around the fire pit in the morning. She closed her eyes and
homed in on his voice—deep and rich. When his hand touched her back, she opened
her eyes.
Chris leaned into her, his brow wrinkled, and
whispered, “Don’t you sing?”
She shook her head, and then turned to watch as the
priest and some others adorned with colorful robes processed to the front of
the church. She only caught a glimpse, but the priest looked young, and Rebecca
thought it must be Chris’s friend Father John.
The music stopped, Chris slipped the hymnal back in
the rack, and the priest began to speak. They made the sign of the cross again.
She tried to push down the creeping discomfort, but
something about all the ritual struck her as cultish. Maybe it was because her
experience of worship in a cinder block hall differed drastically from this
experience.
Whereas the walls of her father’s church were plain
and unadorned, here there were murals and statues affixed to every surface.
Frescos and stained-glass windows pulled her attention in every direction. She
studied a scene from Matthew’s Gospel depicted in the window nearest her until
the creak of pews groaning under the weight of the congregants jolted her to
attention. She sat, too, and Chris took her hand and held it between them,
giving it a little squeeze.
Rebecca relaxed as a woman read from the Old
Testament. More singing, and again Chris placed the book between them, presumably
so she could sing along. She kept a small smile plastered to her face, but she
wouldn’t be cowed into singing. A reading from the New Testament followed, and
then everyone stood again, singing. She focused on the priest for the first
time as he read from one of the Gospels.
Her eyes widened and her chin dropped as she took
in the familiar features of the priest. Thank God Chris was beside her and
couldn’t see her reaction.
The priest’s short, light brown hair threatened to
curl if allowed to grow even a half inch longer. His pointed nose and strong
jaw gave him a look of authority despite his age. Although not near enough to
see his eyes, she knew they were green, and even reading from a text his
sonorous voice charmed her as it had that summer eight years ago. This was
Father John? Chris’s good friend—the man he thought of almost as a brother?
What were the odds?
Rebecca reeled in her thoughts and tried to focus
on the Bible passage when everyone spoke in unison again and took a seat. Up,
down, up, down. She thought she’d never catch up. As if she hadn’t had enough
time to focus on Father John already, he launched into his sermon. Rebecca had
to admit he was a gifted speaker. He had the rapt attention of everyone
there—quite a feat considering the mixture of old, young, and in between, men,
women, white, Hispanic, Asian. She’d never been amongst such a diverse group of
people.
Her mind drifted as Father John wrapped things up.
She remembered a seventeen-year-old boy, handsome, smooth, and confident. And
herself—a fifteen-year-old girl, plain, awkward, and shy. What that boy saw in
her, even for a moment, she didn’t know. Then again, she wasn’t sure what the
man next to her now saw in her either.
Chris gave her palm another little squeeze. “Okay?”
he whispered.
As she nodded, everyone rose to their feet again.
Still holding Chris’s hand, she stood. At least the next part she knew and knew
well—the collection basket, apparently the same the world over. More up and
down, then the Lord’s Prayer, in which she prattled on aloud when everyone else
had stopped. She clamped her lips shut as her cheeks heated. If Chris had
noticed her faux pas, he didn’t let on. The next song’s words were
indecipherable, and she concluded they were in a foreign language. More kneeling,
and then something else familiar: communion.
As the people in front of them rose and got in
line, Chris whispered, “Just wait here.” He sat back and raised the kneeler.
She put her hand on Chris’s arm
homed in on his voice—deep and rich. When his hand touched her back, she opened
her eyes.
Chris leaned into her, his brow wrinkled, and
whispered, “Don’t you sing?”
She shook her head, and then turned to watch as the
priest and some others adorned with colorful robes processed to the front of
the church. She only caught a glimpse, but the priest looked young, and Rebecca
thought it must be Chris’s friend Father John.
The music stopped, Chris slipped the hymnal back in
the rack, and the priest began to speak. They made the sign of the cross again.
She tried to push down the creeping discomfort, but
something about all the ritual struck her as cultish. Maybe it was because her
experience of worship in a cinder block hall differed drastically from this
experience.
Whereas the walls of her father’s church were plain
and unadorned, here there were murals and statues affixed to every surface.
Frescos and stained-glass windows pulled her attention in every direction. She
studied a scene from Matthew’s Gospel depicted in the window nearest her until
the creak of pews groaning under the weight of the congregants jolted her to
attention. She sat, too, and Chris took her hand and held it between them,
giving it a little squeeze.
Rebecca relaxed as a woman read from the Old
Testament. More singing, and again Chris placed the book between them, presumably
so she could sing along. She kept a small smile plastered to her face, but she
wouldn’t be cowed into singing. A reading from the New Testament followed, and
then everyone stood again, singing. She focused on the priest for the first
time as he read from one of the Gospels.
Her eyes widened and her chin dropped as she took
in the familiar features of the priest. Thank God Chris was beside her and
couldn’t see her reaction.
The priest’s short, light brown hair threatened to
curl if allowed to grow even a half inch longer. His pointed nose and strong
jaw gave him a look of authority despite his age. Although not near enough to
see his eyes, she knew they were green, and even reading from a text his
sonorous voice charmed her as it had that summer eight years ago. This was
Father John? Chris’s good friend—the man he thought of almost as a brother?
What were the odds?
Rebecca reeled in her thoughts and tried to focus
on the Bible passage when everyone spoke in unison again and took a seat. Up,
down, up, down. She thought she’d never catch up. As if she hadn’t had enough
time to focus on Father John already, he launched into his sermon. Rebecca had
to admit he was a gifted speaker. He had the rapt attention of everyone
there—quite a feat considering the mixture of old, young, and in between, men,
women, white, Hispanic, Asian. She’d never been amongst such a diverse group of
people.
Her mind drifted as Father John wrapped things up.
She remembered a seventeen-year-old boy, handsome, smooth, and confident. And
herself—a fifteen-year-old girl, plain, awkward, and shy. What that boy saw in
her, even for a moment, she didn’t know. Then again, she wasn’t sure what the
man next to her now saw in her either.
Chris gave her palm another little squeeze. “Okay?”
he whispered.
As she nodded, everyone rose to their feet again.
Still holding Chris’s hand, she stood. At least the next part she knew and knew
well—the collection basket, apparently the same the world over. More up and
down, then the Lord’s Prayer, in which she prattled on aloud when everyone else
had stopped. She clamped her lips shut as her cheeks heated. If Chris had
noticed her faux pas, he didn’t let on. The next song’s words were
indecipherable, and she concluded they were in a foreign language. More kneeling,
and then something else familiar: communion.
As the people in front of them rose and got in
line, Chris whispered, “Just wait here.” He sat back and raised the kneeler.
She put her hand on Chris’s arm