I grin. “What’s with you?”
“Look,” she sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and your dad, but I do know he’s a burnt out pastor who caused you and your family a lot of pain. Wouldn’t you want to walk away from that if you could?”
“Not wanting to be a PK, and not wanting to be a Christian are two different things.” I force myself to say the logical words, even if I don’t believe them most of the time. The two are so entwined in my life, and in those around me, I don’t know if they really are two different things.
Then it hits me. Despite my encouraging her to embrace her new identity as a PK, I somehow forgot through this conversation that she is just that. “What about you?” I question.
“I don’t think I have enough information on this whole PK thing to make a proper assessment.”
I tilt my chin toward her. “Based on what you know, then.”
She lets out a sharp laugh that startles a group of birds in a nearby bush. As they disappear into another tree, Kennedy looks at me. “Based on what very, very little I know, I’d say it’s amazing that any of you are still Christian. It reminds me of my Catholic friends back home.”
“How so?” I don’t know a lot about Catholicism, but I do know it has nothing to do with preacher’s kids.
“The rules. Being under the thumb of your family, church, or God. Rules, rules, and more rules. Ways to pray, who to pray to, a freaking rosary so you don’t forget how long you’ve been praying, or something—I don’t actually know what a rosary is for.” She shakes her head and closes her eyes, seeming to refocus herself. “Anyway. It seems to me that you—and the Catholics—feel like you’re being watched all the time. By others and by a punishing God.”
I have to give her credit, for the weight of the things I’ve heard Kennedy say, she manages to do it in the least offensive or caustic way possible. I’d love it if she could grow up to be like Roland in profession and passion, but now isn’t the time to dump that on her. There will likely never be a good time to tell the beautiful Episcopalian girl that she could become as influential as her father.
“I don’t know about all of that regarding your Catholic friends, but you’re pretty spot on with the PK’s. Though, I should mention I don’t really feel like God is a punishing God. In fact, from what I’ve read, Jesus spends most of the New Testament talking about love and forgiveness. That comes from God and we’re supposed to share with each other.” I eye her cautiously out of the corner of my eye. Despite my assertion that God is love, I’ve got my doubts based on personal experience.
Anger and doubt don’t have to be the same thing.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to discern the voice in my head. It’s been hard to tell lately if it’s the voice of God or the ingrained, trained voice of my upbringing. The ability to call on quotes or scriptures that help Christians get through the crap in their lives. There’s been lots of radio static lately, though, so I’m going to take this as His voice. And I’ll challenge him on it later.
Kennedy nods approvingly. “That’s what Episcopalians talk about the most, you know. The love that God has for us, and the amazing things that can happen from that. I’d say maybe we’re not so different after all, but, that’d be a stretch.”
I laugh and rock my head side to side. “I think everyone probably has it wrong.”
“Yeah? You’re probably right. Although, I have to admit—parentage aside—I like what Roland says. A lot.”
“I do, too,” I admit. “He seems to have his act together because he’s actually reading Jesus’ words. Not how those words fit into some political agenda.”
This isn’t really the conversation I planned on having with Kennedy right now, if at all, but here we are. Steeped in theology.
“I kind of wish he’d talk about some of those things sometimes, though, don’t you? Like, I don’t know, maybe if he doesn’t change people’s minds he could at least get them to think a little clearer about the issues.” Kennedy unfolds her legs and plants her feet on the ground, lifting herself up. When she stretches her arms overhead, looking up, the bottom of her shirt rides right to the waist of her skirt.
I clear my throat. “Like what issues?” Standing, I follow behind her as she makes her way further down the trail.
She shrugs. “Gay marriage?”
“You mean homosexuality,” I challenge. “That’s the root issue.”
“Whatever.” She waves her hand in the air but stops her feet on a dime.
Turning around, I find her standing with her hands on her hips. “What?” I ask.
Her eyes are cautious, but fierce. “Where do you stand on homosexuality?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t stand on it at all. I’m straight.”
My attempt at humor falls flat on her as her lips tighten. “Matt.”