On Sunday's, I have a secret ritual that I keep and have kept from everyone. It all started after a crazy freshman year, with drunken Thursday all-nighters where it ended up with me missing my Friday morning class because I was too hungover. Why I enrolled in a Friday morning class is beyond me still to this day. I guess I just didn't know any better. After moving back into the dorms for my Sophomore year, I was determined to not make the same mistakes. I had already "C-"ed out of my first major, Chemistry, and wasn't going to let that happen again.
So I decided I was going back to church on Sundays. I had been a regular church goer since early childhood. I mainly went growing up because my mom wanted to go to church. In my first two years of high school, I was pretty involved with the youth group in my hometown; meeting up with the youth group on Wednesday to connect with other girls my age. We were friends, kind of. More like we were all friendly, but if it wasn't for youth group we wouldn't really hang out with each other. That kind of thing.
Anyways, I searched online for a Christian church in Santa Cruz. That's where I found a local church in the suburbs of Santa Cruz and started to attend regularly. It's a way for me to hit the reset button for the next week, refresh my soul, and be mentally prepared to take on another week at school. College can definitely throw someone's life equilibrium pretty easily and church helped to center me. Every Sunday morning, I drive off campus, head down highway one a few minutes to the community church.
It had now been a couple of years and I'm almost done with my Fall semester of my senior year at UC, Santa Cruz. This Sunday morning routine had helped me to mellow out on the weekends, a little bit, and get my grades up over all. The light at the end of this college tunnel is nearing, but I am very much still in the middle of it all.
There in the church auditorium, I close my eyes while the worship music plays, lift my hands, sing along. After each set there's a sermon, the offering, and once a month we take communion. Then I get back into my car and drive back to campus. I don't have any friends or people I have connected with. Most Sunday's I don't even talk to anyone, but I will have the occasional small talk with an inquiring, talkative patron. It's all a ritual and formulaic in it's unfolding and entirely therapeutic.
I wouldn't say I'm overly religious. Do I believe in God? Yes. Do I go to a small group? Share God's holy words to all those I can? Carry a Bible on the passenger seat of my car? No. I go each Sunday for me, to ground myself in something that is bigger than myself. To feel something deep inside my chest, where it usually aches as if something were missing or broken. To root myself so I don't entirely jump off into the deep end.
As I walk towards the church, I look up at the grey, stormy clouds wondering if it was actually going to rain today? Or was it just the thick fog rolling into the hills from the ocean? I pull the knit beanie off my head and stuff it in my purse, I always get so hot in there. I run my hand through my long, blonde hair. I curled it today so that it would still look good after I take the beanie off.
I walk to my usual spot on the left hand side, third row from the middle split. The worship band had already began to play. They are playing one of my favorite songs, "Oceans" by Hillsong United. I only have a line from this song tattooed on my left form arm. "And keep my eyes above the waves" is inked in cursive lettering around the outside a diamond filled with a blue ocean wave foaming over. It's a reminder to keep my head above water during those treacherous times and focus on Him, who is bigger than any problem or difficult situation that I can possibly find myself in. The tattoo has been a saving grace and my personal motto since I got it two years ago for my birthday.
The Sunday ritual proceeds as usual. The day's sermon was about the importance of reflection and taking the time to just simply spend time with the Lord. That's great and all, but when you're in the final year of college with reading, papers, exams, and not to mention, preparation for life after college that needs to be taken care of, there is little time left to "reflect".
The congregation is asked to stand and sing for the final song for today. I close my eyes, start taking my final deep inhales. In my nose and out my mouth, long drags of breath as my Sunday ritual comes to an end.
I slowly open my eyes to feel the eyes of another on my face. I hate when people stare. Yeah, I'm a single, young female going to church. No, there's nothing wrong with me, so stop staring, but the staring is somehow different. The stare is more like a glare as if I had ruined his church experience from across the room.
His eyes are intense, narrowed. Lips not quite in a grimace, but in a straight, hard line. Hair cropped short on the sides, but longer on top. Even though it was November, he still only wore a t-shirt and jeans. On his right arm, I see that he had a full sleeve tattoo that looks as if it were a wing. The feathers wound around his bicep and down his arm. He would be incredibly hot, if he weren't boring his eyes into me as if I were the bane of his existence.
I break eye contact to turn around and grab my purse off the pew. By the time I look up Mr. Mean Mug was gone. Whatever.
I grab the beanie, put it back on, and begin to head to the parking lot. I pull my sunglasses out of my purse too even though it's overcast out. The glare of the sun even through the clouds can give me a headache. I look over my shoulder to see if grumpy pants is anywhere in sight. I only see masses of people trying to grab some of the disgusting Verve coffee. No grumpy pants. Good, I probably dodged a bullet with that one.
The clouds, now confirmed as just thick fog, is now being sucked back to the ocean as the sun climbs higher into the sky. I climb into my grey Subaru Crosstrek and proceed out of the parking lot.
With Petit Biscuit playing in my car through the Spotify app, my mind is pulled back to those dark eyes set in the skull of the man from across the auditorium. What had I done to make him so livid? I didn't talk to anyone, and I'm pretty sure I wasn't singing so loud that he could hear me and bother him with my poor rendition of "Oceans". I have had people stare at me before, but it's more of that interested, kindly faced look when people are trying to figure me out without talking to me. This was disconcerting to say the least. I think back to my reactions, embarrassed because I think I might have acted a little self conscious.
Stupid. I hate the way I automatically react sometimes. I wish I was way more cool and smooth than I am. Most of the time I have my reactions on lock, but when people throw me off like that I begin to fumble. I guess that's what happens when I'm on what seems to be autopilot all of the time.
By the time I pulled back into the campus parking lot closest to my dorm room I had forgotten about him and was focused on the songs playing and the never ending To-Do list that I had prepared before I left for church. Finish laundry, edit my paper for the first of my two political capstone courses, tidy my room, and begin reading for my government 301 class were all on the list of to do's for today. They very well may be on my list, getting them done is a whole other thing. I had checked the surf report for today before heading to church and the prospects looked good. The To-Do list might have to wait after this swell is done producing perfect Fall waves. Low tide isn't till later so I should be able to get a large chunk of this To-Do list finished before then.
As I'm hauling my laundry basket down the hall to the communal laundry room, I think again about that guy at church. How had I even known to look in his direction anyway? I had literally felt the push of his gaze on my cheek, more like a raking by someone's fingernails. After taking that psychology course, I found myself always scanning and scoping every room I walked into. I also had also had this uncanny ability to know if someone what looking at me. I don't know if it was the actual feel of their eyes looking at me or their mental attention being sent my way that I picked up.
In this case I actually felt him looking at me. How could I not with that fierce look upon his face? I'm not one to get into a confrontation or anything, don't get me wrong, I definitely can give my share of sass. But I don't think I can give such a hateful look without any provocation to a total stranger. I get it if I cut him off in the parking lot, but I know that didn't happen, at least today anyway.
I wish he would have been a little closer so I could have seen his tattoo better. Even at a distance, I could tell it was unique and well done. The wing was made of individual feathers and each one looked so real. I could see that the tip of the wing ended on the back of his hand, making the wing wrap around arm. If he stretched his arm out wide the wing could unfold to a full wing span, ready to flap and fly the angry man out of the building.
I shake my head as I stuff the remaining load of laundry into one of the free machines. I need a clear head if I'm going to get through the To-Do list and surf this afternoon. I have no time for such angry people right now. Thankfully the likelihood of me seeing him is slim to none, as I have never seen his face before today.
Even though I have no said friends at church, there are a lot of familiar faces. I tend to see the same faces, perched on the same pews, at the same church time each week. "There's something to be said about the power of observation," as my psychology professor once said. "Always be alert, scan and survey the room. You never know what you might notice or what detail might need to know at any given moment." I wrote those words down in my notebook when he said them, but they were seared into my brain the moment they came out of his mouth.