To the Ends of the Earth (Stripped 5)

I glance back at the skyline. “I’d actually like to go for a walk.”

West excuses himself to confer with the other guards on my detail. Apparently there are more than one. I feel like royalty or something. But it doesn’t take long for them to sort out a plan of action. Then we’re heading down the elevator to the ground floor.

Out on the street I glance to the left and then r

ight. There are several little pizza shops and one with sub sandwiches. There’s some kind of electronics store and a concrete park with a metal playground. I choose one direction at random and keep walking until I find what I’m looking for: a steeple.

It doesn’t matter what denomination the church is. There’s no place that worships like Leader Allen did except for Harmony Hills. And I don’t believe him anymore—most of the time.

This is a Catholic church, with a long display of candles as I enter. Each one represents a different saint. Some are already burning, by whoever came in before me. I find the candle for St. Francis, who cared for the poor and the sick, who loved all creatures big and small, and light it with shaking hands.

The pews are made of a beautiful scarred wood, with small kneeling benches in front of them covered with burgundy leather. West tails me all the way to the church, but once we enter, he stands at the back, arms crossed behind him.

I walk down the aisle in my jeans and T-shirt, feeling out of place. I’m not fancy enough for the elaborate stained glass or altar made of marble. But I slip into one of the pews, kneeling on the padded bench. I bend my head and whisper the Lord’s Prayer five times.

It’s a comforting ritual. A painful one.

Does my brother still pray? Of course he does. True believers never stop.

“Do you need counsel, my child?”

I jump, almost falling off the narrow bench. Whirling around, I see a man in black cloth and a white square collar sitting behind me. How did he sneak up on me? Over his shoulder I see that West has gone.

“Father?”

“Yes, my child?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

His wrinkles deepen in a gentle smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I struggle with the words. “The things that I learned, the things that I was taught, they aren’t right. They’re not what Jesus taught. And now…now I don’t know what to believe.”

Part of me expects him to ask what I’ve been taught. Maybe if I were raised Baptist he could convert me to Catholicism. Instead he sighs, studying the golden cross with rheumy eyes. “A crisis of faith. Is that right?”

“Yes, Father.” So punish me, punish me. Make me hurt.

“Sometimes I wonder whether I’ve followed the right path.”

Surprise jolts me out of the past. “You do?”

“That’s the lovely thing about faith. There’s no science to prove it. No numbers to define it. We can’t touch it or taste it. We’re supposed to question it. That’s what makes it faith.”

“Then how do you decide what to believe?”

“I think about what will help me the most, what will help my flock the most. And I try not to judge other people for their beliefs. But most of all…most of all I try to forgive.”

My breath comes faster. How could a woman of sin, proud and serene, come to the same conclusion as a man of God? “What if I can’t forgive?”

The things Leader Allen did to me, I’ll never really let them go.

“Then he must not deserve forgiveness,” the priest says gravely. “But remember, you are not bound by anyone else’s faith but your own. You can take what resonates with you and leave the rest. You can use what works for you. That’s the beauty of faith.”

I bow my head. “Thank you, Father.”

We’re silent a moment, communing in the acknowledgment of our mutual frailty, our fallibility in faith—but if I understand him, then it’s supposed to be fallible. It’s supposed to be frail. That’s what makes it a miracle.

My knees are stiff by the time I stand. The priest still prays one row behind me.