What About the Beer?
Between junior and senior years of high school, I went on a mission trip with the church youth group. We traveled to churches in the northeastern part of the United States and up into Canada – a spectacular experience that I loved so much, I sent my own children on mission trips years later.
At church, I felt “part of” the group. Unlike school, where everyone cliqued and clacked together, the church group was a mix of jocks, geeks and wallflowers. We all fit in and we had a great time together, prepping for the trip and playing games together.
Our youth director/phenom, Renny, gave me actual comfort when I wanted to know: “But how do you know there’s a God?” Renny said, “I just believe, and that’s how I know.” It took me decades to understand my own concept of faith, and that’s where my journey started.
The youth group tirelessly rehearsed, and then performed, a musical show for a variety of congregations. We sang an upbeat version of “Seek Ye First The Kingdom of God,” which actually made me feel like God was with me as I sang.
As was the case with many of my high school experiences, though, the mission trip memories that return to me mostly revolve around alcohol. I didn’t drink on the trip except during the three days we spent in Canada, where legally we were allowed to consume alcohol. This means that the other 17 days were blissfully alcohol-free. We sang in churches, fixed a roof, traveled on a bus and ate at Ponderosa buffets.
One night in Canada, though, a bunch of us went out for pizza. Someone bought a couple of pitchers of beer for the table – all high school kids. We passed around the pitchers and filled our mugs. After one beer, I was still shy enough that I didn’t want to ask for a refill, even though the pitchers were sitting partially full. I couldn’t reach them without making a scene and this group wasn’t about getting drunk. They just happened to drink beer with their pizza. (This concept never made sense to me; food always got in the way of my alcohol consumption.)
When it came time to leave and the group started walking out, I was astounded. Two pitchers still contained beer! What was wrong with these people? I looked at those pitchers like I was leaving a stray puppy on the table.
As everyone else walked toward the doors, I asked meekly, “What about the beer?”
A boy said, “Go ahead and drink it if you want.”
Finally! Permission to do what I wanted! I grabbed the nearest pitcher and drank from its side, guzzling the rest of the warm beer without another thought. Then I drank the beer from the other one, too.
A couple of kids laughed; they didn’t understand my need.
Over the next two days, I befriended Johanna, the coolest kid on any block. We found a store that sold beer until 3 a.m., then stayed up all night drinking, waiting for the 6 a.m. store opening to buy more – and guzzle it before the other kids woke. We played free music on the jukebox in the basement of our host church – Greeks Don’t Want No Freaks on forever repeat – and talked and laughed and thought life had never been better. I thought I had a new best friend.
After that trip, I never saw Johanna again. But I still remember that Canadian beer.