Ever wonder what would’ve happened if you turned left instead of right? If someone hit the backspace button on the story to your life? What would change? Would you be surrounded by the same people? Would you love them or hate them? Who decides that shit anyway? They say you have one life to live and to make the best of it but that’s not really true, is it? We aren’t the scribers of the pages to our stories. There is someone else writing them, someone else deciding who stays and who leaves, who we love and who we hate. You’re not in control of your destiny, it’s already written for you. It’s been decided and the final proof submitted for editing. No more backspace button—the moment you breathe your first breath your story is published.
Growing up, I remember my grandma telling me that the Lord only gives us what we can handle.
He’ll never give you more than you can chew, darling.
Those were the words of wisdom that brought me to church after the fire, and those same words brought me here today. It was a weekday so the chapel was empty, but still I sat in the last pew. I stared at the altar, diverting my eyes to the crucifix that hung above and wondered if the man crucified was the scriber of this story.
I don’t know why I made Blackie drop me off at the church. It’s not like I’m a religious person. It’s true, I only believe in God sometimes because most of the time I can’t believe that there is a man who sacrificed his own life and sits idly watching as others suffer. Shouldn’t he intervene with his divine powers?
Maybe my perception of who God is and what his powers are is off. But I can’t help but wonder why people preach that God is great when I look around and see so many people suffering. Why did Danny die and I survive? How did his brother’s life intertwine with mine? Did I go right when I was supposed to go left? There were no signs pointing which way to go. I kept moving and collided with Jack.
Jack.
My eyes zeroed in on the eyes of Jesus.
“Why did you give him to me if your plan was only to take him from me?” I asked the empty church. Again, there were no signs, no flickering candle, not even a saint appearing before me to answer my question. I was back at the fork in the road.
Do I go right?
Do I go left?
I wasn’t suicidal but I could understand why people chose to end the vicious cycle. They’re grasping for control of their story—not willing to sit idle and wait for the next blow.
“People falsely believe God is the controller of our destiny. He is there walking beside you, holding your hand as you do all the work,” a voice said, from behind me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” I swallowed, staring into the eyes of the priest. He smiled warmly and gestured to the space beside me.
“May I?”
“Of course,” I whispered, sliding over to give him room to sit beside me.
“What is troubling you, my child? Is it your faith you are questioning or your own life particularly?” He asked me softly, as he worked the rosary beads in his fingers.
“I guess both,” I admitted honestly. I stared at him for some time and wondered if he was the sign. Was he going to tell me which way to go? Was he going to be the one to make sense of all my questions?
“I don’t go to church,” I blurted. “I’m not sure why I am even here but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Are you running away from something that is troubling you?”
I thought about the question and shook my head. “The old me would’ve run a long time ago. The new me is fighting not to run back,” I said, throwing my head in my hands and groaning. “I’m not even sure I make sense anymore.” I pulled my hands back and stared at the priest, “I’m in love.”
He smiled, “One of life’s blessings.”
“Yeah?” I questioned, wondering if he had ever been in love. You know, maybe, before he became a man of the cloth. Was that allowed? Probably not, I conceded because falling in love wasn’t a blessing it was a nice big fuck you—but I couldn’t tell that to a priest with Jesus staring down at me.
“Sure,” he said, rolling his thumb over the crucifix he held in his hands. “Love is raw and beautiful, reminding us that imperfections hold beauty too because no love is perfect, is it?”
Maybe he was in love once.
“No I suppose it’s not. It can be ugly sometimes,” I added.
“Is this one of those ugly times?” He questioned.
“I guess,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I fell in love with my ex-boyfriend’s brother, not knowing they were brothers.” I turned and looked at the priest. “My ex, he died. Would he still be considered my ex-boyfriend even though there was technically no break up?” I dismissed my question with my hand. “Forget I asked that…you must think I’m crazy.” I bit my lip, the word crazy leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “I take that back, crazy is cruel. It’s such a shallow word. Ignorant and derogatory is what it really is.” I mumbled.
The priest dropped his hand to mine.
“Why don’t you slow down and start from the beginning,” he suggested.