Embrace Me (2 page)

Father Brian,

I begin with thoughts that it would just be easier to give up altogether.

Hermy says more men actually succeed at suicide than women.

I guess when we stand upon that precipice, perhaps we've exhausted all other options. No one can help. We've sought help already. Nobody came running; or if they did, it didn't stick. That's about it. One place left to go.

Assuming there'd be no going back, I'd opt for a good shot in the mouth. Quick. Efficient. Not likely to result in survival. The spot of self-execution would be easy for me to choose. Someplace no one would ever look for me, miles back into the woods, off the trail I've come to use as solace. I thought of tying cinder blocks on my feet and jumping into Lake Coventry where I'm from, but drowning to death takes too long. Leaving little trace of a body is, I have to admit, a favorable element in either of these scenarios.

I'd leave a note to my congregation, of course. And it would writhe and teem with lies about Daisy's disappearance and my own. I'd blame Trician, just as guilty in the mess as I, and never once would I come right out and admit my own complicity.

This is exactly why I don't deserve to even kill myself at this point. Or ever, really. I'm not the type. Just wish I was. And it seemed like a dramatic way to start this. The fact is, I haven't begun to exhaust my options.

I slide my arms through my jacket and head down the stoop, out the back of this old hotel. Old hotels aren't choosy about their occupants. They seem relieved somebody showed up inside their dim recesses, hoping maybe a bit of their former grandeur will shine through, maybe somebody will see them for who they really are. Or were. Or something. Even when Mom and I came, it wasn't all that nice. But we were never in our room anyway—we were always on the beach or the boardwalk.

I light up a cigarette, inhaling and looking around the alley where Glen sleeps bundled up in blankets and alcohol near the back stairs of the pawnshop. Glen has drug-induced dementia. He told me this the first day I found him back here. I tuck a five in his pocket then sit down on the back steps of the hotel.

Pulling up the sleeve of my jacket, I press the burning cigarette butt into the flesh atop my wrist. My breath catches. I lift up the cigarette and the cold December wind whispers over the scorched skin.

After the initial release, the inevitable thought arrives.
What did you just do, you idiot?
It makes me feel better. I don't know why. I don't care why at this point. There are, as they say, bigger fish to fry these days.

Well, Father Brian, let's get back to it. The morning is young and I am running out of time. A man can't live between sin and redemption for long, can he? I might die in an accident, choke on my food. Or the Rapture might happen any day.

I stuff the pack of smokes inside my jacket and walk toward the beach. Yeah, it's winter. It's cold. But it's our beach. I could use a walk in the sun. I look like I'm made out of school paste right now.

My room looks extra dingy after the sunlight burned into my retinas. I sip on a cup of coffee I bought at the 7-Eleven and pick up the composition book again.

When Daisy and her mother walked into the sanctuary, the crowd's attention was locked on the young pastor working his deal on a central stage amid the encircling padded chairs. I'm from the town of Mount Oak, Father. I doubt you've ever been there.

The year was 1999, the primaries for the presidential election were already heating up, and I was joking about the candidates who would receive my vote.

“Look at this tie. Look at this fine suit. What party do I look like I belong to?” I didn't believe for a second that if we were in power, America would become a holy nation and God would look past our sins, but we had that kind of congregation, and right then, they laughed. I laughed with a soft bit of snort, rolled my eyes, shook my head, and held my arms wide. “Hey, I am who I am. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

They laughed some more. I didn't have to fill them in on my father. Everybody knew Charles Parrish, political pundit, lobbyist, and general DC mover and shaker.

My people just wanted to feel at peace in their own hometown, in their own houses, their own church. I guess I wanted them to feel that way too.

Peace? Peace—when there is no peace?
you ask, Father Brian? Granted.

I pulled a swiveling barstool from off to the side, made sure the wireless mic unit held tight to my belt, and sat down. Utilizing these downbeats, I could work theatre-in-the-round style church better than anybody I'd ever seen, making eye contact with at least half of the nine hundred people gathered every Sunday morning. In my less than gracious moments, of which there were many, Father, I thought of it as a feeding trough, people gobbling up their weekly plate of spiritual quiche, eating just enough to get themselves through the next seven days, or until they met with their small groups, but not enough to share with anybody else. In my gracious moments, I realized deep down they were truly looking for the peace of Christ. And I was giving them the same old answers that hadn't been working for a good long time.

But even if I'd wanted to serve them up a meaty stew, I wouldn't have known the recipe back then. I still don't.

I smiled and said, “I was reading an old book by Dr. Susan Gordon—anybody remember her radio show back in the eighties?” Of course I was a child when she was so popular.

I pointed to a woman in her fifties—Maggie Reynolds, I think—and buttered on an even bigger smile, making that longed-for connection. Longed-for on her part. A hundred other Maggies sat expectant in the congregation just begging to be noticed—by someone. I wasn't idiot enough to take this personally, nor was I idiot enough not to realize women like Maggie were the key to my success.

“Dr. Gordon used to say we have to take care of ourselves before we can take care of anybody else. Amen?”

“Amen!” she shouted—they all shouted. Oh, I could elicit amens.

“God wants us healthy and whole. He doesn't endorse suffering.

Amen?”

You see, the more amens you ask for—the more you get. No, Father, I don't suppose there are many amens echoing in the rafters of St. Mary's.

The congregation, too busy trying to hear that someday life wouldn't hurt so much, didn't see Daisy and her mother enter. I knew what they wanted to hear. Exactly. Because, you know what? I wanted it too, Father Brian. More than anything. If I could spread that message far enough and wide enough, maybe it could come true.

God doesn't want you to hurt—ever. Never mind that “tribulation worketh patience,” as Paul said to the Romans. Who wants to hear that? I sure didn't. Do you?

Looking back, I realize I must not have given one whit about my congregation. I wanted my words to be true for me. I believe that's what drives a lot of preachers. Not all. I've met some true believers, men hand in hand with Jesus, shepherds who love their flocks more than themselves. Good men. Kind men. Men who look a lot like Jesus, but without the robes and beard. But the gospel I've seen peddled most is usually cut-to-size, a perfect fit for the purveyor. Which pretty much ruins it for those people who don't exactly cotton to a three-piece suit, or a cassock, or even jeans and a polo shirt.

At least you all keep it pretty consistent, Father. I'll give you that.

If somebody could just tell me what the gospel really is these days, I'd leave this hotel room and never look back. Where I'd go wouldn't matter as long as it wasn't Mount Oak.

If I don't figure out this gospel, then there's nothing left for me. Professionally speaking.

Anyway . . .

I was good at the rally cry.

“The days of the long-faced Jesus are over!” I raised a fist, my smile wide and thankful for those tooth-whitening strips. “Over! Can you say it with me?”

Over. Over. Over. Over. Over.

Never mind He was a man of sorrows.

Never mind He was acquainted with grief.

“Over! Over! Over!” they chanted. One lady stood up, raising fists of joy and victory, shuffling in her high-heeled pumps.

Daisy looked for a place to sit down.

I settled the crowd. “Glory to His name. The One who banished pain and sorrow and death.”

It wasn't so much that what I said wasn't true. I just failed to flip the coin over and expose the rest of the picture: the bloodied Christ, the dirty hands of service, the dusty feet with miles of calluses, the bruised heart of making oneself vulnerable for kingdom come. Whatever that is.

I had rehearsed my message ten times, so seeing her didn't cause me to misplace a single syllable. I was that good. I planned on heading to the top. A publishing contract and a few
New York Times
best sellers with my picture on the cover. A huge church and a television ministry. The televangelists had already garnered a bad rap, but Drew Parrish would change all that. I could do it. It wasn't all selfish. Or . . . well, I don't know. I think I convinced myself a small portion of me desired the growth of God's kingdom.

Whatever that is. I didn't understand it then either, but I knew it was something attainable if you could even semi-understand it. Jesus said it was among us and within us, and yet we still pray for it to come.

How could it be all of that?

Yes, I know the seminary answer, Father. But look around you. Is it really playing out that way? I don't think so.

I knew measurable success. I knew seats filled and cash in the drawer and if both of those were overflowing . . . kingdom come it is.

You might call it greed. In fact, you'd probably call it exactly that here in your small parish in Ocean City, Maryland. You'd be right.

Pride too, you say? Okay. Yes.

When I came to Elysian Heights, there were only one hundred and fifty members.

Her mother pointed to a seat and Daisy sat.

Just like a hundred other late people. Their hair caught my attention, I suppose, and the bright pink of her mother's suit. Nothing more.

I moved forward in my message, seasoning it with jokes and shrugs, half comic/half friendly professor, never too close to the bone.

Never talking about sin. That just wouldn't do—I had them right where I wanted them, the closing prayer, the final flourish, “Thanks be to God who gives us the victory. Amen.”

Only I pronounced it Ah-men.

And they gave it to me, the last note of the service, as planned.

“Amen.”

Only they pronounced it Ah-men.

Normally, due to our numbers, I couldn't stand at the back of the sanctuary like an old-time preacher or—perhaps like you do, Father Brian—shake hands with the Mrs. Grandys of the world who hold their Bibles like treasure chests, eyes crinkling at the corners when the pastor mentions something personal about their lives, something to let them know I care.
How did that outpatient surgery go? Your daughter fly in safely? I've got a copy of that book we were talking about for you over at the information desk.

No, those personally delivered sentiments jumped ship a few years before. Collateral damage I called it. It should have been a warning sign. I see that more and more.

But Senator Randall, a friend of my father's, was visiting, so instead of heading to my study in the office area behind the sanctuary, I walked down the aisle amid the confused stares of those who expected the same thing every Sunday. I winked as if I was letting them in on it all.

The senator was one of the first to leave and we talked for a minute or two. I'd been raised in politics. It was all second nature. But I couldn't very well leave upon his departure so I stood at the door to the worship center, smiling easily because I had a lot of practice at it.