#prayerforenemies

[aidanlatimer]

Prayer for Enemies || Drabble;

The ceiling of the church stretched upwards, away, the pines of slanted supports nearly as far away as Heaven in the sky. Panels of sunlight broke through stained glass, and bits of dust danced in their ensnaring gaze. Low notes from the organ plodded through the air, soft enough to be tangled into the organic tapestry of sound in the room but not quite quiet enough to blend away completely. They rang through Aidan’s head, bringing him out of the prayer. He looked up, looked up at his father up at the altar in his green robes. The greying beard. His muscular composition. A smile broke across Aidan’s lips. How was he so lucky, to have been brought that much closer to salvation simply by being born? How was he so lucky, to be where he was, when he was? God was good. God was very good, and Aidan sent a small smile heavenwards before turning back to the prayer.

“…whose Son commanded us to love our enemies…”

Movement to the side, the row of pews several feet away, filled with men in suits and t-shirts and women in pants and dresses. Aidan brushed blond hair out of his eyes and looked over. Peter shifted, and Aidan met his eyes for the briefest of seconds. A flash of a dark bedroom, skin highlighted by strains of moonlight, driving adrenaline and lingering touches. Then Peter looked away, refused to smile even as Aidan broke his lips in friendliness. He swallowed, looked down at his spidery hands. Tapped a beat on the Book of Prayers he had balanced against the back of the pew in front of him. His father shot him a disapproving glare, and Aidan drew his fingers up to his eyes. He massaged his eyelids, and tried to bring himself back to God.

“…Lead them, and us, from prejudice to truth…”

The other day, his father sat him down. Aidan had known the conversation was coming, but had ignored the concept for as long as he could, filling his days and nights with Peter and with running, and with video games. But George Latimer had come to call, and spoke plainly: “Aidan, you’re twenty-four years old, son.” He had nodded, perched on the edge of his bed. Father leaned in the door frame, seeming almost naked without the robes. “It’s time for you to make a decision.” Aidan looked up, brushed hair out of his eyes, absentmindedly rolled his sleeves up. “You know, and I know, that I want you to follow in my footsteps. I think you’d make a remarkable rector, bring pride to us all.”  Aidan nodded, his lips glued together by the insurmountable pressure of confrontation. “But ultimately it’s your call. But you’re twenty-four,” father repeated. “If you don’t want to stay, you have to move on. Get your own place.” Aidan didn’t respond. “Think about it, kiddo. We’ll talk again after Mass on Sunday, yeah? Just, give it some thought.” The he left, leaving a George Latimer sized hole in the fabric of Aidan’s bedroom.

“…deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge…” 

Pastorship was not the life Aidan wanted. He wanted to travel, to run, to flow like water in a river. Then why hadn’t he, a nudging little voice that sounded suspiciously like Peter’s said in the back of his head. Why hadn’t he learned to ride a horse like he promised himself he’d do after he graduated high school? Why hadn’t he taken that trip to Europe his father told him he could go on? There were a million excuses. Peter… money… it was never the right time, never the right moment. And could he really let his father down? Could he really leave Birmingham and the church behind, to live like a vagabond from one shared bed to the next? That wasn’t fair, though. He didn’t want to go about having sex with all the boys he could. He wanted to live all the lives he could in the fragile space between his life and his death. That was all. Binding himself down to one single life was more terrifying than eternal damnation in Hell.

“…and in your good time enable us to stand…”

Aidan studied his father intently, knowing that with each passing word, with each passing prayer, he was getting closer to having to make the decision: free himself and break his father, or break himself and free his father. He flipped open the Prayer Book, as though the answer to his problem might be found on page 46. But blank latin words floated up at him like cadavers in a river, swirling blots of flesh and blood dried up and broken. Floated up like death sentences, like eulogies, like a mother’s last goodbye. The organ music swelled up, towards heaven, and Aidan tugged down his sleeves to cover his arms protectively. 

“…reconciled before you…” 

The prayer was almost over. The service was almost over. Aidan looked back at the people in the pews, eyes skating over Peter, over his parents, over the woman who cried at every service, at the young couple expecting a child, at the man who baked cookies for every church function. So many futures, so many possibilities. And then it became clear, almost as if through a message from God. A small smile spread across Aidan’s face.

“…through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

The service over, Aidan rose and joined the thronging mass of people leaving the church. He slipped in to them, became them, became a particle of water moving through a stream, a body of motion in a chaotic world. This was it. It was simple. He would just leave. Never know if he disappointed his father. Never know what he would decide if he stayed to talk.

“…Amen.”

Aidan fled through the doors into Alabama winter. He turned up his coat against the cold, and set out briskly, into the wind, into the brewing storm.