Searching Lucas

47 Days—oh, joy.

Many probably know Richard Wilde—others don't—as a devoted Christian. Yes, even greedy scumbags have to confess. If someone held him at gunpoint and obligated him to admit that religion is nothing but a profitable business and a marketing scheme, he would bite the bullet—literally.

Even a big fish like Richard feared questioning the holy scripture—a business transaction: people's devotion in exchange for their loyalty and money. Because why bother with proof of a godly existence? Church attendees don't want that. They want to follow as many rules—created by God or man—as possible so that they don't end up in this scary place full of fire.

Proof has been lackluster, and each sermon was more hypocritical than the other.

In one church, you'll have a pastor preaching about loving your disciples—or your neighbor, depending on what day you attend. Another pastor will beg to differ, condemning homosexuals and divorced wives to suffer in eternity. Leave it to Christianity to contradict their teachings by quoting an already hard-to-decipher Bible.

Religion was a flawed foundation to preach the worst of humanity—often harmless acts that required the wrath of a God as a reset button. The examples are there: the supposed apocalypse clock, the serpent in the Garden of Eden, and the plague that killed a whole town. God has always been depicted as the good guy. The savior. Sure, he killed anyone who didn't believe in him—like Santa Claus on a petty rampage streak. His devotees are the worst. Mothers who judged women and men who questioned their manhood by how well they provided for their families. If religion ever had the power to unify, it also had the power to divide.

And that is what going to this church has taught me. That good people aren't necessarily believers—except Damien, of course.

There is a courtyard in the back of the church, a graveled path past a Virgin Mary fountain, and benches. And a cemetery. My mother's grave, along with Terrance.

Michael took my brother and me here, sometimes with a bouquet of Dahlias for my Mom. None for Terrance—Michael wasn't keen about Mom remarrying someone like that.

I visited three more times before Michael reluctantly tossed in a sigh and made some vague excuse. He was too busy with work. Sylvia ran out of meds again. I haven't visited my parents' grave ever since. The only way to reach the cemetery was across the vast cathedral.

The upcoming segregation would be for a few hours, with the intervale lasting an hour. It served anyone who wanted to pray in silence in the front pews and gaze at the holy architectural statues, ceiling paintings, and relics similar to the Vatican. It wasn't a dated cathedral as proofed by the gothic architecture, such as the slanted ceilings and the tinted windows drawn by a black line, creating imagery from the bible: Jesus in a cross, the Virgin Mary, what looked like Kings in robes. Even I had to admit its breathtaking beauty, compensating for the ugliness that hid behind these marble walls—for each congregation.

I walked into the middle of the cathedral, my heart beating so loud I could swear the girl setting bibles in the pews could hear me. I stepped a little too loud, causing the girl to startle. Our eyes met: hers a royal blue, her eyebrows blond, hair beneath a cap and a veil, the traditional garment that suited her with purity and kindness. The ensemble matched her fair skin, clean complexion, and naked face. It made me look old in comparison.

She didn't seem a year younger than me when she referred to me as 'ma'am'—as though I was somebody's mother.

After a coy grin, the girl then added a question. "How can I help you?"

"Do you host Sunday class?"

The girl took a while to reply. "Father Phillip partakes with the help of Sister Margaret every Sunday morning." Her hands clasped together on her lap. "That's nine in the morning onward."

I nodded with pretentious interest. "Do you know most of the kids?"

"Only a handful whose parents aid us through generous, voluntary donations." There was a pause, an inconsiderable moment of exposure. I caught the girl blinking, almost breaking character. A regular young adult with ambitions, hopes, and dreams. Someone who'll still be alive by Christmas. "Ma'am? Is there anything you'd like to know?"

Each breath I took became jagged with each air I inhaled. Everything smelled holy: the wooden benches infiltrated the air with a rich aroma and whiff of dry paint. It was a smell I remembered too well. In the mornings, I had almost fallen asleep during the sermons. To the close calls with Pastor Regal—the cause of the scandalous affair. My paralysis demon for the everlasting months.

I stared at the young girl with a half-pitifulness she didn't notice. "Is Lucas Jones in one of your classes?"

"Lucas?"

"He's about thirteen years old. Tall," I pressed my lips for a second and then stared at the girl with a begrudging wiseness. "Black."

"Oh, yes." She nodded feverishly. Of course, that helped jog her memory. "Is he a relative of yours?"

"My brother,"

"Of course," She said with a sheepish smile. She tried to hide her surprise. Everyone did—because who believes Jess Jones is related to Lucas Jones? People's bewilderment stopped bothering me after our parents died—specifically when I asserted my role as the protector. "I've spoken to Lucas a few times. A very well-educated kid. Well-mannered and a devoted friend of all the children in attendance."

"Good." I nodded. "Another question. Does the name Pastor Regal sound familiar to you?"

The girl blinked. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. I've only started last year."

"Is there a way I can speak with Sister Margaret?" She looked at me weirdly, like I was a junkie.

"Sister Margaret has left the premises, I'm afraid. Tomorrow you can find her by the cathedral praying near the fountain at about noon."

"Thanks,"

I turned around to leave, a train of thoughts circling, edging close to the border to derail. Suddenly the girl's voice echoed through the vastness of the stifled air.

"If you ever need guidance, our pastor holds out sermons every Friday and Saturday."

She didn't yell as the emptiness from the cathedral enhanced the softness in her already delicate vocal cords. I spun around, our eyes meeting.

"That's nice, but—I don't believe,"

"Not to worry. Our sermons have arrays of youngsters about your chronological age. I'm sure you'll find common ground with these folks."

"I mean, I don't believe in religion."

When she nodded in silence, I made my way towards the double doors, the ones that seemed to have grown since the last time I had come here with my Mom and Terrance and Lucas.

I made it back with Pamela and decided that I'll visit their grave. And this time, I'll leave a bouquet for Terrance.