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I don’t know if he means to do it, but Andrew’s eyes fly to mine. I think we both know what’s coming, but when Mom comes into the living room with the ruined remnants of Andrew’s ugly Christmas sweater, for just a second I think I’ve been saved.
He’ll believe me.
But that’s the problem. I can see in his eyes that he does believe everything I told him, and it’s somehow worse.
Andrew stands, taking the sweater from Mom’s hands, and leaves the room.
chapter twenty-five
St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Park City is an intensely stunning old stone-and-wood building set in the middle of a snow-covered field. In the summer, it is surrounded by towering trees of fluffy green, but this time of year, the branches are bare and decorated with the crystalline splendor of winter.
We go to the early Christmas Mass service—Mom, Miles, Lisa, and I—in part so that we don’t lose much time with the rest of the group, but also to avoid the chaos of younger kids later in the morning.
Although I love our church back home, the fact that I come to St. Mary’s only once or twice a year gives it this deeply nostalgic place in my life. Inside, it is beautiful simplicity: softly arched ceilings, crisscrossed pale wood beams, unassuming stone walls. Smooth wooden pews and tall windows that keep the space bright and clear.
And then, unfortunately, there’s the altar—the one thing that demonstrates that I am a terrible Catholic and probably going straight to hell no matter how I spend my Sundays. With arched stone framing an equally arched window, it looks so much like a vagina from where we sit to the side that neither Miles nor I can ever look at it without breaking into suppressed laughter.
Today, though, I stare directly at it for a full five minutes before realizing I am looking into the dark depths of the building’s vaginal canal. What’s wrong with me?
I blink away, focusing down on my hands in my lap. I’m warmly bracketed by my mother on my left and Lisa on my right. Their arms are pressed along mine; such a simple point of contact but so oddly grounding. My two mothers— one by birth and upbringing, one that Mom chose as her closest friend. You’d think things would be weird with Lisa today, after my emotional fiasco with both of her sons over the last couple of days, but it’s not.
Probably because she’s known me longer than anyone aside from my parents. She pulled me aside on the walk to the car this morning and said, “I want you to know that no matter what, I am always—always—here for you.” It wasn’t a long exchange, just a hug and a sad, understanding smile, but it was exactly what I needed to hear to let the air out of that stress steam-pipe. Disappointing the adults in my life is kryptonite to my peace of mind.
Of all of us here, Mom is the most devout, but we each have our own relationship with church. Mine has generally skewed more toward sentimental comfort: I love the songs, the community, the breathtaking beauty of church architecture (minus the vagina). I love the consistency of the rituals. Mom never demanded that we believe everything she believes—after all, Dad has a firm disinterest in all things religion—or do everything the church wants us to do, which is good, because I found that I was never able to accept the Bible as nonfiction. Mom only asks that we come and listen respectfully, and that we work to be good and kind, and live generous lives.
But this is now, and my first time inside a church after having real and irrefutable proof that there is another power, bigger than me, at work in this world. I’m still not sure what exactly that power is, but I guess I have to acknowledge there is way more out there than what I understand. I believe now that the universe delivers random acts of kindness, and it’s on us to decide what to do with them.
It’s on me to figure out how to move on from this past week and find happiness—whether that’s with Andrew, or on some other path in my life.
As the priest delivers his tranquil homily about the Gospel of Luke, I close my eyes and try to blur out all sound and images. I try to be present in this quiet moment, to soak up the warmth of my mom at my side and the solid shape of the pew at my back. I’m trying as hard as I can to not silently wish for more—for Andrew’s forgiveness, or for a job I look forward to doing each day. I’ve spent years not trusting my ability to make decisions and quietly letting life just happen to me. It can’t be a coincidence that the moment I stopped being passive and followed my instincts, everything seemed to fall into place. I know what makes me happy—trusting myself. What a gift, right? I found happiness.
