Natalie Weiss

As previously published on October 12, 2020 on LAUNCH without fear.

Last night I was on the phone with a relative. She asked me about the novel I am writing. I don’t know why, but I didn’t really talk about the novel I am currently writing. I talked about my last attempt.

I mean, the novel I am currently writing was born out of that last attempt. I wouldn’t have the current one without the last one. But they are still different. I don’t know why I couldn’t talk about the current one.

This happens more often than I care to admit. And most times, I chalk it up to this: I just haven’t really narrowed the current novel down to what it is about. I need to sit down and write a blurb about the essence of what it is. Sometimes, I also beat myself up for it, because I think this: the plot must just be all over the place. The novel must suck if I can’t package it into a few neat, succinct sentences.

But I think I am still looking for the essence.

But I think I also don’t know how to talk about what it is about. It’s a fictional story. But it also isn’t.

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My youth group still exists during my junior year of high school. We are bouncing from house to house though.

I have a friend at school who believes differently than I do. Not, like, complete opposite to my beliefs. But we have debates at lunch about things like abortion, and after debates like this, I go home, sit in my room, and pray for her. That she’ll see that she’s in the wrong. I pray for myself. That I’ll find the right words to say to her to help her see that she’s in the wrong. I think this is perfectly fine.

Eventually, something happens like this: I hear from another friend that this girl did something over the summer that I don’t agree with. And I care about this girl a lot. And I also care about my opportunity to witness to her, to help her right her path. I invite her to youth group. But I have an ulterior motive. I don’t want to bring up this thing when other people might interrupt. It should be private anyways. So as I pull into her driveway after youth group is over, I start talking. I tell her about what I know. And I try to convince her that she’s in the wrong.

I can still see this conversation. I still remember how night had fallen, how the garage lights illuminated our faces. I still remember the hurt and confusion on her face. I still remember the crack forming in my world, tiny on that night, unbeknownst to me yet just how deep and wide of an abyss I had opened.

Over the next few weeks, months, years, I start falling into that abyss. I failed miserably in my attempt to witness to that girl. And while part of me wants to blame her and believe that Satan just has a stronghold on her heart, a larger part of me knows the truth. This is how I had been taught to witness. Maybe not directly. But any material I had consumed that showed one person witnessing to another tended to follow this pattern: call the person out on their sin, get them to be contrite, and then tell them how Jesus died for their sin and can save them. It’s a foolproof plan, right? What can go wrong?

The girl and I pretty much stop talking. She’s (rightfully) upset at how I went about things.

I am sixteen years old. I still have a lot to learn. Especially about people. Especially about myself. But this is my main takeaway: I don’t want to make someone feel like that ever again. People are much more complex than I ever thought. And the world may not be as black and white as I had been taught.

This event happens to coincide with wonderings about college. Where will I apply? Where will I go? What major will I apply to?

Up until this moment, I thought I had it all figured out. I was going to go to Bethel College for youth ministry. Done. Easy.

But my dad went to Purdue University. I had been a huge Purdue fan for as long as I could remember. So my heart is torn. I think maybe I can go to Purdue for their religious studies program. Then I can go to Bethel for ministry if I need to.

But I’m also not so sure about ministry anymore. I feel abandoned by my youth pastors. I feel like a complete idiot and jerk for how I called out my friend, how I lost her friendship completely. I don’t want to be that jerk for the rest of my life. But I still want to make a difference. I don’t know.

I really don’t know.

In the end, I do give up on ministry. It’s because of what happened with my friend. It’s because I am a woman and I may not be accepted as a minister in many churches. It’s because I am still struggling with my identity, even though I don’t think about it most days anymore. I’ve done a good job of catching feelings for girls, and thinking about them, but turning those thoughts and feelings into prayers to God. Praying about it makes me feel better. I am convinced that these girls I am catching feelings for must need to be prayed for. That must be the reason I feel this odd connection to them. It’s not anything more. I can live with that.

I apply to Purdue and only Purdue for English education. I get accepted. I switch my major to atmospheric science before I even attend classes. It’s for a few reasons. Salary. Distrust of the public education system. Going to an engineering and science heavy school like Purdue.

I don’t like atmospheric science. I am still a faith-based person. My first science class harps heavily on evolution. I start to think that I made a mistake in not pursuing ministry. I think about transferring to Moody Bible Institute in Chicago.

This is also my first significant time away from home and away from my family. I don’t like that either. But I have friends at Purdue, and eventually I feel more comfortable there. I have a good roommate. I have Supernatural parties with my friend in the residence hall over. I am at least content in my social life, even if I do get homesick from time to time.

Freshman year passes, and if I could go back, I’d tell myself to get involved in more things. Go to more than just the first Quidditch meeting. Don’t stop going to the Running Club. Find something to get involved in that is just a hobby. Do intramural sports. Just do stuff! And goshdangit. Yes grades are important, but they don’t have to be everything.

But they are everything. Good grades = proud parents.

I also don’t drink. I don’t smoke. Not even hookah. I don’t even think about it. It’s an automatic no whenever it comes up. I am a good kid. I will always be a good kid.

Because I know. I may be denying it still, but I know deep down what’s going on. I am attracted to women, and I am not allowed to be. So for me, instead of jumping off the deep end and doing everything in sight that would disappoint my parents, I cling desperately to the edges, convinced that as long as I am a good kid in every other area of my life, maybe I won’t end up my parents’ biggest disappointment.

But clinging to the edges is a difficult way to live. Sophomore year comes, and my Supernatural friend moves into an apartment across campus. She starts drinking. My roommate is not around as much. And I changed my major again. Athletic training this time. It’s pretty cool because I get to go into the training room and most of the athletic facilities on campus. But I’m not a medical person. And now I am lonely. I drop out of Purdue at the end of the fall semester.

This isn’t how life was supposed to look. I wasn’t supposed to change my major so many times. I wasn’t supposed to drop out of Purdue. I was supposed to go to college, stick to a major that I was passionate about, and graduate in four years. That’s what I’d been taught to do. That’s what the acceptable path was. And now I’d blown it.

But my sister had followed a similar trajectory, and now she was at Bethel for nursing. She seemed to be doing ok. I could be ok too.

I could be ok too.