I Have a Friend ...Part 1 ...And He's not imaginary

I have a friend—a girl. I’m not sure if she’s imaginary or real, but when I shut my eyes I see her looking back at me.

I tell Jack, my roommate, about her and he wants me to see Father Tom. You see—that’s the problem with Catholic colleges—they think every little problem can be solved by a trip to the chaplain’s office.

Well, I’m not going to do that.

“You probably think she’s hot,” Jack drawls, staring out the dorm window. Jack’s from Tennessee and spends hours at that window checking out chicks passing by outside.

We live on the second floor of teh college residence. There are ten of us in our sector; not counting the don whose office is on the first floor—right beside the door, of course.

The don happens to be Father Tom McKillop, the chaplain.

I think it’s a conspiracy hatched by God to trap me into a vocation to the priesthood—but I’m not buying what he’s selling. I tell the Lord that all the time at night in the darkened chapel while the votive candles softly flutter.

“You’re free to do what you like, Stephen.”

Yep, that's how He talks to me—quiet-like and real. To me, it's natural—well maybe, natural-supernatural—whatever. It's how we roll.

“Oh yeah, sure," I answer, "no Hound of Heaven chasing me—no siree bob.”

“Do you want me to chase you?”

I hate it when he does that—as if I want him to chase me. It’s one of those rhetorical questions and he knows it. It’s kinda like the Bible—all riddles and enigmas and you can’t sort it out.

“I just want to have a life.”

“Go ahead—who’s stopping you?”

I roll my eyes and shift from knee to knee—those kneelers are padded but they’re mighty uncomfortable after half an hour.

“I want to go out on dates.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“No, not really. There’s this one girl—short dark hair, big eyes.”

“Oh, Pat Shaunessy—nice girl—good family.”

See what I mean? He knows darn well I’m not going to ask her out, so, of course, he’s good with that.

“Maybe I should consider Rita.”

He goes quiet. I figured he would.

Rita’s a blonde runaway from Boston—her daddy’s rich and her momma’s good looking—Ya, I know it’s lame, but true. Her daddy made a bundle in real estate. He’s a real controller—except when it comes to his daughter.

Rita’s a real wild child.

“Hey, Lord—you still there?”

Silence.

Okay, I hate this silent game.

It reminds me of that old Ingmar Bergman film "The Silence" where Bergman explores the absence of God and concludes life is meaningless.

I mean, I'm not about to do that—I know God's real. He's the only one I can really talk to and the only one who can make me cry.

He's putting me on the long finger now, but I've already spent too long waiting for him to reply.

I get up, rubbing my knees, grumbling under my breath.

"I had it , Lord—I'm done for tonight," I call out to the figure on the cross...

Crickets.

I wait. I can't be sure, but he seems to nod back.

I really do need to get a life.

To be continued…

© 2025, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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