Missional Living in a Fraternity

No one told me before I got married that women love to put their frigid feet under a man's sleeping body. Each night, with uncanny precision, my wife slips her ice-capped feet under my calves, hoping I'm not stirred. Tonight the house loses, and the cold moves its way up my legs to my awakened and less than happy face.

Now that we're both alert, a new noise grips our attention. It sounds like a garden hose set to jet spray.

Outside a college boy sees his opportunity to relieve his straining bladder. "Hey, don't piss on the house-parents' apartment," yells a nervous voice in the night cold. Unfortunately, only a time-machine could remedy his folly. Or a lightning bolt from heaven.

The now-fully-awake Italian woman next to me gets up, eyes aflame with aggression, determined to intervene. I know that look. I saw it once when I compared her to my mother. I think a pillow was thrown. Or maybe a large book.

Living missionally in a college fraternity sounds wild and sexy, but now sounds like a malfunctioning sprinkler. What was I thinking? Or better, what was God thinking?

Desperate measures

I have often wondered what my life would be like if God answered like a genie all of my petitions and prayers. I certainly would not be here. But the story I hoped to create is not the narrative the ultimate Novelist has penned for my life.

My desire was to work in Resident Life at a Christian college. When my dreams were thwarted, I did what many have done: I worked hard and explored other options. I got a master's degree and did an internship. I worked in campus ministry, learned the vernacular of higher education, smiled at appropriate times, and taught classes for professors I had no business teaching.

In some desperation, I got a job that sent my family to a secular university focusing almost entirely on ministering to fraternities and sororities. Though we knew little of the Greek culture, having graduated from a Christian college, we were excited to learn and acculturate ourselves within the ministry.

Our new boss asked if we would consider becoming house-parents of a fraternity. I laughed. My wife cried. Then she laughed too. But we moved forward, and I sent him my resume, which he promptly informed me to change and delete some of its details. The word development replaced ministry and all my education post-college was erased, making my resume nearly Christ-less. After my revisions he forwarded my email to the fraternity president and set up an interview.

There is nothing quite like being interviewed by three college students for the purpose of becoming their employee. So I tried to be cool, dropped a few pop culture references, and shortened my syllables and slurred my grammar. Contextualization 101. My wife knew what I was doing. She's always seen through my attempts to impress.

Driving home I patiently awaited her negativity. Sometimes I call her Negative Nancy; she responds by calling me Naive Ned. Well played.