"But do you know there are only seven documents we have that prove his existence?"
"Interesting."
"What about Julius Caesar?"
"I believe he existed." A pause, and the corner of his mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile. "But you're going to tell me the proof of his existence is based on a similarly small number."
"Ten, to be exact." She said it quickly, the way she always did when she was building toward something and was afraid she'd lose her nerve if she slowed down. "And both men were born hundreds of years B.C."
Her husband leaned back against his seat, and the way he was looking at her now had Chelsea biting back a smile.
"Go on."
Olivio crossed his arms against his chest, and Chelsea lost the battle as a sheepish smile formed over her lips. "You already know where I'm heading with this, right?"
"Perhaps."
She shook her head, saying ruefully, "There's no perhaps about it. I know you know where I'm going with this, and I guess...I'm surprised you've let me get this far?"
So am I,Olivio thought.
Ever since Aivan and Sienah had sorted out their marriage troubles, and only by God's grace, as his sister-in-law would always gently emphasize, even his father and Selena had enjoyed a resurgence of their faith. It was why his father had mellowed of late, and Aivan was no longer reserved in showing his love for his wife.
Despite all the noticeable changes, however, Olivio had always distanced himself from his family's attempts to speak to him about their beliefs. It simply wasn't for him, he had always thought.
But for some reason, when it was his wife talking about it...
"Over twenty-one thousand!"
Olivio raised a brow at the way his wife had blurted out a figure in the midst of the contemplative silence between them.
"There are over twenty-one thousand documents that speak of Jesus' existence and the New Testament in general," Chelsea said in a rush, "and some of them were written by individuals who weren't even Christians."
While speaking, his wife retrieved something from the storage rack under their breakfast table: a slightly worn copy of Lee Strobel'sThe Case for Christ, with more than a handful of colorful page tabs poking from its sides. The book had the look of something that had been read more than once and argued with in the margins, and he found his gaze lingering on the faded spine, the dog-eared corners, the way her fingers held it, not casually, the way one held a book one was lending, but close to her body, the way one held something that mattered.
"You asked me last night about what I wanted for a wedding gift—-" Chelsea was suddenly shy, her voice dropping to something just above a mumble, and her gaze skittered away from his to land somewhere around the blue ceramic plate. "And I was hoping you'd find time to read this."
Her heart pounded as her husband leaned forward, and then he was cupping her chin to tip her head up—-
Their gazes met, and this time, the darkness of his eyes yielded nothing. He was looking at her the way he looked at contracts: with absolute attention and no readable intent.
"Why do you want me to read this, Chelsea?"
Because I love you,she thought.
She didn't know when it started. Why it came to be or how it was even possible in so short a time. All she knew was that she loved him, would always love him, and since loving someone also meant seeking the highest good for the other person—-
"I want you to go to Heaven."
The words simply tumbled out, and she found herself holding her breath, not knowing what to expect—-
"Alright."
Her eyes went wide.
She searched his face for any trace of mockery, of the polite deflection she knew he'd perfected over years of turning down his family's gentle overtures. She searched for the careful distance he maintained whenever faith came up in conversation, the way he'd redirect with a question or a dry observation, never dismissive, never unkind, but never letting it in either.
There was none of that.
