Between These Walls

by John Herrick

  She traced the manufacturer’s inked imprint on one beam and continued, “So you can’t let anyone know because, even if you wanted to, you couldn’t find the right words.” She turned her head and looked into Hunter’s eyes. “Do you know what that’s like?”

  Hunter stared into her eyes.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, “I think I do.”

  Hunter studied his friend, the sincerity in her face. She sounded neither discouraged nor stressed. For that matter, Hunter couldn’t detect any expression in her demeanor. If anything, she seemed as cool as the breeze that swept through this naked house.

  “Ellen, is everything okay?”

  She pondered his question a moment, then said, “What if I don’t love him?”

  “Brendan?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I love him, but what if I don’t love him like I should? What if I’m making a big mistake getting married? Is it possible I said yes to him because I should, simply because it made sense? Sure, I said yes for myself. But what if it was more because it would make him happy?”

  Hunter weighed whether he should say more, dig into why she had made those strange observations.

  “Ellen, you can talk to me if you want to.”

  With her lips sealed tight, she twisted her mouth into a smile, then rolled her eyes.

  “Wedding jitters,” she said. “That’s all it is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I promise.” She blinked her eyes once in a speed that made time look like it had slowed. “I’ll figure my way through. Always do.”

  “And you love Brendan, right?” he asked, perhaps for his own reassurance more than hers.

  “Of course,” she said, her confident demeanor on the rebound. “I’m fine. You have enough going on in your life, Hunter. Don’t worry about me.”

  And with that, she gave him one of her trademark winks.

  CHAPTER 41

  Hunter couldn’t shake his curiosity about the preaching Randy had mentioned at the grocery store. So that Sunday morning, when Hunter left for church, he headed in the opposite direction than usual. Turning from Route 91, he weaved along a side road and made his way to the little church with the stained-glass window. The building had resided there long before many residents had moved to town. It had a whitewashed exterior. A skinny steeple sat atop its roof.

  The tiny parking lot wasn’t paved. Gravel crunched beneath the tires of his car as he drifted into the lot. At the sound of gravel pinging against metal, he cringed, hoping he wouldn’t discover nicks along his car’s finish. A smattering of vehicles sat parked around the lot, and he pulled in beside a beige sedan. He checked his watch again and noted the time as 9:24. Sure enough, the service was about to begin, but the only people walking into the church building were a couple who looked, from this distance, in their late fifties.

  The heaviness of the church’s ornate front door took Hunter by surprise. Solid oak, he guessed. When he walked through it, he discovered two ushers standing on the other side, engaged in conversation. The nearest one, a somber man with close-cropped hair, seemed hesitant to smile, preoccupied with his conversation, but handed Hunter a bulletin and, in what struck Hunter as an afterthought, offered him a frosty handshake. Neither usher seemed to recognize him. Hunter thought he caught the word budget in their conversation, but he didn’t want to eavesdrop, so he sauntered through the next set of doors.

  The silence in the sanctuary struck Hunter as eerie. He detected a draft coming from above, not enough to make him uncomfortable but sufficient to keep him from dozing. He slid into an empty pew toward the back. Straight ahead, behind the altar, he located the familiar stained-glass window depicting a shepherd and sheep. Given the scarcity of cars in the parking lot, he was surprised to find the pews half full with people. Then again, the room wasn’t large. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the comfort of a rural church.

  The blast of a pipe organ startled him. The congregation rose to its feet, pulled hymnals from their slotted nests beneath the pews, and paged through them. Hunter turned to the hymn noted in the bulletin, then studied the people in the sanctuary. Most of the men wore suits and ties. Hunter, dressed in his typical Sunday sport shirt and khakis, wondered if he should have called ahead to inquire about the dress code. Although the majority of the congregation looked past retirement age, Hunter saw a few young kids and a couple more school-age individuals sitting with their parents. Back in school, Hunter had several friends who belonged to churches but seldom attended. Maybe that explained the lack of young people here today. The older kids looked less than thrilled to be here. Then again, Hunter wondered how excited the adults were, since none of them smiled as they sang. He concluded it was a sign of reverence.

  In one row, toward the middle of the sanctuary, he noticed a teenager who looked the age of a high school student, a lanky guy with an aquiline nose and blond hair pushed to the side. The teenager looked toward his right, which provided Hunter a glimpse of his face. Hunter couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong, but he sensed the young man was unhappy—not about sitting in church, but about life. He looked the way Hunter had often felt at his age: alone. Hunter wondered if the guy dealt with the same issues Hunter did. Probably not. Regardless, Hunter felt compassion and whispered a quick prayer for the guy.

  The hymn ended and the congregation sat down. They followed a litany of Scripture readings and call-and-response affirmations, followed by another hymn on their feet. Hunter found the entire church service structured in his bulletin. Though it was a Christian church, the environment felt foreign to him. Yet when he looked around, the congregants appeared to know which words to say, as if from memory, and he figured many had engaged in this style of church service for years. He could understand the comfort such tradition might bring.

  Upon completion of the latest hymn, the minister stretched out his arms and motioned for the congregation to be seated. A tall man, he had dark hair well into the graying process. Donned with a clerical collar and a long, white robe, he matched the stereotype Hunter had held of a minister before Hunter had become a Christian. Near the middle of the minister’s chest, a cross, three or four inches tall and made of polished silver, hung from a chain around his neck. When the minister turned at a particular angle, the cross reflected a light that shined from above the pulpit. Hunter had seen such giant crosses before, but on rare occasion, and had always been suspicious that the size of the cross was meant to distract people from noticing other, less flattering details about the wearer. He didn’t mean to judge the wearer; he just couldn’t shake the curiosity.

  The minister smiled little, which, to Hunter, helped explain the lack of smiles he’d noticed since his arrival here. He couldn’t determine if the congregation had followed the lead of its pastor, or vice-versa.

  The minister began preaching in somber tones, but as he progressed through his sermon, his bass voice grew in intensity and echoed off the hard walls and floors. He seemed to conjure extra inflection or fervency when he was about to reach key points.

  But Hunter’s mind didn’t focus on the eloquence of the man’s speech or the flawless weavings of his robe. Sure enough, as Randy had said, the man preached about homosexuality. And while Hunter hadn’t expected the minister to express approval in his sermon, he also hadn’t expected the sermon to sound laced with anger. The man’s words left Hunter aghast. They came forth like gunshots to Hunter’s soul, their shrapnel biting into his skin, as various sermon phrases rang in his ears.

  “… abominable acts in our community …”

  “… issue that has infected people for millenniums. God destroyed two ancient cities, Sodom and Gomorrah, because of homosexuality …”

  “… don’t need to be patronized. They need the Law, God’s Law. Before we can give them the good news of grace and forgiveness, we need to present them with the Law so they will recognize their sinfulness and repent of their actions …”

  “… won’t like hearing what I have to say, but it’s necessa
ry. First the Law, then the Gospel …”

  Hunter shifted in his seat. From the corner of his eye, he searched for clues on how the parishioners responded, yet they remained chiseled marble sculptures, silent as they stared straight ahead. The teenager Hunter had noticed earlier sat with his arms crossed and his attention focused on the pew in front of him.

  The sermon ended. More call-and-response litany followed. Hunter tried to pay attention, but the minister’s words echoed in his mind. His struggle had never been about a lack of desire for God or a lack of respect for Him. Hadn’t Hunter tried to find a resolution for years? Hunter hadn’t tried to persuade anybody to follow in his footsteps and, for that matter, wouldn’t wish the struggle upon anyone else. Had the minister ever talked to anyone who dealt with this? He’d spoken to neither Gabe nor Hunter. If he had, he would have discovered the painful aspect of such desires. For Hunter, it wasn’t a matter of theory or of finding the right words to preach away his inclinations. On the contrary, the struggle was tangible. Real.

  A final hymn occurred before the church service concluded. At the sound of the organ, the congregation turned pages in their hymnals and began to sing of how the world will know they are Christians by their love. Hunter tried to sing, but a sour sensation emerged in his belly. He recalled the Bible verse that served as the basis for this hymn. Hunter believed that verse. He had tried to live by that verse, treating people with love.

  Yet, in this context, the song sounded rusty, corroded. After hearing such harsh words aimed against him by a man who had never met him, listening to this hymn made Hunter feel unloved.

  Hunter wasn’t a guy trying to corrupt a community or disrespect people around him. He was just a guy dealing with a challenge, like the rest of the people in this sanctuary.

  The service ended 45 minutes after it began. “Go forth with joy,” the minister had instructed them, and they filed out to the dreary sounds of the organ.

  Too confused to move a muscle, Hunter hadn’t stood to his feet yet, his thoughts concentrated instead on what he had heard as he repeated the phrases to himself, over and over. When he looked to his left and noticed a line of people had filed out of the pews, Hunter shook himself to attention and joined the end of the line in the center aisle, which progressed in a slow fashion. He looked ahead at the main doorway to which the line led, the doors through which he had entered the sanctuary, where the minister now stood, shaking hands with congregants. The man remained solemn, thanking the congregants for coming and offering them his words of blessing. Hunter couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He doubted the minister would know who he was by sight, but Hunter would know.

  Hunter peered over his shoulder. In the front corner of the sanctuary, beneath an Exit sign, he noticed a small door which led to the lawn at the side of the church building.

  One more glimpse of the minister, then Hunter strolled toward the side door and departed the sanctuary.

  The lawn felt mushy from melted snow and left mud streaks on his shoes, but at this point, Hunter didn’t care. He could wipe them off later. In an attempt to remain casual, he made his way across the lawn as if he weren’t the only one who had chosen to take that exit, then quickened his pace across the gravel parking lot.

  When he climbed into his car, he checked the time. His own church’s service hadn’t begun. A second church service in one day would provide the perfect lift to his spirits, he decided. After the last 45 minutes, Hunter needed to connect with God.

  * * *

  The next attempt to help Hunter—if you could call it that—arrived that evening in a phone call.

  Hunter had known Al Brickman for a few years through the weekly Bible study meetings. A father of two in his late forties, he and Hunter had prayed together on several occasions. Al had prayed for Hunter during critical junctures in his career and relationships, and had encouraged him as he grew in his faith. Hunter, for his part, had prayed for Al the best he could, though he didn’t know from firsthand experience how to pray for people to have strong marriages or to be good fathers. Nevertheless, he had prayed from his heart and trusted God to take care of the answers. Hunter knew Al was a genuine Christian and valued his perspective.

  “How are you doing these days, Hunter?”

  Hunter turned off the stereo shelf system in his living room and switched his cell phone to speaker mode. “It’s okay.”

  “Didn’t see you at church today,” Al said in a tone that suggested he didn’t want to prod into Hunter’s privacy.

  “I got there a few minutes late, that’s all.” Hunter decided not to mention his visit to the other church that morning since it would accomplish nothing.

  He heard Al hesitate before saying, “Hunter, I wanted to call to say I stand by you. I mentioned it to you a while back at Bible study, but I thought it worth saying again. I love you, man—you know, in a Christian way.”

  “Thanks, Al. I appreciate that.” Hunter’s muscles relaxed. He sat cross-legged on the sofa.

  “Not an easy situation, huh?”

  “No, but I have a few people in my corner letting me know they’re here for me. That means more than you know.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Al said. “I’d imagine it’s a lot to process.”

  “It is. Seeing your status quo come crashing down around you takes you by surprise. It’s not something you’d wish for.”

  “You’re a good guy. I don’t know of anyone who would wish trouble on you,” said Al. “Of course, technically, you did make a choice here, and—”

  “A choice?” Hunter said, careful to maintain an even tone. “What do you mean, a choice?”

  “A choice in the sense that you chose it somewhere along the way, right? You didn’t choose to have things come to light the way they did. But the deeper issue—we both realize that’s a choice, right?”

  Hunter found the direction of Al’s conversation perplexing. Was it intended as a phone call of support, or was it to counsel him in some way? “I’ve heard people say it’s a choice, but I have trouble finding where I was given the opportunity to choose it.”

  “Well, I don’t think you were born that way, do you?”

  The conversation took Hunter off guard and made him feel awkward.

  “I don’t know how I wound up dealing with this,” Hunter said. “Sure, I chose my actions with Gabe, if that’s what you mean. But I didn’t choose to be attracted to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter. I don’t remember making a choice. You’re attracted to your wife, but I doubt you woke up one day and decided to find her attractive. Wasn’t it something that just happened?”

  Al kept his tone casual in response, but Hunter perceived this wasn’t how Al had intended their chat to unfold. “I’ve heard some people say it’s what you concentrate on. Could that be a factor?”

  “All I know is it showed up somewhere along the way in my life. I tried to deny those … attractions. I tried to stifle them. I tried to pray them away. Believe me, I didn’t want this. It sucks. It’s been torture ever since I was a kid. I wish I’d been given a multiple-choice test—I would’ve picked another option.”

  At an obvious lack of answers, Al paused. “Is it possible you just need more faith?”

  In his heart, Hunter knew that wasn’t the case. If anything, he had drawn closer to Christ during his years of nonstop introspection. Nobody knew about those personal times Hunter spent—just God and him—soaking in God’s presence … worshipping Him … telling Him how much he loved Him … seeking a closer walk with Him. Hunter sought closer proximity to God’s heart simply because he loved God, not even to receive anything out of it. Hunter knew, without a doubt, his faith was sincere and full of ardent fire. But he kept that day-to-day intimacy with God unspoken to others.

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of faith, Al. My faith hasn’t changed. It’s as fervent as it was a few months ago, a few years ago. Granted, I don’t have it all figured out, but it’s too simple to call my feelings a choice. I’m not sure t
his is something I can change.”

  “Look, Hunter.” Hunter picked up frustration in Al’s voice, as though the man had hoped to solve everything in one phone call but had collided with a situation more difficult than he’d anticipated. “I want what’s best for you, so I’m trying to help. And as hard as what you’re going through might seem, it is a choice. The fact is, God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve—”

  Hunter’s jaw almost dropped. “I can’t believe you resorted to a cliché.”

  No doubt, Al meant well and possessed genuine concern for Hunter. At the same time, however, this illustrated why Hunter had kept a secret for so many years. Couldn’t people see him for who he was, consider the notions that churned in his heart, and quit jumping to conclusions about why he felt the way he did when he himself couldn’t figure it out?

  “I appreciate your concern, Al. You’re a good person. But let me explain something most people don’t seem to understand,” Hunter said. “This isn’t a cliché to me. It’s not a witty play on words. This might seem like a game to people, a debate to win, but this is my life we’re talking about. You might be able to make a clever remark and move on, but I’m the one who sheds tears at night. I’m the one who’s trying to come to terms with my core.”

  Hunter paused a beat.

  “Look,” Hunter said, “it’s been a confusing few months—years—life. Do you think maybe we could talk about this later? I appreciate your trying to encourage me. It means a lot. But I don’t think I’m at a point where I can talk to many people about it. Can you respect that?”

  “Sure, Hunter.”

  Thankful to end the call on good terms, Hunter set his phone on the coffee table.

  Doesn’t anyone out there have a clue what this is like? Hunter wondered. Someone who’s been in my shoes besides Gabe?