#ficma

Across the street from the church, you grow more and more hesitant.  It has been a while since you stepped foot in one and even longer since you practiced any faith.  You take a minute to look up at the steeple, illuminated by the warm glow behind colored glass in the window.  Your breath creates quickly dissipating clouds in front of your face as the wind whips in your direction.  You push your hands deeper into our pockets, looking both ways before stepping out into the street.

Your boots crunch over the salt rocks scattered over the concrete steps as you make your way to the heavy wood doors.  Even through your mitt, you can feel how cold the brass handles our as you pull it open and step inside.

The atmosphere is instantly quieter once you pass the threshold and the door closes with a low tone thunk.  Looking around you see an effigy of Jesus on the cross with a spotlight on him.  Your eyes cast downward at the sight, feeling instantly judged and fearful that lightning might strike you down for presenting yourself this late in your life.  Walking down the pew lined aisle, you look around at the candles that line the windows, decorated with faux holly leaves.  You take a seat in the middle of the right side, squeaking under your weight.

Breathing in deeply, your nose catches a faint smell of frankincense in the air, bringing back memories of blessed oil and healing.

“Well, I’m here,” you say out loud, at first to know one in particular but looking up, you remember your audience.  “Or I guess you know that already.”

Looking down at your mittened hands, you have many thoughts but none of them fully prepared to come out.

“Good evening.”

You hop up out of your seat as you look to see a man in all black walking across the front of the church slowly, hands behind his back and looking down.  His voice did not match his stance as he sounds very strong and commanding.  

“Hi!  Uh, I just was looking for somewhere quiet to sit awhile,”  you explain.

He stops in front of you, rows of pews separating yourselves from each other.  

“Are the library’s closed?” he asks.

“Yes.  I mean, no?  I don’t know actually, I can leave though if-”

He raises a hand.  “No need.  Take a seat.”

“Yes, Reverend.  Or Priest?”  You struggle to get his proper titling down.

“You can just call me Rio.  For now.”  

The rasp in his voice seems calming and also violent, as if he just got through yelling at someone or is just about to at any moment because his vocal cords have been worked out.  Preachers do enjoy a stirring sermon to work a collection plate flow.

“Ok, sure.”  You sit down again, even more uncomfortable than before.  Rio looks over the altar, peering up at Jesus for a while.  You can’t help but to stare, curious if he’s going to remain here with you.

“Are you a member of this church?”  Rio asks with his back to you.

“No.  I was a while ago, but I don’t think it counts now.”

Rio looks back at you.  “I don’t think God has a re-registration process for His sheep, right?”

You shrug.  “I think that’s when it’s up to interpretation.”

Rio shakes his head with a small smirk.  He starts to slowly walk his way up the aisle, looking around the sanctuary.

“If it’s how you interpret it, then that is based on what you feel you deserve.  Your inner bias creates that narrative you think is true,”  Rio states.

Biting your lip, you take this in.  “Still, I think there is something to be said about not giving Him the time required to fully show one’s devotion.”

Rio sits in the pew on the other side of the aisle, right across from you.  He stretches his leg out, leaning on the end armrest and looks curiously at you.  For the first time you notice some marking on his neck.

“So you decide to spend your holiday having a religious debate instead of spending it with family?”

“Oh, yeah.  Anywhere is better than having to deal with the mess they bring into my life.”  You say this half heartedly, looking to Jesus at the front again.  

“Then why are you at your childhood church?”

You scoff.  “Do I look that young that you assume I was a child here?”

RIo smiles, looking away.  “Maybe.  Just a guess.”

“You’re right.  And I came here to try and resolve some things.  My family doesn’t know I am here yet.  They will be here tomorrow for Christmas service and I got curious what the place looks like now while...searching for some spiritual courage.”

Rio nods.  “You and your family separated on bad terms then?”

You nod.

“I see.  Then I give you credit for coming up in here even thinking about them.  You seem to be doing alright for yourself, you could just go on and work on yourself without them.”

You turn to him, stretching your face in confusion.  “I am really surprised you would say that.  First, thanks for thinking that.  Life is trash, but you can’t tell so yay!  And two, I thought you would be like I need to keep family close and repair and reach out.”

Rio shakes his head.  “Cuz I wouldn’t say that.  People think too much about how what they do affects others when you have to think is what you do better for them in the long run?  If they don’t respect you or try to, you showing up is going to be disrespectful.  But if the peace is kept between you while you’re gone, stay gone.”

“I can’t help but think that’s pessimistic.”

Rio shrugs.  “Maybe it is, but some pessimism gotta be healthy.  It’s looking at the world for what it is and accepting what you can’t change then adapting.  Just because you’re away doesn’t mean you can’t love them or they love you less.  But some people just can’t get along.  It’s water and oil.”

You sit there flabbergasted by this man of God’s advice.  Have you been looking at this completely wrong?  Has the spirit of Christmas made you think of an artificial means of reconciliation that you aren’t prepared for and may never will be?

“Hey, Rio…” you ask in mid-thought.

“What’s up?”

“Before I head out, I just gotta know, what are those markings on your neck there?”

Rio reaches for his collar, holding his neck with a smile on his face.  “I don’t think you need to see this in a church.  I’ll let you guess though.”

You squint your eyes at him.  “If I had to guess, I imagine it’s something from...a past life?  Maybe you used to be into somethings and you got a...tattoo?”

Rio puts a finger to his lips with a wink.  “Past lives never really are the past though.”

You sit back intrigued.  “Wow, I have never seen someone in church...like you.”  You laugh nervously, enjoying his smile back at you when a man from a back door comes out in a jean jacket, skinhead with more tattoos you can see.  Rio stands up, smoothing out his shirt.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.  I have to help the preacher prep for tomorrow’s service.”

Your eyes widen with surprise.  “You’re not the preacher?  Oh man, I’m sorry!  I just assumed, being in all black and I thought you were here alone.”

“It’s ok.  Black is just more professional.  It’s my color.  It’s powerful.  You can consider me the preacher's assistant with...finances.  But I’m glad we got to have a talk while you were here.”

You stand up, reaching out a hand.  “Me too.  It’s nice talking to someone with their head on straight.  I’ll think about all you said.”

Rio takes your hands firmly, looking down from it to you.  You feel exposed under his gaze but unwilling to turn loose from it.

“I hope I’ll see you tomorrow.  Should be a good turn out.  Good message from the big man.”

He lets go of your hand and you’re only sad you didn’t take your mitt first to know how soft or rough they were.  He makes you want to know more about him but the night is getting later.

“Ok.  I’ll be here.  You have a good Christmas Eve.”

“You as well.”  Rio nods to you as he joins his counterpart in the backroom.  You walk toward the doors you came from, looking back at the empty sanctuary, leaving with a feeling you didn’t think you’d have but is as close to a holiday spirit than you ever had.