He nods, and I stand up. “I really appreciate this, Max. I know this wasn’t what you expected.” I take a step back. “I, um, guess I’ll call you. Or you call me.”
He nods, then folds the paper in half and half again, and tucks it into his back pocket. I wonder if he will even look at it. If he’ll tear it up in little pieces and rake it into the dirt. If he’ll send it through the wash in his jeans so that he cannot read the words anymore.
I start walking down to the curb, where I’ve left my car, but I am stopped by Max’s voice. “Zoe,” he calls out. “I still pray for you, you know.”
I face him. “I don’t need your prayers, Max,” I say. “Just your consent.”
Faith (4:01)
MAX
Sometimes God just plain pisses me off.
I am the first to tell you that I’m not always the brightest crayon in the box, and that I would never assume I could know what the Lord has up His sleeve, but there are situations where it’s really hard to figure out what He’s thinking at all.
Like when you hear about a bunch of kids being killed in a school shooting.
Or when there’s a hurricane that wipes out an entire community.
Or when Alison Gerhart, a sweet twenty-something who went to Bob Jones University and who had the prettiest soprano in the church choir and who never smoked a day in her life was diagnosed with lung cancer and dead in a month.
Or when Ed Emmerly, a deacon at Eternal Glory, lost his job just when his son needed a pricey spinal surgery.
Since Zoe’s unexpected visit, I’ve been praying over what’s the right thing to do here, but it’s not a matter of black or white. We’re in agreement about one thing: to us, those are not just frozen cells in that clinic; they’re potential children. Maybe we both believe this for very different reasons—mine religious and hers personal—but either way, we don’t want to see those embryos flushed down a drain. I’ve been putting off the inevitable by agreeing to keep them frozen, suspended in limbo. Zoe wants to give them the chance at life every baby deserves.
Even Pastor Clive would side with her on that.
But he’d probably go ballistic if I told him that this future baby was going to spend its life with two lesbian mothers.
On the one hand, I have God reminding me that I can’t destroy a potential life. But what kind of life is it to subject an innocent child to a gay household? I mean, I’ve read the literature that Pastor Clive’s given me, and it’s clear to me (and to the scientists who are quoted) that being gay is not biological but environmental. You know how gays reproduce, don’t you? Since they can’t very well do it the biblical way, they recruit. It’s why the Eternal Glory Church fights so hard against allowing gay teachers in schools—those poor kids don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell at not being corrupted.
“Afternoon, Max,” I hear, and I look up to see Pastor Clive coming in from the parking lot, carrying a bakery box. He doesn’t smoke or drink, but he has a real weakness for cannoli. “Care to share a piece of gustatory paradise from Federal Hill?”
“No thanks.” The sun, behind his head, gives him a halo. “Pastor Clive, have you got a minute?”
“Sure. Come on inside,” he says.
I follow him past the church secretary, who offers me a Hershey’s Kiss from a bowl on her desk, and into his office. Pastor Clive cuts the strings tied around the bakery box with a hunting knife he keeps on a loop of his belt and lifts one of the pastries. “Still can’t be tempted?” he asks, and, when I shake my head, he licks the cream from one end. “This,” he says, his mouth full, “is how I know there’s a God.”
“But God didn’t make those cannoli. Big Mike did, down at Scialo Brothers.”
“And God made Big Mike. It’s all a matter of perspective.” Pastor Clive wipes his mouth with a napkin. “What’s weighing you down today, Max?”
“My ex-wife just told me that she’s married to a woman and she wants to useourembryos to have a baby.” I want to rinse my mouth out. Shame tastes bitter.
Pastor Clive slowly puts down his cannoli. “I see,” he says.
“I’ve been praying. I know the baby deserves to live. But not . . . not like that.” I look down at the ground. “I may not be able to keep Zoe from going to Hell on Judgment Day, but I’m not going to let my kid be dragged down with her.”
“Your kid,” Pastor Clive repeats. “Max, don’t you see? You said it yourself—this isyourbaby. This may be Jesus’s way of telling you it’s time for you to take responsibility for those embryos, lest they wind up in your ex-wife’s control.”
“Pastor Clive,” I say, panicking. “I’m not cut out to be a father. Look at me. I’m a work in progress.”
“We’reallworks in progress. But being responsible for that baby’s life doesn’t necessarily mean what you think. What would you wish most for that child?”
“To grow up with a mom and a dad who love him, I guess. And who can give him everything he needs . . .”
“And who are good Christians,” Pastor Clive adds.
