Chapter 14

I knocked on Lisa’s apartment door the following morning, Sunday, at around 10:15, the appointed time for us to be able to leave early enough to drive to her church, located on the other side of Raleigh. After I knocked, I did a quick inventory. My hair didn’t seem to be sticking up anywhere. The collar of my short-sleeve button-down shirt was laying perfectly flat. The NIV Bible with the fake-leather cover that I received when I was baptized during my junior year of college was in hand. And the fly was zipped on my navy-blue khakis.

The door opened, and a vision of loveliness emerged. Lisa was wearing a red ruffled blouse and a black pair of slacks. She carried a women’s study Bible with commentary by an author whose name I vaguely recognized. I even caught a slight whiff of perfume this morning – something I was certain she didn’t usually wear – when she leaned over to kiss me and wrap me in a brief hug before turning to lock her door.

Traffic being surprisingly heavy for a Sunday morning, we arrived with just a couple of minutes to spare before the service’s 11:00 start time. Her church home was a small, relatively nondescript white building with stained-glass windows on either side of the entrance, and a wooden cross above the doorway. I briefly glanced at the small church cemetery behind me, and as I turned back, I caught sight of the building’s cornerstone, which informed me that the church was built in 1860.

I had thought a church like this only existed in “Little House on the Prairie” reruns. Except for the concrete wheelchair ramp running along the side of the building and the traffic roaring by the busy street in front of the church, it would fit right into such a scene.

A heavyset bearded man greeted us as we walked in, clasping Lisa on the shoulder as he handed her a bulletin. Whispering in deference to the man in the pulpit making announcements, she gestured to me and informed him, “Bill, this is my boyfriend, John.”

I was in the midst of reaching for Bill’s hand when the penultimate word of Lisa’s introduction registered. Although it was somewhat startling to hear it for the first time, I rather liked the sound of it. Fortunately, despite being taken aback, I was able to operate on autopilot long enough to shake his hand and take a bulletin before letting Lisa lead me to a seat near the back of the sanctuary.

The man in the pulpit, according to the bulletin and Lisa’s prior description, was Michael Jameson, the pastor of the church. At first glance, I estimated him to be in his late 60s. He was balding, with just a couple of small patches of blondish-white hair around his ears. His black, horn-rimmed glasses were thick, but they framed a soft, kindly pair of eyes. Overall, he virtually radiated a sense of peace and welcoming. I liked him immediately.

He invited everyone to stand and sing, and a small choir behind him stands and breaks into song, with piano accompaniment. This was definitely not Mountaintop Church, the church I had attended here and there since arriving in North Carolina. Mountaintop tended to be the kind of church where people went to a rock concert and a sermon broke out, with the house lights dimmed, strobe lights on stage, and a full band with the volume turned to 11. All that was missing was a mosh pit. There was definitely no chance of falling asleep during that service, but no real chance for quiet reflection, either.

I observed a young boy in the choir box, probably ten or eleven years old. His long, stringy brown hair framed a full, round face and eyes that constantly scanned the room as he swayed to the music. As he sang, I noticed that his swaying seemed a little bit ... off. The man next to him was, evidently, his father, who shared the hymnal with him and occasionally tapped him on the arm or shoulder to redirect him when his attention drifted too much.