by Jessica Wang<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Philip Moreau came to me on a cold winter\u2019s night when the moon was gibbous waxing, a pregnant golden orb hanging above stripped skeletal branches. Which day of the week was it? I can\u2019t now recall, and it somehow shames me that such a momentous moment is lost among all the others that crowded that particular season: the Christmas and New Year\u2019s festivities, the Robinsons moving to Boston, April Ludlow\u2019s baby being born, Pastor Doug retiring and Pastor Mary Ellen taking his place.<\/p>\n
It was early evening that much I remember. I was in my office at the back of the church, verifying the schedule for the upcoming week\u2019s home and hospital visits and choosing a closing bible verse for Sunday\u2019s sermon. Somebody had turned the heat up too high again, and I was sweating beneath my suit. I checked the messages Cora had left me: Mrs. Willette had called about the bake sale, and Jenny Armstrong needed to back out of conducting storytime for the five and unders on Sunday morning. I was picking up the phone to see if Wade Nagel could fill in when there was a tap on my half-closed door.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on in, Cora.\u201d<\/p>\n
A throat cleared itself, and then a man, fortyish tall, wearing blue jeans and a navy parka, said, \u201cHello.\u201d He pulled off a stocking cap dusted with snow and crammed it into the pocket of his coat. \u201cThe um . . . the main doors were unlocked. I hope it\u2019s okay that I . . . \u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, of course, please come in. Still snowing, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTapering off now.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019m embarrassed to admit my first thought was that he meant to rob me. It\u2019s not that his clothes were shabby or that he exuded unsavory vibes, but rather that his eyes were what I\u2019d describe as vacant. I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that I was alone in the building.<\/p>\n
He glanced around the small space, his gaze sliding over the books lining the single shelf and the framed school photos of my nieces and nephews. He said, \u201cMy name is Philip Moreau. Phil. I\u2019m, uh, wondering if I could make an appointment to speak with a pastor?\u201d<\/p>\n
I motioned him toward a chair. \u201cI\u2019m Pastor Daniel. You can talk with me right now if you\u2019d like.\u201d<\/p>\n
He hovered in the doorway. \u201cDon\u2019t you have something you need to be doing?\u201d A smile that looked more like a grimace tugged at one corner of his mouth. \u201cBesides counseling me, I mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you in need of counseling?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood to close the door. He stepped further into the room, and I could smell the damp wool of his clothes, a trace of aftershave or deodorant. He perched on the edge of the chair, big hands dangling between his knees. This sort of thing wasn\u2019t new to me; I counseled Christina Schmidt and Steve Nelson every Thursday at six-thirty and seven-thirty p.m., respectively. Mavis Wagner practically lived in my office for an entire month after her husband, Karl, died of an aneurysm last spring.<\/p>\n
I offered to rustle up some coffee, and Phil said no thanks. I waited for him to speak, and after a minute, he did. I won\u2019t relay what we discussed, but I will say Philip\u2019s story was heartbreaking and that it touched me deeply. I think of it\u2014of him\u2014often, to this very day.<\/p>\n
He stared at the floor as he spoke, and when he had finished, I began to quote a bible verse, but he interrupted me. \u201cNo, Pastor. I\u2019m here because I need you to make me believe.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBelieve what, Phil?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me then. \u201cIn God.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think it\u2019s natural to feel angry with Him right now\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPastor Daniel, I\u2019m not mad at God. I don\u2019t think He\u2019s there at all, and I want him to be; I need<\/em> him to be. I have to know that I\u2019ll see them again.\u201d The eyes I had thought empty, I now realized, were haunted. They searched my face. I had never converted a non-believer, to my knowledge. All of my parishioners came to me with their faith intact. Or if they didn\u2019t\u2014if they appeased husbands or wives or mothers or fathers by dutifully attending worship every Sunday morning\u2014they never spoke of their disbelief in these blunt terms, at least not to me. I was acquainted with a couple of agnostics and one atheist, but the first group wore their uncertainty casually and the latter like a badge.<\/p>\n I said, \u201cYou\u2019ll see them again in heaven.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWill I?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCertainly.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow do you know, Pastor?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can feel it. I can feel Him<\/em>.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Phil asked, \u201cCan you make me feel it?\u201d He was leaning forward, staring at me expectantly. His earlier stammer had deserted him, and I seemed to have caught it. I fumbled around, tidying papers on my desk, uncoiling the phone cord that had once again twisted itself into tangled knots.<\/p>\n I asked, \u201cDid you grow up with religion, Phil?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLutheran. That\u2019s why I chose this church\u2014I saw the word \u2018Lutheran\u2019 on your sign out front. I quit going to worship years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou were once a believer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI was, yes. In another life.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI suspect many people have temporary lapses of faith during their lives, at one point or another.\u201d My usual statement that God never burdens us with more than we can handle didn\u2019t seem appropriate here, tonight, with this man. Was it even true? Weren\u2019t people across the globe dealt blows every day that broke them physically, mentally, emotionally? Who was I to tell Philip Moreau what he could or could not or should or should not bear?<\/p>\n I explained that God\u2019s will is not for mortals to comprehend, and Phil asked, \u201cIsn\u2019t that just something people say to try and make sense of the shitty things that happen to them? So they don\u2019t have to accept that everything is just circumstance and luck\u2014good or bad?\u201d<\/p>\n We spent the next ninety minutes together. I listed for him the many reasons why I\u2019m a believer, but after each point, he remained silent. Finally, I asked, \u201cPhil, do you want <\/em>to believe? Would believing offer you comfort and relief?\u201d<\/p>\n He stared at me. \u201cYes, Pastor, I believe it would.\u201d<\/p>\n I held out my hand, palm up. \u201cIt\u2019s a choice, my friend. Choose it now. Believe.\u201d<\/p>\n My desk clock ticked off several seconds. He reached across the desk. His callused hand gripped mine. We prayed together. Or rather, I prayed, and Philip Moreau listened.<\/p>\n After a moment of silence, Phil said quietly, \u201cThey were innocent, and they suffered, Pastor. Doesn\u2019t that prove He\u2019s not there?\u201d<\/p>\n I offered, \u201cThe Lord\u2019s reasons can seem obscure to the human mind, particularly when viewed through a lens of pain,\u201d but he just shook his head, those blank eyes seeming to look through me. I was scared of him again, but not for my earlier reasons.<\/p>\n Phil asked, \u201cHow old are you, Pastor?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThirty-two.\u201d<\/p>\n He nodded and pulled his cap from his pocket. He stood. \u201cThank you for your time. I appreciate it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019d love to have you at Sunday service,\u201d I said weakly, and that ghost smile pulled at his lips again. I said, \u201cPhilip, I\u2019ll pray for you. Please come see me anytime.\u201d I watched his broad shoulders pass through my doorway, wondering if he would go over to Holy Unity on Third and Hamil and speak to the minister there, Tim Lostrum. Or perhaps he\u2019d try the Catholic Church across town.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t get home until after nine p.m. Tobias was happy to see me, wagging and whining. I moved about the house in a kind of daze, feeding Tobias, adjusting the thermostat, microwaving leftover spaghetti, changing into jeans, and hanging up my suit. I found the leash and walked Tobias absently through the neighborhood, trying to avoid the slippery patches. The air smelled of snow, clean and empty, and was so biting it made my eyes water and my lungs ache. The moon had crept across the sky, glittering like some unreachable treasure. I felt like I\u2019d never forget the way Philip Moreau had looked at me, imploring, when he said, They suffered, Pastor. <\/em><\/p>\n My own faith had never been tested. Since childhood, it had been my constant companion. If I were to experience what Philip Moreau had suffered, would it desert me, leaving me adrift in my greatest hour of need? Tobias examined a fence post. Lights shone cozily behind windows.<\/p>\n I\u2019d thought belief was there for the taking\u2014that anyone who wanted it or needed it could have it could fall into its simultaneously heady and comforting embrace. It had never occurred to me that for some, needing and believing are two wholly separate things.<\/p>\n I did pray for Philip Moreau that night and every night since. I\u2019ve prayed for myself, too. Only silence answers me back, vast and echoless.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
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