Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [87]
Michal stared down at her feet, avoiding Allistair’s steady gaze. Students going into chapel pushed around them and they moved with the rush, trying to get out of others’ way. “Well, better get to our seats before chapel starts. Before we’re late.” She glanced up at him, then quickly looked away. For whatever reason—and it was puzzling and annoying to her—she felt embarrassed. Again.
“Yeah, guess so.” They went inside, where Allistair offered—as though passing someone in a hallway, never to be spoken to again, Michal assumed—“Well, see you later.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Allistair started toward the seniors’ assigned seats, but abruptly stopped. Turned back to Michal. “There’s a home basketball game tomorrow night. Would you like to go?”
Totally caught off guard, Michal was speechless, unable to think clearly. Neither the tenor of his voice nor the look on his face betrayed anything—whether it was purely a spur-of-the-moment idea, something he’d regret later. Or if he’d actually considered asking her somewhere. She couldn’t even tell if this was a genuine invitation or a “be kind to the MK” scenario. Realizing he was still staring at her—that time had passed—she stammered, “I … um, hadn’t thought about it. I’ve got an exam in New Testament on Friday I need to study for.”
He tucked his Bible at his side, thrust both hands down into his pockets. They could hear strains coming from the chapel’s huge pipe organ. “Gotta take a break sometime. But hey … if you really need to study …”
Michal could feel a sense of import: It was one of those defining moments, an impression that something significant weighed in the balance. Her intuition whispered this was more than choosing between a date and the need to study. And it was beyond the well-defined box dividing what it took “to accomplish my goal of graduating” and any activities that were “a waste of time.” A choice that defied the comfortable lines she drew to separate sacred from secular. Christian and biblical from unspiritual and sinful. Some sense of nagging exigency demanded, Don’t miss this opportunity.
“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.