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                                                                                The School of the Prophets and Prophetesses
                                                                                                               by
                                                                                                           Josprel

                                                                                                            Part One

We all had our own reason for being there. Presumably, the teachers were there to teach, though at times I wondered about that. Since theological students were draft exempt, in my cynical view most of the boys were there to escape the draft, while the vast majority of the girls were there to snare husbands.  Nonetheless, the greatest percentage of students, by far  – both male and female - claimed to have experienced a supernatural "call" to the ministry; moreover, almost everyone of them also testified to having received a heavenly commission to a particular missionary field    the Far East, India, Venezuela, Guatemala, ad infinites. From the many who made such claims in the years before my graduation, only a handful actually became missionaries – all but two of them not to the nations to which they allegedly received calls. I assumed the others either were disobedient to their heavenly callings or had them withdrawn when they married spouses evidently called to America.

Often, the called ones would snootily inquire about my calling. I always cringed at this question, since it invariably stumped me and put me on the defensive. The claims of these super spiritual giants, who actually could hear God's voice directing them to study foreign languages, when
most of them couldn't even pass English, seemed marvelous to me. It made me feel slighted by God, since I didn't know where I was called. I didn't even know why I was among the fledgling prophets and prophetesses, but it certainly wasn't to attract a spouse. My pastor clinched that when he warned me to watch out for the girls at the school. When I asked the reason for the warning, he informed me that the girls were there to ensnare husbands. No second warning was necessary. I was far from ready to be a husband, especially the husband of one the fledgling prophetesses, with their mandated blue dresses, hemmed six inches from the ground.  The outfits made them look like clones from one genetic cell.

As intended by the school administrators   supposedly still plagued by pangs of guilt over their own youthful indiscretions   it required a keenness of imagination on the part of the boys, to envision what the female bodies covered by those uniforms were like. Still, the prophetesses in the making were given to the practice of coy, flirtatious, sidelong, glances at the male counterparts of their choice. It seemed so beneath the dignity those who claimed they were destined to turn the world upside down for God.  So dreadfully mundane!

Since I recently had completed three years of active Air Force duty, with thirty months overseas, I certainly wasn't there to escape the draft. And since I chose never to "walk down the lane" with a fledgling prophetess, I sure wasn't there in search of a mate. Because of this, the student prophetesses saw me as a haughty, arrogant, stuck up, standoffish snob. This was a cruel blow to my fragile ego; after all I was only dutifully following my pastor's admonition. In the Air Force, I both issued orders to those under me and followed the orders of my superiors. It was my considered opinion that, as my superior in the Lord, my pastor had issued me what amounted to a direct order I decoded into: "Joseph, be on constant guard and vigilant against those man hungry, husband hunting, snare laying, lasso tossing, females!" Was it any wonder that I drifted to the far side of the walkways whenever one passed by?
                                                                 ***** *****
One day, a student prophet, who regularly spent his lunch hour in his room praying for a call, suddenly heard an audible voice saying, "AAAfriicaa, AAAfriicaa, you are called to AAAfriicaa. Wheeen youuu arriiive theeere, I'll teeell youuuu what you must doooo."

This so enraptured the call seeker that he bellowed at the top of his voice, "Yes, Lord! I hear you, Lord! I'll go to Africa if you open the door for me! Oh, thank you, thank you, Lord!"

Of course, he was unaware his constant pleas for a call provided grist for the prank mill of his not so reverent roommate, who issued a call to him while hidden in the closet. When the roommate shared his prank with other student prophets, they advised him to inform the call-seeker of it, least he quit school and actually travel to Africa. The call issuing student prophet did so and   teachings on forgiveness not withstanding   his roommate became his former roommate when the call seeker asked to be assigned to another room. Until the end of his time at the school, the chagrined, prankster-called student prophet never again spoke to the
prankster-call giver.
                                                                      ***** *****
Although I happened to be the youngest veteran at the seminary, I counted the other war veteran student prophets among my close friends. Many of these veteran fledgling prophets were married and lived on campus, in family cottages provided by the seminary. Blessed to be ball and chained to spouses who did not considered them-selves prophetesses, they occasionally invited us single veterans for a meal at their cottages. On one such occasion, we were served chicken and dumplings with all the trimmings. After the meal, we complemented our hostess and accepted our host's invitation to relax with him on the front veranda.

"So you guys really enjoyed that meal?" he asked.

"Of course, Al," one of us replied, "It was delicious." And we all agreed.

"I'm glad. The seminary meals are good, but not as good as home cooked." Again, we heartily agreed.

For a while, we sat listening to the relaxing chirps of the crickets.

Then Al said, "I invite you here from time to time because you guys deserve at least some home cooked meals.  You say you really enjoyed this one?"

We again assured him we did, but couldn't figure out why he kept asking us the question. Al never before quizzed us about the meals.

"Do you know which chickens you ate?"

This time I responded. "What do you mean, Al?"

"Well, do you remember those three tiny chicks my kids brought back from Easter vacation?"

We all remembered.

"And do you remember the plague of inchworms we just had?"

We remembered that, too. Little green inchworms were everywhere   hanging from gutters, inching into every crevice on the school grounds, crawling along pavements, monopolizing benches, infiltrating classrooms through opening only they could locate, creeping along lawns, swinging by silken threads from trees and   not bashful about entering the dormitory rooms   earned loud, high-pitched screeches from the student prophetesses.

Quite an accomplishment for tiny green caterpillars!

Even automobiles were not immune to the invaders. I was one of only two unmarried students who owned a car. I didn't dare leave the windows opened even a crack; the inchworms would have gained a hasty access to my car's interior.

In an amused tone, Al concluded, "Well, put those chicks and those inchworms together and what do you come up with?"

We immediately understood what he was saying, though we wished we didn't. The chickens we found so delicious were fed a diet of inchworms. After being fed this information, I am certain our faces turned as green as those inchworms. However, we continued to accept Al's generous dinner invitations; after all, he and his family also had eaten the green inchworms fed chickens.

                                                                                                            Concluded in Part Two