by Mia Kerick
On Tuesday—pictures of naked men are taped all over my gym locker before I get to the locker room to change. That is humiliating to say the least, and difficult to remove as they were hung with duct tape.
On Wednesday—the cover to my squirt bottle of Gatorade is unscrewed while I get dressed. Bright red liquid, dripping down my chin and the front of my white button down shirt—I should’ve seen it coming. And I am fairly confident that Laz is the one who orchestrated this event because he’s the guy who laughs the loudest.
On Thursday—I’m shoved hard against the lockers. Not particularly painful, but there is no denying the culprit. Yup, Lazarus Sinclair, again.
On Friday—I receive the classic wedgie. Try combining embarrassing, humiliating, and extremely uncomfortable.
Plain and simple, I’m scared. I distinctly remember the way the pavement rose up eagerly to meet the back of my head when Rinaldo pushed me down in the church parking lot, not to mention the feeling of angry fists pounding on my face.
And the sensation of a boot to the belly tends to stick with you, too.
“Figures. On the day I need protection the most, my trusty bodyguard is nowhere to be seen.” Maybe I say it out loud, but I’m not actually telling anybody. In fact, I haven’t told anybody at all what Laz has been up to in the locker room this week. The only ones who know about this dirty little secret of mine are Laz, the seemingly apathetic bystanders, or in other words, my tennis teammates, and me. The victim. I haven’t shared it with Mom and Dad—they’ve already struggled enough on account of me. And I haven’t shared it with David, at least not beyond Friday’s incident, or my new friends, because it’s embarrassing, and…and maybe in the back of my mind if I tell them it will make the bullying seem even more real.
But then there he is—my former assailant/current savior—I’m not yet fully convinced which—Rinaldo.
“Don’t worry, I got your back. Got eyes and ears in the locker room, and I found out what’s been going down with Laz Sinclair. I’m gonna see to it that he cuts the shit.” He sounds like an anti-bullying superhero.
Laz is a big guy, but Rinaldo’s bigger. If anyone can talk sense in to my newest frenemy, it’s Rinaldo Vera. “Don’t hurt him.” I don’t know why I’m so concerned about Laz’s safety—he isn’t particularly concerned with mine.
“Nah, I’ll only give him a tongue lashing. Like the one I got from Father J. He needs it and down the road, he’ll be glad I gave it to him.”
Rinaldo doesn’t look straight at me, and I admit, for the most part, I avoid direct eye contact with him, too.
“Okay, Rinaldo. Do what you’ve got to do.” I slide into the driver’s seat, not sure if I’m selling Laz out or signing my own death warrant—because if the two of them join forces, together they could surely kill me. “And…um, thanks.”
By the time I pull out of the high school parking lot, I’ve already faced the fact: I want to accept help from Rinaldo. And I strenuously hope he is being above board with me, because, frankly, I need his help. I don’t think Rinaldo owes me anything, really, because of what happened between us that messed-up night in the church parking lot. It’s just that I’m getting tired of fighting—with both the enemies inside my head that come in the form of religious doctrine, as well as those lurking in my school cafeteria, the locker room, and the church. I’m tired and I’ll take whatever help Rinaldo Vera will give me.
Be Still
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.
Eyes Wide Open—How Laz Saw The Light
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, Dav
id 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.”
The Start Of A New Journey
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 fift
y-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.
