“Good morning, sweetie. Would you like some coffee?” she asked, her voice warm and inviting.
“Oh, no, thank you. Is E, um… Is Emanuele—”
“He’ll be out in just a second. Come, have a seat. I made you some breakfast.”
She placed a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. It was delicious—a hangover’s cure, and I think she knew it. She refilled my glass and my plate and sat with me as I ate again. She talked with me easily, asking about school and friends, and what I did for fun. She was impressed that I liked to write and sing and told me how beautifully creative I must be. She was the epitome of what a mom should be and made me feel loved after just a few words. Her lighthearted, angelic nature reminded me of Mother Goose, if Mother Goose were a gorgeous, smiling thirty-something-year-old.
E emerged from the other side of the house with a big smile. He was wearing a white T-shirt and dark blue jeans, and he was barefoot with his hair still damp from the shower. He looked like a Calvin Klein model.
“Morning, Ma. Morning, Syd,” he said, so naturally, as if greeting me in his kitchen was something he did every morning, and I liked how it felt.
“Good morning, my son.” She smiled at him as he kissed her on the cheek, then she turned to me. “Will you be joining us for church, Sydney?” she asked.
“Oh, uh…” I looked down at my overly plain attire—black leggings and an oversized tan sweater draped over my cream camisole. I looked at E. “I don’t have any clothes.”
She smiled warmly. “That’s okay, honey. The Lord doesn’t care what you’re wearing.”
It was oddly comforting.
A short while later, we arrived at a plain white building. It was…underwhelming, to say the least. I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe a big cathedral like I used to see in New York—but this wasn’t that. It was just a structure, like ahouse, if a house had a large parking lot. There were no huge columns or dramatic statues. The west wall of the house-church had three stained glass windows set between clear ones that made the light pour in beautifully, magically. That, and the one wooden cross, was as churchy as it got, which made it feel more welcoming somehow.
E’s parents said hello to the others they knew—which, like E, seemed to be everyone—and E walked me into the chapel, grabbing two end seats in the third row from the front.
“Where are your sisters?” I asked, realizing they weren’t with us, nor were they home this morning.
“They come early and volunteer with the kids during service. We’ll see them after.”
“Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably. I was suddenly intimidated by the level of involvement his family had at church. They didn’t just attend; they were full-on participants, and I realized how much I didn’t belong.
E sensed my discomfort and squeezed my hand, snapping my attention to him. He winked at me, and, just like he knew it would, it instantly calmed my nerves.
Minutes later, four band members accompanied the stage along with two vocalists. The music began, and suddenly we were attendants at the best alternative rock concert I’d ever been to. The drums tapped to the beat of my soul, and the lyrics proclaimed words my heart never spoke but knew so well. The energy was high and uplifting, but I found myself overwhelmed, a knot forming in my throat at the lightness in my chest.
The pastor came to the stage—in sneakers, jeans, and a T-shirt, by the way—and thanked the band before openingwith a prayer. E leaned forward, dipping his head as he propped his elbows on his knees and folded his hands before him. I was mesmerized.
The service was beautiful. Encouraging. Revitalizing. It seemed more like motivational speaking with positive reinforcement than a religious cult, like my mom always described it. But there was something that had me questioning.
“E,” I whispered, and he moved his ear closer to me. “Why do they keep saying your name?”
He smiled and swung his arm behind my chair as he brought his lips to my ear. My body came alive at his breath on my neck, and I did my best to calm my nerves, if only for being in church.
“Emanuele is Italian,” he explained. “Pronounced E-man-wellé, but we just say ‘Emanuele’. It’s also Hebrew. It means ‘God is with us.’”
I was stunned. Shocked by yet another double meaning that fit so well. One that seemed to be the very embodiment of life and E and everything around me. Godwaswith us. He was with me. He had to be there—otherwise, how could I have found E?
E’s mom met us in the entryway after church had ended. She didn’t ask my thoughts or how I felt about the service. She just gave me a hug and told me she was glad I came. Then she turned to E.
“Still baking today, right?” E nodded. “Thank you, son.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and did the same for me. “We’re getting lunch and then running some errands. Order pizza if you get hungry. Or have pie for lunch.” Shesmiled, wide and warm before exiting the door to meet E’s dad out front. I turned to E with a questioning look.
“You bake?” First church, now food? The man was full of surprises. The corner of his lips curved up in a smile. Warm brown eyes poured into mine like melted caramel.
“Only on Sunday Mornings.” He winked, and I felt my cheeks warm. He chuckled at my response and shook his head.
“Come on, Betty Crocker.” He held the door open for me as I walked through.
“I’m not Betty.You’reBetty,” I recovered, but he only laughed harder
Forty minutes later, E’s kitchen smelled of sugar and cinnamon, and was covered in flour and bowls of sliced peaches. I watched him as he rolled out the dough alongside me, then gathered it onto the pin before laying it out over the glass dish. We were working in unison—he on the pie his Mom would bring to bible study, I on the one we’d eat that day.
