“You’ve been quiet,” she says, steaming milk at the machine next to mine. “Overwhelmed?”
I shrug. “I guess. Just trying to keep a low profile.”
Chelsea laughs until her smoker’s cough takes over, forcing her to turn away from her task, get her act together, and wash her hands before returning to help me. “At least you’ve still got your humor.”
I can’t help but grin. “I’m a barrel of laughs.”
Her face turns serious for a moment. “What else can you do? Honestly. It kind of is what it is, right? I watched you on TV, though, and you were good. Real good. Just keep laughing, girl. That way you get the last one.”
The last laugh.
“The last laugh?” I vocalize.
Chelsea retrieves six lids, handing me three, and we set the order on the counter.
“Order up!” she shouts, nearly silencing the cafe. “Yes,” she continues, turning to me. “You’re gonna shake shit up, up there on The Hill.”
I shake my head, looking down for a moment. “That’s … that’s not my intention, Chels. Not anymore, anyway.”
Not now that I’m under the thick and sweaty thumb of the Dean of Students.
Maybe when I arrived on campus a couple of months ago, I thought, somewhere in my mind, that I could pull a Michelle Pfeiffer from a warped version of Dangerous Minds and change some kids around for the better. My version of better. But, as I’ve gotten to know them, and have come to un-know myself … that’s all changed. There are bigger players in the game, here. My mom seems like she was on the right track in asking what happens to the nice kids around me that turns them from Jesus-loving missionaries to human-rights-oppressing lobbyists. Huge generalizations on both sides, I realize, but for the sake of argument she’s got a point.
Sure, I want to know more about their relationships with their parents, because those relationships undoubtedly shaped their early church experiences. But, what about guys like Dean Hershel and Roland? What happens when kids are exposed to those types of men of God? Polar opposites but claiming to preach the same Gospel.
“Hey,” Chelsea snaps her fingers in my face, “Earth to Kennedy.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, returning to the counter to take the next order.
Earth.
I need to remind myself to keep my feet on the ground while I’m digging. Trying to figure out where everything seemingly goes haywire. Why do some disciples of Jesus fight and die for women’s rights in healthcare, while others seem to dismantle those rights law by law.
Who’s right? And, if someone is right, is that why the other side seems so crazy? What if guys like Dean Baker are right? Would I pick up my cross for that Jesus? Millions of Christians do every day. Is that the kind of Jesus I want to follow? Moreover, what if Roland is right? What of my friends, then, if they find out they’ve been doing Satan’s work by oppressing more people they come in contact with than helping them? Who have they been listening to?
Guys like Dean Baker, that’s who. And, while I have no delusions that I’ll be able to topple a patriarchy as deeply cemented in the earth and culture as this, maybe I can find out where their power comes from—and find a stronger source. One where Roland’s voice can be heard. Clearly, without question of his biblical integrity.
I need to help Roland’s voice—his mission—be heard. All while keeping a low profile in front of Dean Baker. But, I realize, as I mindlessly fill three cups of tea, I’ll need to know the ins and outs of Roland’s mission—his theology—before I suit up and fight for it. Die for it, really, since that’s what will happen to my CU career if Dean Baker and his cronies catch wind of any actions that are outside of CU’s prescribed discipleship.
“Hey Asher?” I call down the back hall.
His head pops out of this office. “What’s up?”
“Can I take my break now?” I’ve got twenty minutes until my scheduled break, but I feel like my head is going to explode. Turns out the normalcy in my setting hasn’t permeated to my brain.
His steely eyes study me closely. With a tight nod, he grants me permission before returning to his office. Thankful, I toss my apron on the back counter and weave through the crowded, mismatched tables of the cafe until I’m outside, enjoying the late-November air. Not as biting as it is back home, I’m sure, which I’m thankful for as I collapse into a seat at a corner bistro table in front of Word.
Biting my lip, I sigh a long, careful sigh. My knee-jerk reaction was to bring Hershel Baker to his knees by digging for, and then slinging, dirt. Unfortunately, I’ve spent too much time on The Hill to consider that a viable option.