A Troubled Man's Sermon

Worship.

It's odd that I'd choose to start this story with a word like that, considering I've used it so few times in the past. But worship has become pretty damn important to me as of late, so I really don't know where else I'd begin.

--

I sit alone, about four rows away from the back of the room. When I was younger, I'd secure myself a spot in the very back, just in case I had to pee or, perhaps more likely, grew tired of the entire affair.

So as you might imagine, four rows is a big deal for me. Maybe one day I'll make it to the front. Of course, there's always the chance I'd have to pee.

Mostly everyone around me converses as we wait for prayer to begin. Me, I just stay quiet. Talking only seems to get me into trouble.

Besides, the gaps to my left and right tell you all you need to know about who wants to talk to me.

As a piano begins to play, a swift and long-awaited hush falls over the congregation. The pianist is Madi, whom I recall teaching just a few years ago. Her skills have since far surpassed mine. Voices raise in unison to deliver soulful, albeit imperfect, tunes of faith. My voice raises also, but I fear that it will too be heard. It cracks, recovers, and rejoins the group effort, admittedly quieter than it had been before. My voice does that a few times more, until a sermon about solidarity sends shivers down my spine, and segues into the final song. People stand and I do too, but I try not to sing this time. I hum just a little, but I let no words escape my lips.

Solidarity. There's another word I haven't used many times. I think about it more, which is something I wish I’d do less. I think so much that I don’t even notice the people getting up to leave around me.

When I was younger, my parents once let me sit for an extra thirty minutes after services ended. I had fallen asleep, and apparently there was a lesson to be learned somewhere in my embarassing slumber. I remember my anger, not much else.

By now it’s mostly empty, save for a few stragglers. I lock eyes with Madi, the piano player, and she quickly looks away. Still, she looks back every few seconds and I don’t even realize I haven’t looked away at all. I smile and she does too, which makes my body cold.

Finally, I stand up and turn towards the exit, the few families left parting like the Red Sea. I don’t make my exodus, however. Instead, I turn towards the front of the room. I turn towards Madi.

I walk up and say hello and ask how she is. She says something at the same time but I’m not sure what it is. She answers me though so she must have heard me.

“I’m good!” She sounds happy. “Busy, but good.”

“You’ve gotten better,” I tell her. “I’m proud.”

On “proud” she looks down at her palm. Her disposition changes, noticeably gloomier than before. I look at her palm too, and although I can’t see it, I know it’s there, the scar. There’s one on her neck and another on her back, I think.

“Thank you.” She’s quieter now. A hand touches my shoulder and I turn around. I look up slightly and recognize the face staring back at me. Madi’s father.

I begin to say hello but he stares past me and at his daughter.

“Come on, honey,” he says. He surrenders a glance towards me, but I look back at Madi. She gets up to leave and says nothing. I understand, but I still say goodbye.

--

I drive home and think some more. This time about Madi and her father and solidarity and worship.

I remember a drive three years ago. It’s a big day. In the passenger’s seat is Madi’s mother, and in the back is Madi, alongside her brother Joel.

The car is filled with excitement as we drive to a competition upstate. A music degree doesn’t exactly line one up with job offers, but teaching piano to the Barry kids provided a steady income for a little while. This competition was the culmination of our hard work. These were talented kids, and I remain confident today that they would have placed first and second that day.

Madi was particularly impressive, a first-place pianist for sure. I especially enjoyed my sessions with her each Tuesday afternoon.

She had blonde hair that turned brown as it draped over her shoulders. Her lips were a bright red and her teeth were a glossy white. I know this because she smiled whenever she played, and I smiled in turn. She always had nicely painted nails, and I enjoyed watching the various shades of pink and blue dance along the black-and-white keys.

I liked her and I knew she liked me because she’d thank me each week.

“You’re the best,” she’d say. “Thank you so much.”

Each week I’d receive a slight variation of this expression of gratitude. A hug soon accompanied the thank-you’s, and once or twice, a kiss. I liked those thank-you’s the best.

I’d join the Barry’s for dinner from time to time, and I’d bake banana bread. Mr. and Mrs. Barry really liked my banana bread. We’d say some prayers before we ate, which was admittedly my least favorite part. I’d stay back and help with the dishes, and even help Joel and Madi with their homework from time to time.

Mr. Barry couldn’t attend the competition that day, but his wife was eager to watch her son and daughter perform.

We drove down the highway and sang songs and felt like a real family. The Barry’s would have never left me sleeping after services.

That’s what made it such a shame when I let them down.

I was thinking extra about Madi that day. I was thinking about her clandestine kisses and how a first-place finish would surely secure another. As I began to exit towards our destination, I looked into the rearview mirror and back at Madi. She was already looking up at me. We locked eyes and smiled. Her smile soon faded and I wondered why. I shifted my eyes back to the road, only there was no road in front of us.

The car slammed into a guardrail and flipped onto its side. Momentum propelled it onto the grass and into a tree. Airbags pushed out from all directions, and safety glass made its twinkling sound as it shattered.

I had a concussion, there was no doubt. I reached for my face and felt blood. I quickly looked around. Mrs. Barry slouched motionless in her seat, a deep gash adorning her olive-skin face. Joel was stuck in place, struggling. I told him to sit still and he listened, beginning to cry.

Madi cried too. She held up her hand and began to scream. Blood ran down her arm.

I reached around for my phone, straining my neck and forcing me to scream as well. Finally, I managed to retrieve it and dial 911.

--

I don’t go to the Barry’s for dinner anymore. I eat alone most nights.

I don’t teach Madi, and I don’t teach Joel, who is in a wheelchair now and probably hasn’t touched a piano since that very day. And I don’t see Mrs. Barry, who ultimately bled out that day, ridding the nicest family I had ever known of their wife and mother.

I don’t quite know if Madi ever spoke of our thank-you’s to her father and brother, but the way Mr. Barry looked at me this morning didn’t inspire much faith.

Oddly enough, faith is just about all I have now. I thought often about those pre-dinner prayers at the Barry residence, and how they placed a layer of calm over the room. So as the Barry’s lost their faith in me, I had no choice but to find my faith once more.

--

I sit at home, murmuring prayers to myself before I eat microwaved leftovers from the night before. It’s meatloaf, which I enjoy, so it’s not as bad as it sounds.

The doorbell rings and my body gets cold like it does when Madi smiles. I go to answer the door, and the first thing I notice are the perfectly painted nails.

Madi steps inside and walks over to my piano. I follow and stand behind her as she begins to play.

The song becomes more and more elaborate, and soon I sit down beside her. My body goes cold for a second, and then warm.

I place my hands over hers and guide her from key to key. She looks up at me, smiling.

“Thank you,” she says before leaning in for a kiss.

I lean back and our melody ceases to exist. “You should probably get home, Madi. I have work early in the morning.” She doesn’t know that’s a lie.

She looks down at her palm like she did this morning. She looks back up at me and purses her bright red lips. This time, I don’t lean back.

--

Madi spends the night and I know I need worship more than ever today. I drive us both to the temple, and a man is waiting on the steps outside.

The man’s head slowly swivels, tracking my car as I pull into a parking spot. I get out of the car and recognize him as Madi’s father. My body gets especially cold, only this time it doesn’t feel as nice. He begins to walk towards Madi and me, and she shouts “Dad!”

He pushes past his daughter and walks straight up to me, before sending a jab right into my jaw. I stagger backwards, but I cannot recover before Mr. Barry punches me again, this time in the stomach.

He lets a few more fists fly until I’m lying on the ground.

Madi continues to scream. “Dad! Dad!”

I do not fight back because I do not see the point, but Mr. Barry kicks me again and again as I lie on the ground. I must look pretty bad because my one-time friend begins to slow down, and then says “aw, shit” before taking out his phone to dial 911.

I am not sure if I can speak, but I muster out a “stop!”

Madi’s father looks at me as he raises his phone to his ear. “Stop!” I let out once more.

He lowers the phone and continues to stare at me.

I think I am crying but the taste of blood overshadows the taste of tears. I can’t see my face but I imagine that of Mrs. Barry, bloodied. I hope I look worse.

“Stay away from my family,” Mr. Barry commands before turning around, grabbing his daughter, and entering the building.

I consider calling out for Madi but I know she has a piano to play.

Others begin to gather around me, offering concern but little help.

Is this what solidarity looks like?

I work my way onto my feet, and consider what row I’ll sit in today. People scatter as I limp towards the entrance.

People stare and I get why, even if I don’t like it. I continue to cry and I can taste the tears now as the blood begins to dry.

I do not stop in the bathroom to wash my face, nor do I stop in the back or middle rows to sit. I work my way to the front.

I’ve made it, I think to myself, as I let my voice join the others. I likely won’t be here tomorrow or any day after that, but that’s OK. Madi’s music fills the room. She still smiles, and her pink-and-blue fingers still dance.