Moments with You
“Ugh, they’re everywhere here now.” I pull up to the light.
You read out of the corner of your sunglasses, “‘Here for food, not asking for money.’ That’s a good sign, I guess?”
I sniff. “He’s a brilliant marketer like a lot of homeless people. He knows most people don’t drive around with extra food in their cars, so he’s pretending like he wants food to subliminally influence you. It’s smart.”
You turn toward the window. “Oh, there’s another one over there… So, you going to give him any money?”
“No, I thought about it a while ago and decided that, if I wanted to help homeless people, I’d donate money to a good charity that would actually spend it on stuff that would help them. Like look at this guy, he’s obviously a meth addict. Look at his arms. I don’t have any confidence money is going to help his life, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess... Have you found any?”
“Any what?”
“Charities?“
“Oh…no… I haven’t really looked yet.”
You raise an eyebrow at me.
“I just don’t get why you’re interpreting it literally, though? Like just a little bit further down in the same chapter, Jesus says, ‘Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you. For on him God the Father has set his seal.’ You interpret ‘food’ here symbolically, right? So why do you think the loaves and fishes are literal types of food and not—”
“Which verse is that?” He interrupts with consternation. I’m always new here.
“27.” As I look up to the group, I notice a slight twist in your lips. You’re unimpressed. I look back down at my phone with a smirk.
It’s quiet for a moment as pages turn.
He starts slowly, “So, I think you have to consider the context. When Jesus feeds the loaves and fishes to the 5,000, he’s responding to a physical need, but, when he addresses the crowd the next day, he’s responding to a spiritual need. It’s showing us Jesus has the power of saving our bodies and our souls.”
I reflexively raise an eyebrow at this and watch as mild surprise washes over your face. Your eyes flicker darkly with a playful glint.
“Hmm okay, I can definitely see where you’re coming from,” I begin with believable interest. “But where I get hung up is with the interpretive principles. Like if you interpret the term ‘food’ just a few verses down symbolically to mean spiritual enrichment or something like that, then why don’t you understand Jesus feeding the 5,000 as a symbolic representation of Jesus feeding people the same sort of spiritual food? What about the first context makes the food terms physical and what about the second context makes the food terms symbolic?”
My stomach rises with an old hope as I finish the question. I glance around the room, taking in your aloofness and everyone else’s growing dismay.
He responds quickly this time. “Scriptural interpretation is more art than science, you have to rely on the Holy Spirit to guide you through it and trust that God will—”
He continues, but I don’t hear him. Color drains from the room. You’re openly staring at me now with an ironic, sinister look.
I ignore you.
As blood rushes to my head, I cut. “Isn’t ‘the Holy Spirit’ a phrase for the cultivated intuition a person immersed in the socio-cultural practices of Christianity develops over time? Aren’t you really just saying, ‘Scripture means what I feel like it means in the moment’?”
Only the AC and your rolling eyes move. I despise everyone, especially you.
“…no…that’s not… The Holy Spirit is, like the name implies, a spiritual power from God. It’s—”
“Mind if I share a verse?” A stiff woman butts in.
“Of course!” He graciously accepts the rescue.
I’ve been here so many times. I force myself to look at her as though she actually has something to offer. I feel your victorious eyes piercing me. Blackness seeps in from the edges.
She inhales for what feels like an eternity and pushes her reading glasses. “This is also in John. Chapter 14, starting with verse 15. ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, even the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, for he dwells with you and will be in you.’”
She pauses with satisfaction. A powerful release from others in the room emanates as she reads this.
I grip the floor with my toes, trying to displace my hatred for the profound boredom that has overwhelmed me. I widen my eyes and smile slightly. I shut out your internal laughter.
“Jesus says ‘the world cannot receive’ the Holy Spirit. The Spirit guides people who believe Jesus sacrificed his life for the sins of this world and who have formed a personal relationship with God. It’s a gift from God to help us, because we are so sinful and lowly compared to His divine love and holiness.”
Squeezing my phone as hard as I can, I nod at her sympathetic smile with feigned insight and a furrowed brow.
You finish me off with a gentle look.
Innocence is plastered all over you, but I know.
You are caustic today and I am empty. The death between us defies the warm sun.
We stroll across a long wooden bridge under lush overarching trees. I know I won’t ever be here the same way again. I want to cherish the end, but it’s too late.
“Yeah bro, get this, I’ve been fucking this chick at the apartment! I hit her up when I know I’m going to be there alone and she always comes over. It’s so fucking gross.” Your lip curls perversely as you chuckle about the infidelity’s senselessness.
I stare at the lines between the planks of the bridge in desolation.
“Whoa… Fuck, man… That is…wild.” I note the unintentional admiration in my voice and then the idea of being disgusted with myself, but keep walking just as before.
We follow the bridge’s arc and I see the pavement up ahead. You’re telling me more about it all with the detachment that brought us together. You know me to understand, to get why it’s funny.
But I don’t grasp anything now. My mind is blank apart from the wish that the pretty wooden bridge would never end.
I never want to walk on the ground again.
It’s just us, the windy grass, and the devastating Texas sun. We’ve been walking for hours. The concrete bridges we pass under mark the familiar miles.
Eventually, we go farther than we’ve been before and reach a hill covered with henbit. I can’t see the ground under the weeds but anticipate that is it uneven like it is throughout the rest of the park.
It’s flat atop the hill. I can’t tell whether there is a trail up there or just more grass. You sever my thought by grabbing my hand, pulling me up without a moment’s hesitation.
I watch as my shoes disappear into the green and purple. I suddenly fear hidden snakes. I’ve seen many snakes here.
You stumble for a moment. You breathe heavily from exhaustion but pull straight toward the top.
I swipe my forehead with my sweaty sleeve and stare at our interlaced fingers.
It hits me that I would never have even tried to go up this stupid hill if I wasn’t following you.
On our way back to the car, I watch as we cross the bridges we’ve only ever walked underneath.
I would never live without you.