Chapter 3
What It Means


“I don’t understand all the things you’ve seen, but I’m slipping in between you and your big dreams.” The lyrics float across the room as I lay on my bed listening to the CD Sarah had left on my desk. She had written a simple note, “#9, Love you,” I had known immediately the song would contain the perfect lyrics to carry me through my winding thoughts. I needed to move but the careful piano notes held me to the bed, beckoning me to pay close attention to every syllable of the chorus.
I glanced at the clock on my bedside table and realized I was going to be late if I didn’t get up immediately. I had accepted a date from a guy I had met on Saturday and was now starting to wonder what exactly I had been thinking. It was clear I wasn’t completely over Christopher and had no business accepting the proposals of other men. Then again, I had put this poor guy through enough. He had repeatedly asked to take me to dinner but I had refused, citing that I had a busy schedule. Finally, I told him that if he called me on Monday, not Sunday or Tuesday, then he could have a date on Wednesday. It was bitchy, manipulative but it had worked. I was now left to stare at myself in the mirror, wondering how I was going to get ready in 30 minutes when I hadn’t even had a shower.
“It’s to dying in another’s arms and why I had to try it”
Damn it, this is why I hate dating. I knew I had to give this guy a chance, and yet every ounce of my being wanted to simply forget that I had ever met him. “Dying in another’s arms…” the words seemed so fitting. That’s what love was like, dying, laying down all your pretenses to open yourself up. But for what? Hell, if I know. “Dying…” I felt the beginning of a poem coming to my mind. My hair would have to wait; he would have to wait. I was a writer at heart and when words came to my mind there was nothing I could do but stop immediately and write them down.

I opened my eyes to a painful measure
Lid to lid and yours half-closed
Exhaling of breath and slow divide

That’s how it felt: dying in another’s arms. I remember distinctly lying with my head on his chest, my neck resting on his shoulder and looking up to meet his gaze, and it had hurt, opening my eyes that fully to only see his half-closed. I don’t know how to explain it exactly but that was the moment I knew it was over. I realized that, like my eyes, my heart was completely open and his was shut.
There. The words were laid out carefully, and the truth had been spoken. I could now get back to fixing my hair………
The first thing I had noticed about Mike was that he was, so obviously, American. Yes, there is a look that American’s have and it can be blaring. He had caught my eye and got the signal by his own interpretation that I wanted to talk to him. I really didn’t know much about the guy except that he was originally from Oklahoma and had been living in England for six years. He had called me and told me to meet him at the train station and we would go from there. As I scanned the room I immediately zoned in on his bleach blond hair and bright polo shirt, could he possibly be more obvious?
“Hey, you look beautiful,” he said customarily with just enough sincerity to make me believe his intentions weren’t completely vile.
“Thanks. So where are we going tonight?” He had deliberately not told me the venue and I was wondering if my attire was fitting.
“I was thinking we could get a curry at this great restaurant on Manchester rd.” He said this statement as if, in fact, he wasn’t thinking but had already decided. I motioned for us to go ahead, simultaneously wondering how much effort I was going to put into the conversation tonight.
As we were settled into our seats we began the custom of exploring the menu and chatting over different dishes we liked. We chatted about school and family, finally getting to the question of what he was doing in England.
“My mom and dad are missionaries. They lead a church and help grass-root bible studies. That’s why I was really attracted to you. You’re American; therefore, you can share my faith. It’s kind of hard to find Christians in England.” He said this matter-of-factly, openly as if it were the only thought that had ever occurred to him.
I hesitated, “actually I’m not a Christian.” I could see the confusion in his face. “I mean, I was raised Baptist but I haven’t figured out what exactly I believe in.” This wasn’t entirely true, I knew what I believed; I just didn’t have the heart to tell him.
“Right…” As quickly as it had begun, the date was over. We continued to chat over this and that but the date was definitely a failure in both of our minds.
As I caught the train back to town I began to ponder my own beliefs. I believed in God, or I believed in a God. More correctly, I believed that every culture contains religion. Every man I’ve met believed in a moral code. Where does all this come from? There has to be a truth that extends past man’s need to understand his surroundings. Its simple uncertainty reduction theory, we must minimize the uncertainty of our surroundings; therefore, religions (and moral codes) offer a way for man to understand that which is incomprehensible: Life. Man only has one life, we are confined by our knowledge that we acquire through our interactions with others. How are we to understand the great complexity that envelops our every action if it is impossible to step outside of it? There was one thing I needed, and I needed it now.
As I stepped inside the old wooden chapel I felt the peace surround me. This is God. In some cultures the chapel is called a sanctuary, and that is exactly what it brought me. I closed my eyes to breath in the musky air and feel the worn leather of the Bibles. I didn’t believe in the stories that it contained but I felt the undeniable need that those who had grasped its worn pages clung to. The moment reminded me of a story a friend had told me once. He was an atheist and was walking home from the pub one night. He stumbled upon an old church and somehow found his way into the courtyard. As he found a place to lay his head, he looked up at the stars and began to wonder if there was a God. He pondered the vast expanse of the sky and then realized: He was drunk. The story had made me laugh at the time but now I simply understood him. As I looked around at the worn chairs I knew this wasn’t the place I would find my peace. There was a bit of it here but years of corruption had eaten away at any foundation God once had in the Church.
“Can I help you?” I looked up suddenly to see an old priest standing in the doorway of the chapel.
“Excuse me father, I was trying to find something but…I’m leaving now,” I had wanted to tell him more but years of Sunday school had trained me to stay away from those of authority in the church. But still…I needed to ask him.
“How is it that we are so innately, intrinsically human yet utterly incomplete at the same time?” The question had been plaguing me since the bus station.
“Well…I think that’s what it means to be human,” His voice held authority but his manner understood my need.
“Thank you father,” I walked toward him, handing him the old Bible I had been unconsciously clutching since I walked in.
“Child, God is not insecure. Ask him your questions and you will be answered.” His advice seemed shallow compared to the knowledge that stood behind his eyes. I looked at him closely wondering if he held all the answers to the questions I hadn’t yet discovered. I turned and walked briskly out the door. I had asked God a question once and he never answered. Damn it, if I was going to be a fool again.