There was only one Church in our town. It resided in the town centre, a large square that was often bustling with busy bodies fluttering in and out of the stores lining the roads. A Sunday morning was no different. Our congregation was large, the faces of my neighbours, teacher, kids from school filled up the seats beside me. On a Sunday morning service, the pews were always filled.
A palpable feeling filled the air, though it was indescribable; a feeling of something. A feeling that differed from person to person, kept private to them and God alone.
The Church's four walls distanced the congregation from the outside world. Instead, we resided in the in-between. We could feel the realm above, its offerings seeped into our bones, filled our body and souls, but remained a distance place we couldn't reach. For a time, a short two-hour period, the veil between worlds seemed to thin. The colours, shapes, tastes of the mortal world felt brighter. A comforting presence overshadowed everything we did, every word that was said, and everything else drifted away.
The light filtering in from the stain glass window coloured the pastor in an ethereal glow as he began reading scripture. It made his appear otherworldly, as if he was indeed a messenger of God sent to guide us on the right path.
A path I was lost on.
Sunday mass was a regular occurrence in the Wilkins household. I had been coming weekly since before I was even able to string together coherent thoughts. The words of the Lord had been read to me until they were ingrained in my being.
Even once my brothers stopped attending Sunday mass, their busy school schedules offering them a reprieve from a religion they both lacked a devotion to in the same extent as my parents, I was still present. I still sat beside my mother and father in our regular seats. The pew third from the front on the left.
I didn't have a choice anymore; it was an obligation.
When I was younger I felt close to my religion. I saw the joy it brought people, the sense of community and belonging it fostered. I saw how it provided a crutch to people in their darkest moments, offering a sense of stability and strength.
Watching the members of my congregation interact filled me with happiness. I saw how religion helped to cultivate positive emotions: hope, peace; how it was a place of love.
I was naïve.
I was a child who wore rose coloured glasses. I didn't know until they were ripped off my face.
My thoughts drifted as the pastor's strong voice read an expert from Romans 12:1–2. I could hear the words he said, but my mind struggled to make sense of them. My morning hangover was rearing its head fully now and my sleep deprived mind wished it was anywhere but here.
My bed in particular sounded more than appealing.
The pastor spoke about spiritual worship. The power of offering yourself completely to God. How we can discern God's will and experience His good if we offer him our body.
I knew my body wasn't worth offering, I'd been told often enough, though my parents assured me if I repented for my sin I could be saved. The gates of heaven were still accessible to me if I reformed.
It was hard to separate my thought from there's. To separate my beliefs, my own understanding and interpretation of the world, from those my pastor had told me. Those my parents had convinced me where right.
Now my naivety is gone. I know life isn't all sunshine and roses. Things aren't perfect and never can be. Perfect is an illusion.
The day my rose-coloured glasses were taken away things changed. They fell to the floor, breaking at the harsh impact. I made no move to catch them, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to. Instead, I watched as the shattered remains lay at my feet. Watched as everything that made me me - my optimism, positivity, happiness, innocent - all reduced to shards of glass waiting for me to walk forward and stand on. Waiting for my skin to pierce and cry the tears my eyes refused to weep.
To those people who believe their life is perfect, that things are never too bad, that there's hope – light in the darkest places, I laugh in their face. Not a humorous laugh, no, one full of longing and pain, partaking in a joke that only I know alone. Because to me that's what perfect is, a complete and utter joke. No one can be perfect. No family is perfect. No life. No relationship. Nothing.
To think those words in a Church felt like the greatest sin. I guess I should add it to the list.
We ended mass with a song. A call for the Lord to gift us with his being. To fill us up with his divine presence. I sang along, my words drowned out by the sea of voices. It was a beautiful sound - soft and light - amplified by the Church high ceilings. The space welcoming our praise with open arms.
Once the service finished completely, the final song sung and last word spoken, my parents began mingling with the members of the congregation. I reluctantly trudged behind them, offering polite smiles when necessary.
"How's school Caleb?" A friend of my mums, Laura, spoke.
I hated the small talk. The trivial questions people would ask to feign interest. Nevertheless, I smiled and offered her the response she sought.
"Oh, he's being modest." My mother chimed in before she began gushing about my perfect grades.
"My Joe could learn a thing or two from you." Laura said as she shot a pointed look in her son's direction. Joe was younger than me. His body was on the plumper side with round cheeks and soft features.
His timid expression and red face told me this wasn't the first time his grades had been a topic of conversation for the pair. "He doesn't put any effort into school, though he's not very bright regardless, bless him. I don't think much is going on up there." The look in her eyes was dark, a stark contrast to the smile on her face that grew as Joe sunk into himself further.
"I'm not the brightest tool in the shed day-to-day. I mean just yesterday I was distracted and walked into a lamp post." Joe smiled at that, though our parents seem less impressed.
I wish I could say it was a lie, though in my defence I had been drinking. Marcus had seen it coming and instead of being a good friends and moving me out of the way, he just watched as I crashed into it. I would've done the same. Thankfully I didn't hit it hard enough to leave a mark.
Our parents spoke for a few more minutes, with a dinner date arranged for later in the week, before mum moved on to her next victim. Dad remained engrossed in his conversation with one of his golf buddies and I didn't have the effort to venture off on my own so resigned to following my mother around like a lost puppy.
"Caleb," Mary, the pastor's wife, said happily as she embraced me, "it's so lovely to see you dear." Mary was a petite woman, her head barely reaching my head. Her daughter Faith stood beside her, there resemblance uncanny. Both had the same blond hair, soft brown eyes, and pale complexion. Though Faith had her father's sharp features and thin lips.
"You too Mrs Culkin."
"Are you coming to the lock-in next week?" She questioned.
The Church held an annual lock-in when fall begins. It was an event for the kids and used as a way to both raise money and welcome in the new season with food, games and activities.
I looked to my mum, her expression expectant, and reluctantly uttered yes.
"Oh, that's lovely, isn't it Faith?"
Faith sent me a warm smile, "It's going to be fun." Her voice was confident as if the statement was indisputable.
I begged to differ.
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A/N: I've been so busy with school, but now it's all done with hopefully I can start posting a bit more frequently!
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A slow fall
Storie d'amoreIt was gradual. Lucas had always been there, but it was always as his brother's friend, not his own. Not really. When they began hanging out more, Caleb began realising there was a lot he never knew about the boy, and he began wanting to learn every...
