Bethel University - Spire Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

Text from Pages 1 - 64 of the 1979 volume:

PASSAGES 1979 Bethel College All is a procession, The universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion. Walt Whitman In passing . . . On the tails of Welcome Week, the freshman mounts that notorious merry-go-round known as college life. Suddenly he is bombarded by the novel forces of pressure, professors, all-nighters, roommates, classmates, and activities. “Passages” attempts to seize chunks of individual students’ college experiences, to focus on specific elements of an insane four-year whirl and make them into small, detailed portraits. Unlike the deceased yearbook, “Passages” sidesteps the old photographic depiction of School Year 78 - 79, instead uprooting the literary and artistic side of Bethel and Bethelites. College life, personal growth, and “passages,” hopefully, have been suspended here for in-depth examination. Our ttanks to those who aided in the search for and construction of this material, especially Alvera Mickelsen and Dale Johnson. Scott A. Barsuhn, Editor Shelly Nielsen, Literary Director The Lifespan of a College Student Freshmen are babies. Oh. now don’t get historical. I'm not insulting anybody. I mean well. As a matter of fact I mean it as a compliment. So try to shed your hardened presuppositions. Just relax. Now try to imagine for a moment that this is something vaguely like literature. In literature, language is sometimes figurative. I say then, figuratively mir.d you, that freshmen are children. You see, after four years observing college life from the inside, I have concocted some idea, fragile though it may be, that one’s development through four years in college is a miniature parallel of life. No, really. Think about it for a minute. Let’s start with children. Children are great. They’re usually much more fun than adults. How often do we see a pack of freshmen laughing long and loud over the most minor matters? As with children, so with freshmen. They come in scared, wide-eyed and silly. They’re fun to watch. They don’t know where to go, or when, or how, and they’re not sure why. They don’t know a cognate from a Clarion, an LRC from a BVD, or a convocation from a conversation. (It’s true. Just watch them in chapel sometime.) They spend as much time laughing as discussing, as much time enjoying as analyzing, and as much time playing as working. What’s better yet, they can play at their work. You see, they know how to enjoy life. They don’t yet know about all the taboos, all the pressures, all the petty frustrations that make the rest of the world so cynical. Life is still new to them. They have nothing to be proud of, nothing to hide. They can laugh at themselves and take life at face value. 1 love children. They’re still observant. They’re still creative. They still appreciate what God has given them. They still love life. Some folks say freshmen are a nuisance. But where would we be without them? Sophomores are adolescents. Not that I have anything against sophomores, mind you. 1 have great respect for anyone who, in his second collegiate year, still has his head above water. It’s just that when a sophomore does pull his head above the waves he finds that he is still in the dark. And he can’t see how far he has to tread water. But he thinks he can. It’s rough being a sophomore. I wouldn’t go through it again, not for all the orange juice in Florida. Nor for all the ski tickets in Aspen. No sir. Nope. I’ve said it before. Being a sophomore is just like being an adolescent. Sophomores are the ones who always put down the freshmen for being freshmen, not unlike the poor white crackers in the Old South who put down black slaves for being black slaves. I’ll take t ie freshmen any day. Sophomores are the ones who gripe a lot. Why not? After a year’s experience, they should know the meaning of life, the vital skills necessary to live it meaningfully, and how the universe in general belongs. Ha. A sophomore is the guy who scoffs at Pastor Jim's sermon just before Pastor Jim walks up behind him. A sophomore is the girl who whines about her dating life just as last weekend’s date walks up to say hi. Poor sophomores. They have so many growing pains, so much to realize. They think they’ve been through it all. when, sadly enough, they’re just going through it all. It can’t be easy living day after day with your foot in your mouth. The Greek term “sophos” means “wise.” On the other hand, “moros” means foolish. Thus we have a term meaning “wise fool.” Sounds like a paradox? Not if you know any sophomores. David Shelley mm Sandy Horst I am part of a team which molds Bethel College, one of forty-six people responsible for the well-being of others. God called me to give nine months of my life as a resident assistant. To be chosen for this position one must possess some sought-after qualifications: • a high tolerance for meetings, • an unfailing ability to follow all rules, • the skill to make change and count two sheets ar.d one pillowcase, • and the perception it takes to detect cigarette smoke, alcohol fumes, and the vibrations of people dancing in their rooms. One must have: • the creative ability to make 359 eye-catching signs, • ability to change fuses — daily, • strength to bodily remove people of the opposite sex who cannot read clocks, • perseverence to smile when one's room has been T.P.ed or had its complete stock of furniture stolen for the eighth time, • understanding of how to fix broken fingers . . . and hearts, • and the saintliness to sin less than the average student. Resident assistants look well-adjusted on the outside, but how do they feel on the inside? Mostly happy. I get real joy from working with people. I like being in a position where I have to really love someone who may think differently than I think, or who may not even like me. I feel blessed in special moments: the Bible study with much personal sharing, uplifting notes of thanks, and secret presents. I feel vulnerable, open to the hurts of others, hurts which sometimes cut deeply into me. Sometimes I wonder if 1 am emotionally capable of handling all of this. I need courage: • to confront a rebellious student, • to search for the need behind the negative action, • to love the unlovable, • when I feel like running away. I'm learning what servanthood is all about. Though I'm not often good at sacnficing my will for others, for God — I’m learning. I am not atone. My team comforts and encourages me. They understand my problems because they often feel like I dc. My friends give me a place of rest. They listen when my heart needs to cry, and with sensitivity they renew me. They help me laugh at my mistakes. God softens my spirit, even if it is with tears and tnals. He builds me for his work and gives me His strength to: • change fuses, • smile at my empty room, • enforce the rules, • and love when 1 don’t feel like it. 1 am a resident assistant, a learning servant. Linda Swift The stuffy sounds of shuffling soles on rugs, Of exhaled prayers, of crackling pages turned, Of monotone fans, bow careworn shoulders down My Brllo head sinks, bobs, then jerks awake As gaping yawns stall notions close to sens To si:, to think for hours with smells of ink On pulpy pages processed cold, and the sheen Of carrels varnished smooth and hard, is false. Unnatural, obscene. Those birches, pines That fell and died for books were textures, rc Or waxed, not guised in gloss, retired on she Without response to wind or rain or me When trees rage With certain fire And grasp My summer mind With their cool Bronze fingers 1 Think that only You and the leaves Could reach Such beautiful Majesty in such Untimely Death Judy Hougen Wayne Erickson Steven Dennis Edith Harvey Steven Dennis Give of yourself. 1 Go lower. loCyer.f As the river's only( happiness is found in going lower. So is human happiness in self-abasing love. Be joyful as you give yourself. Run sparkling in the sun. Laughing and leaping over obstacles. Pour yourselP ut, Ever striving to attain the ocean of God’s perfect Love. Keren Allen David Brown Strolling down walkways, variety shapes the stage. In fashioned array, smiles model the scene. Packed beneath skin lies ar. open heart. Julie Redenbaugh Amidst the busthng noise of shuffling feet and endless chatter, my sharp ears capture squeaks of rolling wheelings in the distance. Effortlessly, my spirits lift at the anticipation of her arrival. Other noises grow dimmer as rr.y ears automatically capture the sound of squeaky wheels. 1 realize, as I await her approach, how much 1 have come to love the sound of rolling wheels — forever squeaking in a quiet library or still chapel. When I hear it 1 know she’s near. Each time her hands grasp the cold metal, steering her walker as she wills, my soul rejoices. And now, as the squeak of turning wheels grows louder, my spirits rise once again. She endears herself to me as priceless JEWELS; the bounds of my love seem to widen each day. I wait silently as her wheels glide across the carpeted floor. Finally, 1 glimpse her smile — a prized treasure. She now reaches me; I grasp her hand. And, in that brief moment of eter-n-.ty, 1 realize the beauty of friendship and love. Char Eklof Dows B r' «y Doug Borkey If I lock myself into my patchwork countryside world and stitch the seams tight, I can bind off friendship. 1 can cut you off. I’ve watched myself walk briskly along the tunneled hallways without giving you more than a glance. I’ve seen myself in your faces. If I look long at you, I see mirrors of myself. I touch myself in you and cannot turn away. I remember who I am. The winter eyes freeze. The needle pricks, a spot of red appears, and then a scar. We pierce each other. I have a piece to contribute to the fabric of life. The world is textured and interwoven. If I pull out my strand from the woof and warp, the design is incomplete. Then my handiwork, as well as yours, will unravel. 1 look to you. Become a part of me, mending the fragmented tapestry. Barb T rostad Walton morning glories begin as seeds, they do not always dance toward the frosted early sun. and their purple-pinks and yellow-blues are often dirtied brown. Plants. they are only plants and green until they blossom, and then they are flowers — dew-dropped rainbows, glory of the morning. Lisa Pepper Colleen R. Comeau When 1 am alone and emptied of all, I am merely myself. Me and myself — we just sit there. We know who we are, really. And that’s what hurts. It’s as if someone is holding a book right in front of my face and turning the pages, painfully slow. There 1 am on the pages shown in stark reality. Holding groundless grudges and pouting in self pity. 1 am forced to recognize who 1 am. Alone and in God’s presence I am bare naked. Stripped of my many facades and disarmed of my games. Merry Olmstead Doug Barkey You turn the trees brown and shake them so that their leaves, those very precious leaves, fall to the ground. You strip them of all their autumn beauty and leave them standing bare. They have nothing. Except their roots which cannot be seen. Then you send winter to gnaw at even the roots. How long till my winter is over? B. Genheimer Debbie Bunger L The familiar sojourn into the bowels of the AC building is strangely different in the subdued atmosphere of late evening. Doc’s corner hums with coffeepots, but that warm invitation is quenched in one quick maneuver around the corner. In the blue darkness, the impending corridor is punctuated by a sole square of light issuing from the closed door of AC 115. There is a fascination about the slumbering scene of many a triumph and fiasco: the labs of chemistry. A processional of drooping lab coats slouches on a series of hooks, mute witnesses to the disciples of the condensing tube who daily shuffle to their appointed stations. Here is a panorama of closed office doors. Tavernier, Sackctt, Stephens, Schmidt — men alternately viewed as advisors, lunatics, comedians, and unbearable taskmasters. Some bewildered soul is perpetually lurking around these entranceways, waiting to talk to 'ask Dr. ____________________________” Varieties of monumental problems are solved in these havens of clutter: behavior of ideal gasses, the functioning of spec 20’s, if life can be worthwhile without P-chem, What happens tf when I don’t get into medical school?” Long after the chemistry major is bedecked in the garb of a bachelor of arts, after he has forgotten how to defend himself with a rinse bottle and cannot draw the structure of a spingolipid despite any incentive to do so, he may perchance still crack a smile when recalling a certain ubiquitous green sweater, or a Sackett prayer breakfast. The quant lab in the eerie light of its one window.1 suddenly murmurs with the whiz of countless magnetic stir bars! From somewhere in the midst of a sea of analytical balances and scrupulously clean flasks, the lone radio drones 1977’s recurring top ten hits. A sense of timelessness pervades the lab — titration biurets drip rhythmically, solutions melt from color to color, McDonald’s rations come and go until the janitors announce the closing of the building. Organic Chemistry features elaborate contraptions, multi colored rubber gloves, and bulging round-bottomed flasks, all to be manipulated with new found dexterity. The ever-present threat of explosion and sudden appearances of billows of white smoke inflict drama into the seemingly unexciting memories of extracting, purifying, and crystallizing oily liquids and putrid powders. But onward to a land where air jets whistle, glassware tinkles melodiously, and all sounds are party to the smug emotion of new found importance. General chem lab is accompanied by the rainbow- hues of one’s first real lab coat, an entire inventory of assorted paraphernalia, and exposure to that all-knowing upperclassman T.A. and cannot help but flood even the grizzled soul with unwelcome nostalgia. The pains of countless experimental blunders have disappeared, though, and all that remains of initiation into science are the tenacious odors of dormant reagents in the stock room. The light of the “outside world” is again visible through a twin set of double doors. Jane Kochka Give me joy or pain — this inbetween is so mundane. Let me cry like Hell burning and eating my brains, Or the laughter that my heart is climbing some tall tree. But I hate to be on the ground looking up or looking down. Mark Rentz At 2:00 in the morning, the lights in the Edgren can seemed to buzz faintly. The mirrors were spotted, and the sinks encrusted with a week's dirt and cried scum. Crude initials and slogans scarred the enameled toilet stalls. Over it all hung the nagging odor of sanitizing cleaner and urinal cakes that couldn’t completely hide the smell of stale urine. I’d just gotten out of the shower and stood naked on the cool floor in front of the sinks, a spectator, sensing my surroundings and yet feeling strangely removed from them. I looked at my image in the mirror. I was not impressed. It seemed ironic that people who knew me would see thus face in the hall and identify it as Dan Miller.” You are Dan Miller,” I said. Sure enough, the face in the mirror moved. It always did. Yet somehow it seemed strange — saying Dan Miller” seemed strange. It was like saying a word over and over until it’s robbed of all meaning and remains only as a foreign-sounding garble of noise. The lights buzzed. “Oh, shit.” It came out quite clearly and well enunciated, though not very loud. Releasing that disgust, rebellion, and resignation felt good, even if I hadn’t said it in a packed hallway, crowded classroom, or murmuring library. But it sounded light-years romnupd from “Dan Miller”; from 3.5 GPA’s, Bible studies, 1 friends who respected my spiritual ma- I got dressed and started to walk out the door, but stopped and slammed my fist against the wall. My knuckles reddened, and they hurt, but it wasn’t good enough. I wanted to see blood on the smooth, cream-colored bricks. I slammed it again. This time it hurt more, but still no blood. Oh, you’re really dramatic!” 1 sneered at myself, “Now you’re supposed to keep slamming it until you get some blood.” My hand still stung as I drove down a deserted country road half an hour later. Throbbing music filled the car. I floored the gas pedal and watched the needle rise. The dark masses of trees on both sides of the road began to hurtle past. The faster 1 went, the more furiously the pain, frustra tion, and bitterness boiled inside me The shocks were bad, and at this speed, every bump or pot hole made me bounce and sway on the verge of losing control. Every muscle and nerve in my hands and forearms was like a taut cord, tensely vibrating. I’d seen photographs of car wrecks: masses of metal crumpled and twisted around a tree, grisly hunks of blackened meat that vaguely resembled human forms, charred flesh that split open like an over cooked hot dog. Yet, I also realized with a serer.e sense of detachment that all I had to do was let go of the wheel and my suffering would soon be over. I’d grown up in a good church. I had always been a (reasonably) good kid. Everyone expected me to go far. What had happened? I came to Bethel hot on the trail of success. Here was my chance for becoming a spiritual, intellectual, and emotional giant. My freshman year was characterized by academic and spiritual zeal. My battle cry in the crusade for self-improvement was, “1 can, I will, and I’m going to!” This crusade led me hundreds of miles from home that summer, to a door-to-door book selling job. It was the ultimate symbol of my transformation from awkward kid to mature man. When I came home — with my tail between my legs and a $190 debt around my neck — my confident battle cry had abruptly changed to a despairing, “I can’t. 1 won’t, and 1 never will.” This new world was unfair and unbearable. To defend my self. I accepted the whispered invitation to ignore this world and “slip into something more comfortable.” Time that hac previously been spent in necessities like study and sleep was spent in fantasizing and day dreaming. 1 did what I wanted, made up my own rules, and said “To hell with the consequences.” The consequences, however, were not listening. Neglected obligations and responsibilities began to crush me. Soon, my traditional “I don't care anyway,” sounded hollow even to me. I did care about my lack of integrity and diligence, but it seemed too late to do anything about it. My last support was kicked out from under me. Once more, everything I did and said came back to me. bearing a damning prophesy: “You can’t, you won’t and you never will.” All this came back to me in the car. like a hellish 8-track playing over and over, with devastating accusations and taunts burned into each track. 1 couldn’t turn it off. I was on the verge of desperately silencing it altogether when a clear, distinct thought came to me: “Now. Stop now or it will be too late.’’ Suddenly, like the breaking of a fever, 1 took my foot off the pedal and the whole world slowed down. When faced with the realities of life I could easily sink into the comforting arms of fantasy, but when I peered gingerly over the edge of the pit, my intentions of jumping disappeared. It was too permanent. It didn't seem nearly as attractive a solution once 1 got right up next to it. I had known hope once before. Maybe I could find a scrap of it again. I turned down the radio and headed home with a headache and a mouth like cotton. The long days of mounting hopelessness and self-hate had left me exhausted. The numbness hadn’t gone, and neither had the oppressive problems; yet, I at least had a weary, hesitant, “Perhaps.” Daniel Miller First place literary competition. Doug Barkey First place visual arts competition. v 1 I walked downstairs, past the P.O. boxes and through the door to the boiler room. Passing through another door, I wandered the large room until I came to a door with a sign that read “Clarion.” I don’t remember if it also said Welcome, come on in,” or “Enter at Your Own Risk. I knocked timidly on the door. A smiling and seemingly friendly journalist opened the door. 1 swallowed. “Hi. I’d like to write for the paper. I’m a freshman, but 1 had some experience in journalism in high school.. “Come on in. I’m sure we’ve got a story you can work on,” he said, still smiling. Since that fateful day, I have been writing for the Clarion almost every week. But instead of hiding out in the boiler room, I now play the role of an editor and work in the celestial heights” of the fourth floor, right next to the dean’s office. Some things remain the same. I still have to muster up some courage when 1 interview people like the dean or the president, and I still rack my brains on Sunday afternoon to put words on paper for an article due that evening. But my responsibilities have changed since I was a reporter. Now I am the editor that writers come to for help, when I can offer it. I am the one writing notes, stopping people in the hall, or calling them on the phone, pleading with them to write stories for the paper. Doug Bar key Being an editor, and not necessarily “the F.ditor,” is also frustrating. It means listening to excuses every week for why a story didn't work. “The lady never answered her phone,” or “I had two exams and a big paper to do, so I couldn’t find time to do the story,” or “But his secretary told me that the dean is out of town for two weeks!” I have had to crawl out of bed at midnight when the editor knocks on my door to ask where stories for the printer are. My hands get dirty from printer’s ink every Friday wlrile stuffing P.O. boxes for up to an hour. At our weekly production night meetings I listen to frustrating monologues among staff members. “Well, the copy won’t be back from the printer for another hour,” says one. “Can I leave now? We’ve done all our work,” says another at 9:30, when I know III be in the office for another three hours. “I can’t believe it! It’s 10:00 PM and we don’t have any pictures yet!” In spite of these frustrations, though, the work is always rewarding; there’s the finished product every Friday — a tangible result of our labors. I meet a variety of people: presidents, professors, and other writers. Becoming close to them and with other members of the staff is probably the best part of the job. These friendships will probably last even longer than the yellowing Clarions from my freshman year. Suzi Wells Nobody understands why I’m having a rough time; they just don’t see where I’m coming from. Or maybe I should say they don’t see where I’m going. They all know 1 come from a good Christian home.” I have good parents — my dad is an elder in the church and my mom is active in the ladies' group. We have gone to church together ever since I can remember. We have our family arguments and an unwritten “list of topics to be avoided at the dinner table, but we’re still pretty close-knit. 1 have been raised to believe that God is always there and sure, I can depend on him. But it’s not that easy. I get dragged down and out and have a hard time breathing again. A person can only hang on for so long before letting go. Around three years ago my dad and mom decided that they wanted to re-establish their own business. They had started it once before but had left it lay dormant when an extraordinary job opportunity came along that couldn’t be turned down. So they started down the road of reinstatement. We had people all over the world praying for us — we liad to be sure we were making the right decision. It would mean leaving the secure job that had seemed so right just a few short years ago to venture into something totally unpredictable. Whatever decision was made, it had to be the right one. “The doors keep opening and things are falling into place. Lord. We know this has to be because of your direction,” we said with every prayer. And I sat in the middle of all these decisions — feeling like my once secure world was ready to topple down on me. Doors did keep opening and we stepped out on a limb. Then snap, crackle, slam! The limb broke. The door slammed in our faces. And did it hurt. When the Lord closes a door, he usually stands behind it and won’t budge until He is ready to. So we waited. The family discussions got longer and longer until finally no one had any more to say. Not one of us could see a solution in sight.So we waited. Once again the doors started opening and we walked through only to find ourselves face to face with a stone brick wall. We prayed. I prayed. I prayed every time the word “business” was mentioned. I wrote notes to remind myself to keep sending God messages. If nothing else, 1 asked, just give us — me — strength. I was finding that those things I had learned all my life in Sunday School could have more meaning than just words written in a Sunday School teacher’s manual. Where are you God? We know you are listening, we kept repeating to ourselves. My dad was lost ar.d couldn't lead. My mom was following and couldn’t direct, ar.d my sister and I were tagging along. No other doors opened. “If we’re not supposed to have this business, what do we do? Nothing showed No money, no patience, no respect, but still holding out on faith. My life had changed. My security had been shaken, my world torn apart, I was growing, and the growing pains hurt. But I’m still here. Maybe there is an answer somewhere that we can't see. I could be totally blind and ignorant. I’m just barely hanging on; I'm only human. I know, I know, faith is believing that the only strength 1 have is from God and from living in accord with that belief. But I’m still staring at the ceiling. It has been a long time since this whole mess got started. God, it's hard! My family is hurting. My dad is aching; he’s never been so low. He doesn’t know how to help his family anymore, but he hangs on. I know it will end. Lord, we’re really lost and we’re fighting to keep on. I’ve been trying to put two and two together and get the proverbial four, but it just isn’t easy. 1 know there is an answer, but what’s taking you so long God? Joy Nannette Banta Pam Spree S«r There is no victory without defeat, no white without black, no good without bad. Each makes the other distinct. Worthy achievements do deserve recognition, but success without failure would not stand out as extraordinary. One task that vividly points out society’s discrimination against failure is that of compiling a job resume. It is humiliating to confine the most significant experiences of a life to one side of a white typing paper. “What're ya doing?” Typing up a resume. I’m applying for a job at a bank.” Hm . . . Little League mascot, perfect Sunday School attendance .. . You’re really putting down everything. Wait a minute. Assistant coach of your intra mural broom-ball team? What’s that got to do with banking?” “Shows leadership qualities.” “R.A. of the Edgren Pit? “Ability to cope with deprived and stressful conditions.” This obnoxious list of titles, awards, and achievements — real and imagined — is supposed to prove that one is qualified for a job. But where is there room for the times you tried your hardest, but didn’t quite make it, for the honest failures that lie silent between the contrived glories of a resume, for the everyday failures that have been more valuable than a few pronounced successes? A sample of typical failures gleaned from a four-year relay: In ceramics class 1 produce nothing more than a five-pound paperweight and a lopsided flower vase ... yet understand artists better afterwards. After running track all spring I sprain an ankle the day before Nationals and have to cheer from the stands, finally understanding what good sportsmanship and patience are all about. I apply to med school — eight of them — and wait for eight letters, each saying “No.” Friends are accepted, but their relieved happiness is clouded by my disappointment. I learn the value of friends. I drop out of school for two years, am mad at everybody, bum around the country. At the end of my rope, 1 realize that God is near. I come back to school knowing who I am and what 1 want. 1 transfer, switch majors, write special programs, petition via green, yellow, and blue petitions, talk my way in and out of classes, across divisions in the registration catalogue . . . but graduate, if in five years. Failures happen, ar.c in the process of exhuming — digging up — a buried and universal part of human existence, Bethel has encouraged me to attempt, to risk. My attempts didn't need to end exactly as they were planned, because 1 was pointed to a God Who accepts me in both success and failure. God is a Scavenger, a Specialist in redeeming failures. His friends — janitors, R.A.’s, students, teachers who recognized my unconditional value — have confidence not in success, but in One Who considers our helplessness 1 lis greatest asset. Holly Schrniess “If life is a bowl of cherries, why am I in the pits?” Like any normal college student. 1 have asked myself this question hundreds of times. College life, for me, has been a succession of bouts of depression, overwork, loneliness, fear, and — sometimes — temporary insanity. During my four years at this institution, I have often wondered what having fun” really meant. I never seemed to have luck with anything, especially housing. One year three of us had to share a dorm room. It was so crowded, we had to use our desk drawers for our clothes. There was a conspiracy against me in the dorm kitchen. Every time I went to cook there were no dishes — clean or otherwise. Once the stove burned out. Another time someone thoughtfully removed my cake from the oven before it was done. And nothing frustrated me more than sharing my food with a mysterious refrigerator bug. Added to the above list of inconveniences were raids, fire drills, clogged shower drains, late or missed busses,.cold rooms and overheated rooms. But there mere dorm parties, birthday parties with cake and ice cream, friends with expensive stereos, and the latest albums to go with it, busy phones, popcorn, peanut butter. TV shows, laughter.. . On the academic side, there was always too much homework over the weekend. All my tests and papers fell on the same day or week. And because of the heavy load. I had problems staying awake, even during exams. My faith in my once perfect memory declined rapidly as more than one person began calling me “Space Cadet.” Even then, I had a wavering premonition that someday I would graduate, older and wiser, with a B.A. And somehow, after receiving a good grade, all rny hard work seemed worth it. Alas, the simple pleasures of life eluded me and everything seemed like a major obstacle: an empty P.O., junk mail, no coffee at Doc’s corner. Finals and mid-terms always found me brooding about the purpose of my struggles. “All is vanity was my favorite phrase during those days of trial and decaffination. But despite all the advice I had received about procras tination, my best papers were the ones I wrote and typed the night before the due date. And then, I finally managed to learn how to tell the difference between a cash line and a charge line at the bookstore. Whenever the pressure became unbearable, it seemed logical to renounce my books. But God showed me that you can’t have a cherry blossom without a cherry pit. Thangi Chhangte Doug Barkey Ode to a Willow Walking across the snow covered lake, I crunched my feet in the crisp snow. With my chin pressed tightly against my chest, I watched my feet, not looking where I walked. I stopped and listened as the wind chased the snow over the lake, forming a considerable mound o: snow against the hill which stood just beyond the lake’s edge. On the other side of the mound I saw a familiar tree stump and began walk ing towards it. In recent days I had spent many hours upon that particular stump, wondering if I would ever be freed from suffering and sorrow. I sat down and with my hands held over my face, tried to pray. I had only closed my eyes for a few moments when I noticed the wind had stopped. I no longer felt snow blowing against my hands and face. Opening my eyes, I found myself alone, seemingly lost in a world of total darkness. I slowly stood up, but when 1 felt around for the stump, it was gone. My eyes began adjusting somewhat to the darkness. And in the distance I thought I could see something. I cautiously took my first step, reaching out with my toe to feel the ground ahead of me I walked for a long time, and soon I began to observe the object taking shape on the horizon. Tall and slender, it glowed, but that didn't seem likely in such a cold, dark world; yet, magically, it did seem to be casting light into the empty darkness. As 1 drew near, I stopped. I could finally tell what had attracted me from so far. It was a tree, perhaps an old oak tree, but so unlike any I had ever seen before. It was a mag nificent tree, beautiful with brightness, full of life. It reached into and scattered the darkness, spreading warmth all around it. Its branches glittered and sent bright light to the sky. Its trunk was sturdy and stood boldly, defying the black void. Although from a distance its radiant glow had suggested chilling cold, standing next to the tree I felt delightfully warm. The dampness had left and I was filled with warmth. On one side of the tree, carved into the trunk, I noticed an inscription. I looked closer. There were three words written in the side, almost as if they had been there for many years. Slowly, 1 read the words. I read them again. As 1 did, I felt something changing inside me. 1 felt strangely new, as if some mysterious force had been swept into my body. 1 wanted to touch the tree. But as I held out my hand toward it, 1 saw the branch of a tree where my hand had been. I quickly glanced down at my feet, and instead I saw the trunk of a tree. I looked at the tree beside me and without having to think, 1 knew what had happened. Somehow, I had become a tree. Much smaller than the other, I was not nearly as strong nor as perfect, but 1 was indeed a tree. 1 looked again at the words I had read. They said, “Tree of Life. I left the nursery yesterday. There were too many trees there, and our branches kept getting tangled together. Our roots were cluttered with litter, forcing many of us to rot away. Old Zeb, an ancient willow, had often told a story about a nursery of long ago that had been destroyed, overcome by those who didn’t care. When I left, 1 realized how fast our nursery had grown. Looking back at it from a distance, I saw that we had become quite numerous. 1 had never thought that we could have grown so much in so short a time. Always, above all the young trees, growing bigger and stronger, stood the Old Oak. His beauty still outshone the others. And yet, he seemed much more beautiful now, standing there above the younger trees, no longer all alone. He seemed brighter, stronger, bolder. After having been in the nursery so long, getting tangled and cluttered, it’s good to be away. And now. when the wind blows, I will bend with it, unafraid. And I will provide light to those wandering past, lost or alone like I was once. G. W. Smith To carve out rr.y life on this oak wood world gives me blistered hands and tirec wrists. So I pray for the callouses and pull out the splinters and hope that the rain won’t warp the wood. Simply touch me Father so that I’ll know I’m forgiven. Lead me to the places where Pil meet more of you. And in the hollow days when morning is mourning my earthly shell. Caress me — That I’ll know I’m not forgotten. Scott Barnard Second place literary competition. Cathy Yeo I felt called to Bethel. “God said . . . ‘Arise, go up to Bethel and dwell there . I still think I belong here. And yet. . . Some days — or weeks — I am on a seesaw. Monday I am a bore. I sleep through every class and mumble monosyllabic answers to How was your weekend?, the Bethel conversation starter. Tuesday isn't much better. I get my two classes over with as fast as 1 can and go back to Hagstrom on the 2 o’clock bus. I hog a seat to myself for as long as I can, then give it up, reluctantly, to a stranger I won’t talk to. Wednesday 1 am High-Per!!! Everything happensalong a parachutestring attachedonlytoann and she LIVES instead’o survives and ann knows beyond the shadow of a doubt (!!!) that she is unique and that it is ok to be different because “different” isn’t plastic and “plastic” is dead and why not LIVE as long as you’re still emitting brain waves? — besides, it’s lonely listening to the sound of your oym breathing against an iron shell you’ve built around yourself ... On Thursday I blow up. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, et cetera. 1 come apart. I’m no good in school anyhow, I tell my hysterical self, so why do I try, why am 1 here — paying all this money to be miserable — for something I don’t even care about?!? Except . .. well, ok. I care. Respectable grades make it all seem worthwhile . . . and I want a Christian Community where I can learn Christian values and Christian answers to all my non-Christian questions. Still, I don’t want to lose my identity, so to prove to me that “me” exists. I daydream through my last class, then pig-out on lots of fattening foods before taking a long walk to Como Lake where I watch old men in blue sweat suits and little old ladies in knee-length moo-moos toddle along the sidewalk dodging kids on 10-speed bikes. I watch the ducks make waves. I try to recapture Life’s Meaning. Friday: (1) Get up (2) Take the bus to school (3) Go to chapel (4) Go to class (5) Eat lunch (6) Fool around in the library instead of getting down to studying so I don’t have as much to do over the weekend (7) Go to class (8) Take the bus back to the dorm. . . Every friday I have my little routine. It’s a rut. It isn’t particularly Fun or even Satisfying. Mom always drops by after work to bring me home. Ah, the Bethel Dream: Going Home for The Weekend. Who said you can never really go home again? He was right. The first time I went “back” my cat snubbed me. It was quite a blow . . . And, oh yes! Mom missed me. But 1 feel like a stranger now, a house guest. So, what’s my Point, my Thesis? I am one of several hundred students at Bethel College God brought me here. God will keep me here — teaching me and giving me room to grow. I have gone up to Bethel and, for this year at least, here 1 will dwell. A. Taylor Third place literary competition. The Boy I am the boy — A pollywog in stages. A blade of grass I cannot pass Or return For 1 have picked it. I am the youth — With why? And still I do not know The reason Why I Must leave my pond. Mark Rentz ' H5 i -% L • .1 _jr � k Q ill spa 5 ;?! • , j (e ;x We see each other when we aren’t looking, talk about things unimportant because silence seems awkward. First meetings start chapters. We are labeled inseparable. Though still toying with those who will flirt with us, we feel deeply in a way that rules out others. I love you.” We live for — we think — forever. Winter is the spoiler of a pleasant fall; something changes. All I know for sure is that you are slipping away. I try to keep you to myself, but fail. I cry alone, remembering the times we could cry together. I am told about a “new person in my life.” You are with someone else when once you had been with me. I lie. I say I have “someone new” too. Insides are torn apart. “Everything will work out. Time and distance mend torn feelings.” But you are in my thoughts constantly; I can’t get away. Steve Hoswell Doug Barkcy The bus was stuffed with bodies to the ears, The world sped by, an unexamined movie; Some twos, some threes, but 1 the only one. Like unheard falling trees it made no sight. Some music played but no one stopped to listen; Inside the conversation came and went: Some rain came down but no one missed the sun. Mike Angelo and what to do tonight. And then we passed a row of burning bushes, Each one ablaze with nono.onsuming flame. Their shook-foil shining shed a light fantastic. I waited for a voice to speak my name. Half-tempted to remove my blasphemous shoes, 1 turned to see if others shared my plight. Untouched, they rattled on in blindness As we plunged into everlasting night. Dave Healy With strategy I entered and covered up my hear; to open might mean peril to share could cause deport frightened by her openness yet fragile in its reach ... by hiding we go nowhere by touching we meet. Bruce R. Johnson Brace R. Johnson Second place passages arts competition. Date Johnson OuVVi Adulthood. The prime of life. That’s when it all happens. That’s when things get done. That’s when life really moves. Does it ever. On the collegiate scale it’s the junior year, stage three in the four-part series. Juniors, unlike their second year brethren, have gotten it all together They’ve grown out of that awkward gangly stage. They can walk without stumbling and talk without their voices cracking. They've finally taken their minds off themselves and put them on their activities. Ah, those activities. The normal junior is immersed in business. If an epidemic hit the junior class the entire school would be liable to stop functioning. Nothing would be left but mere classes. Juniors put the extra in extra curricular activities. You can spot a junior by the warm path on the carpet after he has blazed down the hall. And if you sit still you might see the same one coming back by — if you don’t blink. And you’ll never catch juniors at home. They only go there to sleep, if they have time. To elaborate on the subject, 1 asked several juniors to explain how they kept up the pace. They didn’t have time to answer. Aren’t old folks the best? To think that we endow them with such labels as fogies, fossils, artifacts, corpses and senior citizens. We call them such things collectively. But doesn’t every kid love his grandparents? And aren’t they the ones who appreciate life the most? You bet they are. They’re through with the responsibilities of life. Nov they sit down and enjoy. That’s all. They just enjoy. A lot like kids, aren’t they? Sure, the good old “second childhood.” They treasure the simple things again. Of course, you know I’m describing seniors. Senior citizens, senior collegians, they’re the ones. They’re the people who have really been through it all. They’ve paid their time. They’ve earned the chance to take it a little easier. Right? By now they look back at it all and, seeing wlvat they’ve done, can enjoy life again. They value the small things. They laugh at life again. In fact, they laugh as much as discuss, enjoy as much as analyze, play as much as work. They’re a little scared, too. They’re not exactly sure what is coming next. But they can take life at face value again. They appre ciate God’s gifts again. In essence, seniors have a lot in common with freshmen, older folks with children. So we’ve come full circle. We’re on the good side again. And we can’t go back. We can’t convince the others that it’s true. They’ll have to go through it themselves, one way or another. They may not all go through it as fast, or in the same sequence, but hopefully they’ll get through it. At least that’s the way I see it. But then, perhaps this poem would be a fitting summary. I wonder oft of what life’s made And what to live we should know, Or how about it we should go. It’s such a hazy escapade. In poems there are many words Philosophizing’s for the birds. David Shelley I sank into the overstuffed chair at Doc's corner and put my mug of coffee to my lips. It was hot enough to warm my insides, but not hot enough to burn my tongue. As 1 crunched my cookies and sipped my coffee, I watched people come and go, pouring cups of coffee, hesitating over the cookie cans. Groups of people sat scattered around on the couches and chairs, quietly conversing. Beside a fountain of bright flowers, a girl sat with her legs tucked up under her, underlining in the book on her lap. The warm aroma of coffee and cookies filled the air, mingling pleasantly with muted voices and lamplight. Somehow a piece of home got transplanted to Bethel’s lower halls; security and a spirit of love are the warmest things there. Keren Allen Hig Bar key At last, to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side The rest of Life to see! Past Midnight! Past the Morning Star! Past Sunrise! Ah, What leagues there were Between our feet, and Day! Emily Dickinson