The Church

Hellie

Just when I thought Fogerty was the biggest jerk on the planet, I apparently have met his match. Zenith is a real gut puncher, walking in like he owns the place while I stand outside the church, meekly poking in my head like I'll burst into flames if I take a step forward.

I feel like a vampire waiting to be invited in.

"Hey there! Don't be shy." Somebody inside is reading my thoughts, and as I try to respond like a human being, my tongue knots and I instantly think of the last time I was in church. It was during Daisy's "come to Jesus" phase where she erroneously believed God or the universe would somehow miraculously heal her brain and turn her into Mother Teresa. I spent three consecutive Sundays in something called "Bible Time," listening to how I'd be sent to hell for wearing shorts.

It was resplendent.

Zenith sauntered his way back to my feet, roping himself around my legs and rudely pushing me forward. I tripped inside the tiny foyer and squeezed my eyes shut as to not watch my flesh spontaneously combust in front of this poor woman who was tricked into wearing horizontal blue and white stripes. I'm no fashion expert, but even I know this is a no-no.

"Oh, watch out for Magellan there. He tends to get a little handsy."

"You don't say." The limestone pavers are sturdy beneath my feet, and the church looks like how I expect a church to look – dark wood and an overarching sense of being better than me. I turn back to the door, but I'm caught by Stripes's hand that shoots out at me, waiting for a shake.

"Barbara Ann. I'm the secretary here," she says. I take it and have my hand thrusted up and down. I'm typically used to Brent's dead fish of a handshake and find myself absorbing the undulations through my stomach, my knees. I've never so badly wanted to bolt.

"I've been praying for you," she says. That's when I stare directly in her face. I was expecting someone older from my initial rough sketch, but looking closer, I see that Barbara Ann must be around my age. Her hair frames her chin, and a wave of fringe tickles her glasses. Her eyes are dark and earnest, and for a second, I believe her. This woman has been praying...for me.

"Excuse me?" I say, realizing I'm alone in a building tucked away from the street with someone who is most likely a lunatic because that would be my luck.

"Sorry. I'm usually not so forward, but I have several boxes I need to get upstairs and no one's here today. Millie is getting a root canal and Pastor Mike is visiting his grand nieces and nephews, so I'm stuck here trying to figure out how I'm going to get these boxes of hymnals and Bibles up the stairs."

I want to say, "Well, I don't envy you," as I walk back out into the nonjudgmental sunlight, but something stops me. There's a story here, Hellie, it says, and I've never wanted to slap my inner voice harder. But I know it's right. And if I want this book to be something, then I suppose it has to be about something. So, I do something I rarely ever do. I swallow my pride and experience its chalky plummet down my intestines.

"Sure," I say, and even manage something roughly akin to a smile.