First year of seminary was under my belt. Only two years to go. My buddy from North Dakota, Doyle, and I decided to stay in Dayton and work full time at our respective agencies. He was at the Dayton Free Clinic (I seem to recall) and I was at Eastway Community Mental Health, working the crisis lines and conducting psychiatric assessments. At 40 hours a week and at $5 an hour, two hundred bucks a week was money in the bank.

It was a brutally hot summer. Doyle and I were about the only two inhabitants in the four story residential apartment named Fouts Hall. We bought dart guns. Late nights we stalked each other in the dark, aiming for the forehead,  scaring the crap out of each other. Fouts Hall wasn’t haunted, but it would have been great to see ghosts of seminary students past pop up from the dark recesses of the basement every now and then. 

When it was too hot in the evening, we’d go to the one dollars movie theater in town that was air conditioned. We must have watched Ghost Busters fifty times that summer. Signory Weaver was oh, so hot. 

There was also a solitary video game machine in the basement of Fouts Hall that played Missile Command. We rigged it up so it didn’t cost us a quarter for each play. We got pretty good at it. Some dinners we’d go up to the roof through the escape hatch and grill hamburgers on a hibachi grill, drink beers, look up and stare at the stars, and talk about theology class. Being a fan of Karl Bart, Doyle called me a Bartian boob. In deference to Paul Tillich, I called him a Tillichian tit. A vertically crushed beer can flew nicely from the roof into the dumpster. Life was good. 

I did make a short break to return to upstate New York. I went to visit Cynthia, the former Casowasco nurse who had caught my eye. She invited me to camp out on her apartment floor in Cooperstown, where she was working her first job as a newly minted RN at the local hospital. 

My visit went better than expected. She worked during the day, but that left us with dinner and the evening to spend time together. The weather was great, the sunsets were romantic, and we made plans for her to visit me in the Fall in Dayton. Something was percolating deep inside; could it be God whispering to me? Life was looking up.

At some point during the summer of ’84, I answered a want ad for an assistant camp director at Camp Miami in Germantown, OH. It was right next to Miamisburg where I was to start my student pastorate. The job only took a few hours a week of my time and offered free room and board. Given my experience working at Casowasco, I landed the job and moved in prior to the start of the Fall term. 

I was juggling a lot. Forty hours at Eastway, soon to be cut to 20 when the semester started; Saturdays and Sundays at the Miamisburg United Methodist Church; evenings working at Camp Miami; plus a full load of five classes at United. There was no time for sleeping in. 

—

Laps in the pool this morning were saturated with memories of seminary, the people I met, the experiences I was privileged to attend, the mentors who kindly lent me a hand along the way. Selfishly, I enjoyed my own lane, pulling ten laps of crawl stroke, smoothing sifting sand for another five laps of breast stroke. 

I didn’t even take notice of the swimmers in other lanes. Nothing notable, swim, shower, repeat, just like every other Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. 

—

Fall term began and I inherited a Youth Fellowship group of about 50 kids. Yeah, back in the day, kids and youth went to church with their families. These formative experiences are lacking today when even large parishes struggle to get out a few kids for Youth Fellowship. 

I organized the kids to develop a leadership team that planned all events. We planned and carried out a short term mission trip, a canoe trip down the Great Miami River, visited the control tower of the Dayton International Airport (a church member was the FAA chief), and rock climbing and rappelling in South East Ohio. 

We partnered with Rick Stackpole’s youth group to hit the cliffs. The comedian Steven Write used to joke that he isn’t afraid of heights, he’s afraid of widths. I was just the opposite. I don’t do heights; never did, never will. Climbing was too much like work and the kids quickly petered out. They wanted the thrill of rappelling. 

Great. 

Off we hiked to the first cliff, about 30 feet high. It was a good teaching rock face. Our Christian guide and rope expert taught us how to hook up, lean over, and descend. Don’t look down. Keep your eyes up to watch the person above providing belay. Easy peasy. 

We graduated to the 65 foot cliff, then, for the finale, we hiked to the 130 cliff. The final 60 feet was cut out, so it was a free drop after about a 70 foot descent. I tried to act cool around the kids. To a person, they were gung ho. I was crapping my knickers.

Kids went over the ledge, exactly as instructed. We’d hear a hoot and holler as they free dropped the final height. My fellow seminary student and Casowasco alumni, Rick, was up, hooking onto the single line, and backing towards the edge. He looked confident. If he could do it, why couldn’t I? 

Rick went over the lip. The first few feed are the most difficult because the line is so short. It puts all your weight on your feet. With a yelp, Rick lost his footing and fell. Upside down. 130 feet above the ground. Frozen in place. I saw his head replace with his legs pointing straight up to the sky. I thought he’d died.

Nope, Rick was very much alive. The guide talked him how to right himself and begin his descent. Rick was able to get his shit together. Down he rappelled. Then the guide turned to me. It was my turn. How on earth was I supposed to follow that?

“How about I read to you a few Bible passages as you go over the edge?” He asked. Obviously, I wasn’t this guide’s first rodeo. “Yeah, whatever,” I replied, certain that my future involved the removal of my corpse from the bottom of the cliff. I was that scared. 

I backed up. My legs held. My eyes were locked on the guide, who read scripture from his pocket Bible. Jesus Saves, pop theology asserts. On that fall day, leaning backwards over the abyss, I discovered this to be true. I was saved from a fatal fall, embarrassment in front of my youth group, and from wetting myself with fear.

I swung on the rope, side to side, even finding a little bit of enjoyment. When I passed the undercut, I hung in the air, free of everything except the single line that held me suspended in the air. I stopped. Took in the scenery, then descended the final feet laughing out loud. 

No need to call the rescue squad or the undertaker. God is good.

—

A few weekends later, I found myself in the police station. My goal was to arrange for a mock DWI arrest for kids and parents. My role was to play the village idiot. The Miamisburg Police Department consisted of about 40 road patrol officers, five, or so, detectives, and assorted sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and a chief.

S.K. Wiley walked in and introduced himself, all five foot four, one hundred twenty pounds of him soaking wet. He looked bigger than his small stature because of the tactical vest he sported, his 40 caliber Glock on his hip, and shield on his chest. “You can call me ‘Steve’,” he said, “and I’ll call you Padre.” 

Gee. Thanks for asking. 

Over the two years I got to know Steve, I learned that what he lacked in size and strength, he more than made up for his deficit by his mouth. Loud. Stunning. Foul. Filthy. Steve walked and talked like he was the new sheriff in town. If the bad guy drew up short by Steve’s obnoxious, loud, sailor like tirades, it gave him the split second advantage of being able to slap the cuffs on them. 

“Padre, I’d be happy to arrest your ass in the church parking lot,” Steve said to me smiling. 

And so it came to be. 

That Sunday evening, I pulled in and parked next to Steve cruiser. His red and blue emergency lights were flashing. All fifty of my kids were gathered around, along with their parents, lots of snickering church members, and the curious from the neighborhood. Rev. Catronie stood in the front, with his arms crossed, smiling at what was about to come down. 

The cuff hurt. A lot. Steve bent me over and pushed me into the back seat of his cruiser, behind the plexiglass shield. My arms stretched behind my back. There was no position of comfort. We processed downtown in a parade of cars, ending at the city jail. Steve was laughing his ass off. 

We pulled into the Sally Port. Other officers ushered into the jail the crowd of youth and adults. They watched me get myself finger printed, a mug shot, and walked to the drunk tank. The place was packed with onlookers watching the local youth pastor getting arrested. Lots of oos and ahh were heard as they explored the confines, bars, locks, and drains. 

There in the drunk tank we talked about the dangers of driving while under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The cells stank of vomit and other bodily fluids. It probably surprised the cops in our midst when I led everyone in prayer. I prayed for those who faced addictions, who ran fowl of the law, for victims of addiction, those who were harmed. I prayed for the cops, for their safety, for their families. 

I suspect that prayer went a long way with the soon-to-be friends and officers of the Miamisburg Police Department. It sure impressed Steve. 

“How would you like to be our department chaplain,” the Captain asked me. “The chief said it would be okay. You can ride patrol with anyone any time, so long as you don’t get in the way.”

WOW. I could ride with cops. You know, like Adam 12. I would have to cut back on my hours at Eastway, but, yes, I could juggle it all. I was young, didn’t need much sleep, and the streets of Miamisburg were calling. 

“One thing, though,” the Captain continued. There is always one more thing. “Whenever you ride with one of my officers, you have to wear a clerical collar. The public needs to know who they are dealing with. You’re not a cop. You’re our chaplain.” 

Sign me up, baby! The rest is history.