56. Echoes

I stare out at the stars from the deck. It’s chilly, but I still feel warm and light-headed from the afternoon.

I picture the field and picture her eyes and feel her lips against mine.

I replay the last conversation we had before she dropped me off at home, how I told her I was serious about seeing her on Thanksgiving. She told me she would see, that it would depend on certain things.

She said she would email me later tonight since she would be on her own.

I want to walk to her home and be with her.

I stare up at the sky and think about everything she said.

An answer to a prayer?

If only some of my buddies back home could hear that. They would laugh.

I almost want to laugh.

But another part of me wonders.

It makes me think back to my father, to all of his prayers and urgings and answers and leadings.

All his God-talk.

Why have I suddenly been surrounded by this notion of God in my life?

Not a go-to-church-on-Sunday sort of God.

No, He seems to be in my face every moment.

I don’t want to think of these things every day. I shouldn’t have to.

I know some of my resistance is because of Mom.

If God is up there, I blame Him solely for my parents’ divorce.

It’s easier not thinking about God. Anytime I do, it gets messy. I start feeling bad. I suddenly feel like I need to be better, that I need to believe, that I need to confess.

I’m not a bad person.

But I remember my father saying that we’re all sinners. I remember him talking about Jesus and about the cross and about death and resurrection.

I remember.

I just don’t want to think about it.

It’s just my luck. I fall for the hottest girl in school, and she ends up not only being the most tortured soul there, but she also ends up sounding like the ghost of my father.

It doesn’t matter if she ends up sounding like Mother Teresa or the pope.

I know this.

It doesn’t matter because I care for her, and I care deeply.

The things she said to me echo around in my head.