In a War With God

He sits in his worn-out, green corduroy armchair, inhaling the steam curling up from his teacup. The peaceful melody of crickets and cicadas wafts in through the open windows. The vaguely sweet scent of damp wood marks the muggy August evening. Darkness has already started falling faster by this time of year, each passing night pleasantly cooler than the last. August was his favorite month, the most nostalgic. As he grew older and felt acutely the accelerating pace with which life was slipping away from him, the pleasant pain of yearning that accompanied August and the end of summer felt more and more like the metaphor of his life.

On nights like these, he often sat on the wraparound porch, staring into the dark fields that lay under the star studded Wyoming sky. Often during this ritual, he wouldn’t actually be sitting on his Wyoming ranch porch, but he would inevitably lose himself somewhere in his past. It occurred to him on many an occasion, with some regret, that the past forty years had been an instruction not on living, but on remembering. If there was one thing he’d learned about himself after eighty two years of life on this earth, it was that he was an expert on devotion.

Tonight, though, he had settled in his armchair with a cup of tea and a book pulled from the mantle above the fireplace. There weren’t too many lining the shelf: the Old and New Testaments, a row of rather worn books all by the same author, some Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Austen, and a battered copy of My Ántonia. On his lap now lay a book with the binding so creased it was a miracle that it still held together. His thumb ran over the raised letters of the title: In a War with God.

He’d read this book so many times there was no need to open it. He already knew how it started, where the characters went and where they ended. The first line had always struck him, though, no matter how many times he read it. In a war with God, I lose.

Exactly fifty years since he’d last seen her, but time had not worn away the details of her face. They’d both been thirty-two then, but she’d looked remarkably the same as he remembered her in college. She was the living embodiment of summer: naturally toned and tanned, with honey blond hair that gleamed soft and gold like summer wheat in the sunshine. All of her was beautiful, but what had always captivated him most were her eyes. Round and wide, innocent eyes. They were blue-green, the color of the sea, with a depth so profound he had often felt he was drowning as he stared into them. It was mesmerizing, the way layers of green danced in her blue irises, creating the same exact light illusion that sunlight does when it plays on the water.

Coincidentally, most of his memories of her were by the water. How many hours had they spent walking by the river together? He was the first girl he had ever been able to talk to about anything and everything. Originally smitten by her beauty, he had quickly found himself taken by her ability to listen, to understand and empathize. Four years on that college campus and he’d never been able to find anyone else he could or would want to talk to the same way. How often he’d tell her he could only stay for an hour, only to find himself finally leaving the water three hours later.

She had changed his life. To find someone so non-judgemental on Harvard’s campus had been a blessing. He believed God had sent her. He’d fallen in love with her quickly. They met on the second day after move-in, freshman year. In the Hogwarts-esque dining hall they talked for an hour after lunch, and he’d walked her to the meeting she had afterwards because he couldn’t bring himself to leave her side or their conversation. He’d attended an all-boys high school and had never met a girl like this before: feminine and beautiful but also a tomboy in her interests: she loved hiking and nature, could not be bothered by stereotypically girly things, was remarkably down-to-earth, and seemed to share the common sense, good, core values that he did. She swore often and wore clothes he found to be a bit too revealing, but these traits that he’d usually deem negative in others only added to her charm. He had impulsively switched one of his classes to take a Greek Mythology class with her. She had that effect on him: normally incredibly rational and stoic, he found himself making rash decisions in her presence. He often regretted these later, but in the moment that never mattered. To be near her, was for him, an emotional rollercoaster that he never wanted to get off of.

He managed to keep this to himself until just after Valentine’s Day of freshman year. At the same table they’d first met in August, he confessed his feelings for her. Even now he could recall the uncomfortable expression on her face, the way his stomach dropped as she struggled to tell him she didn’t feel the same way. He’d resolved to distance himself. Choking on emotion, he was unable to tell her it hurt too much to see her. His only explanation was a motion towards his chest.

But he never left. He remained a permanent fixture in the background of her life. He’d text her every month or two, checking in, asking to get dinner. It hurt to see her but it hurt more not to. Despite his best efforts to forget her, he could not erase her from his memory, couldn’t stifle the longing he had for her.

He was safe until the winter of their senior year. It was a Sunday and the unthinkable had happened: she’d admitted her feelings for him. They’d been sitting in a different dining hall and he’d abruptly gotten up to get himself a glass of water. Later, they’d gone for a walk by the river and it had taken several long minutes to work up the courage. Do you want to just date?

Pain, again, as she told him it couldn’t work, not with his faith. There were certain things she’d want, after a while, she said, that he wouldn’t be able to give her. He’d spent the next two hours trying to change her mind, but she was adamant in her refusal. He insisted that if they didn’t date he wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. As much as he wanted to believe it, he knew this was a lie. They walked back to her apartment, their steps slowing as they approached. She was afraid to say goodbye, was afraid he meant it, didn’t want this to be their end.

That’s why they stood in front of the door to her building, illuminated by the warm overhead lights of her apartment building, locked in each other's stares, their breath escaping in icy puffs.

That’s when the words tumbled out. Why don’t we just get married? He knew it was insane but the feelings were so overwhelming, he would do anything, say anything just to have her. No one has to know, you don’t even have to wear the ring. Her face a mix of incredulity and laughter.

They become serious after this. He should walk away now. He doesn’t. He stands staring into her eyes until she laughs uncomfortably, asks if this feels awkward to him too. It doesn’t. He could look into those eyes forever. His voice is quiet when he speaks again, and he tells her for the first time how pretty her eyes are. Then his voice breaks as he adds, Can I kiss you?

The second time he broke her heart was at the harbor. It was the first beautiful day in April, 75 degrees and sunny. They’d walked for two hours to get there. It was their first extended contact in months. He felt as though he was walking on clouds, everything felt so right again. They sat in a secluded spot on the harbor wall, until he impulsively took off his shirt and leaped into the frigid water. By the time he got out, he was so frozen through that all he could was shiver in body-racking shudders. Suddenly, he found himself holding her for warmth. He told himself that was the only reason. They sat in each other’s arms for two hours. If he closed his eyes, even all these years later, he could still feel his lips grazing the warmth of her tan shoulder, the floral scent of her neck and hair. His nose pressed into her cheek. The heat that radiated from her face, mere inches from his. The almost imperceptible shake of her head, sudden guarded eyes as he tried to kiss her. Instead settling for the space directly next to her mouth, better than kissing her lips even. The masochistic surge of desire accompanying it better than any kiss could ever be. Wasn’t the anticipation always better than the outcome?

But in the Uber back he broke that sacred barrier and kissed her- rough and quick. The shaky walls she’d built tumbled easily, and they were back exactly where they had been 3 months earlier. She wanted more from him. Just to be able to hold him. A small ask, really. Hesitantly, he agreed. The same voice on his shoulder screamed at him that this was wrong. Angel or devil? He never knew. A few days after he broke things off for the second time. The stricken look on her face as he asked to be friends never left him. Selfish, she’d said, that’s all you’ve ever been. He’d never seen her that way before; she had always been invincible. But that night he caught a glimpse of the pain hiding behind the mask of a girl who desperately wanted to be loved.

Another month and a half later, though, and she was healed. She’d told him she couldn’t see him anymore. He’d grieved hard. In the past four months he’d shed more tears than he had in ten years. So overwhelmed by the pain of hurting and losing her, he’d found himself barely able to rise from bed in the mornings. Why, God? He was always met by silence.

Of course, he hadn’t been able to keep his distance. That’s why after a month and a half he saw her again. First for dinner. Then for a walk by the river. He experienced a mixture of gratitude, joy, and to his surprise, pain. By the river, they skipped rocks and watched a family of ducks settle down for the evening. She thought about how ducklings imprint on the first moving thing they see after they hatch. She wondered if the same thing applied to love.

Later, they sat on a bench. They’d avoided the elephant in the room long enough. Spit it out, she’d said. He feigned confusion but she knew him too well, felt the barely detectable shifts in his mood and behavior. She felt the gulf that had opened between them and it irritated her. He’d hurt her. But he’d insisted on staying. He’d been the one who wanted to stay friends, she reminded him. So act like it.

That was when he’d admitted that he couldn’t just flip on the “friend switch.” This statement seemed to release a dam in her, and things she hadn’t had the nerve to say to him before flooded out. They stayed with him for the next sixty years. She argued that he was stupid. He’d heard this from her jokingly several times before, but now it was said with intention. For him to let go of someone who embodied all the values he held near because they could not explicitly claim allegiance to his God, she claimed, was stupid. It is the manner by which one lives and the actions they take that determine their caliber. Plenty of Catholics, she’d argued, claimed a belief in God only to break the rules they supposedly should live by. I believe in something beyond, I’m just not conceited enough to claim to know exactly what, she’d said. What does it matter as long as I live well?

What she didn’t understand was that to him, belief was a verb. Faith is active.

Maybe it’s vanity, but I don’t think you will ever find anyone better than me. The sentence cut like a knife; little did she know he had already been agonizing over this, afraid it was true. Worse still was the way her voice sounded as she said it: detached and devoid of emotion. No regret, no hint of pleading. Underlying her words he detected a harsh truth: she was already over him. As he mulled this over he wondered what right he had to care. He’d hurt her twice, made it clear he couldn’t commit. Why should he care if she was moving on? But he did. Silence hung in the air between them. They sat that way for a while, not saying anything, watching the sky darken and a tour boat slowly putter by. Voices and the sounds of glasses and cutlery clinking drifted towards them. He jumped when she spoke again.

I prayed for you one morning. Over my coffee.

A small, wistful smile crossed her face. Disbelief, then awe crossed his. She’d known how much that would mean to him. A whispered thank you, a one-armed hug later, and they were standing up, stretching their legs. Readying to separate. When she waved goodbye, he stood and watched her figure grow further away, the question gnawing at him. Why did you pray for me?

Many years later, she answered him.

One morning, exactly a week after he broke my heart for the second time, I found myself crying into my coffee cup. I sat nestled in the familiarity of my childhood home, steaming mug in hand, looking out at the gray, wet morning. And as I sat there, I found myself addressing his God.

‘Hey, God. If you’re there. I know I don’t really believe in you, but, if you’re there.’

And I prayed for him. I asked God to help him heal. To help him learn how to be happy. Because he deserves to feel happy. Even if he doesn’t believe in that.

This is what he threw away. Someone who could take his heartbreak and still pray to his God for him. This I never told him. I didn’t need to. It wouldn’t have changed anything. Because I know it is always the actions we take that say more than we ever could. And so, in a war with God, I lost.

The first time he’d seen that passage, tears had caused the words to run together as he pored over them. Over the years, they’d become ingrained in his memory, and he often found them running through his mind unbidden as he savored his morning cup. He cried because he had given up a good woman. And her prediction had been true- he had loved her like nobody else in his life. He never did find someone who checked all of his boxes. The herd of children he’d imagined running about his ranch were never born. In the end there was only one thing that mattered above all else: God.

Maybe her prayer had never reached his God. But in the end, the old man would have had nothing differently. If there was one thing he’d proven in life, it was that he was a man of his word. The story of his life had played out as God intended.

He took consolation in the belief that she was still waiting for him. On the other side. She’d passed several years ago. He’d told her once, a long time ago, that he trusted he’d meet her in the end. Until then, he kept her memory afloat every night as he stared out at a sea of rippling wheatgrass. It was easy to imagine her here, a place as beautiful and untamed as she had been. They’d always fantasized about moving out here, but she never had.

That night, as he sat there nodding off in the comfort of his chair, fighting to stay awake, the book had flipped to the dedication page.

To the man I loved. You showed me the meaning of devotion, for better or worse.