Free Uncross My Heart by Austin, Andrews & Austin Page A

Vivienne Wilde? Not that I want to bring up the other woman in your complicated life.”
    “Already saw her.”
    “You didn’t tell me that.”
    “She was at the conference in San Francisco and actually had the gall to ask me a question from the aisle.”
    “It’s very strange that she was there. What did she ask?”
    “If I personally believed Jesus was celibate.”
    “What did you say?”
    “I said probably not.”
    “That’s the wrong answer, you know, in case you care. But of course, why would you care? You’re busy kissing Gladys Irons to make a theological point.” We halted in front of the cafeteria entrance.
    “Okay, you’re on your own now. Report back to Daddy after you’ve apologized.”
    “I hate low ceilings,” I said as I opened the outer door and thought about what it must be like to be in a bastion of liberal theologians.
    Almost like going to heaven. Instead, here I was in this eclectic mix of God-fearing sects all struggling to brainwash one another. I never used to feel this way. What’s changed?
    Moving down the interior hallway toward the first meeting room, I opened the door and immediately felt I could reach up and touch the big dirty-white tiles overhead, whose popcornlike topography surrounded fluorescent lighting. Gladys and her group were holding their prayer breakfast, and I quietly entered and stepped back against the wall.
    Gladys spotted me and her shoulders noticeably jerked back as if the devil himself had entered the room and was about to stick a fork in her. She slammed her chin down to her neck like a nervous chicken and no doubt prayed to God I wouldn’t attack her again.
    People beside her stood in front of their folding chairs, arms in the air, swaying back and forth like fans in football bleachers executing the wave. I noted Dennis had fallen by the wayside, his encouragement running out at the door.
    An older man was leading the prayer but others were chiming in, so it was hard to tell who was talking to God and who was simply interrupting with “Amen, brother. Tell it to Jesus. Washed in the blood.”
    I noticed immediately Roger Thurgood III was in the front row, looking pompously pious, and I wondered if I had some sort of homing device strapped to my ankle that drew me to Roger.
    A young, trim man in a tight-fitting shiny blue suit leapt up and bounded to the podium. I recognized him as Bryan Bench, one of those students who never had an unhappy day because his happiness was manufactured, imported, and installed like parts from China. I suspected I could drive over Bryan with a four-wheeler and he would jump up clutching his Bible and shout, “Praise the Lord, it’s a glorious day.” Nothing wrong with that, if only I felt he was sincere. I mentally smacked myself for cynicism.
    “Hold up the Good Book,” Bryan shouted to everyone gathered before him, and I contemplated how the Good Book had relegated all other books to “Bad Books.” “Today is a day to rejoice.”
    I had never heard the word “rejoice” given quite so many syllables.
    It sounded something like “re-joy-us” and made me think maybe that was the idea—to put joy back in us. Maybe I was being too hard on Bryan and I should accept his hard-core religion as a lesson in diversity, so I settled into my straight-back chair and listened.
    But my tolerance was short-lived as Bryan hissed out words in crazy crusader-speak that was just short of born-again rap. “Je-ya-sus saaay-uvs-us. His mother Maaay-reee ble-yus-sus usss!” I mentally snapped. Why can’t he say Jesus like a regular person? Does Bryan go to a restaurant and place his name on the waiting list saying, “My na-yame isss Bryyyaaan Beyuuunch!”
    Words were my hot button. The current inability of anyone under thirty to differentiate vowel sounds drove me mad. Simple words like
    “mail” were pronounced “mel,” leaving people like me insane and confused when hearing them strung together, as in a tall dark mel was seen