I make apologies, say we should get out of their hair, but Sylvia says we’re no trouble. “And it’s Sunday.”
“Services start at ten,” Richard says, coming out in a cleanish- looking pair of jeans and a T-shirt with no drug references on it. “Can’t you stay? The rev will be bummed otherwise.”
I glance at Ben, who hasn’t spoken to me since last night. He shrugs the question back to me. I look at Richard and Sylvia and realize it doesn’t matter if I brought a gift. This is what matters.
I look down at my cutoff shorts and tank top. “I’d better change.”
“You can if you want,” Sylvia says. “But we’re a come-as-you-are congregation.”
We caravan over at nine thirty, Richard driving with me and Ben, the rest of the family in the van, which has one of those Coexist bumper stickers on it.
Outside the church the various Zeller children are scooped up by different congregants, and Sylvia and Jerry go into greeter mode. Richard slips inside with Ben and me.
We take our seats. The pews are a little worn, and it smells slightly of cooking oil. It’s the dumpiest of the churches I’ve been to, and this past year, I’ve been to a lot. Before that, I hardly went to church at all—Meg’s first communion , and the occasional midnight mass. Tricia usually works late Saturday nights, and Sundays are reserved for worshipping the pillow.
The service here is unlike any I’ve been to. There’s no choir. Instead, different people get up and sing and play guitar or piano and anyone can join in. Some of the songs are religious, but others aren’t. Ben’s all pleased when a bearded guy plays a soulful tune called “I Feel Like Going Home.” He leans over and tells me it’s by Charlie Rich, one of his favorite artists. It’s the first normal thing he’s said to me since we argued last night. I take it as a peace offering. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.
Jerry sort of stays out of the way for much of the proceedings, allowing a younger guy who leads the youth ministry to run the show. And then, when all the singing is over and announcements have been made, he uncurls himself from his seat where he’s been sitting calmly, and in a voice that is quiet but somehow commanding, steps to the pulpit and starts talking.
“A few weeks ago CeCe was sick. She had a fever, was sluggish—that bug that’s been going around. I know a lot of us went through it.” There is some murmuring and tongue-clucking in the congregation. “Pedro didn’t have school that day, so he had to tag along with us to the doctor’s. CeCe doesn’t like doctors’ offices, having been to so many of them. So she was agitated and crying, and the longer we waited, the worse it got. And we were waiting awhile. An hour went by. Then an hour and a half. CeCe kept crying, and then she threw up. Mostly on me.” There’s sympathetic laughter.
“I’m still not sure if it was because of the virus, or because she had gotten herself so worked up about being at the doctor. Doesn’t matter. But this one mother sitting with her own daughter visibly flinched at CeCe’s mess. And then she chastised me for exposing all the other children to her.
“On some level, I got it. None of us wants our kids to be sick. But as a father, I was livid. In my head I said many unchristian things about that woman, to that woman. CeCe being sick was the point of our being in the pediatrician’s office in the first place, and this was not a Christian way to behave. The nurses were too busy to offer much help aside from giving us some wipes and sanitizer. All the while, CeCe kept crying.
“Eventually, I got her cleaned up and she fell asleep. Pedro found a puzzle, and with a few seconds to spare, I picked up a magazine. It was two years out of date, this being a doctor’s office. I opened to a random page. It was an article about forgiveness. Now, this wasn’t a religious publication. It was a medical journal, and the article was describing a study that had analyzed all the health benefits of forgiveness. Apparently, it lowers blood pressure, decreases anxiety, minimizes depression.