Okay, so I was a little different. Let’s just say that I’m the kind of person who sometimes refers to the NRA derisively, who has vegan sensibilities. One day in class, the professor—a large, funny guy with a voice that belonged in Volkswagen commercials—said something about the war in Iraq, and after we’d dismissed, I went up to him and said I’d like to talk more about it; I felt frustrated by the way a pro-war stance was often presented as the default position of faith.

I can’t remember what I said after that, but I concede that it may have been a little shrill. He said sure, we could talk more about it sometime, but not just then. Neither of us brought it up again, as it turned out. I was embarrassed by my sudden bravado and the way I could tell, by the look in his eyes, that I had made myself a thorn in his side.

I had similar conversations on three or four other occasions—minimum wage, welfare, things like that. Once, I went up to talk to the professor (a different, older, slightly gentler one) about how sweatshop labor factored in with that day’s economic lesson, and he said to me, bobbing his head down toward me slightly for emphasis and making firm eye contact, “Did you know? That most of what you read about sweatshops is not true?” I squinted at him.

And it wasn’t just politics. I also stood out in my approach to faith in that everybody else seemed to have much less trouble with the details. At one of our Friday night dinners, I sat at a TGI Friday’s table with one of my roommates and her new BFF, and one of them brought up the subject of biblical inerrancy, since we’d talked about it in class that day. I was the first to speak, and I said something like this: “See, that’s a hard one for me—it’s tough to iron out that definition. I mean, I think the Bible is something, but there are so many human fingerprints, and I just have a hard time sorting out what that might mean.”

After a pause, Katie said, “I think it’s inerrant,” and Christina breathed, “Me too!” with ecstatic relief. So I was the only doubting Thomas at the table that night—and every night, it sometimes seemed.

But the people—oh, the sweetness of the people. My small group leader had the most maternal soul. She showered us with love, and most of our group meetings consisted of going around the room saying what we liked about each person. Sheryl, who taught the Family Studies class, hugged me at least twice before she knew my name. And then there were guys like Zach, who reminded me of a puppy and could often be seen smiling and doing things for people.

Everyone was like this, really. I often felt dark and sarcastic and moody in comparison, but they were even sweet about that. I felt like they were bearing me, bearing me with patience and an innocent curiosity. I have to say, it was fun.