Sound bites.

Things I've heard and chewed on in the past week or so:

"The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain." (The Book Thief by Markus Zusak)

"May we all be more Christ-like."

"I have often wished that all the people I love could all be in one place, but then I realized that the place I love may not be the place my loved ones love so I guess that wouldn't work." "Maybe that's your soul, longing for heaven. All of the people you love, in one place."

"And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold, and will inherit eternal life." (Mt. 19:29)

"God has been saying, 'I know you. I know what you need. And I've shown you in this way, and in this way, and in this way. Now I need you to trust me. Trust that I've put you where I want you, and be present in that.'" (Thanks, Em.)

"She's a trouble maker. That's her charism."

"As soon as I lie down, I fall peacefully asleep." (Ps. 4:9)

"There is a gigantic difference between earning a great deal of money and being rich." (Marlene Dietrich

"As a result of this, many of his disciples returned to their former way of life and no longer accompanied him. Jesus then said to the Twelve, "Do you also want to leave?" Simon Peter answered him, "Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and are convinced you are the Holy One of God." (Jn. 6:66-69)

**To those who provided these sound bytes, thank you for inspiring me, challenging me, and loving me. You make my life richer, and I am grateful.

peace at last

Last night, I ran into someone from my past. My connection to this woman is actually through her son, with whom I spent a fair amount of time during my last two years of high school. It has probably been seven or eight years since I last saw her. It took a minute, but when she recognized me, I was greeted by a huge hug, followed by the barrage of six million questions in about thirty seconds: Howareyou?wherehaveyoubeen?whathaveyoubeendoing?

Six years ago, this week, I left Ohio newly married. Twenty seven months ago, this week, I returned, newly divorced. In between, I lived in two states, had three jobs, took 15 hours worth of graduate courses, was fully initiated into the Catholic Church, met new people, made new friends, lost track of others. With all the life changes, I changed. I grew up, matured, lived life, got hurt, healed, forgave, walked away, realized fears and dreams, let go of old beliefs...

I've spent the last twenty seven months trying to figure out how to be the "new" me on "old" turf. I struggled, at times, to navigate between people who knew me "before," and those who met me "after." I couldn't quite figure out how the pieces of my life, so different and so important, fit together now. As a result, my typical reaction to the bombarding questions was to be vague.

I'm fine. Yes, I'm back from Florida. No, I'm not teaching. It has been a long time.

But last night -- for the first time -- as the questions rained down upon me, I didn't feel the need to avoid them. In fact, if we hadn't been standing in the middle of 50+ toddlers, all clean and shiny for a baby beauty contest, I probably would have said, "Grab a drink, and pull up a chair. Have I got some tales to tell you."

Winners never quit... but I did.

I have a confession to make.

I quit my last job, because I felt completely and totally inadequate.

To be fair, that’s a gross oversimplification of the situation. I had another job offer, and the position was a great opportunity for me. However, I wouldn’t have even considered applying for this position if it weren’t for my feelings of inadequacy in my old position.

I was a Coordinator of Religious Education and Youth Ministry for a parish. Originally, when I interviewed for the job, I was interviewing for the Coordinator of Religious Education position – a position where I was confident that my skills and experience qualified me to do the job. I went to the interview thinking, based on the job description, that the parish wanted to hire someone to do a lot of work for a little money. I left the interview thinking that it had been the worst interview in my life, and that the pastor did not like me. At all. Much to my surprise, I was offered the position. Also, to my surprise, the position now included youth ministry.

No biggie, I thought. I was formally trained as a high school teacher; I LOVE junior high and high school youth. I get them. I love God. I can make this work. I can figure it out. It would take a lot of prayer and preparation, but if this is what God was calling me to do, I could make it happen. I was so wrong.

Maybe that’s not quite fair, either. Because I do love youth, and I do love God, and there have been moments when I was a good youth minister. And God did, as God always does, make things happen. But I never could figure out how to minister to the youth in this parish.

I literally would leave Youth Ministry events in tears. I would go home, collapse in my bed, and either fall straight to sleep from sheer exhaustion, or cry because I was so frustrated, devastated, and just… confused. How do you balance fun time and God time? How do I share Jesus, when the majority of those who show up just wanted to have fun? Just “living the Gospel” only seemed to go so far. How could I make God fun? How could I not be a sell out to making youth ministry just another social club? How do I meet the needs of each youth, when they were all over the place in knowledge and faith formation, even in physical and cognitive development? How could I build relationships with them, so that I earned the right for my voice to be heard? I wanted to share Christ with these kids… and I was so, so, so tired trying to do it. God is good, all the time? God was exhausting, all the time.

I could get kids to love English. I helped a kid who had never read an entire book in his fourteen years of life connect to characters so strongly that he read not one, but three entire novels – in two days. I was privileged to witness a girl, who had been repeatedly abused sexually, find her voice and her strength through paper and pen, slowly finding healing and redemption, one couplet at a time. I could teach kids to conjugate verbs, write a well-supported essay, and cite sources used in research. I could introduce youth to the world of symbolism and metaphor through literature. I couldn’t introduce youth to Christ, or teach them about His Church. And it killed me. Because that was far more important than writing and reading well. There was nothing I wanted more than to be a good youth minister – not for my own sake. But for the sake of the youth, and because it was, I believed, sacred and holy work that was entrusted to me. It wasn’t about me. But that made it so much more important to do it and do it well.

It seemed the more time I committed to the work, the worse the outcome. And I constantly felt like it was ready to just take off, to explode with growth, if I could just manage to squeeze in one more meeting, wrangle up a few more volunteers, scrounge up a few more dollars for the budget… But on the inside, I felt like a complete failure. And I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t have time to do the things I knew needed to be done, and I couldn’t achieve “good youth ministry” without those things. How many more times could I say I was leaving it up to the Holy Spirit to work with what was there, when I wasn’t really doing my part, putting in the time and attention the ministry – and the youth – deserved? So I quit.

The first emotion was relief. The second was disappointment. Relief that this pressure was removed. Disappointment, because I failed.

I had plenty of other good reasons for taking the position I have now – and I did pray a goodly amount before just up and leaving the parish position. I do believe that God was calling me to this position (Though sometimes, in the back of my mind, I wonder if that sense of calling was real, or just a way to let myself off the hook, so to speak, with youth ministry. And I’m pretty sure God has assured me that God is the one doing the calling around here.) But of all the important decisions I've ever made, this is the one that I find myself analyzing the most. Since taking on my new position, I have volunteered in youth ministry, both at my former parish and in other capacities, and I truly love it. It's fulfilling and energizing and wonderful. I often have the thought, "When I'm a professional youth minister again...," even though I am perfectly happy in my current position. And I'm completely ashamed to discuss why I left youth ministry to begin with, because as blessed as I am to do the work I'm doing now, in the back of my mind and the depths of my heart, I feel like I gave up, let people down, abandoned those youth...

A couple weeks ago, the Gospel message was from John 6, the Bread of Life discourse. It is one of my favorite passages from Scripture, despite, or perhaps because of, its dense theological implications. But it was one single sentence that caught my attention and stuck with me: “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.” (John 6:29)

The first emotion was relief. The second was disappointment. Relief that I just need to believe in Jesus. Disappointment because… all I need to do is believe in Jesus, and the rest will work out. Because it’s not about me.

Faith is not a feel good thing. It’s not about being happy, or satisfied, or even accomplished – I mean, sometimes you get that. But that’s not the entirety of faith. Faith is about seeking God and God’s will, continuing to develop a relationship, living the Paschal Mystery – a constant cycle of dying and rising, sorrow and joy. The work of God is believing in Christ. Even when everything else seems to be falling apart. Plenty of good things are promised – love, joy and peace, for example -- but that promise comes in the context of taking up a cross. Daily.

I don’t necessarily think I should have stuck it out at the parish. I am fairly confident that the issues that were there needed a fresh set of eyes, and, more importantly, a renewed spirit. And maybe that’s where the reading from this past weekend comes into play: “Get up and eat, else the journey will be too long for you! (I Kings 19:7b)

God knows what the journey will bring…

*Disclaimer: This was post was very difficult to write. I've thought about this a lot, and I don't quite know what it all means. If it doesn't make sense, well... that's real for me. Thanks for playing along.

...And my Saint of the Day is... St. Vincent de Paul!

Scavenger Hunt Victories!

I went on a Scavenger Hunt today. Really, I was looking for inexpensive furniture that is still in good shape to furnish the San Antonio service house. Specifically, I was looking for a sofa, a table with six chairs, a dryer, three desks, a television, and an armoir (maybe). (We had solved the Mystery of the Missing Refrigerator by this point.)

So the plan of action was that I would check out some thrift stores and, if need be, the Giant Retailer of Cheap Crap Who Shall Not Be Named (because I despise shopping there... for many sound and additionally not-so-sound reasons.) When I found each item, I was to text message one of the principals, who was taking care of purchase and transportation for the Archdiocese. Said principal was at a beginning of the year principal shindig, and she would come for purchase and pick up as soon as she was able.

Sidebar: We were really concerned about being able to locate this furniture before all the teachers arrived, and still staying within our budget. Nothing quite says, "Welcome to our city!" like coming to a house without furniture. We were especially worried about tracking down a dryer and a sofa for a decent price.

After meeting one of the teacher's at the house to distribute keys, I set out on my adventure. My first stop was a thrift store fairly close to where the principals were having their pre-year meeting. I found the location easily, grabbed my notepad and cell phone, and strolled into the store. There was a sign marking the furniture section. Easy enough.

I found a sofa. It was green/red/cream plaid. The chairs are green, so this wouldn't be terrible. The tag was marked $199.99 "As Is." The "As Is" made me nervous. What was wrong with it? I pushed on the frame, smooshed the cushions, and searched for tears. Nothing. The only thing wrong with this sofa is that it was... well... dirty. But the price would keep us on track with our budget.

I texted Principal, letting her know that I had located a sofa. I told her the price, and explained the condition, noting that we could try to clean it, or we could just get a slipcover. After sending her a photo message, she said to try to find a cover for it. We'd take it. Sofa: Check.

After leaving the store, Principal sent me another message, asking if there was a table and chairs that would work. I responded that there was one set that had four chairs for $199, but I wanted to see what the other store had before making that call; I was on my way to St. Vincent de Paul.

Sidebar: When I went to Detroit with a group from Cincinnati to do Young Neighbors in Action, my service site was a St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store. The store manager at that site was meticulous about what went on her floor. Having worked for a week in the store, I recognized how much work went into running the thrift store, and how that work was truly a labor of love. I really, really, really, really, wanted to support another Catholic organization, especially SVdP, but I knew that I had to put the budget before my heart.

SVdP in San Antonio is not easy to find, and even harder to get in the parking lot. It is essentially the only thing in between two busy cross streets on a four lane street, right next to I-10. I walked into the store, and realized immediately that it was substantially smaller than the store where we had done our service in Detroit. I walked the aisle between dining tables and a row of televisions, disappointed to not see a table with more than four chairs. I turned to head out of the store, when I saw a "room tableau" (as they were called in Detroit), with a nice sofa, loveseat and chair. Surely, I thought, this is too much. The whole set was $275. For $75 more, we would get two additional pieces of furniture -- and this was nicer stuff than what was at the other store! I immediately sent a text message to Principal. Abort mission to other store; go directly to St. Vincent de Paul, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Wait. Collect $200 if someone is giving it out. The school could definitely use it.

After texting and then calling Principal to make arrangements (and deciding to just take one of the tables with four chairs...), I call Boss to tell her our good fortune. St. Vincent is smiling on us, I say. I flip the phone shut, satisfied and excited with the Furniture Find of the Year just in time to see a new table being placed on the floor... and SIX chairs are on the dolly!

I walked over to the store manager, who was supervising the set up, and announced that I wanted to purchase the table with six chairs, and I would also take the living room set. Her eyes lit up. "Really!?" Obviously, this store needed some sales, and this sale would make their day. We chatted briefly about the teacher-service program, I explained that I was waiting on a truck, and the truck would also bring the person with the check. She was thrilled to be helping out an organization that worked with Catholic schools. While I was waiting, she brought me a soda and some cookies.

When Principal arrived in her truck, I met her outside, and walked in with her. "Hey!" she exclaimed, warmly greeting the store manager. "This is my truck driver!" I explained. The store manager, who had demonstrated such hospitality and gratitude for the purchase, is a parent of one of the students at Principal's school. A school where one of our teachers serves. One of our teachers, who will come home to a comfortable house, because of the great service provided by St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store. A service made possible by the intense efforts of store managers like this parent.

Indeed, St. Vincent was smiling on us. God does really awesome things. Sometimes we get to see those sacred interactions first hand, and that is truly awesome.

From bread to Body

I grew up in the Church of the Brethren. In the church where I grew up, they only celebrated communion – they called it Love Feast – twice a year. (The twice a year, from what I understand, was a congregational choice rather than a denominational doctrine.) One of these was always Maundy Thursday, and the second, as I recall, fell sometime in October, usually on a Sunday evening. There would be a period of preparation in the sanctuary, after which everyone would move to the Fellowship Hall. All of the women would sit at tables at the far end of the room, and all of the men would sit at tables at the other end. (I don’t know why it was separate. A nod to Old Testament roots? Maybe.) I recall it being a dark event – the lights would be off and there would be several candles on each table.

The Love Feast began with a simple meal. It was some sort of beef with broth. There was white bread mixed in, and while I generally despise soggy bread, there was something amazing about this. I remember thinking it was the best food I’d ever tasted.

After the meal, basins of water were brought out to each table, and we’d wash each others’ feet. (As someone with extremely ticklish feet who risked the disapproving glares of mother and grandmother for giggling, I hated this part.) A basin of water for washing hands followed the foot washing.

Then, it was time for the “Love Feast.” Lined up down the center of each table were a set of wooden blocks. There were four circles cut out of each of the blocks, which held thimble-sized cups of grape juice. Stacked in between the cups were two pieces of unleavened bread.

The bread was made the day before “Love Feast” by the wives of the deacons. (Or maybe the day of. Those details are blurry at this point. )I was never allowed in the church kitchen while this was happening, but I recall some mixing, putting it into jelly roll pans, baking it in the oven, and then cutting it into the pieces that fit snuggly between the two rows of little cups. I think maybe a fork was used to “perforate” each piece. During the “Love Feast,” at the appropriate time, people on opposite sides of the table would each hold an end of the piece of bread while the story of the Last Supper was read from a Gospel. When the reader said, “Do this in memory of me,” we would break the bread, like splitting a wishbone. (Really. It was just like that.) And the bread was very, very chewy. Dense. Strange.
________________________

My first experience of receiving communion every Sunday was in the Lutheran church, with High School Boyfriend. Even though it was more recent, the details are less clear. (By more recent, I mean, nearly ten years ago.) I seem to remember there being one loaf of bread, which Pastor Terri (Yes, a woman.) would tear in half during the prayers (Again, blurry details. It was like the Eucharistic prayer, but Lutheran? ) and then each person would come up and tear off a piece of the bread. Or maybe she would tear off the piece and hand it to us. Seriously, can’t remember. The bread was a normal loaf of bread. I mean, not split-top, sandwich sliced bread. But it was… bread. Fluffy, soft, crusty.

There were the thimble-sized cups again, but these were filled with wine. I do remember the first time I received communion in the Lutheran church, High School Boyfriend said, “Remember, it’s real wine.” I waved him off; it wasn’t a big deal. I may have been from a grape juice kind of church, but how bad could a little wine be? I took the cup, drank the smaller-than-a-shot amount of wine… and I coughed. I thought my chest was on fire. And my ears. And my face was beet read. (Okay, so we know I wasn’t drinking alcohol during my high school days…)
__________________________________________

My first Mass was in the chapel of one of the Marianist houses on campus. I assisted one of the brothers with his class during the first semester of my second year, and he had invited me to dinner as a gesture of gratitude. Mass would take place before dinner, and I was also invited for Mass. I explained that I wasn’t Catholic; that I’d never been to Mass. He said it was okay; they wouldn’t bring out the snakes on my first visit. (Really. He said that.) There were maybe ten people present the first time I encountered the Eucharist. All I remember is being completely overwhelmed by the responses.

My second encounter was just a few weeks later – Christmas on Campus Mass. There were, seemingly, ten thousand people present. (Maybe not 10,000. But a lot. The place was packed.) It was there, in those weeks before Christmas, with a two hundred person choir, (Again, maybe not quite that many, but a lot.) and a poinsettia procession, and liturgical dancers, that I realized there was something different about this communion that I could not receive. I remember watching the people leave their seats, file past me, receive this mysterious wafer, and return to their seats. It was different. I didn’t understand how. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t receive it. But I knew it was different.

About a year prior to my first Mass experience, I had started questioning matters of faith. I never questioned the existence of God. I knew God was real. But I wasn’t sure that I believed everything I had been taught to believe about God. I assumed the questions I was asking would be answered in ways that would affirm that which I had believed my entire life. When my questions kept leading to a comparison between what I was raised with, and what the Catholic Church taught, I figured it was just a matter of environment. I was, after all, at a Catholic university. I was terrified at the first inkling that maybe, just maybe, God was calling me to the Catholic Church.

I was at Christmas on Campus Mass, because my boyfriend’s parents had invited us to join them. Boyfriend didn’t show up. Jesus did.

For the first time in my life, “I am the Bread of Life,” made perfect sense. “This is my body,” did not really mean “This is a piece of bread that represents my body.” It meant, “This is my body.” And that was confusing. Terrifying, even.

As I progressed through RCIA (three times, over five years), Real Presence was not something I struggled to embrace. (The Mass response, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed,” on the other hand… that was devastating. ) The journey, the thought process, the whole experience of conversion is another post (or ten), but by the time I received Eucharist for the very first time, I believed that Christ was truly present. It was in my third year of working in parish ministry, however, that I really, in a very real, tangible way, came to understand Christ present in the Eucharist.

One of my responsibilities as CRE was to be a Eucharistic minister during the PREP Masses. As I distributed the Body of Christ on that Monday evening in October, I became very aware of people’s hands.

“The Body of Christ.”

Rough, cracked, calloused hands of the parish maintenance man, slightly stained from the days of working in dirt and grease and grime.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Pale, fragile hands of the elderly woman, a matriarch to this parish. Her skin translucent, slightly blue from the visible veins. Her fingers, slightly gnarled from arthritis.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Smooth, young hands of a fourth grader. Also slightly blue, but from ink rather than veins.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Thick, strong hands of a farmer. Perfectly manicured, gold and diamond laden hands of the Room Mom. Tiny, hesitant hands of third graders.

“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”

All of these hands reaching out. Reaching for Jesus. Jesus. Not a chewy representation. Not ordinary bread. They wanted Jesus. The Christ. And they were reaching out to him. In the Eucharist.

“I am the Bread of Life.”

“This is the Body of Christ.”

Amen.

Parish Shopping, redux

As previously noted, I have been church shopping. An interesting adventure, that. I was tempted to blog about each of the parishes I visited, documenting what I saw, heard, felt as a visitor to each community. However, as I can be overly critical about matters liturgical (okay, fine. I can be overly critical about everything), I felt that could be interpreted as inappropriate and hurtful. (Of course, that would require having readers…)

I did blog about my experience at one parish, and while the first encounter certainly seemed grace-filled, I wasn’t sold. I did, indeed, return, and it was, again, a comfortable experience. Joyful, even. But I wasn’t sold. I had yet to walk into a parish and think, “Yes. This is it. This is where I feel most at home.”

And then a puzzling phenomena occurred. Articles and blog posts about church shopping started popping up like dandelions on an abandoned lot in May. It started with Busted Halo. Then, Amy Welborn posted not about parish shopping, but about her “Month of Sundays.” Even the National Catholic Reporter featured an article in the “Young Voices” column about “Finding home,” where the author details the challenges of finding a spiritual home and community.

Perhaps I’m placing too much emphasis on this phenomena. Maybe I’m too “mystical” about matters. But it seems to me that e-articles might be the new handwriting on the wall, and blog posts are replacing burning bushes. It is difficult to believe that God is NOT trying to get my attention when the very matters of my heart are suddenly the very subject of my reading routine. THREE posts show up, beginning on Thursday, with the last being posted on Sunday? It’s at least worth a second consideration. Superstitious or not, I pay attention to these things.

The gist of the articles/blog posts were to not get caught up in the small details, no parish is perfect, prioritize what qualities are being sought, etc. etc. etc. Nothing I didn’t know or hadn’t done.

So what am I looking for? I want to find the community where I best encounter Christ – where Eucharist is a verb; an animator of the Gospel message. I want a parish where people love Jesus, even when it’s hard and confusing and they don’t feel like their prayers being heard beyond the rafters. I want a community where people come as they are, bringing their messy lives and placing them on the altar as holy sacrifices in this beautiful chaos we call life, because that’s what they have to offer. I want a parish where people help others to pick up their lives again, and carry them back out into the world, mindful that we are all in this together.

I want a place where I can fall in love with God again and again. I want a community that will encourage me to continue to seek God’s grace in my day to day living, and to remind me that Christ is present, even in the mundane tasks of day-to-day living. Especially in the day-to-day business of living. I want a parish that will nourish my hungry soul, and help fill me to overflowing with love for God, for God’s work.

Beyond that, I want a place where I can use my gifts, and figure out the gifts that I don’t even know I have. I want to be involved. No, really. I do.

So does this place exist? I don’t know. I haven’t found it yet, if it does. Is it idealistic? Probably. I may not ever find this place. I hope to find some place close.

Amy Welborn’s closing thoughts, in many ways, summarized what I want. She writes, “I followed God around a small bit of his world, and he followed me. Never abandoned, never alone, able to pick out words of hope and truth no matter what the language, challenged to think bigger, to dig more deeply for others, joining in the sacrifice of praise, voiced in many languages, but really only one.”

I want to find the place where I am able to pick out the words of hope and truth, in a community of people who also are seeking hope and truth. I want to be challenged to think bigger, to dig deeper.

** So I've spent a week trying to "finish" this blog...and I can't find an end. I realized today that this is appropriate, because I haven't found what it is I seek. Stay tuned...

What Was I Thinking?!?! Wednesday!

With a shout out to Tabatha’s Totally Awkward Tuesdays, welcome to What Was I Thinking!?! Wednesday!

The other day I was remembering of some of the “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…” moment s in my life, and I came to two conclusions. First, I’ve done some REALLY stupid things in my life, and second, it’s probably more than just a minor miracle that I’m still alive. (Okay, let’s be honest… while I recognize the ridiculously dangerous and stupid nature of such events, I would probably do it again. I guess that means I’m not quite old enough to know better…)

It was one of those obnoxious October days in Ohio. In the afternoon, it was sunny and 80 degrees. By four o’clock, it was overcast and 35. I was sitting in my dorm room… er… residence hall room… with Freshman Roommate and Other Roommate. All three of us were at our computers, giving a semblance of diligently doing homework. In reality, I’m sure I was holding at least four different conversations on AIM and obsessively checking e-mail.

To give a little context, Freshman Roommate, Other Roommate and I had randomly been placed together. We lived on the fifth floor of a predominantly First Year Student Residence. Our room had at one point been a lounge. Consequently, we had a slightly larger than the average triple right next door to the community bathroom. (Read: LOTS of people traffic by our door… which was always open, of course.)

Coincidentally, Freshman Roommate and I had met before college at a journalism summer camp. She was from the Cleveland area, full of laughter, somewhat crazy, and I loved her. Other Roommate was (and I imagine, still is) one of the most down-to-earth, genuinely caring people I have ever met. We got along well, and generally enjoyed sharing a living space. (A living space where a guy would come to visit Freshman Roommate, talk to me instead, and, ten years later, I call him Wasband. (A term I lovingly plagiarized from Madre...who is not my biological mother... but let's not get confused.)

Around 11 pm on this obnoxious October night, Freshman Roommate gets up from her chair, closes the door, and starts swapping out her signature sweatpants for a pair of jeans. While she’s digging through her sweatshirts, Other Roommate asks, “Where are you going?”

“Carillon Park.”

I turn from my computer. “What? Now? Why?”

Freshman Roommate proceeds to explain how she has been chatting online with this guy, who found her through God knows how. He lives relatively nearby and he’s walking his pit bull to Carillon Park (Big park by the river. About five blocks from our hall.) AND SHE’S GOING TO MEET HIM. By herself. In a park. At midnight.

Okay, now you need to remember, this is 1999. My roommate was not finding her perfect match based on the 87 indicators on eHarmony.com. She was a cute college girl; this guy was a complete stranger. A complete stranger, walking his PIT BULL in a park at midnight.

After several minutes of trying to convince her that this was a bad idea, it was dangerous, she could end up as the morning headlines, we were NOT going to the morgue to claim her body, we finally came to a rational agreement.

Ten minutes later, I was walking down Stewart Street, trying to pull my winter coat tighter around me, cursing the fact that I had been wearing shorts earlier in the day. I was going with her. Because, of course, it’s so much safer to have TWO cute college girls go to a park at midnight to meet Strange Man who was walking his pit bull.

Strange Man ended up being pretty normal. His dog was the sweetest little girl around, and we just chatted and acted stupid. He told us about his job at a department store; we told him about our roommate. (As a result of this night, I can tell you that it is possible to make your shadow stretch more than half the height of the Carillon Tower…in case you were ever wondering.) After an hour or so, the cold became unbearable for people who hadn’t bothered to find gloves. We walked back to our dorm; Strange Man went …wherever it was that Strange Man was going next…

I believe my boss was the first to ask what the (enter your favorite expletive here) I was thinking. Her husband was on the local police force, and there had been a homicide in Carillon Park overnight. (I’m happy to report that Strange Man was neither the victim nor the suspect.)

Well. It seemed like a good idea at the time…