When the Heart Falls

Like sweet tea, watermelon and hayrides, Sunday morning church is a staple in Texas. Sitting in our family pew, eyes glazed over as I stare at the Bible and hymnal stuck into the back of the pew in front of me, Pastor Mackay finishes his sermon on the importance of family.

The closing prayer seems to drone on for hours, as the pastor stretches his final moments to reach us with his words. When he finally closes with an "Amen," we stand and sing a hymn and then file out of our pews to greet each other, talk about the week, the weather, the kids, the next social event—business as usual.

Pastor Mackay clasps my hands as we leave. "Best of luck to you, Cade. We're all mighty proud of you."

I nod and duck out, resigned to wait in the dry heat for my parents to finish socializing. It's a long-standing tradition that we drive to church together each week. My mom thinks this will bind us to each other in some spiritual way, allowing us to overcome our differences. So far it hasn't worked.

While I wait, I study the architecture of the church. The Gothic-styled windows never get old, neither do the bright paintings that cover almost every surface. They transport me back to the 19th century, and I imagine a simple life of tending cattle, of coming home to a warm meal and loving family.

The building is the only reason I still agree to attend church with my family each week. That and we have enough strife amongst us; I'm loath to add more.

On the drive home my dad breaks the awkward silence by talking about the sermon. "Family gives strength," he says, quoting the pastor. "I like that. I really like that." He turns to Mom. "What do you think, dear?"

She pats his hand. "I thought it was good. Families should support each other."

"Right, but they have to be together to do that," he says. "That's the other part I liked. Families must stay together, must hold each other close. That's an important part. I don't think a lot of people think about that."

My mom pulls back her hand, fussing with her purse. "I think it was more metaphorical, dear."

"What was metaphorical about that?" He slaps the steering wheel. "Family gives strength. Family has to stay together. Nothing metaphorical about that."

Mom just shakes her head.

I shift in the backseat, stretching my long legs to the side to keep them from cramping, my Stetson boots pressing up against the other door. "If family gives one strength, shouldn't family help each other achieve one's goals?"

Dad nods. "Absolutely. Family goals."

I clench and unclench my fist. "I don't remember the pastor saying that."

"Strength means working together on things, achieving things together. That's how we stay happy."

My lips curl up. "Guess it was metaphorical after all."

Dad grunts. "The Bible says children should obey their parents. God knew what he was doing, putting parents at the head of the family. Putting fathers at the head of the family."

"The Bible also says fathers shouldn't provoke their children to anger. You might want to work on that one."

His face turns red as he clenches his jaw. "You might want to learn some respect."

Dad pulls up to our house, and I'm ready to jump out the moment he puts the brakes on. "This is all well and good," I say, "and we could do this all day. But there's one thing you're forgetting, Dad."

He turns to look at me, his face hard and uncompromising. "What's that?"

"I'm not a child anymore. I'm a man. And a man should leave his parents and start his own life."

His eyes narrow, lines forming around them. "A man puts his family first. And as long as you live in my house, and rely on my money to support you, you will follow my rules."

"In five years, I'll have my inheritance from Grandpa, whether you like it or not."

"And what are you going to do for those five years?"

I sigh, pulling my hat lower to cover my scowl. "Does it matter? Is it worth it to you, Dad? Breaking our relationship?"

He unbuckles. "We're family. Our relationships don't get broken."

"Really? Let's count the successful relationships you've had with your children." I hold up two fists. "Look at that, 0 for 3, Dad, 0 for 3." I pull myself out of the car and slam the door before he can reply. Anger sets my heart pounding, my fists desperate to punch something. As my family settles into the house, I saddle Biscuit, my horse, and let out my aggression as we race through the fields, leaping over fences until we're clear to run free.



We use our formal dining room on Sundays, as if God cares where we eat dinner.

My mom brings out the salad and sweet tea, and my dad serves up the barbecued ribs and corn on the cob. Stevie is wheeled up to his customary spot at the table, though he does little but stare at us as we eat in awkward silence.

"Son, please say grace before we begin," my father commands.