Bethel University - Spire Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

Text from Pages 1 - 36 of the 1977 volume:

Passages Bethel College 1977 Gazing forward, questioningly peeking ahead through foggy passages— We cannot turn the crisp, new pages of our lives: we must only wait and wonder. NEECY TWINEM Another boringly typical freshman arrived at Bethel College wedged between suitcase, stereo and the informative text, So You’re A College Student! It was me, fresh out of high school, money and, suddenly, courage. The residences looked mazelike, the school buildings conglomerated with innumerable staircases built purposely to confuse me. Everything seemed incredibly complex. Registration was an unrewarded effort as I scraped together a variety of cast-off classes. Dwarfed on all sides by “upperclassmen,” I was jounced through an unending line. When had the other freshmen been informed about this inscrutable process, “registration?” I must have missed that lecture. “Someday, said pitying, smug expressions above me, “Someday you’ll understand this. As for now . . . you’re a freshman.” Cruelty was not the intention. Everyone kindly answered ridiculous questions. “No, no. The cafeteria is two buildings over, one level down ” They continued their abstracted helpfulness, but I remained apart from this educated, friendly mass screaming greetings to old college buddies. I stood out— dumb, absurdly young—the classic depiction of the naive freshman. I experienced “initiation” when a group of boisterous R.A.s serenaded the newcomers to Bethel with unrelenting bugle blasts in an early morning rendition of “Taps.” I saw the experience as reminiscent of the joy of ice-water showers and visits to sadistic dentists. Having hurdled the titanic blockades of Welcome Week and registration, I began to sense the feeling of oneness in the student body. The divided campus didn’t really divide us. No longer harrassed by the dilemas of State Fair crowds and adjustments to neurotic roommates, weathered Bethelites emerged from sardine-can rooms on Arona, showing signs of real benevolence toward stumbling “freshies.” Few listeners act impressed when I relate my conversion to this group of over seventeen hundred addicted to Bethel College. They don’t realize the significance of the change that is occuring as I extricate myself from the lowly mold “freshman” and advance to accept the title, “student.” ROCHELLE NIELSEN Water a flower and it grows. Gradually it matures to stand firm with new life. As it matures, the flower produces seeds which are spread to other flowers. Eventually, they too bloom with new life. As the first flower grows, it continues to support the other flowers. Soon an entire garden grows together; together it shares the wind, the rain and the sunshine. As a community, we feel the winds of resistance as we attempt to fly strong in our faith; together we feel the rains of depression that nurture our growth; and together we feel the rays of sunshine that strengthem our roots. As we grow together under the watchful care of Christ, we praise God together for the joys and sorrows—for the victories that only Christ can reap. Like flowers we grow; and through the wind, the rain and the sunshine, we give praise to our Father “For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be glory for GREG SMITH Balanced Diet Aloneness is a salty food. I desire it, savor it, Feel I must have more. Yet my tongue dries from so much good. Then I thirst. Silence is a perfect apple. I reach for it, consume it. Never seem to have enough. Yet too much of such a tart sweetness Sets my teeth on edge. LORRAINE EITEL We passed, two isolated cars, and caught each other’s make and year. Our doors were locked. One day, our engines failed. We stopped, and saw beyond the chrome. Recharged, with engines tuned to harmonize, we left the silly road. KIRSTEN MALCOLM DALE JOHNSON. Tom With An Airplane Small Boy With Plane He’s a suntanned boy with knobs for knees and elbows. Scraped knobs, that is. His white T-shirt is smudged with a morning’s worth of grime, his brown shorts twisted about his straight waist. Squinting at the midday sun, the boy stands mid ragged grass and soggy litter before a stone-block wall. The wall is tall, the sky vast, the boy but a sprout wondering how life grows so big. Gangly stepping over the rubble in boat-sized tennis, he holds up a model airplane. One forefinger spins the propeller. A high voice hums a rotary accompaniment while glassy brown eyes still stare at the big blue. Docs he dream of flying his own plane someday? Docs he doubt his pint-siz.ed shape will ever become a man’s body? How can he grasp the immense gap between boyhood world and grown-up life? Tomorrow maybe an aviator in a spaceship looking back at mini-earth. Today just a small boy with a toy plane pipe-dreaming in the clouds. KATHLEEN ASSEt.lN I rechcckcd the room number written on the slip of paper. Yes, this was the right classroom in the AC building which the admissions people had suggested 1 visit. Cautiously aloof, I stepped into the Oral Interpretation classroom and chose a red-plastic chair—in the corner. One girl leaned toward me, her eyes bright with interest. “Hi, I’m Debbie. Are you new at Bethel?” I smiled weakly and said I was considering coming to Bethel the following year. Several other students joined Debbie in asking about my possible major. The the young mustachioed instructor arrived and hastily began class. Or rather, he didn’t begin class. He had noticed the factions of drama majors and English majors in harsh competition during critique sessions. Theater enthusiasts harped on the English students’ lack of dramatic style, while the literary buffs cut down the dramatists' poor choice of material. I felt as though I had stumbled into a lovers’ quarrel as the men and women aired their differences. Reaching a common understanding, the students bent their heads and prayed for forgiveness all around. The class dismissed and my new friends stopped to assure me that I wasn’t an intruder on this personal business. Indeed, they invited me back. Surveying the speckled-brick classroom as I left, I thought, “If this is the way they care about each other at Bethel, then this is the place for me!” KATHLEEN ASSELIN Since the creation of the curriculum, administrators have always included one sure thing: the worst class in the world. Naturally, curriculums could not entitle the class as such. They have to be more subtle. The course tempts students with a description that sounds enjoyable and assures an easy ‘A’ for his major. After the student has yielded to the temptation, the course drops all pretenses. The student soon discovers that he must not only buy the books but also read them. The class quickly becomes boring, educational and hard. The syllabus is the most obvious trait of this class. Naturally, the unassuming student does not take the syllabus seriously. Little does he know that this is the only class he will ever take where it is actually followed. The student suspects nothing until the first test which, in his ignorance, he believes is a drop quiz. Now that the student realizes what must be done, he spends countless hours pouring over the text in preparation for the midterm. By the time he takes the test he knows the books as well as if he had w-ritten them himself. But what’s this business about lecture notes? Another text? Something on closed reserve? Could it be that he missed something by not attending class? He begins to figure out how much money he can get back by dropping the class immediately. The figuring proves, as the student feared, that dropping the class is too big a loss to be worthwhile. There is only one option left now. Change majors. And then, with a sigh of relief, return to study the curriculum in hopes of avoiding the second worst class in the world. DIANE DOEBLER I -ike the now extinct Bethel beanie, bonafide all-nighters are en route to insignificance. Until recently, the term itself challenged even the most diligent student. But now, the watch-phrase of procrastinators and perfectionists alike has degenerated to a cliche without class. “All-nighter” no longer connotes a dusk-to-dawn struggle against the temptations of sleep and boredom. Current usage defines an all-nighter as “any study period of more than five hours.” In order to restore dignity to the maligned reputation of the all-nighter, a criteria, “a conceptual base,” is here proposed. 1. Make the L.R.C. rounds telling friends about your upcoming fate. Gorge on sympathy. 2. Tell as many people as possible that the need to stay up all night is not, in any way, your fault. 3. Coerce someone (friend, spouse, prof) to “pull the all-nighter with you. 4. Buy a pound of M M’s and several packs of bubble gum. Check the coffee supply. 5. Play or watch I M basketball until at least 10:30 p.m. 6. Declare that nothing short of a Marx brothers movie shall interfere with your concentration, but inwardly budget hourly breaks for theological discussions, gin rummy and banana splits. 7. Beginning at 2 a.m., stage absurd arguments to relieve the tedium (e.g. “Is chemistry or sociology a more valuable background for taking ceramics?”) 8. Around 4 a.m., turn up the stereo, slam windows and do jumping jacks to let nearby slumbcrcrs know you’re still at work. 9. Hit Perkins for breakfast. Talk loudly about your incredible feat. 10. Go to class, bleary-eyed and dishevelled. (This is worth at least three free cups of coffee from sympathetic friends.) 1 1. When it’s all over, rationalize the mediocrity of your accomplishment (paper, painting, etc.) away. Under the circumstances, no one could have done a better job. LAURA ALDF.N There is a certain feeling of exhilaration one can feel coursing through the air in the coffccshop. It is one-thirty, and the lunch ladies arc about to accept food cards. The throng begins to crowd around the cashier. The between-class-passers-through grab their coffee, slap down their dimes, and leave the coffeeshop to the more hardcore constituents. During C and G mod breaks, they leave behind a good percentage of their number who have rationalized their way out of attending the second half of class. (“If I skip the last half. I’ll have an hour more to study in the library.”) These people know full well that they won’t get out of the coffeeshop for at least two hours. Anyway, the coffee drinkers have left, leaving behind the hard-core “shopees to play their favorite game: Guess how much work I have to do” or “It’s three weeks into the semester and I’m five weeks behind.” Another favorite game, especially among the football players, is “Guess who's ineligible at the end of the year,” or “Is there going to be anybody left to play the offensive line?” (This is pretty much an all-day game and after straining to play it well, the squad is often too exhausted to rehash the latest episode of Charlie's Angels.) Regardless of these trite and insignificant games, coffee-shops in colleges do have value. College is a place for inculcating a little higher learning into out heads, but the coffee shop has given us a chance to escape theory and studenthood and become people again. When we look back at our youth, someday we will turn to our sons standing next to us and say, “Yes, son. 1 learned the most about life back in the coffceshop at venerable Bethel College.” DAN ERICKSON “I can’t imagine why you look so spaced from a mere all-nighter,” said my roommate. “I don't want to talk about it,” I muttered. “Right. Well, when’s the paper due?” he persisted. “11:20.” “I don’t have any important classes this morning,” he said. “My typing needs a brush-up anyway.” “You sure?” “Yes,” he said. “I always wanted to know about . . . Aristotilean rhetoric?” “It’s quite interesting,” I said. He threw his pillow at me. “Let’s go out for coffee,” she said, grinning. “I’ve got a test tomorrow! “So do I!” The grin got me. I didn’t want to bother him; it was finals week. “A good jog to the Scm and back could help our concentration,” he said suddenly. He always knew. He listened. And he didn't give patronizing advice. “Now!” We darted out from the bushes by the dorm, dumping water on the enemy. They came after us. We ran. Somehow the door was locked. As we beat on the door, I yelled—“You got me into this!” She laughed and beat harder. Then came the flood. Soaked — and laughing hysterically—we looked at each other. I saw her zest for living... My roommate, cohort and friend. For too long the Bethel commuter has gone unnoticed. This comment is devoted to the identification of the “Bethel or bust” 200-400 miles a week, long-haul commuter. At first glimpse, riding in a commuter carpool is slightly akin to riding the Bethel bus. Much time is spent on waiting for your ride and, if you’re the driver, a proportionate amount of time is also wasted on waiting for riders. The carpool driver, much like Bethel’s busdrivers, is often the victim of back-seat driving. (Bus drivers are definitely worse off in this regard, owing to the fact that most buses contain more back seats than the standard commuter Hornet, Vega or Olds.) To fully understand the commuter mindset, you must realize that the commuter’s very life revolves around a phenomen known as “THE GOOD OFTHE POOL.”This view of life is manifested in varying degrees of self-denial on the part of the rider (staying late, leaving early) and over-extension on the part of the driver (dropping people off here, waiting for them there), both of which arc excellent character builders. Few realize exactly what the rigors of day-in, day-out commuting entail. Not only is there the daily ritual of deciding why who sits where when who is driving which car for whatever reason. There are also more definitive questions that need answers, such as: Where should everyone put their lunches, books, etc? How long should the pool wait for members at appointed stops? What is the standard fare and allowed baggage for nonmembers’ weekend jaunts home? All these questions are debated at great length. They, along with the weather, make for great conversation. The topic of weather has purposely been saved for last. You cannot be a commuter in Minnesota without having at least a cursory introduction to windchills and jumper cables. Once a thorough knowledge of different cloud formations and basic meteorology has been acquired, the commuter can battle with Mother Nature to overcome blizzards, sleet and unsaltcd roads at great odds on all but the very worst of days. And on days like those, who among us doesn't wish he could stay at home and be glad he’s a commuter? MARY NORTON The dedicated IM athlete participates somewhere in the hazy land between stark reality and grandiose fantasy. To ignore the five per cent shooting percentage or the eleven consecutive serves into the net would be sheer folly, but to morbidly dwell on this prevailing ineptitude could turn participants into spectators. So, for the sake of sport and sanity, IM participants play in an arena that is neither real or unreal, neither concrete nor ethereal. Thus, Cervantes’ hero rides again, as seen in the dozens of Tarkcntons and inumerable World Series games that make up the intramurals. BILLTROLLINCER The overworked music major inhabits a warm, claustrophobic cubicle for an hour each day. Do you see that lonely, scarred piano and a bench that doesn’t match? Those soundboards of white spaghetti echo the words, “Do it again.’’ Bad notes shatter lights, scratchy voices shake the walls. Even sweet melodies soak into the unexcited carpet. There are no clocks in practice rooms. Minutes disappear with the first chord. Someone always knocks to ask the time. Or they inquire, “Have you seen Joyce?” as if in the middle of the coffee shop. A coffee shop it isn’t. Musicians are a unique breed of masochists. But when chords come correctly and fingers move finely (and finally), the agonizing hours of labor arc forgotten, locked behind the practice room door. JONATHON PEPPER Teachers. Arc they the opposition or teammates, a hinderance or a reinforcement, the district attorney or the counsel for the defense? Or are they just beige, part of the college backdrop, a take ’em or leave ’em proposition? The answer to that question may depend on the student or teacher or even the college you have in mind. Butaboveall, the answer depends on the situation in which you get to know them. We all know the classroom lecturers, paper-assigners and test-givers. They arc a part of our daily routine. But if we, by chance, get to know a teacher outside of the classroom situation, we’ll find that teachers can be more than a stepping stone or stumbling block on our way to a bachelor’s degree. The key is in getting to know them in a variety of situations. I first met Randy Johnson back in his T.A.ing days. Now he is a part-time teacher and has done everything from subbing as my advisor and showing me how to organize a paper to selling me a desk at bargain prices. Another friend in my early semesters was Jim Johnson, a friend of the family. It would be great if everyone could have a “Jim Johnson” during those first few weeks of college -someone who says “hello to you by name, someone who will stop and talk about family and old times, someone who makes you feel like you fit in at Bethel. I first met Art Lewis at a summer camp. He taught me to say “hello” in Hebrew and listened appreciatively to my ragtime piano. Ever since he has been a true friend. Last year, when I could have gone off the deep end spiritually, the Lord used Dr. Lewis to stop me. Although he didn’t always have the answers to my questions, he did always show concern. Simple things like listening and lending me a helpful book kept me from giving up on Christianity. Besides the friendship angle, teachers are a valuable source for help in college requirements. A1 Glenn is one of my favorite libraries. At the A.G. L.R.C. there are no overdue fines and no two-hour limits on crucial sources. Then there is Stanley Anderson, my advisor. Always available to sit and talk, Mr. Anderson is willing to listen to my viewpoint but also willing to set me straight when I’m not quite on track. He had the wisdom to let me drop out of school when I couldn’t cope with it any longer, the patience to head me in the right direction when I came back the next semester, and the concern to sec that I would have the opportunities to try to reach my goals. While there’s no getting around the tests and the papers, there is more to a teacher than a gradebook. To a student, a teacher can be a giver-of-advice, a valuable resource person, and, most importantly, a friend. It seems that Bethel will only be Bethel as long as its students and teachers hold on to the special friendships that have characterized Bethel for so long. CARLA HAGE Have you ever considered how much easier teaching would be without students? I have. Admittedly, students do add a bit of color to the classroom but they certainly make the whole ordeal rather humbling. Here’s what I mean. From somewhere I got the idea that teachers are supposed to be more intelligent than students. After several semesters of standing in front of students I now realize that although I have more facts at my disposal (not an unfitting end to my facts some say) it’s possible for an innocent-looking student to scatter my facts like so many “Scrabble” pieces by wielding unanticipated questions. The questions they ask cause me to suspect that there are as many ways of thinking as there are heads in a classroom. What’s more, the ideas in these heads seem to be regarded as valid by others. As a result of these classroom confrontations I’ve been forced to develop defensible reasons for doing things—things like giving grades and assignments. As profound as these lessons are, the most weighty one has to do with what teaching is all about. After dutifully trying to subdue my students with precepts and presentations. I’ve come to think that the real substance of teaching is something almost subliminal. It’s as if students spend more time wondering about my assumptions than they do listening to my answers. All things considered, teaching has been profitable. I hope students have benefited. I’ve certainly gained. If nothing else, I can take comfort in asking myself, “Where else would I get paid for being humbled?” DARREL NELSON In September, seven Bethel students rode up to a cabin near Brainerd for the weekend. A regular get-away-from-it-all couple of days? No, this weekend was Dr. Gregg Johnson’s way of teaching his plant taxonomy class about plants and their life zones in northern Minnesota. On Saturday we went on a day-long field trip to learn about plant life. Since we left early, we got back to the cabin early enough for the sun to be fairly high up in the sky. “Why don’t you do some water skiing?” Gregg suggested. So wc took advantage of the relative warmth of that September afternoon. Whether wc skiicd, swam or just rode the boat, we all were tired and hungry by late afternoon. I still remember the home-cooked meal Gregg’s wife Lois prepared for us. Especially the fruit salad and the homemade raspberry jam. I was impressed that they both took the time to give us that weekend. It was not only a learning experience, but a time of fellowship and good times. The learning experience was important to all of us but, at the risk of offending the plants. I’ll say it was even more valuable for me to get to know Gregg and Lois as persons. I learned something besides plant taxonomy that weekend—I got a glimpse of the value of caring and making others feel at home with you. DIANA GONZALEZ Oiling Hinges Crossing fields of varied green, 1 paused again to open gate. And found it stiff with underuse From keeping out and keeping in. Beyond the gate the field was fair. In silence cried for me to come And smell its earth and wade its stream That long had laid unshared, unknown. And so I turned to come again; With oiling can I overcame. Now every life’s a field of green. And oiling hinges conquers pain. MARTHA BARKER Stark corridors long For imbued maturity Of experienced breadth. Hastily marked time Withdraws meaningful moments From ripe fulfillment. BRUCE DAHLMAN Ourglass sand settles in time, its course refined by crystalsandspace the current changes at a random fault only secure suspense 'til I am cast into the new hour, a tempered form of accurate chance, content only ’til rest donns the inversion, settling sand by BRUCE DAHLMAN and HOLLY SCHM1ESS The college career is one of the most unusual periods in our lives. It is a time of relatively little responsibility and great independence. Let’s face it. What do we actually do here anyway? Our daily obligations are an occasional encounter with classes, a token appearance at the library and writing yet another letter home begging for money. The rest of the day is occupied with some of the more important facets of the “student’s” life. Basically this entails coffee shop, trips to McDonald’s, flirting, checking P.O.s, etc. We arc our own bosses. If we stay outtilMa.m., no one is at home losing sleep about it. But more important, the college years arc unique because they are a time of unprecedented flux in attitudes and values. Our adolescent attitudes and values acquired from our parents are weak against the dialectical tug-of-war we go through every day during class and those late-night dorm room debates. Through the liberal arts education new values are not only acquired but strengthened. Within this process lies a potential pitfall—the college student’s fixation on, and love for, the avant-garde. As we question many of the existing Fstablishment’s beliefs for the first time, we realize that we have acquiesced to many as the result of a very non-cognitive process. Granted, many of the old values need rejection, e.g. the place of women in the church. But what we don’t need is the sort of jump-on-the-bandwagon mentality that commits logical homicide as a practice. And not only does this mentality commit logical homicide, but it is also the sword and breastplate of many a cynic. It is easy to slip from a valid criticism of the status quo to a blatant condemnation that puts the cynic above the “naive masses” in no one’s mind but his own. To the cynic it is stupid to adhere to anything less than the ideals of the avant-garde. You might be thinking this is a support of tradition. Quite the contrary.I cannot think of any situation when mere tradition is a valid supporting argument for much of anything. But to destroy a belief simply because it is traditional shows the same naivety that upholds a belief because it is traditional. Unless we rid ourselves of this sort of reasoning, it will produce in us another tradition-clad, void-of-rcason avant-garde that will become the Establishment of the future. MARK TROXEL Graduation. For me, the word has especially sweet connotations, because of innumerable experiences indicating that the day would never come. Following is a rough chronological list of some of my “stress points,” or the times when I really questioned whether I belonged in college or if I would be able to make it. (This could also be interpreted as a handbook on how not to go at college.) October, 1972: On this date I received the shock of my life as I was told that The World Book and the Encyclopedia Britannica were off limits as major sources for college research papers. The resulting C- did a lot to undermine my self-confidence in writing, and single-handedly convinced me to avoid sociology as a concentration. September, 1973: This was my exposure to dorm life. I was living in Edgrcn, second floor, old wing. I had heard troubling reports on “dorm life,” yet I always hoped that things would be different for me. But certain aspects of dorm behavior seem to transcend time; they hold true for all ages. To say the least, my experiences with greased toilet seats, shaving cream pranks, loud and obnoxious rock music and dorm raids did little to enhance my enjoyment of Edgren, and college life in general. One night, while scores of “funloving” Edgrcnites ran through the halls yelling, “Let’s cream Bodien, let’s cream Bodien,” 1 almost packed it in, but somehow I managed to make it through the year. January, 1974: We were on a basketball road trip, returning from Iowa (where we had lost our game by over thirty points, thanks in part to my five fouls and two technicals). Predictably, we were in the middle of a blizzard and the heater in our van did not work. We dared not to go to sleep, for fear of not waking up, so we had been playing some sickening word games, that help pass the time but are never fun. I had just lost three consecutive rounds of the Who, What or Where game on irritating technicalities. The radioman could not find any country music, opting instead for some sickening rock song. (I believe it was “Do the Funky Chicken.”) You cannot imagine my state of depression; the combined weight of all those negative experiences was nearly enough to break me, to make me give up college once and for all. March. 1975: I was in the frightful clutches of a disease which can only be termed, “junioritis.” 1 turned to heavy pinball playing. (Some friends even suggested that I had developed a pinball dependency.) Electronic games became my major pasttime while the books collected dust and the work piled up. Luckily, a nearly total depletion of funds, and a severe case of pinball elbow saved me from forgetting school completely. October, 1976: Oddly enough, this experience took place on the golf course at scenic Como. To set the scene, I was taking a proficiency test for golf, to receive a phy. ed. component needed for graduation. You see, I made the ridiculous mistake of leaving a good number of my phy. ed. components until my senior year. There was no way I could take all the classes that I needed, so I was forced to try and test out of several of them. To pass the skills aspect of golf, I needed to score a 94 at Como. After a so-so start on the first couple of holes, highlighted by a near disasterous flirtation with the water on number Five, I suddenly found myself lying six and par five eighth hole. I was still a good distance from the green. Looking at a possible nine for the hole, I also saw the possibility of totally blowing up and blossoming to a disasterous 96. My whole college life flashed before my eyes as I approached the ball; the fear of total academic ruin stared me in the face. That single eight-iron shot seemed to stand between me and the Bachelor of Arts degree. Although 1 did hit a good shot and eventually managed an 88 for the day, I often wonder what would have become of me if I had topped that chip shot and wound up with a quadruple bogey 9. PAUL MEALY A college choir tenor paces the floor; a women’s choir alto tugs a comb through her hair; a male chorus bass adjusts his bowtie “just one more time.” These scenes precede a Festival performance. At the Bethel Band Concert, the members excitedly go about their pre-concert tune-up, checking to make certain that their B flat is in tune just the way Dr. Whitinger likes it. A Bethel Drama production is preceded by primping of hair, checking of make-up, and adjusting of costumes. Everything is set to make the audience live the play with the actors. The basketball team watches intently as Coach Davis diagrams a play moments before gametime. Then the players climb the steps to the gym and a cheering crowd. These settings have one moment in common: that moment just before the event is underway when the excitement builds, the adrenalin flows, and butterflies unite. Then something happens that is rare in any other setting: “Dear Lord, thank you for this opportunity to glorify and praise you...” DANA OLSON 1 Father, we praise you for Bethel: for the knowledge, friendship, beauty and love we find in abundance here. We confess. Father, that wc are often petty and ungrateful. We put ourselves and our goals ahead of you. Father, forgive us. Thank you for offering forgiveness in our failings and giving us power to overcome them. Thanks too, for the countless people who work to make Bethel a house of God. Thank you for hope; we know you arc faithful. Now we ask, Father, that you will keep your hand on Bethel and on each one of us. Amen. CARLA HAGE Never before have I been so tied to or affected by a place and the people that have lived, worked, grown, learned and hurt within it. Looking back, I’m flooded with memories of days when the things I was learning were so exciting that I could hardly keep silent, of chats with friends sprawled on dorm floors amidst popcorn and cocoa, of days in choir when I felt like a member of God’s angel chorus. But times like these cannot erase the hurl and pain of the very hard moments: countless nights of reading pages and pages of history, writing papers, struggling to stay awake after three hours of sleep the night before, being angry at having to study longer than others to receive the same grade, jealous of the time they could spend with friends, times of not understanding relationships with people, of feeling I was never quite doing my best, of praying that God would end it all because I just could not take any more. Yet, before I came to Bethel, I asked God to teach me what I needed to learn about being his child. So I should not have been surprised at being faced by pressures and problems, for it was through them that I came—in pure exhaustion— to Jesus, knowing full well that I could not live one iota of a day without dependence on Him for strength, guidance and wisdom. God could not have picked a better place for me to begin learning such things. Although I am quite willing to move on, Bethel will always be very special to me. EARLEEN PETERSEN Bethel: What does it mean to me? I am thankful for the opportunity to have studied here. As a freshman, I was not mature enough academically, emotionally and spiritually to have gone to a school where I would have been totally on my own. Bethel was a good place to grow and become independent. In that respect I am profoundly grateful to have had professors who worked with me and friends who cared enough to listen to my thoughts, hopes and dreams as I struggled to become a whole person. And yet, there have also been countless frustations with Bethel. Bethel College is not perfect and neither is anyone who works or studies here. I become frustrated with those who feel it is a piece of heaven. Bethel could be more effective if it could get away from the image of being an isolated warm cocoon for Christians. Christian colleges fill a definite need and Bethel has affected my life tremendously. But 1 do think that Bethel fosters a dangerous dependency on itself as an institution. As a senior, I see Bethel’s greatest asset in the professors. Many of them could be making twice the amount of money at a state university, but because of their dedication to the Lord and their concern for people, they arc at Bethel to help us become mature Christians and thinkers. Their effect on my life is beyond value. While I am thankful for the opportunity of having attended Bethel, I am also looking forward to graduation and new experiences. ESTHER SPERRY Dad had already gone to work. Mother helped me squeeze the last tennis racket and clean box of underwear into a car already bulging at the windows. As I turned the corner, I saw her standing in thedriveway alone. A door had been silently closed behind me. As my ’67 Oldsmobilc thundered onto Bethel’s campus, no one ran to meet me. Considering the gross tonnage I had transported to college with me, it was no surprise. Those first few days were so lonely. I was put in a New Dorm suite with all upperclassmen transfers. Being the only freshman proved to be a mixed blessing. Words previously unimportant to me, such as ‘snuggy’ and ‘swirly’ suddenly became existentially authentic experiences. Yet that year was so warm, so fresh, so naive that 1 shall never forget it. Moving to the Old Campus the next year somehow symbolized the transition that was occuring in my life. The days of making gelatin in the girls’ lavatories seemed to fade as I was confronted with the grim spector of choosing a major. Wc painted our room a blaze yellow. It was so bright, we wore sunglasses to get to sleep. Wc were still a little crazy; but adulthood, like a midnight fungus was gradually making its way into our lives. (Use of the first person plural is intentional, referring to an equally unbalanced roommate—now a member of the faculty.) Junior year was one of frentic activity and involvement. Issues seemed so vital, policies so apocolyptic and change such a life or death matter. But with “age” comes melancholy. When my roomates graduated that year, I am afraid I did as well. Last fall as my ’67 Olds thundered onto campus I looked for a nervous and lonely freshman boy standing in front of New' Dorm. When I stopped to ask where he had gone, no one knew. It seems he had gone on. ROBERT MOELLER When I first came to Bethel as a sophomore, I came with a determination to grow in my personal relationship with God. However, as I became increasingly involved in academics, in extra-curricular activities, and in an off-campus evangelization ministry, I began to abbreviate my periods of solitude with the Lord. In spite of setting aside less time for “practicing the presence of God,” my spiritual life seemed to progress at least adequately; nothing was in dischord. However, the summer before my senior year, a crisis shook the foundations of my faith. Although Christ gave me the strength to weather this crisis, I came to school the following September aware that my communion with God had deteriorated over the last year. I began to realize that no class, no chapel service, no ministry—in spite of their value—could ever serve as a substutute for my time alone with God. As one Christian scholar says: “Show me a man or woman that consistently spends time alone with God and I will show you a man or woman whom God will use to transform the world. I leave Bethel desiring that each of us will be aware of the importance of consistent fellowship with Jesus Christ, and therefore be able to echo the prophet Jeremiah in saying, “Thv words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart; for I am called by thy name, O Lord, God of hosts.” DAVID KIRBY The threshold tells me “cross,” and still 1 stand; “Another moment, please. I’ve only just arrived, and come so fast.” If 1 had known the path would be so swift— faster than my steps, it seemed, esealator-style— I might have walked more closely with my friends, or raised my eyes more often, lent a hand. I might have made the minutes count. But now another passageway begins, and there’s so much of me that I must leave behind the door; Time always takes his due. But it’s a fair exchange, 1 think; Now for then and begin for end. I smile, and step across, and turn the bend. MARTHA BARKER