Hey, Guidesters! It’s been forever since I posted a story I wrote recently . . . but here’s one now. Written in just 1 week (a record for me) for a youth day at my church back in November, this story is a modern take, loosely based on a Bible book/situation. Challenge: guess which Bible story it’s based on! The title’s a huge hint . . .
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It’s hard to believe that just last week we were watching roaches scuttle over mildewed sleeping bags in the ruins we called home. The nightly explosions were our lullabies–we went to sleep with only empty stomachs and tattered prayers. And today, waking up in a king-sized bed softer than cotton candy, a rich buffet waiting in the lounge, it was dreamlike. Or miraculous.
We’re on the hazy line between foreigners and friends. One misstep and we could plunge from our all-expenses-paid humanitarian scholarship to living in a shelter, a refugee dependent on governmental goodwill. I shiver though the sun is beaming on the botanical garden I’m strolling through. These grounds are different somehow. When I was trembling in an alley, gunfire blasting two buildings away, too terrified to breathe, that’s when I felt God’s presence closer than a mother’s hug. But here, amidst the posh dorms and gleaming lecture halls, there’s a creeping isolation. Is God still with us?
We file into the huge auditorium, students’ laughter echoing through the darkened rows. I sink into the marshmallow-soft padded seat.
“I feel like royalty,” my cousin Natacha whispers, a smile flitting across her face. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen her this content. I smile back, but the unease lingers. The lights dim as the dean glides onto the stage. He’s clean-shaven, dressed in a sleek blue-hued suit, flashing a toothy grin. A shark. The unease deepens into a gnawing in my stomach. His words are smooth as golden oil, but there’s a sharp undercurrent—sandpapery like a shark’s skin.
“It has come to my attention,” he says, “that our honoured new students display emblems of their faith openly.”
It suddenly feels like my scripture shirt is glowing neon in the darkness, like every eye is staring at me. I squirm.
“However, to preserve the liberty and neutrality of our lovely campus, our university has a policy that religious displays and emblems must be kept private.” His beady eyes seem to settle right on me. I don’t hear the rest of his speech. My mind is trapped by those words.
“Can you believe that?” Natacha hisses. “No purity rings or Bibles or scripture shirts?” We’re spilling into the cool dusk of the outdoors, more subdued than when we entered. My cross pendant hangs heavy around my neck. “It’s so wrong!”
“It’s sketchy, but what can we do?” our friend Francis shrugs, matching my pace across the flagstones.
“What do you mean?” She huffs.
“We can’t change the rules. We’ll just have to live with them; work around them. After all, we don’t need these physical things to serve God. God is beyond all these temporary symbols.”
His words echo in my mind later, as I stand in my dorm, gazing at the pendant. Etched into the wood is the phrase ‘holiness to God’. He has a point. And still . . .
I flip my Bible open, the pages fluttering to Deuteronomy 6. “And these words which I command you today shall be in your heart . . . and you shall bind them on your hand as a sign; they shall be as frontlets between your eyes.”
I squeeze my fist until the cross pinches into my skin. It is wrong. The whole premise of the rule is to push God to the side—remove reminders of Him from our lives. I can’t stand for this. I won’t.
“God, show me what to do,” I breathe. For the first time in days, I feel a tiny flicker of confirmation. It’s enough.
I’m not surprised when the dorm monitor raps on my door two weeks later, lines pinching his face. “Here to escort you to the dean’s office.”
My heart sinks. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.
We walk in silence. I try to breathe past the boulder-sized lump of fear in my throat. What does this mean? A warning? Punishment? Expulsion? Did I make the right choice?
“I don’t understand, Dante. Didn’t I warn you about this?” The monitor’s face crinkles in bewilderment. He’s turned a blind eye to my Bible studies in the quad with fellow students more than once, but now the higher-ups must have noticed.
“God’s rules are above the dean’s decree,” I say with more confidence than I feel. Again, I’m second-guessing myself. “I can’t let anything get between me and my Lord.”
We step into the air-conditioned faculty building. The monitor flashes his card, and elevator doors glide open.
“Even to the point of getting into serious trouble with the administration?” He turns to me in the confined silver box, eyes dropping to the cross around my neck.
I swallow. “Yes.”
He leans against the railing, eyes wide, head shaking. “Who is your God?”
So I tell him. All through the elevator ride and the long walk to the dean’s office, he listens intently, almost desperately. As I speak, the boulder clogging my throat dissolves. We arrive in the waiting room before I know it.
“Good luck,” my dorm monitor says, reluctantly backing away. “Tell me more sometime?” he says, almost questioningly. I nod, blown away. Maybe God is working through this situation. The waiting room is cramped and dim, the blinds shuttered against the sun, the seats not half as comfortable as the auditorium benches.
“Dante Lafleur,” the dean’s secretary calls. I stand, the cross bumping against my chest, peace swirling around me. Whatever happens, I know whose side I’m on.
2 thoughts on “The Dean’s Decree”
Ooooo I love this!! It makes me think of Daniel’s three friends and the golden statue.
Thanks, thecatlover! Yo, that’s correct! Great guess.