It says so right there on those papers you're holding. Look, you’re a bonafide Bethlehemite.”

“Yes, technically I am, but you don’t understand. Deep inside I know I don’t belong here. I hate this place and want to quit right now.”

“You’re a little homesick, that’s all. In a couple of days, you’ll adjust and become as happy as anyone else.”

Tracy scoffed, “Homesick, what do you know about my home? It won’t happen as you say. I have felt this way before, and it never gets any better. Yes, I am very lonely, but you can’t know what it's like.”

Tracy’s honesty had caught me off guard. In truth, I knew exactly what she meant. Seeing her was like looking into a mirror: her wounds reflected mine. Had we been all this time living parallel lives, groping with the same sense of estrangement? Our first encounter in the registrar’s office was beyond description. Like two streams, two lives had unexpectedly met and now flowed in the same direction.

We strolled around our new home and visited the oldest building on campus, die Kaffeemühle, which was still known by its German name because it looked like an old coffee grinder. According to a plaque, it was originally the library, but it was now known as the Visual ArtsCenter with studios for painters and photographers.

On the network of sidewalks that connected the manicured campus, we visited the present library, the science buildings, and the newly built multiplex Christian CommunicationCenter. We were oblivious to the hundreds of people who passed us by. Nothing else mattered as we grew more intimate and spontaneously shared the secrets of our hearts. Our lives had been thrust together in all their natural but passionate dimensions, as in a prologue to an epic poem.

Tracy wanted to show me her dorm, so we retraced our way back across the campus. Though life had suddenly become wonderful, I could not help but feel the presence of something contentious. All these buildings with their classical design emanated an aura of prudence that clashed and tangled with the forces of spontaneity that had enlarged our lives. They spoke of order and restraint. Adorned with Grecian pillars, they loomed over us, distorted and threatening and seeming to say, Flee from passion and desire; be wary; heed your head and not your heart.

Maybe I should have listened to Common Sense and fled the arena to become a spectator. Observe but don’t participate. Such had been my credo. However, this time I couldn’t resist. My yearning to be hers was too great. Was falling in love for me? Yes. Whatever Tracy was thinking, I wanted her more than anything else, and I offered myself without a stitch of resistance. That my intentions were in harmony with hers, I could only pray.

In the middle of the campus, facing Tracy’s dorm, was a round, European-style courtyard tiled with cobblestone. We entered and encountered a huge, three-tiered fountain in simple classical style. At midpoint, a marble-like sculpture spouted water upward with the overflow cascading from tier to tier down to the circular pool below. Uppermost stood a virtuous-looking, yet unreachable figure of a woman perched on a pedestal. She was Sophia, an imposing bronze statue donned with a Grecian gown. At the opening ceremony, President Lentzner had told us with pride that she was “a configuration of Wisdom from the Hebrew book of Proverbs”—even though the statue resembled a Grecian goddess— “and thus the official emblem of the school.”

Designed by a forgotten Venetian architect in 1901, Sophia was the campus landmark and known architecturally throughout the city. At the base of the pool the inscription read, WISDOM HATH BUILT HER HOUSE, SHE HATH HEWN OUT HER SEVEN PILLARS. “Thus,” said President Lentzner, “BethlehemCollege has seven main faculties of study.”

Beneath Wisdom, my first venture with Tracy ended. We both had dorm council meetings during which new students were to meet their RA’s. Each floor would then have a grill party. Tracy looked at her watch and waited for my parting words. The spontaneity that had been ours had now dissipated and yet had left a lingering question: Where do we go from here?

What I wanted to say was locked up inside me. I looked up at Sophia in the fountain. Her astute gaze scanned beyond the courtyard and across the campus. Surely, Wisdom could give me a voice for my true feelings. However, what came out was pathetic.

“Well, so long,” I said hoping that I didn’t sound inept. “It was nice meeting you. Let’s get together again soon.”

We walked to the other side of the courtyard, which faced the front entrance to Centennial Hall, the dorm where Tracy lived. With a faint voice she replied, “I hope you’re not like those guys who say they care and really don’t.”

“What makes you think that?” My heart was pounding. Fear tightened across my chest. I wanted those words to mean one thing: Morrie, come into my life.

The hopeful look in my eyes caused Tracy to hurry up the steps. She turned the door latch with a worried look. “Morrie, I’m not sure, but I think I want to see you again.”           

She disappeared behind the vault-like doors and left me standing alone with the faint sound of splashing coming from the courtyard fountain.

The way back to my dorm passed the fountain with the Grecian figurine. This was my third encounter with Sophia, the first being in the back seat of the family car with my sister Mary, when we first arrived on campus. We had seen many pictures of her before, and, like many first time visitors, Mary wanted to see the famous emblem of the college.

“There’s Sophia!” she cried as we drove past the courtyard. “Dad, stop the car. I want to take a picture.”

But Dad’s mind was elsewhere. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he said. “Let’s find Morrie’s dorm first.”

Mary knew enough not to argue with her father when he was under stress. At that moment, I heard a woman’s voice whisper my name, “Morrie.”

Abruptly, I swung my head around and peered out the back window of the car. I swear, Sophia was looking at me! Then our car swung around the corner, and she disappeared behind a building.