Jane Doe(18)

He arrives at eight, and even though I’m ready, I ask if he can wait in the hallway for one minute; then I close the door and move frantically around my apartment, as if I’m running behind. Three minutes later I rush through the door and apologize several times for my tardiness. “I’m sorry. I hit my snooze button too many times!”

“Never use a snooze button,” he instructs. “It signals your brain that an alarm is just an excuse to sleep more. That’s why you couldn’t wake up.”

“That’s smart.”

“Let’s go. We’re going to be late now.”

“I’m so sorry!” I chirp as I follow him down the stairs. It’s 8:05 now and Jesus waits for no man, I guess.

We talk about the weather and the city as we drive to church. Steven doesn’t like my urban neighborhood, of course. He assures me I can do better once I apply myself. “You’re going to have to find better work than data entry, though. What did you do before?”

“Various things. My last job was working as a secretary at an accounting firm, but my . . . my ex was an accountant there.”

“So you couldn’t stay?”

I shrug and shrink a little in my seat. “He had a jealous streak. He was always accusing me of flirting with other men in the office.”

“Were you?”

“No!”

“Hey, I was just asking. Sometimes women can be flirtatious without even realizing it.”

Instead of explaining that jealousy is rooted in deep feelings of inadequacy, I pout. “I’m friendly with everyone, whatever gender they are. That was my whole job.”

He pats my hand. “I know, but sometimes men just don’t get it. You have to be careful.”

“I know. I am.” After all, everyone knows that women are responsible for how men behave. If we’re not careful, they might decide to take what they want. They can’t help it. But somehow I’m the one with the psychological impairment.

We get to the church by 8:35, so I guess my irresponsible use of the snooze button didn’t ruin everything. The service isn’t until 9, but, as a deacon, Steven has responsibilities. “I’ll introduce you to my dad after the service. He’ll be putting the finishing touches on his sermon right now. Are you okay on your own?”

I haven’t burst into flames yet, so I assure him I’m fine, and he leaves me to wander the giant church hall. There are plenty of people already in the pews, mostly older couples who don’t have to worry about entertaining small children through the service.

The lines of the church are modern and sleek, but the décor adds more than a hint of ostentation. The lectern is carved wood painted gold, and behind it a giant stained-glass window rises up to heaven. The window is a beautiful scene of worshippers in brightly colored robes gathered around a hill to hear the Savior speak. Jesus looms over all of us, arms spread in what might have been a gesture of welcome but looks more like an open-armed invitation for adoration.

In case it’s unclear, I’m not a believer.

Where I grew up, everyone believed in God. Everyone worshipped Jesus. And they were all poor and miserable and suffering. They lost jobs and children and dignity, but that only made them pray harder. I recognize a con when I see one.

But the people here have more to be thankful for. I spot a very expensive Louis Vuitton bag sitting next to a woman perched at the end of a pew. She got here early, but instead of moving to a seat in the center she’ll make everyone step over her and her expensive purse on their way in. She wants them to see it and be envious or at least recognize that she is better than they are.

If I weren’t here to be placid and innocent, I’d sit behind her and wait for her to be distracted. When she stood to catch up with an old friend, I’d slide her purse from the seat and sneak it up the aisle. I’d put it in the bathroom. Set it on the floor of a stall, as if she’d retreated to the restroom and left it there herself.

Within a few minutes she’d be frantically looking for her very important purse. She’d be furious. She’d interrupt the service. She’d cry. Then she’d accuse her godly neighbors of stealing her precious bag. Someone would eventually find the missing purse in the bathroom, the contents still intact and unmolested. The purse would be returned, but no one would ever forget her nasty carrying-on. What kind of woman would forget her bag in the bathroom and then accuse others of stealing it?

I grin with delight at the damage I could do to this woman. But, alas, I’m not here to take risks. Not today.

A few people notice my delighted smile and greet me warmly. I am obviously filled up with the Spirit.

More people are flowing in, so I find a seat in the tenth row and settle in for the show. Steven’s duties seem to be complete, and he emerges from a side door and takes a seat in the front pew with several other men wearing suits. I see him glance down the pew to the other end, where a woman sits stiffly in a bright-raspberry suit. Icy blond curls tumble down her back.

She doesn’t return Steven’s glance but stares straight ahead. The women nearby watch her. Occasionally one approaches to greet her and shake her hand. I’m almost certain she is the pastor’s wife.

A great wave of red enters the room. Men and women in satiny scarlet robes flow in until they fill the entire floor behind the lectern. Everyone rises.

I expect a band to lead us off with a bass line and some drums, but this isn’t a Southern church. Instead, everyone opens their hymnals and the choir starts with a staid hymn about God’s love. I try not to let my lip curl. Not only is the music terrible, but it promises no spectacle for me to watch. At Southern Baptist churches, people dance and carry on. Sometimes they fall into the aisle and twitch. It was my reward for the times we got up early for church on Sunday morning.