Inclination (19 page)

Falling asleep
has never before been this difficult.

And now, as I lie
here, a voice in my head, or in my heart—or maybe it’s in my soul—speaks these
words into my consciousness:

Be still,
Anthony, and listen to God.

A very tall
order, indeed, I think in response.

I ignore the
mystical suggestion and flip over onto my stomach on my bed, trying to corral
the ideas and impressions and questions that are galloping around with wild
abandon inside my brain.

Am I abandoning
Jesus?

Has
Laz
forgotten our decade of friendship?

Is
Rinaldo
now my BFF?

Am I falling in
love with David?

There’s no making
sense of this bizarre brain-soup. Hundreds of questions and concerns, none of
which can be resolved by me, tonight, in this small bed. And so I take the
simple leap of faith that allows me to believe God is still there for me—for
me, a sinner, who tries to do right and fails over and over—and that He cares
about me and will listen as I pray.

And now I’ll be
still, as I believe that’s what you want of me.

Please speak to
me. I promise I’ll listen to what you say.

And finally, an overwhelming sense of
peace—the peace that comes with putting myself into the palm of God’s
hand—engulfs me, and I drift off to sleep.

Father hold me….

Now, I will not
suggest that God spoke directly to me. But I’m willing to restate the words
that echoed in my head during the last moments before I fell asleep:

I know you are
tired of fighting, my son,

And that you feel
lost and alone.

I know you are
filled with questions of right and wrong and how best to do My will.

I know you feel
as if you are shouldering the burden of all of these problems and that they are
very heavy.

Come to me,
Anthony, and lay your problems at my feet.

I will give you
rest.

In his eyes is a
distinct expression of hatred and maybe even disgust. But beneath the anger in
Laz’s
dark eyes, I see the grayish shades of hurt. As if
I
had been the one to reject
him.

That is the bad
news. The good news is that the bullying in the locker room has stopped—as in,
it has come to a complete and sudden halt. Which leaves me to wonder what
Rinaldo
said (or did) to convince
Laz
of the error of his ways.

Nonetheless, I
decide not to look a gift horse in the mouth and I ask no questions of my
champion. But the anger in
Laz’s
eyes is still
lingering in my mind as I stand in front of my locker after school.

“Tony, does going
to church together count as a date?” David comes up behind me in the hall and
places his hands on my shoulders as I bend to fill my backpack with books
before tennis practice. “Because your family is coming to Journeys Worship
Center this Sunday, yeah?”

“Be quiet,
David…” I shake off his hands, even though I love the feeling of them on my
shoulders. Somebody will hear you…or
see
you.”

“Going on a date
isn’t a crime—just saying.”

I can tell he’s
offended but I still grit my teeth in reaction to his statement, because plenty
of people treat a gay relationship as if it
is
a crime. Nonetheless, I stand up, lean toward him, and say in a low,
patient voice, “Okay. We can count it as our second date. Are you satisfied?”

Next thing I know
he’s grinning. So very un-at-school-David-like.
“Completely.”

At that moment,
Rinaldo
walks very slowly past, staring at David and me in
the manner of a police officer, keeping the peace.

“That dude has a
thing for you, I swear,” David growls, replacing a hand on my shoulder. He then
sends a wide smile to
Rinaldo
and waves
sarcastically. “Vera stalks you every morning and afternoon.”

“It’s not
stalking, it’s Penance. I
told
you
what Father Joseph is making him do.”

David shakes his
head, unconvinced. “Well, I keep getting a ‘hands off the South Korean kid’
vibe from the dude.”

“Not that you’d
ever let that ‘vibe’ affect your behavior in the slightest….” I decide we’re
having harmless fun teasing each other. It’s light and a little bit
flirtatious, but I don’t think it’s too obvious, so I don’t make an attempt to
stifle it.

“No, of course
not—why would I want to do that? Anyway, we’re on for Sunday at Journeys
Worship Center, huh?”

“Just my entire
family and your family—
how romantic
.”

David throws a
fake punch at me, which I’ll admit catches
Rinaldo’s
eye, but before
Rinaldo
can do anything about it,
David takes off in the direction of the exit.

“That Sinclair
kid giving you trouble?”
Rinaldo
approaches me with
the air of a state trooper.

“No, not at all.
He’s a friend of mine.” I look up into
Rinaldo’s
dark
eyes.

“Okay. You let me
know if he starts giving you unwanted attention?”

“The attention
from him is totally wanted,
Rinaldo
.” I assure him.
I’m still very anxious admitting the truth about my sexuality, but this isn’t
exactly news to
Rinaldo
. “It’s not very likely I’m
going to need help in that area.”

Rinaldo
nods back at me. “Cool.
Anyhow, I wanted to tell you that me and Lazarus had it out last weekend after
church.”

“Had it out?”

“Yep.”

I wasn’t planning
to bring up the topic, but now that he’s piqued my curiosity, I want the full
story. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

“Almost had to,
but he saw the light in time.”

“You only
talked
to him?”

“Uh huh. He
didn’t want to hear what I was saying. You know…that your love life
ain’t
none of nobody’s business.”

The love life
reference makes me squirm. “What do you mean?”

“
Laz
seems to think that everything you do is very much his
business. He thinks you’re ignoring him and I’d say that he’s pissed off, and
even
sorta
insulted by it.”

I have nothing to
say to that because Lazarus is dead wrong.

“But I made it
clear he’s
gotta
cut the crap in the locker room. He
ain’t
been giving you no more shit this week, has he?”

“No, he’s been
fine.” I don’t mention that the damage has already been done and that the rest
of the guys on the tennis team keep their distance from me, as if I have a nasty
rash that might rub off on them.

“Great. What do
you say if we head on over to tennis practice?”

“Okay…outdoor
practice is starting. It’s on the courts.”

“I already know
that.” For a moment,
Rinaldo
appears very smug. “This
bodyguard does his homework.”

I shudder, not at
the idea that I
need
a bodyguard at
school, but at the fact that I’m glad I have one. Most of the kids at Wedgewood
High don’t seem to care too much that I’m now “officially” gay—I’ve never been
a major player at school, so it isn’t big news. But since I got assaulted that
night and bullied in the locker room, I’ve lived with a constant underlying
feeling of fear. No matter what I do, I can’t shake it. And I don’t miss the
irony that the person who’d originally instilled the fear in me is the one who
now assuages it.

“Okay, then let’s
head.”

It’s a very
simple building on the outside, possessing a similar budget-church warehouse
feeling to St. Elizabeth’s, and is painted a sort of teal blue, but I’m not
great with colors, so the building could, as easily, be some shade of green.
There’s a very simple wooden cross above the entry. The inside is equally
basic—the interior walls are all painted white, the ceiling is higher than it
appears on the outside. Above the altar, there’s another simple wooden cross,
and on either side of it are what looks like two large movie screens. The most
extravagant aspect of the church is that on either side of the simple white
pulpit is what appears to be the musical set-up for a major rock band—a
drumset
and microphones, a piano, a keyboard, and a whole
bunch of music stands.

In a way I’m glad
the interior is dissimilar from St. Mark’s stained–glass, dark-wood-paneled
richness; in my mind this worship center isn’t trying to be anything it isn’t.
It’s Journeys Worship Center, period.

David, along with
his parents Gabby and Fred Gandy, are waiting for us at the entrance when we
arrive. I don’t know if my parents feel as awkward as I do, but I think Mary seems
every bit as uncomfortable, and maybe then some. I figure she wishes she could
take out her book from the messenger bag she wears slung over her shoulder, but
knows that would be social death, and also kind of rude. We are soon whisked to
the back of the building where volunteers are serving coffee, tea, and juice
for the kids. David and Mary stick close by my side, as the Gandy’s introduce
Mom and Dad to their friends, who seem quite pleased to meet them. Soon, the
three youngest girls are ushered to the “We-are-Kids-on-the-Go Worship Center
Junior” where several lively teenage girls I don’t recognize are leading an art
project. Even Lulu has no problem separating from my parents, so intent is she
on gluing the puffy cotton balls to the blue construction paper.

“Time for
worship, Tony. I’m part of the music ministry, and I’m
gonna
go find the others now. You can stick by my parents and they’ll show you where
to go.”

I watch as David
walks away, and I mumble, “Come on Mary, let’s find Mom and Dad.”

We all slide into
one long wooden pew. There are no kneelers in front of the benches.

What do we do
when it is time to show our humility to God? Just sit there?

Mary notices the
very same thing and she looks over at me with panic stricken eyes.

The first thing
we do, though, is stand up when the music starts. And we hear the clapping.
It’s not a hymn, but a spiritual
.

I look to the
altar where David and a small group of others are standing around a guy who’s
playing the guitar, and they’re all clapping and smiling, and clearly having
fun. The small group sings in unison, and it sounds sweet, bright, and
incredibly good.

Every time I feel the Spirit

moving in my heart I will pray.

Yes, every time I feel the Spirit

moving in my heart I will pray.

And I really hear
and feel
the spirit in that room—in
fact, I actually believe the words those six hopeful teenagers are singing.
Despite my earlier skepticism, I’m moved. Once again, I fight the waterworks
that so often lately threaten to spout from behind my eyes. Partway through the
song Mom glances over at me, as if to check to see if I’m okay with being at
Journeys Worship Center, and maybe to get a thumbs up indicating that the
worship does indeed feel
real
to me
here. I smile at her and obviously join in with the singing to let her know I’m
okay with this. After the song is over the Del
Vecchio
family moves to sit down, but we stop short when the music doesn’t stop.

The worship songs
continue for the better part of a half hour. In the front of the church, I see
the minister—David refers to him as Pastor Sutton—singing along with his eyes
closed. Many members of the congregation, all ages and different races, too,
raise their hands and close their eyes, and I can tell they’re getting into the
music—it’s bringing them closer to God. Other members hold hands with their
loved ones and sing along quietly. There doesn’t seem to be a single right way
to do it here.

That’s when
something sort of melts inside me, which is the only way I can explain it. I
haven’t even heard a word from the pastor yet, but I know that what is going on
in this church is real. Not Catholic, but real, nonetheless.

And I like it...
I like it.

For a while the
sound of the music mostly disappears for me—goose bumps cover my arms and I rub
them away. My other senses have taken over. I take in the way the building
smells—it’s not suffused with the spicy scent of incense like St. Mark’s, but
it’s sweet and human, softer in a way. It looks softer in here, too, with all
of the white paint and none of the dense wood. But these details are simply
cosmetic, so I search for what is creating the ethereal wonder in the
atmosphere. And I find it. It is…in the spirit of the people…in the joy of the
music…and in the tangible presence of God.

Next, one of the
male singers steps quietly to the piano, and Sarah moves back as David moves
toward the microphone. This last song, “Abide with Me”, is a traditional hymn I
recognize from St. Mark’s, which brings bittersweet tears to my eyes,
especially since I can hear David’s unique singing voice cutting through the
sound of all the others. I take a second
to remind myself that Journeys Worship Center isn’t in any way less than St.
Mark’s; it is simply different.

The pastor steps
to the pulpit, and the adoration from his fifty-person congregation is
palpable. I experience a sudden nostalgia for Father Joseph, a man I have long
looked up to, confessed my sins to, and who was present at my First Holy
Communion, as well as at my Confirmation. Pastor Sutton, a man of a similar age
and even a similar appearance to my longtime beloved light-haired, blue-eyed
priest, also has a gentle demeanor and an easy smile.

“Welcome, my
brothers and sisters in Christ. Whether you are a member or a visitor, whether
you believe or are unsure, no matter the walk of life from which you come, we
celebrate your presence in our home this morning.”

I gulp, and then
realize the people around me probably heard the sound, but it was inadvertent—a
guttural response to the Pastor’s genuine words of welcome. Words that seem to
be directed toward my family and me. Thankfully, Pastor Sutton dives directly into
the sermon.

“Matthew 25:35-40.
For I was hungry and you gave
me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed
me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in
prison and you came to me.’

“1 John 3:17. But
if anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart
against him, how does God's love abide in him?

“I could give you
plenty of examples of the sentiment that these Bible verses express. But I
think you all get my point.” He gazes very obviously around at his
congregation. They chuckle softly in expectation. “What was that, Marty?” He
jokes with a rigid-backed elderly man who sits in the front row. “You’re going
to require additional pertinent examples?” Pastor Sutton rolls his eyes
dramatically, and everybody laughs. “Well, young man, see me after class.” And
when the laughter dies down, this man delivers a message about the true purpose
of a Christian’s life on this earth, which is to serve others with humility. Not
merely to pray for those in need, but to act as well. I realize I’ve forgotten
this expectation—this requirement—of Christianity, as I’ve been so wrapped up
in my own personal plight. I feel shamed when I admit my recent selfishness,
and yet I’m also relieved. Service to others can and should replace my
self-possession. I need to put the bulk of my efforts where they can do some
good for people in need, instead of focusing all my energies inward.

There’s more
music and then there are church announcements that help me to recognize that
this is a living and breathing, working community, made up of the people
sitting around me. We receive no communion, as that is distributed only on the
third Sunday of the month. And I’m okay with that, given that this isn’t a
Catholic church.

By the end of the
service I feel enlightened…and maybe lighter, in general. My burden of worries
simply doesn’t feel so heavy.

Celebrating God
is different at Journeys Worship Center, but it is Christ-centered and very
real—and incredibly alive. As I trail my family to the minivan, I can’t help
but smile, but I cover it up with one hand.

David and I
actually play footsy at breakfast.

Yeah, Anthony
Duck-Young Del
Vecchio
—playing footsy in Linda’s
Hometown Diner! It surprises me, too.

Gabby and Fred
are absolutely enthralled by my little sisters. David’s dad is the lucky one who
gets to help arrange Lulu’s torn off toast pieces into a smiley face. They got
a good taste of life with four little girls at breakfast.

If any of the
customers in the restaurant are looking at us this morning they see two happy,
“normal” families, sharing breakfast after church. They see a couple of teenage
boys, both wearing crucifixes on short gold chains, and four bubbly little
girls. They see two happily married sets of parents who love God, live right,
and put their children first.

Halfway through
my plate of pancakes, I look around our busy table long enough to stop and
wonder. How very well this perfect
picture hides the pain that both David and I have endured at the hands of…
well, I’m exactly sure at whose hands I can place our pain. Because I’m no
longer convinced that
God’s
plan is
for us to suffer over homosexuality. Maybe it’s organized religion and society
as a whole that require us to deny how God made us.

And then David’s
combat booted foot taps down playfully on my sneaker, driving me from deep
thought, and making me shiver with the thrill of it. That’s when I just let it
all go. I allow myself to slip into the taste of maple syrup and the sounds of
my sisters’ happy chatter and the feeling that maybe it’s going to be okay.