After the evangelical rally, as we returned to our parked car, my mother called the evening a "wondrous night" to my sister Mary. My mum ascended into her rapturous zone - several thrills above her placid praise for my success as a Sunday school star.
Growing up, I regularly won prizes connected to Bible knowledge. I knew the Bible's books in rote order and could recite The Ten Commandments and The Beatitudes. In truth, I valued Bible stories as stories, especially those enshrining compassion, like Joseph or romance, like Ruth.
My giving my life to Jesus was accompanied by a pat on the shoulder in a car park. On the immediate Sunday at church, her praise of Jesus skyrocketed when she learned of my destiny to do God's work.
Dean delivered the holy news to her after the service, "Luke will be a church missionary. Hallelujah!" he advertised to the congregation from the vestibule.
"Hallelujah!" my mum chorused, clasping Dean's hands.
In the face of a double Hallelujah, I sunk, routed.
There was no place to hide, including behind my mother's skirt. I shuffled and excused myself to the washroom. I splashed water over my face. My stomach heaved.
The face in the mirror outstared me: Who was I?
The preacher tag fastened to my teenage years. Ruby tailored and teased Missionary Boy.
Dean and Mum expected my ongoing dedication to becoming a man of God, even from a tender age. As a guilt-ridden youngster, my shaky promised 'yes' to the Lord, in their eyes, bound my life path. Yet expressing my true passion for designing buildings adorned by columns was dismissed, at around the same time, as kiddy talk.
After the evangelical revival, my mother pressed me towards a blanket faith commitment. She marshalled persistent pressure as my dad never attended church. He was a solid family provider who spent his spare time and Sunday mornings in his garage workshop turning wood.
His favourite timbers were light, sweet pine and solid mountain ash. He crafted wooden bowls and spoons as gifts. Fascinated, I watched his wood lathe and smelled the shavings.
I queried my dad as to why he missed attending church.
He kept sanding a salad spoon and replied, in his down-to-earth way, "God wandered AWOL in the war. I veer AWOL from church."
His answer was profoundly complex, and I let this pass at age twelve.
He added, "Don't misunderstand me; the churches are fine places — many have spiritual ambience."
He stopped to inspect his handiwork. His hands smelt of pine, matching his aftershave bottle in the bathroom.
He continued, "Some of the people inside them are the problem."
Dad inspected the handle of the spoon. It relieved me that he revered the buildings because I hoped to become an architect. He worked on his wood lathe under focussed fluorescent light. I noticed faint burn scars crisscrossing the side of his face, a legacy of an air raid during the war.
My mum organised my attendance at an upcoming weekend Christian youth camp.
She enthused about its theme, " Luke, it's learning to harness the power of The Holy Spirit in your life."
Downcast, I realised a clash of dates. I preferred the community nativity play, the costumes and watching Coral participate as the angel. I accepted missing the fireworks night as firm and fair. To miss the Christmas play rehearsal smacked of a disproportionate consequence.
I moped as my mother's camp timing meant missing out on my wise man role and having fun with friends. I endeavoured to change my mother's mind.
Tentatively, I said, " I'd rather the nativity play than the camp."
She routed me decisively, "Luke, the deposit has been paid. "
I sunk into myself with dropped shoulders and a hanging neck.
Bummer!
If spoken aloud, I risked copping a punishment for foul language.
Minus a comeback, I stared at my shoes. My mum handed me a pamphlet outlining the themes and activities of the camp. In the kitchen, I scanned it politely. In my bedroom, I scrunched and launched it into my waste bin.
Coral saved me.
She cued to my listless, uncoordinated effort at four square at school.
Concerned, she insisted, "Talk!" and shook me by the shoulders.
My hands sank deeper into my school pants pockets. Her fingers brushed my cheek. My head lifted as I unfolded to my bestie.
"Let me chew it over. I can sort it," Coral stated emphatically as the bell sounded.
She accompanied me home after school.
My mum chopped pumpkin on a kitchen bench.
"Mrs Moore, excuse me. Can I talk to you?"
My mum spun, flexing a large knife in her hand.
"Yes, dear," she encouraged Coral.
"I won't be the angel, Mrs Moore," my bestie said.
"You promised," insisted my mum as she glanced at me.
"I'll break it for Luke," Coral maintained composure, her words resolute.
"Sweetie, you keep it when you give your word."
My mum stopped waving the knife, laid it on the bench and wiped her hands slowly on her apron. She glanced at me while stepping towards Coral.
She faced her challenging opponent.
"No, you must let Luke join the play. It's our last chance," my bestie's voice became scratchy.
"Coral," my mum emphasised her name, redelivering her strongest argument, "Luke is attending the camp. I already paid."
My mother started peeling carrots, presuming the discussion had ended.
Coral curled her golden locks.
My mother julienned a carrot.
"Mrs Moore, please turn around."
Coral waited while my mum match-sticked another carrot.
Then, my mum leaned against the bench.
"I want Luke in the play, please! He's my best, best friend. I won't participate without him!"
She wiped her eyes to stop the potential waterworks. Welling green eyes led to my mother relenting.
"Fine, no camp and Luke can join the rehearsal. We can't have our angel unhappy."
As they talked, I moved my weight, foot to foot, a ball-to-toe tile slide, inching closer to Coral.
"Off you go! Outside 'til dinner. I'll ring your mum, Coral. Off, you two go!"
My mum flapped the front of her apron — at us.
Coral and I idled on the porch, a post between us. My fingers locked securely to the beam. The sun-warmed paint touched my face.
My bestie suggested, "Let's lay on the lawn."
Freshly cut grass tickled my nostrils.
"Thank you," I managed, half leaning on the dark mown grass.
Coral changed positions, putting her head into my lap and gazed at the clouds.
Her pillow: my thighs.
A few lawn clippings caught in her hair kinks. My fingers twitched; I was enticed to pull the grass from her hair.
"What can you picture? Come on, imagine a shape in the fluffy stuff," Coral's voice floated dreamily, unlike in the kitchen.
I saw a delicate pair of wispy angel wings — but was too self-conscious to point to them.
I looked farther and feebly suggested, "Wool."
"Lame," she implored, framing her fingers to show me, "I was certain you'd point to the angel wings."
"I spy with my…." I tried it as my default change.
"No," she stopped me, scrunching her nose.
She nested her head.
My life soothed above her hair.
"What will you be when you grow up? Yeah, I'm sure you'll make it, and Josh — you dingbats, exploding letterboxes!"
Coral's forgiveness bolstered my self-worth.
Jehovah's forgiveness, I forgot!
"An architect."
I pictured Corinthian columns.
"Ah, you sound certain," she sparkled.
Coral presented her palm flat; we pancake stacked our hands.
"Yes, I've known since the car crash. The grand buildings in the city inspired me."
"Strange," she lilted softly, "Strange what triggers our choice."
"Spit it out; what's yours?"
No secrets were spared between youngsters.
She weaved the story as her head found a comfy cradle on my thighs. She told a new detail of her family trip to the States earlier in the year to Chicago, Providence, and D.C. Her mum's relatives lay dear and close to her.
She revealed the particular segment like she was carefully unwrapping a gift.
"My dad," she gushed, "treated me in Washington, D.C., to the National Art Gallery."
Her voice pitched, "I exclaimed, 'Wow,' immediately I faced Jackson Pollock's Lavender Mist."
Coral described the painting to me as she webbed her fingers. My mind's eye followed as she described a mesh of colours.
Her eyes expanded, then her hands.
"It's amazing, Luke, a must-see. I burst out to my dad; I want to work here, to see it — every day."
She finished confidently — with her eyes pointed toward the sky, "I wish to work in an art gallery."
My mother called us in. Dinner was ready. Coral jumped to her feet. She extended her hand to me, pulling me up; I rose and joined her.
Shoulder to shoulder, we swaggered across the yard to the porch.
If pressed to nail in words what joined us, a probable response as youngsters would have been: We were there for each other.
We celebrate the word now; we were blessed to be the best of friends.