HymnalsA Story by Christian Larsen Its about forgiveness. Its the best thing I've written. -for my father, who is a good man- 
The church was small and old, and in the rain it looked like a smudge of ink that a finger had failed to wipe away. From where I stood on the hill in the wet and the cold, it was just in sight and it was beautiful. The yellow warmth spread from the windows in a brilliant light that made the darkness seem bearable. Tall yellow grass, soaked with rain, was visible in the lighted patches beneath the windows. The church stood tall against the starless horizon and its wooden steeple threw itself upwards, pointing to the sky, courageously. The old wooden planks that formed the walls were paint-chipped and worn. Had I been close enough to touch them, they would have felt rough and strong under my hand. The church had stood through storm and through sun and through the years themselves, and though it had worn down, it was still here, still bleeding light, still pointing upwards through the darkness.
I stopped to wonder why the lights were on. It was five-thirty in the morning, according to the clock on my cell phone. Church didn’t start for at least three hours. I was a mess. The rain that made the church look so beautiful also made mud and I had slipped in it several times on my way up the hill. The light sweatshirt I had grabbed before I left had long since soaked through, leaving me dripping and frigid. I had thought, as I left the house, that a walk through the rain would be an escape from the world inside my home. But it hadn't been that way at all. It was a cold November night and the torrent that tumbled from the sky tumbled in sheets and set my teeth chattering. My legs were going numb. The cold from the mud seemed to go straight through my jeans and my skin directly into my bones. I touched the side of my chest where a once-purple bruise had blossomed. It had long since faded, but I had held onto it, and treasured it as if it were a gift. It was my reason to freeze to death. I checked the time on my phone again to be sure I hadn’t dreamed it. Five thirty three, it read. I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t look remotely like morning. The sun had not shown itself, and the grey light of dawn had not spread over the horizon. My limbs shook. God, I was miserable. I wanted to return to the warm house I had left, but pride stopped me. Pride, and something else: the knowledge that if I had chose instead to lay wrapped in warm blankets in my warm house, I would still feel a different kind of coldness. An inner coldness that made all the warmth in the world pointless.
Everything was black. The church was the only source of light. The rational part of me wondered, again, why the lights were on. Nobody was there at this hour. The parking lot was shrouded in darkness, and had I been able to see it, I doubted I would see a car. The lights had been left on by mistake. That was the only explanation that made any sense.
I found myself wishing that the lights had somehow been left on purposely. A sudden aching desire swelled inside of me: a desire to run down the other side of this muddy hill to the church. I wanted to pull open the heavy oaken doors and step into the bright sanctuary. In the church there would be pews and old Bibles written in old language, with years of notes scribbled in the margins. There would be dusty stained glass windows and barely tuned hymn pianos. And there would be music: strong, soft, simple songs that gave melody and rhythm to the sounds in my soul. I wanted to be there so badly. And there, there at the altar I could fall to my knees and be broken. I could sacrifice myself and live a new life in the humble service of the light and the truth. And when the morning finally came, I would leave the church changed, a new man, having at last conquered the darkness.
My breath rose in a cloud in front of my face. My soaked blonde hair hung in front of my eyes. Inside my head, my overexcited train of thought collapsed. Inside the church I would find nothing except worn down Sunday school equipment and dog-eared paperback Bibles, and I knew it. Besides, whoever had forgotten the lights had almost definitely remembered to lock the doors. There was no point in walking to the church. I spit into the muddy ground. The muscles in my jaw were stiff as I moved my mouth. The hopeful beacon of light on my horizon was no more than a trick. An accident. A meaningless set of circumstances that gave false hope. I turned my head upwards and looked to the sky. There were no stars. There was only the endless barrage of raindrops against my face, like bullets. I didn’t know that falling water could sting, but it did. The rain forced my eyes downwards. On the eastern horizon there was still no sign of morning, and it was then that I realized there never would be. The world was made of night, and I, I had chosen to wander the dark and the cold, longing for the dawn that would never come. And all the while I could have been sleeping.
The hill that I stood on was actually a mound of dirt, piled by a bulldozer in an empty lot a couple of blocks from my house. On three sides of me there were the darkened houses of the small town in which I lived. The lights were all off. Nobody was awake at this hour. Nobody but me. My knee buckled and I found myself falling. I caught myself with my hand. My fingers sank into the muddy ground. They couldn’t feel anything. The ground beneath me wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either. It was at that point that I realized I was dangerously cold. I tried to push myself back to my feet, but my vision swam and spun and I fell again. This time I didn’t catch myself. I lay in the mud and was suddenly sleepy. I was content to lay there in the filth of the earth and sleep. I was okay with giving up. But my body wasn’t. My body forced itself to its feet and tried to figure out a way to get warm. I couldn’t go to the church. I refused to go home. There was a 24 hour gas station, about half a mile away, I remembered. I would go there. As I looked in its direction I thought I could see a faint glow of neon lights.
For a fleeting foolish moment I longed again for the church, for the purity and the warmth behind those yellow windows. But my body wouldn’t let me linger. It was determined to get warm. It pushed me onwards, towards the gas station. My feet moved mechanically, not feeling, walking only from the memory of walking. I felt, as I looked over my shoulder, that if I had chose instead to walk towards the church I never would have reached my destination. I would have walked and walked and never have gotten any closer. And all the while the church lights would have hung on the edge of my vision, calling me, summoning me, remaining just as out of reach as they had always been.
Now my feet carried me to warmth. They moved as quickly as they could and they would have run had they strength left for running. Behind me I dragged my protesting soul, a useless part of myself that was falsely convinced that there was a reason to remain in these freezing temperatures. For once, I repressed it. My feet seemed to know where they were going. The neon gas station lights that were once distant had already grown closer and brighter. Already I could make out the shape of the pumps and the convenience store behind it. I was almost there.
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It was fall. The Catholic school building looked peaceful with the autumn trees around it. The air was cool. A figure sat on the front steps of the church. He was a tall, lean teenage boy with short brown hair. It was quiet. A car pulled up to the sidewalk and let out a girl. She had long hair that fell to her waist and was the same age as the boy on the steps. She walked up the lawn towards the school. They made eye contact.
“How come you aren’t in mass?” she asked as she climbed the steps to the church. “How come you are always late for Mass?” he replied. “I asked you first.” She stopped and stood in front of him. “I sneak out of mass because I don’t feel close to God in there. I feel close to God when I am out here. When I can see the trees.” He had not been to mass in over a month. She hesitated, and then sat down on the steps next to him. They had gone to school together for years but they had never had a real conversation before. He had always thought that she was pretty, but he had never thought to talk to her. He was always too busy getting in trouble, and she was always busy doing the opposite. “You know if Sister Mary catches you out here, you’ll get detention again.” “I know.” There was a moment of Silence. She fidgeted with her hands and looked at the church doors. She was nervous about lingering outside. He was used to it and seemed relaxed. “How come you've never talked to me before?” He asked. “I dunno, I guess I always thought you were a troublemaker.” “I am a troublemaker.” He smiled. “It’s just… I dunno. Sister Mary says you have a pride problem.” “It's not that I have a pride problem. I just know things that they don’t.” “You think you know more than people who have spent their entire lives studying this stuff?” “Yes.” She sighed and put her head in her hands. “Right.” “You okay?” “I just don’t want to go inside.” “Why not?” “I don’t know.” The muffled sounds of a choir came from inside the building. Service had started. “You don’t know why?” He hesitated before asking. He didn’t want to seem like he was prying. “I don’t know if I believe in God.” “Oh.” There was another moment of silence. “Do you want to want to know why I am always late?” “Sure.” “I mean do you really want to know?” “I really want to know.” “I’m late because my mom is in the Hospital.” “Wow.” “She has this weird degenerative disease. Everyone in my family gets it. I’m gonna get it someday. Basically, your whole body decays until you can’t talk, walk, see… Eventually you can’t do anything. And then after a long time, you die.” “Is that why you're late? You were visiting her?” “No, we visited her last night. I’m late because my dad woke up with a hangover.” There was silence. He didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry,” he said at last. She pulled her knees up to her chest and didn’t say anything. “No I mean it. I’m so sorry.” She took a sharp breath. Tears were coming out of her eyes and she was wiping them away as quickly as she could. “Thanks.” “Are you okay?” “No.” “Does anyone else know?” “No.” “Do you like coffee?” “What?” “Do you like coffee?” “Uh… yeah, why?” “There’s a coffee shop a block away. We should get coffee. I’ll buy.” “You mean ditch church?” She wiped at her eyes. “Half the time they don’t even notice I’m gone.” “Half the time?” She looked skeptical. “C’mon.” He stood up and offered her his hand. She hesitated for a moment and then took it. They started walking. He spoke. “You know, I’m really glad you stopped to talk to me.” “Me too.” “You know you are going to be okay, right?” She let out a bitter laugh. It surprised her. She didn’t know she could react that way. “No, I mean it,” He insisted, “You are going to be okay.” “Okay.” They continued walking. “Um.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was a thing she did when she was nervous. “Is this a date?” He turned red. “Only if you want it to be.” “Oh.” “Do you want it to be?” “Yeah.” “Okay,” he said. As they walked away from the old brick school, the leaves in the trees fell, slowly, one after another. And both of them were overcome by the strange feeling of having known someone your entire life, though you had just met them.
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Every Sunday the boy and his father would wake early. They would dress and shower and they would tiptoe through the house so as to not wake the rest of the family. Then, after a quick breakfast and after the father had poured himself a cup of coffee, they were out the door and on their way. They climbed into an old stick-shift truck and the father drove, and every time there was a traffic light or a stop sign the boy would hold his father’s mug so that he could use both hands to drive. Their car was always the first one in the church parking lot, and the morning air outside the car was always cool. Inside the church they parted ways. The father went to the sanctuary and his son descended the stairs into the basement, where the kids classes where held. There was never anyone there. Not yet. In the sanctuary the father would straighten pews and prepare trays of communion and review the notes to his sermon. And beneath him, his son would unfold chairs and tables and restock bins of animal crackers and crayola markers. Through the old floor the boy could hear his father’s footsteps. They creaked and groaned as he went about his work. And as the father prepared the church for his sermon, his son studied the sound of his footsteps, and tried to match them with his own: To step where his father had stepped. To work where his father had worked. And once all the chores were done, the boy would go back upstairs and together they would wait for the people to come.
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After the wedding was over and the bride and groom had stolen away from the crowds of people, everything was quiet. Now it was only him and her and they were laying on the bed that now belonged to both of them, looking at each other, and noticing each other, and feeling things that they had never known they were capable of feeling. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. It was something that she still did when she was nervous.
“What do you mean when you say that you Love me?” she asked. “I mean that I Love you.” She moved so that her arms were folded across his chest and tilted her head so that her hair hung down, brushing against his bare skin. “But what does that mean? What does I Love you mean?” Wrinkles appeared on his forehead as he considered her question. He stroked a strand of her hair, feeling its softness. “Do you remember how we learned in Catholic school that there are four different words for love in Greek? Sister Mary wrote them up on the blackboard and we had to memorize each one…” “I remember.” The memory lifted the corner of her mouth into a smile. “I don't just Love you,” He said. “I Éros you. I Éros you because you are my wife. I Éros you because your hair spills over your shoulders and across your back. I Éros you because your smell lingers anywhere that you have been. I Éros you because of the way that your body moves against mine. I Éros you because something inside of my chest falls apart when I see you."
She pressed a finger to his lips. “And I Philia you,” she said. “I Philia you because you are my best friend. I Philia you because you know me better than anyone has ever known me. I Philia you because we find happiness in the same things. And I Philia you because I will always be here, as your friend, standing at your side to counsel you, to defend you, and to speak truth to you.” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her, so that as much of them was touching as was possible. “I also Storge you,” she continued. “Because now, as of today, we are family. I Storge you because everything that is mine, all my beauty, all my ugliness also belongs to you, and yours to me. I Storge you because because though we are two, we are one. I Storge you because with every moment of pain and darkness that the coming years may bring, we will only grow stronger having experienced it all together.”
He moved away from her then and he sat up. She sat up also. He touched her hand and that was the only part of them that was touching.
“But most of all, I Agapao you,” he said. “I Agapao you because you will always be yourself, whoever that is. I Agapao you because no matter who you become, and how you change you will always remain you. And because I will be unable to do anything but to love you for it.” She looked at him and her heart was breaking. “You know that I am going to get sick. You know that I am going to die.” “Everyone dies. But tonight we are both alive. We would be fools to spend our lives thinking of death.” So she kissed him, and he kissed her back.
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1 In those days it came to pass that the man the people called teacher was kicked out of the synagogue, for telling the people there to eat him and to drink his blood. 2 “You don’t understand!” Jesus cried as he was thrown from the synagogue, “It’s a metaphor, I wasn’t being literal!” 3 The pharisees, however, were sure that they had understood perfectly fine and they spent many hours talking amongst themselves. 4 “Who does this man think he is?” cried an outraged pharisee. 5“How dare he command that the holy place be defiled?” cried another. 6“The point is this,” said the eldest pharisee, “Even if it was a metaphor, cannibalism metaphors are never a good idea”. 7 The other pharisees nodded solemnly, for on that point they all agreed.
8 Many days later as Jesus was teaching to the crowds a man came to him with a question. 9 “Teacher,” he said, “What did you mean when you told us to eat you and to drink your blood?” 10 Jesus was very concerned and he spoke thus: “What? When did I ever say anything like that?” 11 The man bowed his head humbly. 12“Oh, that,” spoke Jesus, and he became very vexed, “Nobody around here knows what a blasted metaphor is anymore.” 13 He then arranged a meeting of the twelve for later that night so that he might explain his metaphor to them.
14 When the twelve disciples were gathered around the table Jesus spoke: 15 “This,” he said, holding up a loaf of bread, “Is my body, broken before you.” 16 Jesus was confident that using a loaf of bread as a visual aid would make his meaning clear. 17 However the disciples became confused and whispered amongst themselves. 18 “Oh great, here he goes with that cannibalism thing again,” said John. 19 Jesus had proceeded to rip the bread into tiny pieces and to pass it around the table. 20 Then Peter replied to John with concern in his voice. 21 “What should we do?” “This is my blood. It is poured out for you. Take and drink. Every time you drink of this cup do so in remembrance of me.” 24 Jesus passed around the cup, and the disciples each in turn drank. 25 The disciples then smiled and nodded. All except for Judas who had said to himself that this had gone on for long enough, and that it was about time somebody did something about it. 26 Jesus sat back and was at peace, confident at last that his disciples had understood.
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As I approached the gas station I smelled the stink of diesel. Whoever had filled up last had sprayed everywhere, leaving a small ocean of gas between me and the convenience store doors. I splashed through it without pausing to walk around. My clothes were filthy already. I couldn’t feel anything in my limbs. They shook with cold, but I couldn't feel the cold. It was like I wasn’t connected to body anymore. I’m not even sure if I would have cared anymore, but my body did. A thick feeling of panic rose inside of my chest and it drove my feet as quickly as possible. I reached the doors and I pushed my way inside. A cheerful artificial chime rang out from somewhere above me. The warm air hit my body like a wall. Every inch of my skin stung with heat. I could now feel all of the pain that I had avoided in the numbness. I cringed and stood where I was. It would pass. I rubbed my hands together to try to warm them up. I was here, I told myself, I had made it. I wasn’t going to freeze to death anymore. The store was empty. I was wondering where the clerk was, when I saw a man sitting in the corner of the linoleum floor. His head was against the wall and his mouth hung open. He was obviously asleep. He wore three coats and he had a long grey beard. He slept, but he slept fitfully. His mouth opened and closed and his fingers twitched and jerked. Cold white lights illuminated the inside of the store. One of them in the back flickered. It was then that the bathroom door at the back of the store swung open, and out walked a face that I knew all too well. It wore a cowboy hat and it broke into a hideous smile the moment it saw me. I call it a smile, but that’s a generous way to put it. It was more like the idea of a smile. The corners of his mouth went upwards, but the effect was horrifying. Some people look better when they scowl.
“Hey, How ya doin man?” It was Jarred. Jarred and I had gone to youth group together. That was back when I still went to youth group. Jarred carried a rolled-up Playboy magazine in his hand, and from the bulge in the front of his pants it was clear what he had been doing in the bathroom. He made no attempt to hide it. “It's the new Playboy,” he said holding it up for me to see. “I tell you man, on the long nights, this is the only thing that cuts it.”
I can’t say that I was fond of Jarred. But what puzzled me was that everyone else I knew was. Whenever I was at youth group, which was almost never, all of the other kids seemed to gather around him and treat him like a leader. He would take prayer requests and open the group prayer each night. Whenever I was around adults they would ask me about him and remark what a good kid he was. They always assumed that we were good friends, but I barely knew him. I had never understood what anyone saw in him. As far as I knew, the only things that he cared about were sex, youth group and chewing tobacco. Whenever I complained that he was a hypocrite I was told that nobody is perfect and that I would do better not to judge people. He wasn’t even old enough to work at a gas station, but nobody said anything about it because he was already addicted to tobacco, and because our town was so small.
His cowboy boots clicked as he walked across the linoleum floor. “So how come you're out this late?” Jarred asked. He was behind the front counter now. My body had recovered enough to walk but it was still pins and needles. I tried to think of an excuse to have come to the gas station, other than to keep myself from freezing to death. “Just went on a walk,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie. “Where do you keep the hot chocolate?”
Jarred pointed to a rusted espresso machine at the back of the store. I followed his finger through the isles of Doritos, animal crackers, and Cheeze-its to the back counter, and grabbed a styrofoam cup. It had a spider in the bottom. I threw the cup away and grabbed a new one. This one was spider-free. A piss-like stream of yellow water poured into the cup from the machine and was followed moments later by a separate stream of brown. I took my cup of steaming liquid that I didn’t really feel like drinking to the front to pay. Along the way I stepped over the legs of the sleeping man. “Hey, who is that guy?” I asked, setting my cup down on the counter. “Who? Oh, him. That’s Jeff. I let him come in here to sleep sometimes. When it gets cold.” I didn’t know what to say to that so I didn’t say anything. Jarred scanned my cup. “Hey, you doin’ okay man? It’s no good to be going on walks at 4 in the morning.” I felt grateful that he had asked. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He looked me straight in the eye and I should have been able to return his gaze, but for whatever reason I wasn’t.
He scratched his face. In the flickering light it was hard to tell where his acne scars started and his stubble stopped. He couldn’t quite grow a beard but it didn’t stop him from trying. “You know what you need?” He said solemnly. “You need Jesus.” “Just let me pay for my drink, Jarred.” He put his hands up as if in self defense. “Whatever. But I’m telling you man, you need Jesus. All this s**t,” he gestured to the air around him, “Jesus makes it okay. He’s like a drug, man. A drug that makes you feel okay. A drug that doesn’t get old. And if you aren’t getting in on it, then you're just plain stupid. Oh, and one other thing. You need to f**k a b***h.” “Excuse me?” “Yeah man, you need to get laid. That's what you're missing. F*****g b*****s and Jesus. Let me tell you, I know a couple of girls that get real horny sometimes. They text me, ‘Hey, I need to be fucked,’ and I’m always right there in a heartbeat, ready to f**k ‘em. This one girl, Jessica? She’s real ugly. She’s got a face like a dog. And she’s fat in weird places. But I close my eyes and I can’t tell the difference. Sometimes she asks me to hit her, and I do. I do it while I f**k her. “Jesus loves you, ya dirty w***e!” I yell. I smack her across the face. “The fruits of the spirit are more that you deserve, you c**t!” She has bruises everywhere, but she always moans in pleasure and asks for more. So I give it to her. She goes wild for it. I could give you her number if you want.”
There was a moment of silence. I only wanted to leave. I was warm enough now to handle the cold for a while. “How much is my drink?” “That would be… 2.10.” I laid all of my change out on the counter. I was five cents short. “Can I borrow a nickel?” I asked. “What? You don’t have the money?!” I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. I half thought he was joking. “I’m a nickel short.” “Goddamn it! You think you can come in here without money and act like it’s cool?” I backed away. “Look, I don’t care. Just forget I ordered it, it’s cool.” “It isn’t cool,” Jarred screamed, “You already poured it, you f**k!” He grabbed the cup of hot chocolate and threw it against the wall. It exploded in a shower of brown. The homeless man in the corner went right on sleeping, as though nothing had happened. “I’m gonna go.” I was starting to get angry. “You aren’t gonna go. You're gonna stay and clean this mess up. You need to change, you goddamn sinner.”
My anger swelled inside of me in a red glow. I felt warm. My hands weren’t shaking anymore, and I realized that I could feel them, that they were no longer numb. I let my body take control. It had kept me warm. It knew what to do. I punched Jarred and he stumbled backwards. “What the fu-” he stammered, but by that time, I had tackled him and pinned him to the floor. I could feel hot blood pumping through my veins. I put my knees over his arms, pinning them to the floor, and I slammed my palm into his face. Hard. Again and again. His nose was bleeding. He gasped for breath. I hit him again. And again. My hands seared with heat. I was on fire. Again. Again. I felt something crunch in his nose. Again. My body was filled with waves of heat, and it was as though I had never felt cold in my entire life. Again. Again. I realized suddenly, that it was ridiculous. He was older than me, stronger than me, he should have been able to stop me. But he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t trying too. Sweat poured down my face. I stood up and I drove my feet into his ribs. I wanted to hurt him. Again. Again. I hurt him because I had been wronged seventy times seven, and nobody asked for my forgiveness. I hurt him because because I was a lost prodigal son who had never, never been asked to come home. I hurt him because the world was made of darkness, and I had finally taken it upon myself to say, “Let there be light.”
And then I felt a hand grab the back of my shirt and pull me away from Jarred. It was the homeless man. His hands trembled and his mouth opened and closed compulsively. But what I noticed was his eyes. His eyes were open now and they were a bright pure blue, full of wonder, and looking into them was like looking into a sea. His eyes caught me off guard, and I allowed myself to be pulled away from Jarred. Jarred’s bloodied form on the floor groaned. “It’s all good, man. I forgive you.”
The homeless man had pushed me to the door. I could smell his breath and it stank. His mouth opened and shut but he never spoke. He blinked several times, like he couldn’t help it. He was hideous, but his eyes were beautiful.
Jarred's voice came from the floor: “You do what you gotta do man, I forgive you.” The homeless man shoved me out the door. The cheerful artificial chime rang out as I fell into the freezing puddle of gasoline. The freezing liquid shocked my body. I gasped for air. I was no longer hot. I pulled myself to a standing position. The palms of my hands ached. The rest of my body was already starting to shiver.
What had I done?
I started to walk away from the gas station, I didn’t know where I was going, there was nowhere to go. Without knowing why I started to run, I ran into the cold, away from the gas station, away from the church, away from my home, I was determined only to freeze to death and to feel no longer, I ran harder and harder and my head pounded and throbbed like a drum, I was freezing cold already, I pushed myself further and further so that I might collapse.
And then there was the church. In front of me. Looming. A giant shape in the darkness. And up close it was different. It no longer seemed magnificent. There was a battered car in the parking lot. There was dust on the yellow windows. But there was no question, it was the same church. How? I wondered. How? I had run in the opposite direction. I had run away from the church, I was sure of it. I had run away from this and here it was. Without pausing to think I ran up the wooden stairs onto the porch and tried the doors. They weren't locked. I pulled the door open, allowing a golden ray of light to slide past me as I stepped inside.
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As the boy and his father grew older they changed. The father became busy with the church and because money was tight, he had to work an additional job. Though he tried his best to balance church and work and family, he was was not perfect, and the family sometimes suffered. As the boy grew, he grew arrogant and foolish. When the world built walls, he ran into them, and bruised himself against them. Once after he had acted very childish, the father lost his temper with his son and hurt him with his fists. The boy responded by hurting his father with his words and by letting him have no part in his life. And even though the father apologized, and tried to explain that he was always learning, always changing, the boy would not forgive him. The boy surrounded himself with his hurt and he built his life upon it. Church became a form of punishment, and he no longer went with his father in the mornings. He no longer went at all if he could help it. The world became a place that was full of hypocrites, and in order to escape from this world he would go on long walks late at night, all alone. He would sleep all day and he would wander all night and as he grew older he began to wonder why the world was made of darkness. The father grew older also. And he always did his best to be a good father and to be a good pastor, and though he often failed at both, he never forgot to forgive his son or to forgive God for blessing him with hardship.
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When he came home from work she was sitting in her wheelchair by the window. Before the wheelchair it hadn’t been so difficult. Since the wheelchair it had become almost impossible. “Hello, beautiful!” He announced as he set a bag of groceries down on the table, “How was your day?” “ __________________.” If the wheelchair had made things almost impossible, the loss of her voice had made things completely impossible. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. She had an open book on her lap. “What are you reading?” “ __________________.” He picked up the book to look at it. It was a copy of her old Bible, all the way back from when they were in school together. She was trying to communicate something with her hands, but he wasn’t sure what it was. It hurt him to see her like this. He reminded himself not to ask questions that couldn’t be answered with a nod or a shake of the head. “You want the book?” “ __________________.” She nodded. Once she had it in her hands she turned the pages so that the Bible was open to Genesis: 22. She pointed with shaking fingers to a note written in the margin of the story of Abraham and Isaac. The note looked old. It had to be. She hadn’t been able to write for a long time. He understood her gesture and he placed his finger below her note and read it aloud. “What happens when Abraham loves Isaac more than he loves God?” She looked at him questioningly. “ __________________.” “You're asking me?” “ __________________.” She nodded. He rubbed his neck and furrowed his brow. “Gosh, I don’t know. It's only a what if question…” “ __________________.” Her expression said that it was much more than that. “Um, I don't know, I guess I would say that God forgives Abraham, just like He forgives all of us.” “ __________________.” She shook her head no. “Maybe God reminds Abraham that He is supposed to be the most important thing in his life.” “ __________________.” She looked at him skeptically. “Well what do you think then?” It had slipped out before he could stop it. She looked at him with hurt eyes. “I’m sorry.” “ __________________.” “I didn’t mean to…” “ __________________.” “You know I love you right?” “ __________________.” “I love you.” “ __________________.” “I love you so much. You mean the world to me. You mean everything to me.” “ __________________.” “Everything is going to be okay. You are going to be okay.” “ __________________.” She had begun to cry. She couldn’t help it. He tried to wipe away her tears but she pushed him away. He tried to kiss her but she turned away. She tried to hit him but her arm wouldn’t move the way it was supposed to. She barely moved it across her lap. She opened her mouth as if to speak.
“ __________________.”
“ __________________.” “ __________________.” “ __________________.” “ __________________.” “ __________________.” “ __________________.” “ __________________.”
He backed away. He knew that he was doing more harm than good. He backed away and she turned away. He made himself busy doing chores around the house, and she sat in her chair and looked out the window and cried.
At night there was no need to speak. At night, in the silence, in the darkness, there was only each other’s bodies. To touch one another was to communicate. And so during their last weeks together they did not speak. They were close to one another only during the night, when words were not needed. And during the day they left each other alone. They gave each other space. It was the only option. There was no use in pretending that they could remedy each other's suffering.
When she died, he didn’t cry. He went to the bar and he brought his toothbrush and he drank. When the bar closed he went to a hotel instead of coming home. He was not sober for a full month. He lived that way until it became too much and when he finally came home, it was to box up her things. As he filled boxes and boxes with what was hers, he found her laptop. He didn’t know why but he opened it. Inside there was a document addressed to him. He clicked on it and it opened up a single sentence. It had several typos. It had taken her broken body an hour to type.
“If ther is a ggod, He kil;ls Issac so that Abrahem mite lo]ve Him more, And in dooing so l;ove issac bettre.”
It was then that he cried. Because what was the use of learning to love something that you had already lost?
At her funeral, he spoke. And at the end of his speech he announced that he would be leaving. Afterwards, all of their friends and family came to him and tried to talk him out of it. “We need you here,” they had said, “At least take some time to think about it.” Only her father had said otherwise. He approached him with a bottle in his hand and said, “You have an opportunity to be better than me. But if you don’t leave today, you never will.”
And that settled it. He returned home and he packed his things. It only took him 20 minutes. He took only what he needed: food, water, clothing, and a few other things: his unused guitar from college, books he had not read. The only things of hers that he brought were a single photograph and her wedding ring. He packed his car and he was gone. He drove. All the way to the highway and when he reached it, he pulled over and he parked the car. He climbed out and he stood on the side of the road. Garbage littered the pavement. He pulled a quarter from his pocket and he held it in the palm of his hand. There, standing by the side of the highway, he closed his eyes and he prayed. He could feel the speed of the cars as they raced by. They blew his hair from his face. “God,” he said, “I realize now that I have spent my entire life making you into whatever I wanted you to be. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But if there is any reason for all of this, If there is any reason that you took her from me, please, please reveal it to me.” And with that he flipped a coin. And when it landed he climbed back into the car and he merged onto the highway and he drove.
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1 Then Jesus came to a place called Gethsemane and He said to the disciples, “Sit here, while I go and pray over there.” 2 And He went and he became sorrowful and deeply distressed and his sweat became great drops of blood falling to the ground. 3 He then fell on his face and prayed saying, “O my father, if it is possible let this cup pass from me. My soul is exceedingly sorrowful. Even unto death. 4 God, surely you are capable of all things, and as your son I’m asking you: If there is any other way to pay this price, then let's do it that way. 5 I am so alone Father. I live in a world that I do not belong in. I belong with you. I am your son and I am supposed to be with you. They can’t always understand me. They try their best, but they can’t help it. 6 Father, I’m sweating blood. I feel such incredible pain, and the true pain has not even begun. I long to be with you, to feel your presence, but even though I am your son, I can’t always feel you. I feel alone. 7 Again, I ask. If there is any way, let this cup pass me by.” 8 And as Jesus looked into the sky there was no parting of the clouds, no clap of thunder, no voice from heaven.There was only silence. 9 “Nevertheless not what I will, but what you will,” spoke Jesus. 10 Then he came and found his disciples sleeping. They could not even stay awake one hour with him. 11 Jesus sat and waited. 12 Morning decorated the eastern sky. The sun was rising. And far below from where he sat, he could hear the march of soldiers feet, climbing the mountain. Led by his friend, they were coming to take him away, to pain, to death, and to eternal glory.
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The inside of of the church was just the way I remembered it. I hadn’t been on the inside for a long time but nothing had changed. I stood in a small foyer. To my left was a table with a coffee pot and church bulletins. Posters for church events decorated the walls. I stepped through a set of double doors into the main sanctuary. The lights were on in here as well. Rows of pews ran up to the front of the church, where a small stage was decorated with a wooden pulpit and microphones and music stands. A projector screen hung on the wall behind the stage, used for projecting lyrics during worship. I walked up the main aisle, and about halfway up I noticed that in one of the pews there was a blanket and a pillow and a backpack. Had somebody slept here? I heard a voice clear his throat behind me and my heart nearly stopped. I turned around. There was a man. He was a tall and he looked like he was about 50. He had brown hair that was starting to grey and a haircut that was a few decades out of style. He wore a leather jacket with a grey sweatshirt underneath. He wore blue jeans and socks. He carried a toothbrush in his right hand. But it was his face that caught my attention. It was an intelligent face with a long nose and a thin mouth. His eyes were a bright blue and they drooped, but they looked intelligent. He had a weathered face. It looked rough, like it had been through too much, but it also looked kind. It was an approachable face.
“Hi,” he said. “Hi,” I said back. “Looks like you had a hell of a night.” I hadn’t realized that I was still covered in gasoline and mud. “Yeah, I guess so.” He smiled a little bit then. “Well, I’m making some coffee. Do you want some?” I did actually. Coffee sounded great. I nodded. The man turned and walked towards the foyer where the coffee maker was. I followed him. “Did you get to bed at all last night?” I didn’t really feel like elaborating. The man opened a cupboard and pulled out a bag of coffee grounds, which he then poured into a filter. It struck me odd that he was asking me these questions. He was the one who was sleeping in the church. Did anyone know he was here? He must have read my expression because he introduced himself. He held out his hand and I shook it. He had a firm grip. “I don’t really have a home at the moment. That's why I’m sleeping in here. Your dad told me that I could until I found a place.” “How did you know that my dad is the pastor?” “You look just like him. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that…” He smiled. “Your dad talks about you a lot.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I bet he does.” The man raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything. He poured the half full pot of coffee into a mug. “Do you like cream or sugar?” “Just cream.” He poured some cream into the mug and handed it to me. “Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” “What's this all about? All these long walks in the middle of the night?” I’m not sure why I answered the man honestly. I felt like I could trust him. I don’t know why but I did. “I don’t know if I believe in God.” He looked at me funny. It was an intense look. It was as though I had brought back a memory he had long forgotten about. He didn’t say anything. He stirred the coffee that he had poured for himself.
The words poured out of me like a flood. “It’s just that there's so much that feels contrived in religion. There's so much that feels contradictory. And that would be fine, that wouldn’t be a big deal if I could feel God’s presence in my life, but I can’t. I would be more than willing to accept that things are more complicated than I can understand if I could only say that God has had a personal impact on my life and that He has never failed me. But I can’t say that because I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t know if I’ve ever communicated with God. I don’t know If I believe in a God anymore. I don’t know anything.” The man was silent. He sipped at his coffee. I wasn’t sure why I had just told him everything. I didn’t even know this guy. He thought for a while and when he spoke he spoke carefully. “I’m a prideful old geezer and I love to act like I know more than I do. In all honesty I don't know much at all. It’s easy for me to forget what it is like to be young, what it is like to struggle with faith, what it is like to lose the things you love. I could tell you what I believe, but ultimately, what I believe doesn’t matter much. If you’re struggling, struggle. But there is one thing I do know: Your father loves you, and you're hurting him and yourself by pushing him away.” “My father is not a good man.” I was surprised at my own bitterness. Did I really mean that? The man laughed. “Of course he isn’t. But who is? I’m not a good man. Are you? I’ve never met you before, but I can tell you right now that you are not a good man.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that you have to choose. You have the ability to be more beautiful than this world has been to you. But if you're not careful, you're going to waste your whole life searching for a reason to do so. And you will never find one. You have to do it because you are capable of doing it.” There was silence. I was thinking about what he said. The man downed the last bit of coffee in his mug and rinsed it out in the sink. “Really, the only thing that we have any say over is how we let this world change us.”
He coughed loudly, from deep within his throat. It was a terrible sound. It sounded like death. “You okay?” “Yes.” He patted his chest as if to calm it down. “I have a fair amount of health problems.” He looked at his watch. “Anyways, I’ve got to go to work now. I usually stick around for service on Sunday mornings, but I have some overtime to pull down at the mechanics shop.” “I haven’t seen you before. How long have you been going to church here?” He nodded and he walked into the sanctuary. He emerged with a backpack on his back, and he walked past me and out the front doors. He waved as he passed. “Bye.”
I felt like a fool. If there was anyone who needed to be forgiven it was me. I had people who loved me, and I had been ignoring them and hurting them, and I was too busy studying my own pain to see it. I was tired of holding it against people for being people. Of course they didn’t deserve forgiveness. Did I? I had hurt a person with my fists not an hour ago. I had done the very thing I hated my father for doing. I felt like a fool. I could have done so many other things with the hours I had wasted walking through the dark. My own father, who I endlessly criticized, had taken the time to give a bed to a man who didn’t have a place to sleep. Even Jarred, in spite of all his flaws, had helped a homeless man. What had I done? What had I done? I drank the rest of my coffee and set the mug down on the step beside me. Eventually an old truck that I knew all too well pulled into the parking lot. It appeared to be the first one there, but in actually there had been another before it. The truck parked and the door opened.
It was my father.
Outside of the church, the rain fell. I could hear it tapping on the roof. Outside it was cold. Outside the winds blew. But inside of the old wooden building, the people came and slowly filled the sanctuary and were warm and sheltered from the weather. And at last, I saw each person for what they were: They were each drops of ink that refused to be wiped away. And together, they were more than that. Together, they formed words and sentences and entire pages of writing. Together, they formed a story and they clung to their pages in spite of the elements and they refused to disappear. Together, they gave strength and comfort to one another, if only because they were capable of doing so. And none of them deserved it. They were all like Jarred, they were all like my father, and they were all like me. They had all wronged each other unspeakably, and there was nothing that could remedy that. But there was forgiveness, and there was the promise of love yet to come.
That morning, the church pianist played old hymns, and his fingers slid gently over the keys, moving slowly from chord to chord. And when he finished, my father came to the front and he taught. As I listened to his words I realized that I still didn’t know if I believed. I felt, for once, like I didn’t need to. My father’s faith belonged to him. Just as my faith belonged to me. Just as the faith of each person in the church belonged to them, individually. As my father spoke, the people heard his words, and they needed them, and they were more beautiful because of them, and that was enough. Sitting there listening to my father's voice and the rain against the church roof, I felt free and complete with happiness. And if all my life was for that single moment, it was well worth it.
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“Most assuredly I say to you, when you were younger you girded yourself and and walked where you wished; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands and another will gird you and carry you where you do not wish. So Judge not, that you shall not be judged, condemn not, that you shall not be condemned and forgive, that you shall be forgiven.” Read More at http://crabwax.wix.com/creativewriting © 2015 Christian Larsen |
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Added on December 31, 2015 Last Updated on December 31, 2015 Tags: #multiple story lines, #christianity, #father/son Author
Christian LarsenFort Collins, COAboutChristian Larsen lives in Fort Collins, Colorado and when he isn’t working, hiking, reading, or drinking coffee from his mug that he only washes once a year, he is writing. His favorite author c.. more..Writing
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