“You coming with us this morning, sir?” Jake asks.
Oh, boyfriend. Oh, brave, brave boyfriend.
“Dad has a date,” I say, trying my hardest to make it sound like shut up. I drag him to my barstool. “Sit. Eat a pancake. Three minutes, I swear.”
I run from the kitchen, holding my robe closed. Jake’s doing his best, trying to engage Dad, making small talk. I’d give most anything for the two of them to find some common ground, to find something neutral they can discuss. I whisper a prayer.
“So you have a date, huh?” Jake’s voice carries through my bedroom door. “That’s cool. You could bring her to church too, if you want.”
I pray harder.
The first time I remember stepping foot into a church was this past Christmas. It was the same church, in fact, that Dad had recently helped repair. After a massive storm knocked an evergreen onto the roof, an improvised patch was thrown together until a roofing company could get a team out there—a team willing to work through the rain.
So that’s how I spent my Christmas morning. Sitting between Jake and Canaan on a wooden pew that had suffered quite a bit of water damage itself. Dad wasn’t happy about my interrupting our Christmas morning, but he didn’t protest much. I asked him to come with us. I even begged a little, but he declined. Still, the look on his face wasn’t nearly so bitter as it is these days.
Looking back on it, I think he figured my desire to attend stemmed from my crush on the new boy. And while there’s an element of truth there, he had yet to understand how deep the transition truly was.
Even without Dad, that church service was an hour and a half I’ll never forget.
I was nervous. I’d been dreading it, really. Christmas without Ali. I just wasn’t sure I could do it, and I knew I couldn’t tackle the day without celestial eyes. So I selected my outfit with careful precision: a black sweater dress with metallic silver threads woven into it over black tights. On my head was a beanie—a crocheted beret, really. But it had fancy silver buttons on the side and it looked dressy.
Underneath my cap, nestled snug to my crown, was Canaan’s halo.
I didn’t tell Jake or Canaan that I’d decided to wear it, and they didn’t ask. But by the look of amusement on Canaan’s face as we exited the building that day, he’d figured it out.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the minute we pulled into the parking lot I knew that I didn’t know anything. Not about church or the people who filled the pews week after week. Nothing about this new family I’d suddenly become a part of. And while I’ve come to understand that no congregation is perfect, that one Christmas morning was enough to endear me to the people of God in a way that still breaks my heart.
I stepped out of the car, my hand warm inside Jake’s, the world all fire and light to my celestial eyes. From atop the church strange tendrils of color curled. Like the wafting of incense, the bending colors lifted higher and higher, disappearing into the celestial sky.
I turned my eyes back to the building and focused. As I did, the stained-glass windows, the planters full of Christmas roses, the tarp tacked up to prevent rainfall from damaging the church further—all of it disappeared, and I saw the source of the spiraling wisps of color.
It was the pianist.
Stephanie something. Older than I was, but not by much. I’d seen her around—her mom owned the fabric store in town—but I’d never seen her like this. Her eyes were closed, her lips silent, but as her fingers struck each key, the music rose like campfire smoke into the sky.
And then I smelled it.
For the first time ever, I smelled adoration.
I smelled worship.
Deep and earthy. And sweet. Like the lily of the valley that blanketed Gram’s front lawn, the fragrance spread through the sky with the intensity of her praise. I wondered if she had any idea how sweet her devotion was in the heavenlies. How fragrant, how honeyed, how pleasing.
The rest of the service brought many similar questions. So much to see and smell, to take in. To process. And through it all Jake was there on one side and Canaan on the other. They didn’t try to explain; they didn’t ask me if I was okay.