by Ashton Wronikowski

My parents first found out I could read in church. The sun was streaming
through the stained -glass, and in one of his less remarkable miracles, my tiny finger
was following along with the sermon in our missalette. At four years old, I thought
God was my grandfather with a beard, but I know better now. Church was a checklist,
demanding regular attendance and just enough attention to be able to write biblical
verses on protest signs. It was always about the performance, and even back then
it wasn’t mine to give. My faith didn’t matter —– we went in order for my family
to be seen doing what they were supposed to be doing on a Sunday morning.
The morning mass was our half an hour of idle time that we worked to earn back
on our chore day. My salvation was earned not by study in the word or hours of
service, but by Jesus seeing me seated in the fourth pew back, nestled between
my grandparents, with holy water still dampening my forehead. My grandfather
used that water as a mirror to see his own faith reflected upon my mind, and I was
eager to oblige, my small spine bending to hold up standards and beliefs that were
hidden between hymnal pages and dry communal wafers.

He’s the one who first introduced God to me with the medallion I still
wear against my throat. It’s cool to the touch, the thick chain weighty around my neck,
and the clasp in the back is tangled in the thin hairs at the back of my
head. It’s my nervous habit, grasping it like this —– the metal biting into my thumb
and forefinger just enough to leave a bit of an impression without being too noticeable.
Feeling the front of the medal, my fingers trace the lines that I know label the
figure of St. Jude, the patron saint of the lost.  Before this necklace was mine,
I remember it on my grandfather, cussing and praying around the house while
he looked for misplaced keys and forgotten coffee mugs. The medal around my
neck belonged to another chain, one that was finer and lighter with a smaller
clasp —– I broke it last summer. The new chain is a bit smoother, contrasting
against the rough curves and lines of the medal. The added weight around my
neck isn’t from a new chain, but the world itself without a god to hold it
up —– even if I didn’t ever notice him there in the first place.

With the added weight, it’s somehow still comfortable hanging just
below my breasts, almost at the base of my sternum. It reminds me of the rides
to church in the morning. The sun wasn’t awake yet, but we were; the mist rolling
up over fields —– corn, beans, cabbage —– and the cool summer air crawled in
through the window and raised the hair on my arms. There was soft music playing
on the radio, but I’d rather listen to Grandpa talk about his dreams from the night
before and tell him mine. In the middle of my story, he interrupted and asked
me if I saw the hippopotamus hiding among the oak trees we passed. I knew
I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help but whip around and face his
laughter at my gullibility.

The drive to church was longer than the service. Grandpa liked it that way,
said Father Fritz was efficient with his sweaty hands and beady eyes. We anointed
ourselves with holy water on the way in and would be stepping back into the
morning sun before it had fully dried. Each melodic hymn seemed to be timed,
with each scripture chosen for its brevity. The homily would be some softer
rendition of what I now know as fire and brimstone theology, with a well-timed
quip about how warm it was in hell. Jesus stared down from his cross into
my wide eyes to question if I had remembered to tell every sin at my last
confession.  My grandfather’s medallion glinted in the sun as we finished with
the Lord’s prayer, the rhythm of our voices ringing through the
sanctuary like bells.

My grandpa and I would end up driving home before my grandmother
had even woken up, and we’d tiptoe into the house with matching grins. I was on
coffee duty while he cooked breakfast —– she took hers black, with a splash of
water from the sink; he, with cream and two spoons of sugar. I used to take mine
with more cream than coffee, and my mug next to theirs looked full of the milk
we used for our pancakes. As years passed and my hands got steadier,
he started letting me help by the stove —– and I started letting Grandpa make
my coffee. He would cast magic on the mug and make the spoon stand straight
up among the steam. Now that he’s gone I take mine black, without the water,
and I’ve figured out how to stand the spoon up.

***

Going to church continued on as normally as possible, even after
grandpa left us and cancelled our dream recountings and coffee
makings. Routine was important after a loss, and for a while, part of me didn’t
mind —– the Latin in our hymnal was familiar, like a lullaby, even if it still lacked
any meaning. After our mourning period, however, we realized we were still
searching for something outside those four walls. Through another friend,
our family found a Christian church, and we slunk out of Catholicism unceremoniously
like thieves in the night, hoping the congregation wouldn’t notice our
absence. Things were different here —– there were no books to follow along with,
they had live bands to lead us in “worship,”, and hands were raised instead
of clasped. Though these additions were aesthetic only, we told ourselves the
lights and the music were God coming back to us, as though he was a relative
we’d finally made the trip to go see. It seemed perfect, and there was another
addition to this church family that motivated my faithfulness, even
if my parents weren’t aware: Gavin.

Gavin Schade was many things indeed, but HOT was all my
16-year-old brain could scream at full volume when he got within a
20-foot radius. A year older, the youth group leader had a head full of brown curls,
that seemed to —– for lack of a better term —– flop perfectly on his forehead
and just hit the tops of his slate-gray eyes. Depending on what he was wearing,
they appeared bluermore blue, and sometimes even green. His lanky form was so
different from my own, muscular already from years of competition,
but I couldn’t help but stare in wonder at him in the parking lot on
his skateboard. Hidden deep down, I felt guilty for my main reasoning
to be at church: this boy, who barely noticed I was breathing. Even at 16,
I was mastering my deflection, asking what better motivation to immerse
myself in a community with Godly people? Wasn’t that what He wanted?
To enter into relationships with other believers? Something along
those lines, I was quick to tell myself.

It was a thought reinforced at our youth group’s annual Christian
conference, before our first session. A sudden rumble among the crowd of
students distracted me from examining Gavin’s face that afternoon. I had to
make sure my internal scream stayed internal when he grabbed my hand,
and he yelled, “Stay together!” The doors finally opened after what seemed like hours,
and we were carried through by the storm. The room was dark, with low
lighting pitching shadows across the auditorium —– and we were hurtling along
the aisles, politely pushing our way past other groups, scrambling to find a row
we could claim. The boys and girls we competed with were surprisingly
ruthless. Having no concern for their remaining group members, they were
content to throw coats and with insincere smiles, say, “Oh I’m so sorry,
I don’t think you saw —– we have this whole row.” I raised my eyebrows
at Gavin and the others, who shrugged with an implied, I told you so.

We had just settled into our seats when the band took to the
stage. Everyone seemed to know who they were, screaming lyrics to songs
I had never heard. I made sure to bounce with them all, closing my eyes
and raising my hands in supplication. I didn’t have a reason, but I learned
very quickly —– people really respected those sharing private moments with
God in the open for everyone to notice. There were five or six songs played,
and all I recognized was Gavin’s cologne as he was leaning in close to
whisper to me, “Don’t worry about not knowing the words; you’ll pick them
up soon.” My knees were weak as the pastor came to relieve the musicians
from the stage, opening up the conference’s first group session in the
Indiana Wesleyan’s auditorium.

The sermon given was a look at Jesus’ interaction with a poor woman
at a well in a part of the desert. This area was traveled by Gentiles, and
He wasn’t welcomed. She was known to be living in sin —– finding another
partner outside an abusive relationship was frowned upon —– and Jesus was
kind to her. He told her that he knew her and loved her anyway;, all her flaws
and imperfections were more than welcomed by him. He forgave and let her
on her way to gather water from the well safely and to share the good news:
she was loved. As the opening pastor shut his Bbible, he seemed to stretch
his gaze to meet every pair of eyes in the auditorium.

“This woman had six men in her life. Six previous husbands who came
and left, who abandoned the poor woman. She wasn’t enough on
her own. She was lonely, she had a hole in her heart needing filled. Jesus is the
seventh. He takes in all, he patches the holes. He makes whole. He saves,
he cleans, he loves.”

My heart began to pull underneath my grandfather’s medallion I never
took off, feeling pressured in my chest. I knew I wasn’t like this
woman —– I hadn’t even had one man, let alone six. But there was a longing
to be chosen, to be picked regardless of the ugliness. To finally be enough,
even if it would never really be enough. The momentary cure for insecurity
had been found —– and there He was again. I was twelve again, timing my
Sunday mornings by the length of homilies and choral arrangements. My eyes welled,
and I could almost taste his apple pancakes. I heard sniffles around me,
and my eyes registered the bowing of heads, the raising of hands in my peripheral
vision. I looked over to Gavin, and saw him as the picture of faithfulness,
a soft smile across his lips as he saw the tears in my eyes. I brought in a
breath and felt a hand reach for mine, slightly sweaty but still delicate. There was a
lacing of fingers, and Gavin squeezed his grip around my hand, rooting me
in place. I finally felt what everyone had been talking about for
weeks —– the pit of the stomach assurance that something big was happening
not just physically, but spiritually. I felt God and my grandfather in that auditorium,
with Gavin Schade’s sweaty fingers sweetly grasping mine.

***

I gripped the backside of the medallion where the cross was carved into
it three weeks later in a tattoo shop. After my obsession with Gavin subsided and
the real world came calling I found myself adrift again, lacking someone to blame
when things went badly and someone to praise when the world made
sense. Even still, today my arm continues to read a Bbible verse, Romans 12:2,
and I remember imagining my grandfather reacting to the permanent rebellion I chose
to etch into my skin. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be
transformed by the renewal of your mind. Disappointment, shame,
horror —– but resignation and acceptance of how his faith looked on me. The
mismatched medallion and chain pairs nicely with the ink of things that don’t
really belong —– a sort of “What’s Wrong with this Picture?” game, instead
reflecting another life, another person. The face of Saint Jude has worn since
my grandpa last had it —– reflecting use and desperation in each softened
ridge. The tangible reminder of his hand-me-down religion continued to both comfort
and unsettle me —– offering to take the weight off my shoulders for a few
minutes to save me from becoming Atlas. There are days when I want to find a
church in a quiet town and sit in the pew, to see the light bleeding from
glass-stained windows and hear the organs playing woefully from the
choir loft. I’d flip through the books and remember the psalms, the rhythm of each
song, and the cool comforting touch of holy watermarking my forehead on
all those Sunday mornings.