Today Will Be Different(57)

“Religion in Jesus.”

“Can I get a snack?” Timby said, no dummy.

“I’ll go too,” Alonzo said, and hustled Timby off.

It was Joe. My husband.

“It was the last thing I expected too,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “But I flipped out at work.”

“Okay…”

“I came across a man,” Joe said. “An ordinary man. A pastor. He invited me to his church.”

“And you went?” I said.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s where it happened.”

“What happened?”

“We were just people,” Joe said, “coming together. The collective humility overwhelmed me. Simon, the pastor, began his sermon. It was about Christ entering the Temple, the money changers, a story I’d heard a million times. But Simon put it in historical perspective. And it felt so relevant and even radical.”

“Relevant to you?”

“It spoke of the courage and wisdom of Jesus the man. I felt a thousand-pound weight being lifted off my shoulders and gently placed on the ground. The lifting was done by a human presence. I looked around and everything had changed. Nothing separated me from the people, the light, the smells, the trees. I was bathed—we were all bathed—in a radiant love.”

“So you had a bad day,” I said.

“I had a direct experience of God.”

“Therefore you lied to me?” A bitter brew of betrayal and self-pity gurgled within. “When were you going to share this wonderful news?”

“I know,” Joe said, rubbing my arm.

I jerked away. “Just because you’re calmer than I am doesn’t mean you’re morally superior.”

A family on a Segway tour of Seattle zoomed by, all smiles.

“What do you think when you hear God’s plan?” Joe asked.

“I think you’ve been talking to too many Seahawks.”

“I want you to consider the possibility that we live in a benevolent universe.”

“Consider it considered.”

“Really consider it,” Joe said. “If the universe is benevolent, that means everything is going to turn out okay. It means we can stop trying to punch our way out of the gunnysack.”

“Will you please admit that everything you’re saying is profoundly weird?”

“It couldn’t be more sensible,” Joe said. “Instead of trying to impose your will on an uncontrollable universe, you can surrender to the wisdom of Jesus.”

“Please stop saying Jesus. People might think we’re poor.”

“I’m acutely aware that becoming a Christian is the least cool thing a person can do.” He looked at his phone. “Oh! They need me. We have sound check.”

“Sound check?”

“We’re singing for the Pope on Saturday.”

“You’re what?” I said dully.

“Singing for the Pope at Key Arena. A multidenominational celebration. My congregation is taking part.”

I had to grab a tree for support. “You’re seriously putting together the words ‘my’ and ‘congregation?’”

He gave me a hug. “I’m so glad it happened this way. You showing up like you did. See how it all works out when you let it?”

“Is that what you call this?” I said, squirming to escape his mawkish embrace. “Working out?”

“We’ll talk about everything when I get home.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his sport coat and disappeared down the steps to the Key Arena.

Leaving me standing there, whacked.





“You need a wristband,” the Key Arena guard said. He stood beside a metal detector and folding table. Beyond him, glass doors with more guards.

“My husband has a wristband,” I said, my whole body hopping. “He just went in.” I was in a panic to get inside, to get Joe off this insanity.

“Nope,” the guy said.

At his side, a German shepherd. Embroidered on its harness, PLEASE DO NOT PET ME.

A group of schoolchildren in matching T-shirts bounded up carrying giant Slurpees, their weary teachers at the rear.

“You’re blocking the entrance,” the guard said to me over the racket. To the kids rushing toward the dog, “Read the harness.”

“Just please?” I said, getting jostled by sugar-pumped munchkins. “My husband’s a doctor. I hit my head.” I lifted my bangs and revealed my bump. “See? I’m capable of anything.”

“Except going inside.”

“Do I look like a woman who wants to blow up the Pope?”

He shot me a hard look. “That’s not something we joke about, ma’am.” He grabbed his clipboard and turned to a teacher.

As he did, a sheet of neon-green wristbands fell to the ground. I bent down, pretending to tie my shoe, and tore one off. I palmed it and sprang back up.

I hurried to the next entrance, flashed my wrist, and sailed through.


Dim fluorescent lights gave off a sickly glow. Crew members hoisted colorful banners up into the rafters. On the third tier, cops led bomb-sniffing German shepherds from seat to seat.

“One-two, one-two,” blatted a voice over the sound system.