The Between Years

into a deep depression, and my doctor prescribed antidepressants, but a simple serotonin lift wasn't enough to cure me. I needed a reason to live. And I don't want that to reflect negatively on Randy. On the surface, I had plenty to live for. Because, even though so much had gone wrong, I still had the greatest, most supportive husband anyone can ask for. And I kept telling myself that. But a piece of me had been torn away, and could never be replaced, so I felt like my ailment was incurable.

    I found God in a simpler, much less dramatic way. I remember a preacher telling the story of an Evangelical Christian who'd asked him when he'd been saved.

    The preacher answered, “I should imagine it was on a Friday afternoon in the springtime about two thousand years ago.” The preacher added that the Evangelical stared at him with a dazed expression. But I wasn't the one who needed or even wanted to be saved. I used to believe that people winked out of existence when they died. There was no such thing as a soul and it therefore needed nowhere to go. However, after what Randy and I had experienced, I wanted to believe that something was beyond for Kenny, and that that something would be merciful. Little boys who'd died before their time had to go somewhere, didn't they?

    So I woke up early one Sunday and drove to St. Paul's. I even recognized a few faces from the first time I'd been there. Both of them were men who'd sung in the choir. One was a heavy-set man with a wave of black hair swept over his forehead. The other reminded me of a young Michael Douglas.

    First, I followed a couple of bony, white-haired, bespectacled ladies in purple outfits into the church but hesitated to bow before the cross after them. Then I slipped into the first empty pew, clasped my hands, and stared straight at the front. Could you sit wherever you wanted or were seats assigned? A front pew had been reserved for us at Kenny's baptism, but still. Before the service, organ notes hummed while other congregants filed in and slipped into their pews like they'd sat there for years (and maybe they had!). After prayers, they whispered across the aisle to one another, but didn't utter a word to me. Wasn't church supposed to be a warm, welcoming place for newcomers? At any rate, that didn't bother me so much, since part of me preferred to be incognito.

    I glanced to my right and saw a black and white cat trot past, his tail sticking straight up. I'm not a cat person, but I thought it was a nice touch, and it helped break my uneasiness. In spite of my reservations, I felt no compulsion to crawl out of my pew and leave. I was there for a reason, even though I hadn't figured out what that reason was.

    Church bells rang at quarter and five to the hour. At eight o' clock sharp, Father Landry and several others in white robes-one was carrying a cross and the other a leather-encased book-processed into the church from the outer corridor. A man in a suit stuck his head in the side door, said “All rise,” and feet pounded the floorboards like a passing thunderstorm as the entire congregation stood at attention. I stood with them, but not until they focused on the entourage, and I ducked a little as if to make sure no one could see me.

    When the organ crawled to a stop, Landry stood at the front of the church, spread his arms, his hands cupped, and recited a passage I'd never heard. Everyone else had green service books open, though few seemed to be reading from them, and there I was without a clue what page to turn to. Then Landry said “Good morning,” and the congregation echoed in unison. The priest announced what page the service would begin on, so I grabbed a book from the holder in front of me and thumbed my way to page 230.

    After the scripture readings, Landry stepped into his pulpit to deliver his sermon, and I'll admit that he completely lost me. That's not to say he flew over my head intellectually, I just drifted off. Eight in the morning was simply too early for me, but I needed to be there at that moment, and I've stuck to that routine ever since. When I approached the communion rail, I realized how my life had changed in a blur. And, even though no one was terribly warm to me, I wasn't pushed away, and I found a home in that church. I'd changed from my former self by leaps and bounds, even if I remain skeptical about enough aspects of the faith.

    But it's a place I need to go to once a week, a place that keeps me whole. I used to