PHOEBE for the Weekend

“Hello, Rachel,” Phoebe said. “And hello to you, too. I’m Phoebe.”

The slim stranger rose from one of the folding chairs opposite Phoebe’s desk, extending her hand.

“Phoebe, this is Noura,” Rachel said. “We’re in the same global religions class.”

“I see,” Phoebe said. She smiled at Noura, whose navy- and burgundy-swirled hijab coordinated with her flowing navy top and skirt. “Welcome!” she said, shaking Noura’s hand.

“Thank you,” Noura replied. “When Rachel told me that she knew a woman chaplain, I asked if I might meet you.”

“I hope it’s okay that I didn’t call first,” Rachel said, sounding a little anxious.

“Of course!” Phoebe assured her. “And thanks for sending the good news about yesterday’s test! I saw your email last night after I visited Dorcas.”

“Well, I hope it’s good news,” Rachel said. “I did feel pretty good about it, but Laban takes ages to return assignments. I may not know for sure for weeks.”

Noura patted Rachel’s arm. “Don’t worry, Rachel!” she said. “You did well, I am sure. You studied hard.”

“Yeah, I did,” Rachel acknowledged. She smiled. “I guess it’s time to ‘be anxious for nothing,’ right, Phoebe?”

“Absolutely!” Phoebe agreed. “Now, whom shall we visit today?” She consulted the list on her desk, trying to assess the likely comfort levels of those whose names were on it with having two students accompany her—one of whom was wearing a hijab. “Professor Marceau!” she announced. Retired from the seminary, Professor Marceau had taught Greek. Before his health declined, he had led study-tour groups annually to the Middle East.

Noura looked curious when she heard the name. “Marceau?” she said. “Is that a Mennonite name?”

“Oh, no,” Rachel replied. “You don’t have to be Mennonite to live at the SSLC—just like you don’t have to be Mennonite to attend Schleitheim.”

“He is Mennonite, though,” Phoebe said, “by conviction, though not by ethnicity. He grew up in France and became interested in Anabaptism when he met some young Mennonites working in Europe in the 1950s as their alternative to military service. He ended up coming to Schleitheim for seminary and returned here to teach after getting his doctorate in Switzerland.”

“Did you have him for any classes when you were a student, Phoebe?” Rachel asked as they headed out of the office and toward the elevator.

“Yes,” Phoebe replied, “for New Testament as an undergraduate and then for three semesters of Greek and a seminar on Paul during seminary.”

“I noticed you call him ‘Professor Marceau’,” Rachel observed. “Weren’t the faculty on a first-name basis with students back then?”

Phoebe smiled. “Oh, yes—although many still referred to each other and to us students as ‘Brother Joe’ and ‘Sister Phoebe.’ Professor Marceau never even made it that far. Growing up in France and going to graduate school back in Europe just made him more formal, I suppose. Nobody minded, though.”

“Did many women attend seminary with you?” Noura asked as the elevator ascended.

“No,” Phoebe said, chuckling. “I was an oddball.”

“Were the women at Schleitheim still covering then?” Rachel asked. Phoebe suspected that Rachel had long wanted to ask her about her net cap; now Noura’s line of questioning had provided a natural opportunity.

“No other students,” Phoebe told them, “but some of the staff still did.” The elevator stopped, and they exited. “Of course, I was older and therefore somewhat unusual, anyway. Don’t you call them ‘non-traditional students’ now? That was me,” she said cheerfully. They stopped outside a door, slightly ajar, beside which a shadow box like the one outside Dorcas’ room held a papyrus fragment, some pottery shards, and a small icon of a fierce-looking individual Professor Marceau had once identified to Phoebe as the Apostle Paul. She knocked firmly.

“Enter, please,” a male voice sounded.

Inside, a diminutive, silver-haired man sat in a wheelchair behind a handsome mahogany desk. He spun the chair to face the three women as they entered.

“Ah, Miss Lied!” he said, smiling warmly. “You have brought new friends! Thank you!” He gestured toward the sofa. “Please, be seated. I am Paul Marceau, and I am very happy to make your acquaintance.”

“Professor Marceau, I’d like for you to meet Rachel Leichty, my pastoral-care practicum student this semester, and her friend Noura,” Phoebe said. Turning to Noura she said, “I’m so sorry; I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Barakat,” Noura provided.

“Ah, ‘blessing,’” Professor Marceau said. “Saudi?”

“Yes,” Noura replied, looking surprised.

“What a fascinating country!” he said. “I would love to visit again. For now, though, I am happy to have an ambassador visit me.” Turning his attention to Rachel, he asked, “And from where do you come, Miss Leichty?

“Lancaster, P.A.,” she said.

“Ah, yes,” he replied. “You are in good company. Many Schleitheim students come from there. Not so many from Saudi Arabia or France, such as Miss Barakat and I.” He smiled at Noura. “How do you find the coffee in the US, Miss Barakat?”

“Weak,” she confessed.

“Yes!” he agreed, clapping his hands. “Miss Lied, would you prepare some coffee for us? No, on second thought—Miss Barakat, might I impose upon you to do it? I would serve you myself, but you see—” He spoke apologetically, touching the right wheel of his chair. “You will be more efficient.”

“I’ll show her where everything is,” Phoebe said, and she led Noura to a surprisingly well-appointed galley kitchen separated by a counter from the living room. Professor Marceau’s spacious unit was far more elegant than Dorcas’ single room, but Phoebe thought it homey, nonetheless.

The professor and Rachel chatted while Phoebe watched Noura make the coffee. “You’ll find some madeleines beside the toaster,” he called out. “Please bring them, too.” Phoebe placed the package of cookies, four tiny jade-green cups with matching saucers, and paper napkins on a tray. Noura followed her back toward the sofa with the French press coffee pot.

Rachel beamed at Phoebe. “Professor Marceau knew my grandpa!” she declared. “And he had my pastor back home in P.A. as a student!”

Professor Marceau nodded. “Ah, yes. When one has been a teacher as long as I have, he comes to know many generations of pupils. To meet some of Schleitheim’s newer students is a delight. What are you ladies studying?”

“I’m a theology major,” Rachel reported.

“I came to Schleitheim for the English-as-a-second-language program,” Noura said, “but I have decided to stay to prepare for law school.” She hesitated before confiding, “I have found the religion classes to be the most interesting, though.”

“Vraiment?” Professor Marceau exclaimed. “I am pleased to hear it! Which professors challenge you most?”

“Oh, Laban Blosser, for sure,” Rachel said without hesitation. She looked at Noura. “Who else?”

“I took Deborah Beachy’s introductory Bible class and have chosen her classes twice more,” Noura said.

The professor nodded approvingly. “Any language study yet?” he inquired.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Greek is killing me.”

“Do you wish for a tutor?” the professor offered.

“I do wish!” Rachel asked. “Phoebe has helped me quite a bit, but I’m hopeless.”

“No, you’re not,” Phoebe protested.

“I would be pleased to work with you,” Professor Marceau announced. “Miss Lied did very well in Greek, but she has too many responsibilities to be your tutor. I, however, have none.” He smiled, looking quite pleased. “Shall we set our first appointment?”

And so they did. As the four sipped the deathly dark coffee and munched madeleines, their conversation turned briefly to Professor Marceau’s health. He then gave Phoebe a list of library titles he wanted, which she handed to Rachel before gathering from his desk the books she’d brought him the previous week. Then they prayed together. Noura sat quietly, her hands in her lap.

When the women stood to leave, Professor Marceau asked, “I nearly forgot to ask, Miss Lied. Are the Schleitheim administration still trying to wrest your home from you?”

She nodded.

The look he gave her was stern. “Don’t let them rush you,” he said. “Thomas and Ruth knew what they were doing when they bequeathed it to you. The college is flourishing. They can manage without your little piece of property.”

Phoebe smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. She bent, gently hugging him around the shoulders. Rachel shook his hand while Noura smiled a warm farewell.

“Please visit again soon,” he urged them all.

“We will,” they assured him, almost in unison.

Once the door had closed behind her, Rachel asked Phoebe suspiciously, “What did he mean about your house?”

“Oh, nothing,” Phoebe brushed aside the question, hurrying down the hall.

Rachel stalked after her. “Seriously, Phoebe! I want to know.”