(In chapter 20 of my memoir Leaving the Land of Numb, published on Amazon this last July [2023], I tell the story of how I met Jimmy, the ubiquitous boy at the St. John’s Catholic student center’s Newman Hall on the University of Illinois campus. For several years that cafeteria essentially became my campus ministry office. Not only did Jimmy become a friend (He was the bus boy at Newman Hall for 46 years), I made friends with one of the priests, a true intellectual and fine Christian man. In 1985 that priest gave me the most memorable thanksgiving gift I ever received. To this day, 38 years later, the memory of it touches me deeply. Here’s that story…

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Along with Jimmy in the cafeteria, I met Father David Turner, a priest at the Newman Center in the mid-1980s. He loved to gather students around him inside of the cafeteria and discuss theology, politics, or whatever was on their minds. He talked loudly. Father David, a Benedictine priest, was an intellectual with strong opinions about everything and he wasn’t afraid to share them. One day when Father David and I drank coffee and chatted, he asked me, “How often do you go up into the chapel to pray, Brother Follis?”  He always called me Brother Follis.

“Never.”

Laughing, Father David said, “Say it’s not so, Brother Follis. My goodness, you need to go up there every week to pray. It’s such a great place to think and pray. I see you all the time here meeting students. We want you here. But God wants to meet you in the chapel, too. It’s such a beautiful, sacred space. It’s here for people just like you.”

“Thank you, Father David. I’ll go up there sometime.”

“Do you have 15 minutes?”

“Sure.”

“Great. I am assigning you to go up to the chapel right now—to pray. You can leave your backpack with me.” When Father David said that, I froze, thinking back to the summer day in my childhood when my friend Kim and I rode our bikes up to the entryway of St. Frances Cabrini Catholic Church in Hoxie, Kansas. “Dare you to go in,” Kim said.

I slowly opened the tall wooden door and tip-toed into the church. Kim tucked himself right in behind me. We slowly walked down the aisle in the dark sanctuary and were near the altar at the front when a nun dressed in her black habit opened a door near the front of the sanctuary. “What are you boys doing?” With saying a word, we bolted out of the church and rode to my house as fast our legs would pedal.

Someone who saw us run out of the church building recognized us and told my mom. Later that day she confronted me. “Did you and Kim go inside the Catholic Church today?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you ever go into that Catholic Church again or something worse could happen to you.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

When Father David realized my mind had gone somewhere else, he asked me, “Are you okay, Brother Follis?”

“Yeah, I’m okay Father David. I’ll go up to the chapel. Tell me what to do.” I expected instructions, and I got them.

“Brother Follis, before you enter the chapel, be sure to bless yourself with the holy water from the font just outside the double doors leading into the chapel.”

“Bless myself? I’m not Catholic, Father David.”

“That doesn’t matter in the least, Brother Follis.”

“How do I do that?”

“Once you get to the font, dip your fingers—your thumb, index and middle fingers—into  the font of holy water. Press your fingers down into the sponge. Then make the sign of the cross, praying, ‘In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Simple as that. Ever done that before?’

“Nope.”

“Look at my hand,” he said, tracing the sign of the cross on himself with his right hand. “Now let’s do it together.” A dozen people were scattered at tables nearby. Seeing me looking around, embarrassed, instead of watching him, Father David laughed and said, “Don’t be nervous, Brother Follis. Relax. You can’t get this wrong. You’re in a Catholic student center, for crying out loud.” This time as Father David led out, I followed, moving my fingers from my forehead, to the center of my chest and then to my left shoulder and across to my right shoulder.

            “You got it,” Father David said, smiling. A student next to us appeared mesmerized by the lesson. Always the teacher, Father David explained. “For the Catholic, dipping fingers in the holy water and making the sign of the cross is a sign of baptism. The holy water is sacramental.”

            “Sacramental?”

            “That’s right. Dipping your hand in the water and making the sign of the cross reminds us of the sacrament of baptism.” Straightening in his chair, Father David clapped his hands three times and pointed me toward the chapel. “Okay, time’s a-wasting. Get yourself up to the chapel. Quickly now, before you lose your gumption.”

I walked up from the basement cafeteria to the main floor and stood at the back of the chapel. I saw only two people inside. Taking a big breath, I dipped my three fingers into the sponge in the bottom of the basin of holy water. Raising my right hand, I made the sign of the cross, quietly saying, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Opening the double glass doors, I walked all the way to the front, finally sitting down on the second wooden pew on the left side.  I pulled down the red vinyl kneeler and knelt on the cushioned pad. Directly on the wall in front of me was a 9-foot by 6-foot copy of the Apostles’ Creed, the same one from St. Isidore’s in Manhattan. So I read:

            “I believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth; I believe in Jesus Christ His only Son our Lord. He was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended to the dead. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead.

            “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.”

For the next 10 minutes I sat quietly, concentrating on my breathing. Finally I left the sanctuary, walking back through the glass doors before once again dipping my fingers into the baptismal font, and making the sign of the cross as I prayed,  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” When I walked back to the cafeteria, I found Father David reading. My backpack sat on top of the table. “Well,” Father David said, “You’re smiling, Brother Follis. How did it go?”

            “It was good. I followed your instructions.”

            “Perfect. You are welcome to go into the chapel anytime you like. Please don’t be a stranger up there.”

“I won’t be.” And I wasn’t. I started going into the chapel two or three times a week. Since I met so many students in the cafeteria, it was easy when I was between appointments to go up into the chapel to read and pray. One day I fell asleep for 30 minutes. That large sanctuary became a place where I felt relaxed and safe. Often I just sat, slowly breathing and looking up at the marble crucifix high above the altar at the front of the sanctuary. A statue of the Madonna stands on one side of the crucifix, while a statue of John, the beloved disciple of Jesus, stands on the other. 

One day after noon Mass had cleared out, I got a real surprise. Walking into the foyer, I blessed myself at the baptismal font and went to the pew where I always sat. No more than a minute passed as I looked up at the crucifix. Tears filled my eyes as suddenly I felt as if Jesus were speaking directly to me. “You know you are God-breathed, don’t you, Don? My Father and I created you, breathing life into your lungs when you were born out in that little rural hospital way out in northwestern Kansas. You are my son, and I am so proud of you. I have never thought anything less.” Never had I heard anything like that.

Feeling drawn to the account of Jesus’ baptism in Matthew chapter 3, I pulled my Bible out of my backpack and read, “…At that moment heaven was opened and he—John the Baptist—saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased.” Matthew 3:16-17. “That’s how I feel about you, Don,” I felt God say. “You are my son—My beloved.” Turning my palms upward, I sat quietly, basking in God’s presence. Over the years, I returned to that chapel a hundred times, gazing at the crucifix, and thinking about what it meant for God to call me His beloved.

Just before Thanksgiving, Father David and I met for coffee in the cafeteria. He reached down to the chair next to him and grabbed a red hard-bound book. The gold-embossed letters on the front cover read The New Catholic Study Bible … St. Jerome Edition.

“Open it, Brother Follis.” On the dedication page I read, written in black ink from a

fountain pen, “Presented to Donald D. Follis On Thanksgiving 1985 By David Turner, O.S.B.” I knew that O.S.B. signifies that Father David is of the Order of Saint Benedict. I have no idea how he knew my given name was Donald or that my middle initial is D.

            “This is my gift to you, Brother Follis, as my dear brother in Christ.”

            “Thank you so much. What a beautiful gift.”

            “May the peace of Christ fill your heart as you read and meditate on God’s Word all the days of your life,” he said. When I stood to leave, Father David, a burly man with a bald head, opened his arms, hugged me tightly and said, “I love you, Brother Follis. Happy Thanksgiving.”

            “I love you, too, Father David.” As I walked back across campus, I turned and looked back at St. John’s Catholic Chapel. Just as He had that day in the chapel as I gazed upon the crucifix, I felt God speak again. This time, He was saying, “Father David is my beloved, too.”