Twenty four’s a good number. A dozen plus another dozen. Six times four. Eight times three. Four nickels and four pennies make twenty-four cents. The San Francisco 49ers, my favorite football team, defeated the Denver Broncos 55-10 in Super Bowl XXIV (held in another favorite of mine, New Orleans, Louisiana.) Jack Bauer saved the world (minus Valencia) over eight tension-filled, twist-riddled seasons of “24.”

I moved to Southern California on January 6th, 2006. I think. Might’ve been the 7th. I’m not sure.

From January 6, 2006 to now, July 27, 2010, I’ve had 23 roommates. Come August I lose one roommate and gain another, making it a nice, round 24.

Roommates are, in every single sense of the word, “special.”

Fragile. Annoying. Sleep-depriving. Frustrating. Dirty. Emotional. Whiny. Ignorant. Cheap. Loud. Draining. Hopeless. Depressing. Smelly. Intrusive. Abrasive. Stubborn. Worrisome. Anxious. Idiotic. Baffling. Needy.

Hilarious. Joyful. Fun-loving. Encouraging. Exciting. Lovely. Resilient. Kind. Understanding. Inclusive. Listening. Relatable. Generous. Clean. Peaceful. Wise. Motivating. Quiet. Profound. Deep. Knowledgeable. Friends. Family.

I’ve lived with drum majors, music majors, social work majors, ministry majors, film majors, missionary kids, pastor’s kids, people from divorced families and people from married families, cliff-divers and motorcycle riders, bungee jumpers and tattooed specimens, people with long hair, short hair, no hair, dyed hair, people with beards, goatees and nose rings. I’ve lived with wild things and shut-ins, the comatose and the borderline insane.

I lived with Tyler (1) for one week. He was one of my first roommates at APU. He was a drum major. Short fellow. Girlfriend carried a backpack bigger than her everywhere she went. Same with him. Walking together, they looked like two turtles wandering across the shore of some distant beach. They held hands everywhere they traveled. I hope they’re still together.

He was my roommate during my first birthday away from home. He was accommodating and I loved talking drums with him. Our time together didn’t last long, but he remained kind to me even after we went our separate ways.

My other roommate for my first week at APU was Eric. Eric was the first person to call me after the housing rep. I remember the rep calling me with info as to where I was staying (Bowles Middle Court) and who I was staying with (Tyler and Eric). I took down their names and numbers, and I planned to call them, right after I finished lunch. Five minutes after the rep hung up, Eric called.

He made polite conversation for a few minutes, asking if I had much furniture, etc. Standard roommate stuff.

Then he asked me if I was okay living with someone who was gay.

(You should know, Eric is not his real name. I do this because, although he was openly gay to his friends at school, his parents did not yet know. I don’t know what the current situation is, so out of respect to him and his family, I’ve changed his name.)

Partly because I literally didn’t understand him, and partly because I thought I understood him but I wanted to be super sure I understood him, I responded with, “I’m sorry?”

“Do you mind living with someone who’s gay?”

Never thought about it before, truth be told. In my ignorant mind, I didn’t think I would have to answer such a question going to Azusa Pacific University, a Christian school. I’m not here to start an argument; I’m not here to make a political point. I’m telling you what I thought at the time, and I simply didn’t think I’d have to consider living with a gay roommate.

Long story short, I told him I didn’t mind.

A week after moving in, I left the room and moved into a different room in Bowles Middle Court. I did this out of my own discomfort, not out of anything Eric did to push me out. He was honest from the beginning and as I said earlier, he was the one who called me and told me he was gay. Tyler, who’d lived with Eric, was familiar with the drill. As was Eric. They were totally prepared for me to not last long. In fact, this was why they had an open spot in the first place. The previous roommate had grown uncomfortable and left.

Eric was the son of missionaries. He spoke at least four languages. He went to school all over the world and was one of the smartest people I knew. He loved watching “Will and Grace” late at night and asked I never change in front of him. He was neat, polite and accommodating at every turn.

When I told the two of them I was leaving, I wanted to be as respectful as they’d been to me. We talked for a while, the three of us. I told them I was moving out, but would still be in the same living area. They would still see me and I would still see them. I wanted to remain their friend. Tyler, who went to bed promptly at 11, agreed to all of this and went to bed.

Eric and I talked for another two hours. I was able to hear more of his story and how much betrayal the man had experienced. I heard from Eric the sadness over never having a single place to call “home.” He had no tether, no anchor and no coordinates to guide him. Every single second I spoke with Eric, my eyes were opened a little more. My heart broke a little more. I learned more about Grace and God’s capacity to forgive and enlighten in those hours of conversation than in a year of church.

The truth is, Eric, Tyler and I didn’t stay close friends. I would see them around school and nod to them, and they would nod back, but we never met for weekly lunches and we never hung out in the court area of Bowles. Was I sad about it? Yeah. Sad enough to do something about it? No. I was glad enough to not have burned bridges to the point of bitterness and hatred. To end with an amicable separation was good enough for me.

I did the right thing by leaving. But I did the right thing by staying there for a week. I’m still learning lessons from those seven days. Thanks guys. I’ll never forget it.

2 down, 22 to go.