“Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed “I do believe, help
me overcome my unbelief!”
Mark 9:24
New Men’s Dorm-Summer Semester 1967. Granger
Christian College sat on the banks of the Pecos River about a hundred and
thirty miles east of El Paso. Being a church school, it was private and cost
money to attend. Churches all over the southwest supported the school of five
thousand with generous donations for hardship scholarships so that the poor
could attend and get a Christian education. The scholarships were limited and
the student had to supplement it by working part time, but the program helped
applicants with stressed finances.
The college was
the cultural center of Sparta, Texas. Sparta was a town of about fifteen
thousand. It was a place where travelers zipped through on the way between
Odessa and El Paso. The main drag was the town square where all of the shops
and businesses surrounded the courthouse. The Cactus Theatre showed first run
movies about a year after the rest of the country had seen them. The Pecos Malt
Shop and Taco stand was a major hangout across from the courthouse. The summers
were as hot as the desert that surrounded the town. The winters could be
bitterly cruel. Sparta was the perfect place to harvest young Christians and
keep them away from big city pleasures and temptations.
Although it was a
“preacher’s school”, Granger offered degrees in English, History, Physical
Education, and of course, Bible. Students were required to take at least six
hours of Bible no matter what their major was.
Bible, Geology and
History weren’t on Paul Morgan’s mind as he sat in his dorm room on the third
floor. He feverishly poured over the figures one more time.
“I can’t make it
add up,” he said to himself.
A rock station in
El Paso was part music; part static as it played on the small, red Emerson that
sat on the open windowsill. From his window, Paul could see the water tank in
Sparta. The pale green structure looked like an ominous moon hanging over the
townscape. Night crickets serenaded him as he scratched the numbers on his pad.
Paul was stumped.
He chewed on his eraser. No matter how he added it, he was still going to be
short of funds for the fall semester. Taking twelve hours during the summer had
gotten him closer to a degree in American History. It looked like he was going
to have to step out a year and work. That was no problem. The big problem was
the draft. If he dropped out, he would lose his student deferment and Viet Nam
was open for business.
The radio crackled
with the far off voices of the Beatles singing “Eleanor Rigby”. How did he end
up in this podunk town and college prison with no money? Of course he had come
from a podunk town. And yes, this college was a prison. It had curfews and
dress codes and plenty of “Amens” were
heard on campus. Paul had wanted to go to film school with his friend, George
Tobin. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the money. In high school, he and George
made some eight-millimeter films. They were mostly comedies and World War II
epics of ten minutes or less. George had an editing room in his garage and the
only disability they had was no sound.
“Some day they
will make home movie cameras with good mics and we can actually write scripts
with dialogue,” George had promised.
“Good,” said Paul.
“I’m tired of printing out the title cards.”
“That’s because
you have very good handwriting.” Paul
gave his friend a sidelong glance. Doing the title cards was an arduous
process.
“Your handwriting
isn’t so bad,” said Paul.
“Yes, but I’m busy
editing.” Paul had to admit George was a whiz with the camera and all of the
equipment. Paul was the idea man. He came up with the stories and George
directed them.
It was Paul’s idea
to try their hand at documentary film making by doing a movie on the inner
workings of city hall in their town of Half Moon Bay, Louisiana. They got
special permission by the city manager and spent a week in the two story
pre-Civil War courthouse that dominated the town skyline. Paul interviewed the
workers about their various jobs and functions. As Mr. Briggman, the registrar
of voters explained the election process, George interspersed pictures from
their history books of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the
Boston Tea Party and other seminal events. This kept the dry recitation from
putting the average viewer to sleep. When the Mayor saw the film, he suggested
that every civics class in the high school watch it.
Paul’s family was
dirt poor. George was from a middle class home and spent all of his allowance
on the used moviola, film and lights. Together, they learned the art of
cinematography and editing. As producer/director, George persuaded classmates
and relatives to take roles in their films. Paul had a talent for writing sight
gags that kept down the title card production. During their senior year,
George’s rich uncle gave him a sixteen-millimeter camera. It also had an
interior microphone. They planned to shoot a serious documentary about
pollution on the bayou. It would be a forty five-minute masterpiece with sound.
Paul wanted to shoot some scenes in black and white for the history part of the
bayou, and intercut it with color for the scenes of the present day.
“When we interview
the saw mill foreman, hold the camera at a slant,” Paul told George. His friend
shook his head.
“That’ll be distracting.”
“No, it’ll be
great. We know they’re dumping bad stuff into the river. Let the foreman tell
his side. We won’t censor him, but the crooked camera angle will be a subtle
reveal that he’s lying,” George smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, I get
it. It’s not conventional, but it might
work.”
The project was
killed when the boys were not allowed to film at the sawmill. Before Paul and
George knew it, the summer after their senior year arrived. George was planning
to go to UCLA and enroll in film school. Paul’s options were limited. There was
a junior college twenty miles away, but the tuition was still a lot for Paul’s
family to afford. LSU and the other state schools weren’t much better.
He heard of
Granger Christian College through a classmate who starred in their western,
“Boots for a Dead Man”.
“It’s dirt cheap
if you can get a hardship scholarship,” he told Paul. “Books are half price,
the dorm and meals cost next to nothing, but you won’t do much film there.”
“What degrees do
they offer?” Paul asked.
His friend
laughed. “Mostly Bible. My cousin goes there and loves it. He says it’s just
like the Marines. You get demerits if your hair is too long. And no facial hair
is allowed. Daily chapel attendance is required and if you’re out past curfew
or caught kissing a girl on campus, they lay the heavy timber on you.” Paul
wasn’t sure what “the heavy timber” was, but he sent off for a brochure of the
school. He found that it offered a degree in history. His three-point grade
average helped to qualify him for the hardship scholarship. Paul sent his
application to Granger in February of his senior year. After a series of forms
concerning family income and work applications at various Sparta businesses,
Paul was accepted.
Now, as he sat in
his dorm room, he realized he couldn’t afford it, even with the hardship
clause. Paul stubbed out his cigarette and turned the fan on. Smoking was
against the rules, and his roommate would be in soon. Not that Allan would turn
him in. Allan was a Bible-banger and had spent the last two and a half years
trying to save Paul’s soul.
“It’s not that I
don’t believe, Allan…” Paul had told him.
“…I just don’t believe in what you believe in.”
Allan was not
pushy, but he had continually spoken to Paul about accepting Jesus as his
savior.
“I know you
believe in a higher power, Paul. Can’t you see that Christ died for you? He’s
inside you. He’s in your heart, I know it.”
In the early
years, these religious discussions were spirited arguments. Paul respected
Allan’s convictions. He just didn’t feel God worked the way the Granger
students advocated. As Allan and he grew comfortable with each other, a deep
friendship was forged. Allan never gave up trying to save his soul and Paul
refused to compromise his agnostic beliefs.
As Paul lingered
over his financial figures, his eye caught the reflection of his portable
typewriter in the mirror. There was a piece of paper stuck in it. He turned
around and reached for the paper, pulling it out. Paul smiled at the four words
typed on the page. KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU.
“You never give
up, do you pal?”
During Christmas
vacation and breaks, they wrote each other. Allan always closed his letters
with the salutation of those four words, “Keep Christ Near You”. It was not
unusual for Paul to find the familiar note in his shoes, desk drawer or Western
Civ book. Once, when he walked out to his car that needed washing, Allan had
written KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU on the dirty trunk. Someone had seen it and added
an AMEN to it.
He went back to
his figures. He could get a second job, but juggling two jobs and a semi-full
academic schedule was almost impossible. And the greasy spoon where he flipped
burgers would get busy once the fall semester started. He really needed to
concentrate on getting his degree. Then there was his mother. She had been in
and out of the hospital the past six months. He was sending money back to
Louisiana because his deceased father’s insurance wasn’t enough to pay the
bills.
He could hear
voices in the hallway outside. The third floor devotional was finished and
Allan would be in soon. Paul stuck a couple of sticks of Dentyne into his
mouth. The smoke from his Marlboro had almost dissipated. “Light My Fire” was
screaming in a small voice from Jim Morrison at the Big KWAC in El Paso.
The door flew open
and the voices in the hallway were louder.
“Goodnight
gentlemen and I use that term loosely.” Allan James stuck his face in the door
and clopped across the room in his sandals. “Since you weren’t at the
devotional, I figured you were in here solving the world’s problems. How’s that
cure for cancer coming?”
“Almost got it,”
said Paul.
Allan flopped on
his bed, letting his heavy legs hang over the edge. He ran his fingers through
his blond, reddish hair. “You missed a good devotional.”
“Do you ever have
a bad devotional?”
“We read Jesus’
Sermon on the Mount and prayed for the boys in Vietnam.”
“Very patriotic of
you, Bigfoot,” Paul said affectionately.
Allan sniffed the
air. “You’ve been smoking.”
“Have not.”
“Have too. You’re
going to hell in a hand basket.”
Paul smiled. “At least when I go to hell, I’ll
be millions of miles away from your nagging.”
“True, but it
won’t be as fun as heaven.”
Physically, the
thin, six foot tall Paul towered over Allan who was five foot six in his cowboy
boots and carried a hundred and ninety pounds on his ample frame. His pale,
doughy face was a contrast to Paul’s ruddy, handsome features. Walking across
campus, the two made an amusing sight, cutting the figures of physical
opposites. Now, Paul sat at his desk, mulling the fatal money figures.
“Hey Bigfoot,
we’ve got to talk.”
Allan did not miss the serious expression on
his roommate’s tired face. “Let’s hear it.”
“I won’t be coming
back for the fall semester.”
Allan felt a
chill. “What’s the problem? My snoring getting too loud?”
“Well…yes, that too. But if it were just the
snoring, I could fight it out. Unfortunately, it’s the usual problem.
Money.”
Allan gave an inward sigh. “Oh man.” He knew that
Paul worked like a slave to stay in school. Ever since their freshmen year,
Paul had worked at one job or another. Allan had prayed on the matter and
loaned Paul money when he could. Of course Paul had too much pride and always
paid him back in unique ways. While Allan left KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU notes in
Paul’s books and cigarettes, Allan found money in his shaving kit, Bible and
golf bag. “You realize if you drop out, you’ll end up in Vietnam.”
Paul gave a rueful smile. “At least I’ll know you’ll
be praying for me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be drafted and sent to Paris.”
“Yeah, maybe,”
Allan said dejectedly. “Maybe my church could help. They’re supporting me.”
“You’re going into
the mission field, Bigfoot. Your church doesn’t need a history teacher.”
They were silent,
thinking over the problem.
Paul stood up and stretched. “Well, I’m paid
up through August. Maybe something will come up.” Allan nodded slowly. Paul
Morgan had had a tough go at it. Despite the curve balls life had thrown at
him, Paul remained optimistic and resilient. Allan admired that. On their first
night in the dorm, he found out a lot about his new roommate.
Paul lost his
father to a drunk driver when he was only three. He and his mother lived on a
bayou on the Texas-Louisiana border. Most of what they ate was the fish they
caught in the bayou and the vegetables in their garden.
As their
friendship grew, Allan spent many a weekend at Paul’s house. It was a two-room
shack with a tin roof and no air conditioning. His mother was a thin,
undernourished looking woman who constantly coughed while holding an
ever-present cigarette in her hand. She earned money sewing for the people of
Half Moon Bay. Most of the time, Paul didn’t have money for the cola machine.
And now, it had run out. What more could he do?
One of the guys
from down the hall stuck his head in the door. “Hey Morgan. Phone call for
you.”
“Thanks,” said
Paul. He looked over at Allan who was studying a loose lace on his sandal.
“That could be Mr. Huggins. He said he might have a night job for me at the
warehouse. It might be just enough for another semester if I take half a course
load.”
“Don’t overextend
yourself buddy.”
“Never,” said Paul
as he hurried down the hallway.
With his roommate
gone, Allan got up and scribbled, KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU on a piece of typing
paper. He folded it up and went to the closet. He put the paper in the pocket
of Paul’s jacket. On the radio, the DJ chortled, “You can win up to ten bucks a
week when you listen to the Big KWAC! That’s right! Whenever you hear Gary
Lewis and the Playboys back to back, give us a call and you could be a winner!”
A winner thought
Allan. Paul needed a winner. Allan turned off the radio and bowed his head. He
prayed aloud. “Dear Father, please help Paul stay in school. He’s had such a
hard time and he’s trying, he’s really trying.” The rest of the prayer was
silent. He didn’t hear Paul come back into the room and reach for his suitcase
under the bed.
“I’ve got to
go.”
Allan looked up.
“What?”
“I said, I’ve got
to go.” Paul went into the closet and started pulling out clothes.
“What’s going on?”
Paul’s face was pale. “My mother died.”
