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“Here’s the thing, Owen.” I shift in my seat. “The stories in the Bible are more about helping us understand how to live our lives better. You’re not supposed to try and sort out how everything in them happened word for word.”
“How is Jesus walking on the water supposed to help us live our lives better?”
Fuck. I’m trying to remember that damn story from when I was in Sunday school. “Remind me what happens.”
“You don’t remember the Bible story?” His blue eyes cut up to me, very disappointed.
“It’s been a while, and you just heard it. Refresh me.”
“There was a big storm, and all Jesus’s friends were in a boat. So Jesus walked out on the water to where they were. Peter saw him and wanted to walk on water too, so Jesus said, ‘Do it!’ But Peter got scared when he stepped on the water, and he started to go under. So Jesus caught him and told him he didn’t have enough faith.”
“Got it.” I jump in ready to salvage this. “So it’s a story about faith. Jesus told Peter he could do something, but Peter got scared when it looked impossible. It’s a metaphor. If you believe you can do hard things, you’ve got to have faith, even when it’s scary.”
Damn, that’s pretty good, even if I did say it.
“So itwasmagic?” Owen narrows his eyes. “Petercouldwalk on water because Jesus said he could? Like a magician?”
“Jesus wasn’t a magician.” My mom will really let me have it if Owen whips that one out over Sunday dinner. “The story is about Peter. He wanted to do something he thought was impossible, but even when Jesus said he could do it, he still got scared. He just had to have faith. Have you learned about metaphors in school yet?”
“I’m in second grade, Dad. We got a worksheet about it. Custard is happiness in a bowl.”
“Or Froot Loops.” I reach over and scrub his head, and he pushes my hand.
“No more Froot Loops.”
“Yeah, no more Froot Loops.” I exhale. “The metaphor is walking on water. That’s impossible, right?”
“Yeah…”
“What’s something you think is impossible?”
“Making a basket from the free-throw line,” he groans loudly.
Mental note.
“Okay, if you believe you can do it and you work hard, you can. Have faith, and don’t be afraid when it gets scary. Right?”
His little brow furrows as he thinks, and my chest tightens. I remember the first time he tried sweet potatoes, and his brow furrowed just that way—only he was five years younger. Damn time is moving so fast.
“Okay!” He nods, and I smile.
“Look, there’s your Gram. Let’s get inside and have some fried chicken.”
His eyes light, and he grabs the door handle. “Race you to the house!”
I watch him run at top speed to where my mother is holding the glass door open and shaking her head as she smiles. She raised three boys, so she’s used to the tornado of a seven-year-old.
I hesitate before stepping out of my truck, thinking about how much I sounded like Adam just then explaining that Bible story, and while I do believe in working hard and not backing down when things get tough, it’s also important to keep in mind there’s no invisible force that’s going to stop you from drowning when you’re in over your head.
Or stop your otherwise healthy dad from dying of a heart attack at fifty-five.
Or keep your cheating wife from being hit by a car.
My jaw tightens when I remember myself at twenty-eight, praying with the minister before we got married, standing in the front of that church, making promises in front of God and everybody.Believing.
Britt Bailey drifts through my mind. She’s twenty-eight. Her pretty green eyes are all full of faith and hope, and she doesn’t let me push her around, which was an unwelcome turn-on. She’s got a sassy mouth, shapely legs, and a cute ass. The image of her standing by that truck in short shorts and cowboy boots jumps to the front of my brain, and I immediately push it out of my head.
I got over believing in romance and dreams a long time ago. All I care about now are cold, hard facts.
