Embrace Me (15 page)

“Maybe they're just scared. And there's something noble about sticking together, Val, in believing that all our victories and all our defeats belong to all of us. I mean, we think we can dissect the Body of Christ, but we can't do that any more than we can dissect our own. So all bad things done in the name of Christ are mine to bear. And all the good things.”

Augustine wears too many dreads and chunks of stainless steel in his flesh to be talking like he actually thinks about things.

“Anyway.” I open the window. I'd rather smoke than eat right now. I really wasn't lying when I said I'd eaten a lot when I was cooking. “So I still think you're taking these vows to keep you from doing something you'll regret later on.”

This blanches the ruddy skin of his face. “Some people need more heroics to keep them from sinning like I'm capable of. Me being the primary example. It's best for me to stay away from women altogether.”

“Oh, you were one of those.”

“It's different than you could ever imagine.”

“Try me.”

“You can pretty yourself up with flower tattoos and still know a monster lies in wait beneath the foliage. And that's all you'll get from me today.”

I light my cigarette. “Oh, so I share and you stay mum on your past. That's typical. Want to hear all my gore but refuse to bare your own.”

“Gore is a good way to describe it. Take comfort in the fact that I don't trust a word you said anyway, Val. You've been lying about your burns.”

I hand him my pack of smokes, the creep.

“No thanks, Val. It took me years to quit. But you go ahead.”

“I guess I'm lucky to wear my faults right on the surface.”

His blue eyes appear earnest. “You may not believe this, Valentine, but you're exactly right.”

“People feel sorry for me. But the one advantage I have over normal folks—and I used to be one, so I know—makes me happy. My face is the greatest filter imaginable. I screen out the superficial, the easily sickened, and the self-proclaimed superior. I screen out the weak, the selfish, and the perfectionists. Usually what remains are people who see themselves the way I do, burned and deformed and able to admit it right up front. Like you.” I drag in deeply on my cigarette. “I have no time for anybody else. I'm an acquired taste for the select few. And believe me when I tell you, I'm okay with that.”

“I believe you, Valentine. But will it be enough in ten or so years?”

“Shut up, Augustine.”

“Okay.”

SEVEN

DREW: 2002

I
meet Father Brian for lunch out at The Crepe and Omelet Place. His choice. Having ordered, we sit drinking coffee in the atrium-style restaurant, surrounded by plants and pink table linens.

“Tell me how you became a priest, Father Brian. What made a young guy like you want to give up your entire life? You aren't gay, are you?”

He shakes his head. “You know, I wish you'd just call me Brian. I'm not your priest. I'm new to this stuff, and right now I think God's just calling me to be your friend. It's a little lonely down here anyway. And no, I'm not gay. When I left high school behind, I left a very angry girlfriend too.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ann Arbor.”

“So were you Catholic all your life?”

“Yep. Cradle and all.”

“I think you have to be to swallow all of it.”

If he's offended, which he probably should be, he doesn't show it. “You'd be surprised at all our adult converts. But that's neither here nor there. You were asking about a calling.” He sips his coffee. “Did you have one?”

I shake my head. “No. I've never admitted that to a soul. I just thought it made sense for me.”

“I've always loved the church, Drew. And God and Christ. Even the saints. You know, one of the biggest criticisms I hear from protestants is that Catholics don't know their Bible, or even what they really say they believe.”

“That's true across the board.”

“I think so. But I was always interested. And one day at school—I went to Catholic school—they had a special assembly where one of the local priests got up, and one of the sisters, and they talked about a vocational religious calling. It was like I had a personal Pentecost that day. I just knew I'd been called out by the Holy Spirit.”

“Just like that?”

“Basically.”

“So then what?”

“Went to college, Xavier in Cinci, for my undergrad. Then Mount St. Mary's for seminary. You go to seminary?”

The waitress delivers our food. Cheese omelet for me, bacon and cheese for Father Brian. You know, it just feels odd to see a priest eating real food. Why do they seem so unreal?

“I went to Duke, majored in theology, and then went to Trinity.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“That's okay. You don't have to tell me everything.”

“What did you mean by a personal Pentecost? I've never heard that term.”

“Well, you know what happened at Pentecost, right? The Holy Spirit descends and people speak in tongues and the world is set aflame, the gospel spreads, faith increases.”

“Sure.”

“Much like that. Only inside of you. And I felt the love of God consume me. You know what I mean?”

I shake my head. No, Father Brian. Brian. Whoever you are. I really don't.

We eat, I ask him about his family. Six older brothers and sisters, “Rhythm method, you know,” twelve nieces and nephews, parents run a dry cleaner in Ann Arbor, angry high school sweet-heart now married with two kids and uses him as an easy source of confession when he's home, likes to watch World Cup soccer and NASCAR.

NASCAR?

He tells me to keep writing and refuses to let me help with the tab.

After the Christmas concert I scheduled Daisy for a special song every Sunday, telling my congregation, “Friends, I'm your Senior Pastor. Daisy is your Pastor of Praise.”

Pastor of Praise. What a great ring.

They didn't balk. Something trusting mingled with Daisy's confidence as if she said, “Just point me in the direction you want me to go and I'll take off.”

After my intro, she stepped onto the platform and drew them in.

“Thanks, Drew. Thank you fellow Elysian Heights members. I can only pray God blesses us all.” She took hold of that microphone and something mystical happened. She truly ministered to people. Even now I don't doubt that for a second. Daisy had a calling on her. You could see that from anywhere you stood. I don't know if it was a personal Pentecost or just a person doing what God made them to do. Encouraging notes began to fill her box in the church mailroom. Nobody minded seeing her week after week. Attendance grew. I had been right about it all.

The board sung my praises because giving was up and people felt blessed. A part of me still felt good about that, I'd like to believe. About people being blessed, I mean.

Saying all this to a priest makes me feel a little silly. I can hear you in my head: “You protestants, always trying to reinvent the wheel.” And yet, we do have a certain freshness, an appreciation of creativity that's undeniable. I guess it's all in how you use it and why.

Harlan and Charmaine Hopewell pretty much held the patent for Southern gospel music in Mount Oak, so Daisy and I centered her ministry on contemporary music. Smooth, adult contemporary, classy and . . . smooth.

Trician grabbed me after church and asked if I agreed that Daisy just needed to lose a few pounds and become a little more sculpted-looking to fit the music itself. A willow tree. “You know as well as I do, Drew, that looks matter in the long run. If we can get her a recording contract, think about what it'll do for the ministry. You'll have more people than you know what to do with.”

Yes, yes. Man looks on the outward appearance and God looks on the heart. I'd read that verse. But God wasn't just zapping money into our treasury was He? We had to work for it. And when we decided to break ground on the activities center and school building, my work was cut out for me. Father, I don't know if you can understand that kind of pressure.

I'd heard of plenty of churches in Nashville that grew exponentially because of the famous singers and such that attended. People are attracted to fame. Trician may have been a little overconfident, but she wasn't completely off the mark.

“See what you can do, Trician. I'm sure Daisy'll want to succeed.”

The people adored her, loved her endearing smile, invited her to come along and sing on small group retreats. Some women's groups even asked her to speak; though, to my way of thinking at the time, Daisy had nothing important to say. She'd never been to seminary or even Bible college.

She lost weight slowly but steadily, and Trician was trying to make some Nashville “ins,” but that was slow going as anybody can imagine. Charmaine made a few introductions but nothing was coming easily on that front. Daisy was new, untried, no sales numbers, no large platform from which to sell a lot of albums. They were after the sure thing—the bottom line being the god of their bank accounts. It had to be if the people they were giving contracts to instead of Daisy was any indication. Daisy could sing them all down the road and back without breaking a sweat.

I played a good part on
The Port of Peace Hour
as well. Charmaine and I bantered easily and the guests had a good time. It was fun.

The church continued to grow, bringing in a hundred new members a month. And the more they came, the more room we needed. The more space we had, the more members we needed to support it all. The vicious cycle became a cyclone. I could blame the board for their pressure, but at the end of the day I loved it.

A few months ago my father even noticed.

“I just saw your church listed as one of the top one hundred in America by
Time
magazine. Interesting. Good job, Son.”

Talk about an eye opener.

Elysian Heights is now at twelve thousand members.

I reach for my smokes. Twelve thousand members. Twelve thousand people I left behind due to a busted water pipe in my apartment building. At least it wasn't a fire. That would have been overkill on God's part in the metaphor department.