Jesus, Joni Mitchell, and Me (A Confession of Faith)

I reconnected with an old friend recently via the miracle of internet and email. It had been 30 years since we had last spoken.

Her name is Margaret, but I always called her Madge, and sometimes, Midge. Back in the early 80’s, when we both attended the same college, Madge was the resident Bohemian eccentric avante-garde artsy dance major. She was a deeply spiritual woman, too, with piercing green eyes and long flowing chestnut brown hair like, just like Boticelli’s Venus.

I looked up to her back then, and loved to make her laugh. There were some good memories.

The other day I noticed her email address listed in a tiny sidebar of the monthly e-alumni update, announcing some theatre production she was involved with.

In a moment of reminiscent weakness, I shot off an email that said “MADGE! It’s me, BJ Moore! I’m married and living in Pennsylvania with two beautiful daughters. What are you up to?”

Midge responded right away with a message typed in a huge 56-font blue that said, “BJ MOORE! !!! I AM TRULY PSYCHED TO HEAR FROM YOU!” It was like 1981 all over again, me sending an email from the dorm across the quad. Except that we didn’t have email in 1981.

Turns out Madge is a hard-core Catholic, which I respect, because I do not feel hard-core anything at the moment. Sometimes I wish my core were harder, and I envy those who are able to fully engage in their faith with relentless passion and a rock solid conviction, no questions asked.

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