Hopelessly Devoted

Chapter 10- Prayer

The rest of the week went by rather smoothly. Ape-man made sure he would only hit me when Sean wasn't around. Thankfully for me, Sean had begun hanging out with us more often. 

The first day he sat at our lunch table was definitely surprising. I was sitting with the girls, debating Beth on the supremacy of pancakes to waffles, when Sean and Brandon sat down with us.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" Sean asked as he took his seat on my left. Brandon sat beside Sean, and the girls sat across from us. Both Jackie and Beth didn't say a word, but their eyes spoke volumes. Jaqueline's eyes showed pure surprise while Beth's were full of mischief. I swear, we made I contact and I could just see how much she wanted to wiggle her eyebrows at me.

"Which is better, pancakes or waffles?" Elizabeth asked without hesitation.

Sean smiles as he pretends to think hard about the question. "I'd have to say pancakes. I love me some chocolate chip pancakes."

Elizabeth groaned. "What the hell is wrong with you two?" She said as she pointed between us. She ran a hand over her face, thankfully muffling her next line. "You two really were made for each other."

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Today, however, is Sunday. It's currently 9:00 in the morning and I'm standing in front of the ever-looming church building. I'm wearing an itchy blue polo shirt and beige khakis, getting ready to attend services. I've felt so guilty all week. Due to my beating on Saturday night, I hadn't been able to attend the day after. I haven't missed a single sermon in two years, and that was just because I had an appendectomy the Friday before.

I know it seems strange, me being a gay guy who attends services every week. I know that the bible has some pretty nasty things to say about the way I am,  but that doesn't dissuade my beliefs in any way. I've been a devout Christian ever since I can remember.  

My father, Mom, and I would all gather together every Sunday and walk the two miles to our local church. When my mom died of Ovarian Cancer, I was only 8 years old. My father had been deployed in Iraq, meaning I was alone for the two days it took for him to get leave and fly home. I had felt so alone. My father was always off serving in some remote part of the world, meaning that my mom was really the one who raised me. I didn't know what to do with myself upon her passing. Sure, people from the neighborhood brought me food and babysat me until my father could get home, but it's not the same as having your mom.

Then, that Sunday, I felt her as I was saying my usual prayers in church. I could feel her warmth surround me, telling me that everything would be ok. Telling me that, finally, she wasn't in pain. Telling me it was ok to cry, but it was also ok to move on.

For the next year, church was my only solace. My father tried to take on the role of sole-caretaker, but he had never even changed one of my diapers let alone take care of me. So, when we would take our two-mile journey to church, it was a relief. Prayer allowed me to take my mind off of the bad hand I'd been dealt.

I first realized I was gay when I was 13 years old. That was the first time I saw Sean. Yes, I know it's cheesy, but there was just something about him. As I watched him go about his day, I couldn't help but think about how handsome he was. I couldn't stop thinking about how he was more attractive than any girl in my grade. At first, it didn't bother me. However, when we had the sex-ed talk in seventh grade,  I realized I was different. My school had separated the girls and boys, taking us into two classrooms. Our teacher told us about how God intended sex for two people who were in love and in the confines of marriages, and how it was not acceptable under any other circumstance. He emphasized abstinence and, more important to myself, that it was only to take place between a man and a woman.

This scared me, as I had long come to terms with the fact that I wasn't attracted to men. Still, the teacher never elaborated why it was only for a man and a woman so, that night, I asked my father. What he said scarred me for life."Because God hates F*ggots, Lucas. And any man who fucks another man is a dirty fucking F*g."

For months, I hated myself. I prayed to God every day to forgive me for my sin. Even without fully understanding what was so wrong about being gay, I knew enough. I knew that God hated F*gs and, therefore, God hated me. I wept myself to sleep every night. I would wake up at some stupid hour, trembling from nightmares depicting flames of hell that had my name etched into them. It took everything inside of me not to end my life for disrespecting God, but somehow I managed.

Then, something strange happened. I was sitting in Church one day, sweating bullets in fear of the notion that my secret had gotten out, when my Pastor started to lecture on the power of God's love. He had emphasized a verse from John 14:23, "If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him." I knew that I loved God, that couldn't be mistaken. So, if what this line said is true, that meant that God loves me in return.

From that day on, I started to feel better. My heart still ached whenever the word "F*g" popped up in conversation, and I still felt guilty when I heard that infamous line from Leviticus, "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.", but I had grown comfortable with being uncomfortable. Since then, I have felt as though I have a special connection with God. In exchange for worshipping him at every opportunity, he will forgive me for the great sin that is my sexuality.

Now, back to the present day, where I have broken that covenant with God by missing services the week prior. I walk into the building, sweating bullets. I'm scared to death that my transgression has gifted me with a one-way ticket to Hell.

Head down, I make my way to the seat that has been mine for years. Rightmost section, third row from the front, first seat on the left. As I wait patiently for the services to begin, I close my eyes and pray privately.

Dear God, I am unbelievably sorry for missing services last week. You've been so kind, accepting me even when my simple existence is a sin. I pray to You, please forgive me for failing to hold up my end of our agreement. Please believe me when I say that I was worshipping You even while I nursed my wounds at my home. Please... please don't condemn me to the Hell I know I deserve.

Praise be to You, Amen.

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Hey.

I think I've come up with a system that works for me. I'm going to try to post a single chapter every Monday and Friday.  That seems to be reasonable, as you'll still get timely updates while I have time in between to relax.

I hope I did ok with this chapter. I was a little worried that it'd come across as me bashing Christianity when in reality I was bashing the fear that so often is placed into Christian children. I believe in the philosophy of Christianity. I believe in love, forgiveness, and charitable acts. I do not believe in telling children that they will suffer torture for eternity simply because of who they love or when they decide to have sex. 

Other than that, I hope y'all have a great day and I'll talk to y'all later!