Jeri Smith-Ready: This Side of Salvation

Dad introduced me as “My son, David. My only son,” as he had since about two months after John died, sometimes running it all together in “MysonDavidmyonlyson.” I’d trained myself not to wince at the sound.

By the time we’d met everyone within reach, my cheeks hurt from fake smiling. To avoid small talk, I pretended to examine the prayer list on the back of the bulletin, as if memorizing the names of those sick or troubled enough to warrant divine intervention.

Finally the music began. I stood on the aisle, next to Mara, who always sang loudly enough for both of us.

Maybe Mom and Dad heard me sneak out my window Thursday night. Maybe I left footprints on the sunroom roof or a dust mask in the maple tree next to the house. Maybe Mom smelled paint fumes on my clothes. But I’d always been so careful.

Stony Hill’s flashy onstage show dragged my attention from my panic. The fog machine, sent mist floasting across the stage to curl around the musicians’ swaying forms. Lights strobed in red, blue, green, and yellow, color coordinated with lyrics flashing on the screen.

At the music’s crescendo, the pastor swept onstage like a rock star. But his arms unfolded out toward us, as if we were the stars. Midthirties and wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants, he looked nothing like St. Mark’s black-robed old priest.

Mom and Dad clapped and sang along with the congregation. If they were mentally trying me for vandalism, they were hiding it well. Maybe this is a test. Mom and Dad only suspect I’m the vandal and want to see if I act suspicious. Maybe if I stay quiet, it’ll all blow over.

I focused on Pastor Ed’s sermon to calm my agitation. He paced and gestured, the mic clipped to his collar picking up every whisper. Instead of the Bible banging or fire and brimstone I’d always imagined this church would put forth, he spoke of God’s unconditional love for anyone who would receive it. It was like he was having a oneon-one conversation with all three thousand of us, promising an end to the pain of wandering in the wilderness of sin. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it felt true.

As Pastor Ed’s sermon ended, he hopped down off the stage and strode to the front of the sanctuary.

“None among us is perfect. No one is without sin.” He clasped his hands and spoke softer. “If you find it in your heart to repent today and commit yourself to loving the Lord, he will accept you without question.” He spread his arms. “Are you ready to change? Are you ready to accept His grace and forgiveness?”

I thought it was a rhetorical question, but as another song began, people started coming forward. A man here, a woman there, a kid my age here and there. They strolled with purpose down the aisles to where the preacher stood beckoning. Those who stayed behind raised their hands, palms to the ceiling, swaying, singing, smiling in support.

Within a minute, more than a dozen congregation members had lined up along the front of the sanctuary, hands folded in front of them, faces lifted to the lights above.

I wanted what they had, that surety and serenity and love. I wanted it so bad I couldn’t stop my feet from carrying me down the aisle, or my face from pointing straight ahead despite Mara gasping my name behind me. I had no clue what I’d receive from Pastor Ed, only that I was starving for it.

He moved down the line, laying his hands on each person’s bowed head, uttering words I couldn’t hear over the music. Those waiting to be blessed or healed or whatever raised both hands, fingers relaxed and palms up. I copied their posture, feeling a calm sweep through me, like I was buoyed by light and air.

When Pastor Ed reached me, he met my eyes and beamed as if I’d given him a Christmas present. “I’m glad you’ve joined us, son. What’s your name?”

“Cooper. David Cooper.” Why I said it James Bond–style, I had no idea. Maybe I was nervous again, standing in front of the guy whose church I’d desecrated. But as he laid a gentle hand on my head, I felt . . . accepted, even for my mistakes. Especially for my mistakes.

“David, welcome into the loving grace of the Lord. However often you stray, He will forever yearn for your return. May you always crave his love and ask forgiveness with humility.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say. Then he had me repeat a short prayer after him, acknowledging I was a sinner and that I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Pretty straightforward stuff, nothing wild or radical that would’ve sent my fellow Episcopalians running for the vestibule.

“Amen,” I whispered when we were finished. He started to move on, but I grabbed his arm before I could stop myself. “Wait.”

Pastor Ed raised his eyebrows in a kindly expression. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I was the one—I painted—” I cleared my throat so he could hear me over the swelling music. “I’m the ‘Why God Why?’ guy.”

I expected him to turn away, or tell me to get out of his church, or trumpet my guilt to the crowd. Instead his face softened, then he pulled me into a back-thumping embrace. Over his shoulder I looked up at the cross shining on the giant screen.

“Thank you,” Pastor Ed whispered. “Come see me afterward. We’ll talk.”

As the pastor moved on, the kid next to me, maybe a year younger than I, nudged my elbow. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing. Hey, what just happened?”

The boy squinted up at me through thick glasses. “What do you mean?”

“I’m new here.” I nodded at the line we were standing in. “What exactly did we just do?”

The kid laughed and shook his head. “Dude, we just got saved.”

Pastor Ed and I did talk, after church that day, and the next week, and the next month. In Stony Hill’s huge congregation there were, sadly, enough teens in Mara’s and my situation to warrant our own grief-counseling group. Pastor Ed and the youth minister, Mrs. Caruso, didn’t preach to us mourners the standard garbage about why bad things happen to good people. They said it was okay to be angry, that God was big enough to handle it. And because God had become small and human Himself, He could weep with us. We never had to be alone.

Since I’d owned up to my crimes, and because John’s death and my unique experience of it were “mitigating circumstances,” I got off with financial restitution (which Mom took out of my allowance), along with community service at Stony Hill’s soup kitchen. I could’ve done my time at another charity, but I wanted to show the congregation that I was truly sorry and had renounced my wicked ways forever.

I never found out if my parents already knew or suspected I was the why god why? guy before they brought us to Stony Hill. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe they’d read in the paper about the vandalism and thought, Let’s try that church .In any case, I took it as a sign that for the first time years, I was where I belonged.

NOW

My phone still lies on my nightstand, undisturbed. I left it there on purpose before going to Stephen’s after-prom party so my parents couldn’t use it to track my location.

Mara’s phone has no tracker app, since they trust her. Trust ed her— past tense now, I guess.

There’s only one text, from Kane, from ten minutes ago: Home yet? In huge trouble?

I reply: Home. Yeah, don’t call. If he heard my voice he’d know something was up. Instinct tells me to keep Mom and Dad’s disappearance secret for now. Bailey ok?

No answer comes. Since Kane hadn’t been drinking, he had no reason to run away, so right now he’s probably following the cops, taking notes. He’s wanted to be an FBI agent since he went to the bureau’s headquarters on a sixth-grade field trip, and he’s pretty much memorized every crime show in the history of television.