“It was…” I searched for the right word. “It was busy.”
“Busy?” she asked, laughing. That was apparently not the word she was expecting.
“There was so much happening. So much for the eye and ear to take in. I’m not used to that.”
“Well, what is your worship service like?”
“Not so busy,” I said. And she laughed again.
“For starters, we sing a cappella, and each hymn lasts about twenty minutes.”
“Get out!”
I nodded. “It calms the heart and quiets the mind. Brings you to a far more worshipful place.” I went on to explain what the rest of our services were like, with Scriptures and prayers and three sermons.
“Three sermons? No way!”
I smiled. “Yep. And we don’t have fancy church buildings. We take turns meeting in our homes—living rooms or basements or barns. Then, when the service is over, we share a light meal together.”
“That part sounds really nice.”
“It is,” I said, surprising myself with how much I believed that to be true.
We reached the car, but Lark suggested we wait for a few minutes for the lot to clear some. The day was warm and beautiful. We leaned against the Honda as a steady stream of other vehicles inched past us.
“Does that mean you didn’t like the service?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t say that. It was just so different from how I have always worshipped. It seems to me that life here in Southern California is so very busy. Complex. The one place you might opt for simplicity is in your worship.”
“I haven’t ever thought of it that way before.” She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose there are churches out here that are like that. You know, less busy and all. But I don’t think I would be happy at it. I love the artistic approach at my church. I’m afraid I’d get bored at a service where there was so little happening. I guess it’s all about what brings you closer to God.”
It seemed strange to me that a hectic approach to worship would draw someone closer to the Lord, but I didn’t say this. What seemed hectic to me was obviously meaningful to Lark and everyone else who attended her church.
In my search to figure out where I belonged, I knew I had stumbled on a major discovery. I would probably always want to worship God in the most simple of ways. But did that make me Amish?
Did my preference for an uncomplicated life make me Amish?
Did my view on nonresistance make me Amish?
Did my love for Rachel make me Amish?
If those things didn’t make me Amish, and I found that I instead belonged in the non-Amish world, where in its vastness was my place in it? I didn’t think it was in Southern California, where the pace of life didn’t appeal to me. And yet that’s where my family was. Where else could I possibly go?
With this as my only viable option, it was clear to me that I didn’t belong to either world. I was still a man without a place.
And even if I thought my place might be here, Brady certainly did not agree.
“Tyler?”
I turned to Lark. “What?”
“You were a million miles away. Did you hear what I just said?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“I said do you want to grab something to eat?”
I was in desperate need of advice and completely disconnected from the people I trusted most to give it to me. Daadi, Mammi, Jake, and Rachel. It wasn’t that I wanted to share yet another meal with Lark, but she was the only friend I had at the moment.
We went to a burger joint, and I was thrilled to order a hamburger with grilled onions, a side of French fries, and a chocolate shake. No chopsticks, no seaweed, no raw fish. The place was crowded inside, so we sat on the covered patio at a stone table with kidney-bean shaped benches made of pebble rock and cement.
In between bites of my hamburger I told Lark about what I was experiencing with Brady.
“He’s definitely mad at you about something,” she said when I was finished.
“Yeah, I figured that. But he won’t tell me what.”
“That’s not so weird.”
“Uh, yes it is. It is weird. He’s never been afraid to talk to me before. Why won’t he tell me what’s wrong now?”
Lark dipped a long, slender French fry into a tiny pleated cup of ketchup. “Something you did or said hurt his feelings. He may sound like he’s mad, but I bet you ten bucks he’s more hurt than angry.”
“Why? What could I have done to hurt him? I’ve asked him to tell me and he won’t. I want to make it right and he won’t let me.”
Lark folded her arms on the table. “Tyler.” Her tone was a bit condescending, as though I had missed something glaringly obvious.
“What?”
“If he has to tell you, that means you don’t know. And if you don’t know, that means it wasn’t that big of a deal to you. So you can’t possibly make it right. You would only be saying you were sorry his feelings got hurt, not that you were the one who did it.”
“But I am sorry I’m the one who did it!”
“Did what?”