Offering

This story is by Nikki LeClaire and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

“So, the retreat this weekend – are you in?”

My stomach flipped at the inevitable question.  James looked over from the file cabinets, paging through music sheets.  He was my mentor — ten years older, married with children, and probably my closest friend.  I had been in the church choir for three years, just as long as the marching band, and he had invited me to be an assistant director.  Something about singing together disarmed me.  I usually did everything he advised — however, I was not the churchy type, and not going on this retreat.

James and the other director, Blaise, had been pressing me to sign up.  Just then, Blaise strode into the office, arms full of black binders, a commanding presence.  Tall, dark, and handsome, dressed to kill on a Tuesday.  He was a year younger than me, but definitely didn’t feel like it.  He was an aspiring law student with designs on becoming president as soon as he turned thirty-five.

“What?  No home game, no half-time show to miss.  What’s stopping you?”  James’s smiling brown eyes teased. 

I tucked my hair behind my ear, fidgeted with my dangly butterfly earring.  I was running low on excuses, and didn’t want to look bad.  “I’m not sure yet,” I mumbled.  “I don’t really know anyone else who’s going…”

“Sounds like a cop-out, Nikki!” Blaise’s bass voice thundered.  He grinned, passing the stack of binders to James.  He had attended last semester, so he wouldn’t be there.  Good, I thought.  I could use a break from constant butterflies.  I felt my cheeks warm, laughed awkwardly in place of a reply.

“One, midterms are done,” Blaise thrust up a finger, his eyes glittering.  “Two, you said you have no plans.  And three, ” he leaned in and declared, “You won’t regret it.”  I blinked, his cologne hung in the air between our faces.  He straightened, satisfied with himself.  “So, have a great retreat!”  He winked, turned and left.

“Nik.”  I startled at my childhood nickname.  People who know my history tend to discover it.  I met James’s eyes, his look earnest.  “What’s going on?  You’re distracted today.”

I looked out the window, watched the brown oak leaves clinging to the branches in the light wind, and fell back into my thoughts.  My roommate Jake and I had a huge fight last night.  This morning, more passive-aggressive stomping down the halls.  The battle over the house temperature had been going on for three weeks.  That is, the silent feud between me turning the heat up, Jake turning the heat down, and everyone else staying out of it.  Throughout this early November cold snap, he insisted the thermostat stay on sixty-five in our hundred-year-old house.  I obviously disagreed, and not just because we had dated the year before and broken up.  

Actually, it wasn’t typical “dating.”  We both played trumpet in the band; then we were roommates.  We were both proud, friendly competitors on the field.  Then we spent more and more time together – bike rides, lake jumps, late nights.  A lot of time in my room.  I was excited to finally be with a guy who was smart, funny, and made of the same grit that I was.  He made me handmade gifts.  He left notes under my door.  He was sweet to me.

But one day we had a big argument about religion.  I was raised Catholic, he was raised nothing.  I got on a soapbox about “truth,” and he observed that it was harsh for the church to claim that they were right and everyone else was wrong.  My argument wasn’t exactly leak-proof, but my pride was a brick wall.  He threw out an insult – or was it me? – and something broke.  We began to hate each other.  I couldn’t believe how someone could be such a jerk.  And now we were stuck living across the hall for another nine months until the lease was up.

“Hey.”  I tuned back in, James’s look softer now.  “Is it the house stuff, still?”

I swallowed, my throat hurt.  Of course I had told him everything.  It felt so good to get it all out.  But that usually involved crying, and I wasn’t in the mood for crying.  Definitely not today.  “No, I’m fine.”  I pretended to dig in my backpack for something.  I felt his eyes still locked in, so I resisted the temptation to look up.  “Just a lot going on,” I lied.

He saw through that, and totally could have lectured me.  Instead, he took a breath, set the binders down, slowly sat and leaned back in his chair.  “Nik, since you first walked in here, you’ve been asking me, ‘What more can I do?  What can I give?’  So, give God this weekend.”  He saw my discomfort and paused.  He knew I had never been on a retreat.  He brightened, “I promise it’s not just cheesy ice-breakers, trust falls, and board games.  Blaise is right.  You won’t regret it.”

“But what’s it about?  You guys talk up how great it is, but don’t give any hints of what to expect.”  I cleared my throat, crossed my arms.  “I kinda like to know what I’m getting into for a whole weekend.”

“It’s an offering.  That’s the point.”  He sat up, leaned over the desk, becoming father in place of friend.  “Look.  I know you love to have control of all of the details.  It’s one of your strengths.  But… what if you let go and give Him these three days?  See what He’ll do with it.”  He waited a beat, let his words sink in.  Then his eyes caught the binders. “Or, you could spend the weekend downstairs, filing music.”

“Ha ha.  The church basement is the last place I want to be.”

“What?  It’s nice and warm down there.  Give you a break from your house situation.”  I scowled, back-handed him on the arm, and he grinned.  “What, too soon?”

His eyes were laughing, and I felt lighter, disarmed again.  I can’t say no.

————————————————————————————-

We filed down the musty stairs beneath St. Mary’s church.  The hallway to the music room was on the right, but we took the door on the left to the crypt chapel – all stone, cold.  I had never been inside.  James was closing the door behind us.  I glanced at him, he nodded encouragingly.  I took a seat in the back row behind forty people I didn’t know, except a few choir members, shivering from nerves and the chill of the crypt.   James took the seat next to me, got out his journal and clicked his pen open.  

A senior boy started sharing his conversion story.  A guy who struggled with alcohol and lust — typical.  I almost started to tune out, but near the end he began to weep, and it woke me up.  He said, “Metanoia is a Greek word that means changing your mind — turning around.  A one-eighty!  What’s going on in your life right now?  Do you need to make that one-eighty?  How is God asking you to turn around, to turn back to Him?”

The group was stunned into silence.  Next to me, James was scribbling notes, two pages already filled.  I’ve always carried a journal, but I thought that was a girl thing, and was intrigued watching this man write.  He looked up, shrugged, What?  I shook my head, smiled, and wondered, What more do you have to learn from this college kid?  He elbowed me, hissed, “Pay attention!”

I tilted my own journal toward him, pointed to where I had diligently copied the question, “How is God asking me to turn back to Him?”  He raised an eyebrow, clapped his notebook shut.

We were led upstairs to the main church, which I had been in before, of course — but now it was different, all dark.  As I was ushered into the last pew, I was surprised to hear rustling and see shapes up in front.  The lights slowly turned up, and I saw a small group of people in front, all dressed in costume — Blaise in the center, his hands tied on a cross and a crown of thorns on his head.  It took my breath away — not just because it was Blaise, but because it seemed so real.  There was blood all over him; there were Roman centurions with spears.  A senior girl I knew from the choir was serenely portraying the Virgin Mary, tears streaming down her cheeks.  I felt a hand from behind squeeze my shoulder — then James walked up to the front.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene.

The music started:

O come to the altar
The Father’s arms are open wide
Forgiveness is bought with
The precious blood of Jesus Christ

I forced my eyes away from Jesus, looked down at my journal.  I thought of the bike rides, the notes, the argument.  Do you need to make that one-eighty?

I took a deep breath, wrote:

Dear Jake,
I’m sorry.

And I let myself cry.