"Finding Our Faith Again” by Emily Higginbotham
Most nights I lie in bed wondering about how we got here, to this uncertain point in our lives. I go back through the years, thinking about how much has changed. I used to pray at night, asking for my family’s wellbeing and safety to remain intact. Now I wonder if there’s anyone listening. All that has happened in the last couple of years, it’s hard to think that anyone is looking out for our wellbeing. Most days, it seems like half of my life didn’t even happen. It is morphed in my memory, fuzzy and disfigured. Drifting off to sleep, I tried to remember how we got here…
***
1999
I lay my head on my father’s arm during Sunday mass. I feel the rough wool of his stitched blazer against my cheek, tracing it with my pudgy finger until I reach his hand. I study his meaty, callused hand next to my pink and sweaty palm. He closed my hand in his, holding it still, atop his leg. I gaze up at the paintings covering the gothic arched ceiling, admiring the shimmery gold halos surrounding the angels and saints above us, protecting us. The earthy smoke of the incense wafts through the air and burns the inside of my button nose. The cold, hard pew creaks beneath me as I squirm during Father Hoefler’s homily. The choir sings and my father shares his hymnal with me, tracing his finger along the words, I follow along with every word.
***
2003
We walk down the middle aisle, looking for an open seat. I don’t like it when my dad makes us sit in the front. I pull on my itchy tights and adjust my sweater, feeling the gaze of every pair of eyes that look our way.
I spend the first and second readings peering around the church to see if any of my friends are here. I had wanted to stay home today and finish the new episode of Scooby Doo, but my dad said we could go roller blading if I went to mass.
A boy I like, Joe walks in with his family. His long, black curly hair flops just a bit as he sauntered down the aisle. My eyes followed him as he found his seat, but he doesn’t notice me staring. I daydreamed about him asking me to the all-school dance. My father nudges me when he sees me slumped over in my seat; he points to the gospel reading but I am uninterested in following along with him.
The priest asks us to join him in the sign of peace. Finally, I think, it is almost over. I want to play outside. My father kisses me on the forehead and says Peace be with you, Sweetheart. I give him a small smile and wipe his kiss off while he isn’t looking.
It draws to a close as the choir sings… and he will raise you up, on eagle’s wings… I look up at my father: his eyes are glassy, tinged with a crayon pink and he is wiping the corner of his eyes, sniffling. I immediately look away. I hide my face, my cheeks are burning and my stomach turns to stone in my belly. I look to see if Joe has seen. I inch away from my father.
***
2006
I sit sunken in a different pew, in a different church. There is no fancy art here. No shimmery gold saints protecting us from above. No tabernacle. No body and blood. Nothing is beautiful here.
My father does not sit next me; instead, Grandma Shirley is beside me, her arm around my shoulder, showing me comfort I had never seen in her before.
My father is standing at the altar. He is holding her hand in his now. He smiles at her, she smiles back. They vow that they do. They vow in sickness and in health, in good times and bad.
I watch from the pew, blinking away my tears. My grandma takes my hand in hers. I shiver at the contrast of her frigid grasp and the boiling blood beneath my skin. She is not angry that I am crying. She does not tell me to stop. She consoles me as best she can.
I know it’s a lot of change, Emily, I know. But, it’s going to be okay, she says.
It’s all going to be okay.
***
2010
I lie in bed, constantly checking the time. My dad knocks on my door: Time to go! he says.
I lay a blue, flower-patterned dress on my bed. It’s nice, I should wear it. But I throw it on the floor. I grab some jeans, throw on a sweatshirt. My Sunday best, I think as I look in the mirror.
I walk down the stairs, my brother is waiting in the kitchen and my dad is already in the car.
Ready? I ask. He’s wearing dark jeans and the brown polo he got for Christmas. He looks nicer than I do.
At least he’s taking us to lunch afterward, my brother says as we close the front door behind us. I check the time again and count the minutes until the priest will release us, sending us to go in peace and to love and serve the Lord.
***
2012
No knock comes to my door. I am not summoned. I am not bribed.
It’s a secular Sunday, a godless afternoon. I don’t even consider getting out of bed.
***
2013
My frosty window reveals that my father’s car is still in the driveway—no desire to venture into the insufferable cold world today.
It’s been four days since I had to tell him. Four days since I had to break his heart: I had to tell him that I saw her with him.
I walked into D&J’s café for breakfast. We used to go to D&J’s in grade school when we had an early dismissal; it was across the street from our church.
I walked in and she was there: sitting with her hands stretched across the table, fingers intertwined with the man across from her. But he does not look much like a man. His hands are not meaty and callused. They were not the hands that I traced during mass. They were not the hands that brushed away the tears brought on by the song that played at my parent’s wedding. They were not the hands that knocked on my door on Sunday mornings. I do not recognize those hands.
The wooden staircase in the house they had bought together, the house my dad said he would die in, creaked as tip-toed my way down. My father is in his blue flannel pajama pants and green, tattered William & Mary sweatshirt; his face rough and unshaven, his hair matted down: he gives me a sad smile. He doesn’t say anything about going to mass. He doesn’t say anything about her or him. He doesn’t say anything about the vows they made, the vows she broke… in good times and bad. He says all he can, the only normal thing he can think of.
Waffles? he asks.
I tell him, it’s going to be okay.
It’s all going to be okay.
***
2014
It’s Sunday, finally. My father drives for 96 miles from the Land of Lincoln to pick me up from my dorm.
Hey, Senorita Emilita! How’ve you been? He’s wearing the gray Chicago Bears sweatshirt I bought him three Christmases ago. He gives me a smile that finally touches his eyes and I let out a deep exhale, the anxiety that had been settled like lead in my chest, is finally away.
We drive along; the crisp autumn breeze trickling through my cracked window on the passenger side tickles my face. He asks me about my school work, my roommate. I tell him midterms are coming up and I’m a little bit nervous, but he’s sure that I’ll do well.
We pull up to the bar in Maplewood, soon we’ll be regulars. You ready? he asks as we hop out of his gold Toyota. Ready for a victory! I holler back.
The bar is brimming with boisterous fans, forcing us to squeeze by their beer bellies to get to a table. Its kick off time: the Bears vs. the Vikings.
The defense needs to make big plays and Cutler needs to get his head out of his ass if they want any kind of chance at making the playoffs, he says and I nod along, agreeing with this proclamation he has made pretty much every Sunday.
The game goes on: we cheer, we laugh, we scream, we chomp on our chicken wings and slurp down our sodas.
We exchange jokes about the Vikings fans, pouting behind us. He chuckles, puts his hand on my shoulder, bringing with it the same sense of security that I used to know.
Maybe this is our new religion, maybe here is not such a bad place to be
Most nights I lie in bed wondering about how we got here, to this uncertain point in our lives. I go back through the years, thinking about how much has changed. I used to pray at night, asking for my family’s wellbeing and safety to remain intact. Now I wonder if there’s anyone listening. All that has happened in the last couple of years, it’s hard to think that anyone is looking out for our wellbeing. Most days, it seems like half of my life didn’t even happen. It is morphed in my memory, fuzzy and disfigured. Drifting off to sleep, I tried to remember how we got here…
***
1999
I lay my head on my father’s arm during Sunday mass. I feel the rough wool of his stitched blazer against my cheek, tracing it with my pudgy finger until I reach his hand. I study his meaty, callused hand next to my pink and sweaty palm. He closed my hand in his, holding it still, atop his leg. I gaze up at the paintings covering the gothic arched ceiling, admiring the shimmery gold halos surrounding the angels and saints above us, protecting us. The earthy smoke of the incense wafts through the air and burns the inside of my button nose. The cold, hard pew creaks beneath me as I squirm during Father Hoefler’s homily. The choir sings and my father shares his hymnal with me, tracing his finger along the words, I follow along with every word.
***
2003
We walk down the middle aisle, looking for an open seat. I don’t like it when my dad makes us sit in the front. I pull on my itchy tights and adjust my sweater, feeling the gaze of every pair of eyes that look our way.
I spend the first and second readings peering around the church to see if any of my friends are here. I had wanted to stay home today and finish the new episode of Scooby Doo, but my dad said we could go roller blading if I went to mass.
A boy I like, Joe walks in with his family. His long, black curly hair flops just a bit as he sauntered down the aisle. My eyes followed him as he found his seat, but he doesn’t notice me staring. I daydreamed about him asking me to the all-school dance. My father nudges me when he sees me slumped over in my seat; he points to the gospel reading but I am uninterested in following along with him.
The priest asks us to join him in the sign of peace. Finally, I think, it is almost over. I want to play outside. My father kisses me on the forehead and says Peace be with you, Sweetheart. I give him a small smile and wipe his kiss off while he isn’t looking.
It draws to a close as the choir sings… and he will raise you up, on eagle’s wings… I look up at my father: his eyes are glassy, tinged with a crayon pink and he is wiping the corner of his eyes, sniffling. I immediately look away. I hide my face, my cheeks are burning and my stomach turns to stone in my belly. I look to see if Joe has seen. I inch away from my father.
***
2006
I sit sunken in a different pew, in a different church. There is no fancy art here. No shimmery gold saints protecting us from above. No tabernacle. No body and blood. Nothing is beautiful here.
My father does not sit next me; instead, Grandma Shirley is beside me, her arm around my shoulder, showing me comfort I had never seen in her before.
My father is standing at the altar. He is holding her hand in his now. He smiles at her, she smiles back. They vow that they do. They vow in sickness and in health, in good times and bad.
I watch from the pew, blinking away my tears. My grandma takes my hand in hers. I shiver at the contrast of her frigid grasp and the boiling blood beneath my skin. She is not angry that I am crying. She does not tell me to stop. She consoles me as best she can.
I know it’s a lot of change, Emily, I know. But, it’s going to be okay, she says.
It’s all going to be okay.
***
2010
I lie in bed, constantly checking the time. My dad knocks on my door: Time to go! he says.
I lay a blue, flower-patterned dress on my bed. It’s nice, I should wear it. But I throw it on the floor. I grab some jeans, throw on a sweatshirt. My Sunday best, I think as I look in the mirror.
I walk down the stairs, my brother is waiting in the kitchen and my dad is already in the car.
Ready? I ask. He’s wearing dark jeans and the brown polo he got for Christmas. He looks nicer than I do.
At least he’s taking us to lunch afterward, my brother says as we close the front door behind us. I check the time again and count the minutes until the priest will release us, sending us to go in peace and to love and serve the Lord.
***
2012
No knock comes to my door. I am not summoned. I am not bribed.
It’s a secular Sunday, a godless afternoon. I don’t even consider getting out of bed.
***
2013
My frosty window reveals that my father’s car is still in the driveway—no desire to venture into the insufferable cold world today.
It’s been four days since I had to tell him. Four days since I had to break his heart: I had to tell him that I saw her with him.
I walked into D&J’s café for breakfast. We used to go to D&J’s in grade school when we had an early dismissal; it was across the street from our church.
I walked in and she was there: sitting with her hands stretched across the table, fingers intertwined with the man across from her. But he does not look much like a man. His hands are not meaty and callused. They were not the hands that I traced during mass. They were not the hands that brushed away the tears brought on by the song that played at my parent’s wedding. They were not the hands that knocked on my door on Sunday mornings. I do not recognize those hands.
The wooden staircase in the house they had bought together, the house my dad said he would die in, creaked as tip-toed my way down. My father is in his blue flannel pajama pants and green, tattered William & Mary sweatshirt; his face rough and unshaven, his hair matted down: he gives me a sad smile. He doesn’t say anything about going to mass. He doesn’t say anything about her or him. He doesn’t say anything about the vows they made, the vows she broke… in good times and bad. He says all he can, the only normal thing he can think of.
Waffles? he asks.
I tell him, it’s going to be okay.
It’s all going to be okay.
***
2014
It’s Sunday, finally. My father drives for 96 miles from the Land of Lincoln to pick me up from my dorm.
Hey, Senorita Emilita! How’ve you been? He’s wearing the gray Chicago Bears sweatshirt I bought him three Christmases ago. He gives me a smile that finally touches his eyes and I let out a deep exhale, the anxiety that had been settled like lead in my chest, is finally away.
We drive along; the crisp autumn breeze trickling through my cracked window on the passenger side tickles my face. He asks me about my school work, my roommate. I tell him midterms are coming up and I’m a little bit nervous, but he’s sure that I’ll do well.
We pull up to the bar in Maplewood, soon we’ll be regulars. You ready? he asks as we hop out of his gold Toyota. Ready for a victory! I holler back.
The bar is brimming with boisterous fans, forcing us to squeeze by their beer bellies to get to a table. Its kick off time: the Bears vs. the Vikings.
The defense needs to make big plays and Cutler needs to get his head out of his ass if they want any kind of chance at making the playoffs, he says and I nod along, agreeing with this proclamation he has made pretty much every Sunday.
The game goes on: we cheer, we laugh, we scream, we chomp on our chicken wings and slurp down our sodas.
We exchange jokes about the Vikings fans, pouting behind us. He chuckles, puts his hand on my shoulder, bringing with it the same sense of security that I used to know.
Maybe this is our new religion, maybe here is not such a bad place to be