“That won’t upset your parents?”
“Why should it?”
He looks genuinely confused. “That you’re attending a church outside your faith?”
“You are.”
He blushes, and it literally takes every ounce of self-control I have not to pull him into my arms and kiss him. He’s fucking adorable. “I’m not telling them, though,” he mutters.
Briefly, as we walk, I detail my parents’ views on religion, concluding with, “It’s more important to them that my brother and I be good people. Not that we follow any particular doctrine. If we decided to be atheists, they’d still love us.”
“No way.”
My heart’s breaking for him, because I suspect his parents are jerks. “Way.”
When we arrive, I lead the way to a pew toward the back. I want to be able to get up and leave if I need to without disrupting the service. There have been a few times—rare, though—when I’ve felt the need to walk out of a service because of something I disagreed with. Usually because of homophobic views expressed by the religious leader. Fortunately, that’s never happened at my home church.
I watch Ward as he looks around the sanctuary, taking it all in. During the service, I frequently glance at him and note the confused amazement in his expression. Once the service ends and we leave, he looks deep in thought.
While part of me hesitates to interrupt him, I have to ask. “What’d you think?”
“It was…nice.”
“‘Nice’ as in you regret coming with me?” I hope the smile and playful tone clue him in that I’m kidding.
“No. Nice as in I didn’t feel like I was getting yelled at for an hour and being accused of not being good enough.” Then he blushes. “Wow. Did I really say that out loud?”
Now I feel sorry for him. “You want to talk about it? No judgment, and it stays between us.”
He chews on that for a moment. “Do you mind if I ask you questions about how you were raised in your church?”
“Not at all.”
He pauses and I stop walking, too. Then he points to a little coffeeshop we passed on our way to the church. “Can I buy you coffee or something? Maybe we can sit and talk for a while?” The quiet tone he asks this in speaks of his expectation that I’m going to refuse.
Like he’s used to being ignored. Or, worse, maybe like he’s used to being ridiculed.
“Sure, buddy. I’d enjoy that.”
His tentative smile breaks my heart and makes me determined to, at the very least, make a friend out of him before the end of the semester.
Because I get the distinct impression he doesn’t have any friends at all.
* * * *
How do you explain the full expanse of your faith to someone? I don’t mean some regurgitated bullshit anyone can find on Wikipedia, either.
I mean the good, the bad, the ugly. The things you hope are true, the things you aren’t so sure about, and what you truly believe might be bullshit, but you still hang on to hope that it’s not?
All I can do is be honest.
We’re sitting in the coffeeshop, in a dim far corner, with the wall on one side and no one close enough to hear us talk. “What would you like to know?” I ask.
“How do you know what to really believe?”
That’s a good question and one I’ve asked my parents before. “I don’t.”
He holds his cup in both hands, slowing turning it, his gaze focused on it. “Then how do you know what to…do? What’s right?”
