How could he allow such suffering and still claim to be loving and good?It wasn't the first time I'd had such doubts--or at least started to. Sometimes, while watching news reports of wars or disasters, I'd asked myself, Why does God allow it? But I changed the TV channel or turned the page, not wanting to dwell on it too long. It193was simpler to accept Pastor Jose's response: "It isn't our place to question God's wrath; instead, be grateful for his kindness and mercy." That was a lot harder to do when the hurt and confusion hit so close to home--as with Manuel...or with my ma'sillness and death. Except that then I had been a child. As a boy I accepted what adults told me.Now, as I looked out over the vastness of the empty plains, I prayed, "Why do you allow it, God? Help me to understand. Where are you in all this, Jesus? Where are you?"Only the wind answered, whistling in through the windows. By the time I reached our town limits sign, I was nearly frozen.On Main Street the cross atop the church I'd gone to as a child caught my attention, lit up for the holidays. I slowed the car and pulled over to stare at the faded stucco building. The place seemed a lot smaller than when I was little.Without any particular plan I turned the engine off and got out of the car. I strode up the walkway, climbed the front steps, and tried the church doors. Naturally, they were locked. I walked back down the steps and over to the Sunday school building. Cupping my hands on the window of my boyhood classroom, I peered inside.The light from the streetlamp barely illuminated the room. Across the child-sized desks and chairs the once larger-than-life Jesus mural now looked small and dim. He seemed so distant.In my memory I pictured a Sunday morning long ago, the room crowded with kids. Sunlight streamed in the windows. My ma waited patiently in the classroom doorway for me until I ran to take her hand, excited to tell her the Bible story I'd learned that day.Now a million questions taunted me. What if all those Bible stories are merely that, just stories? What if all the miracles were made up? What if Jesus was a mere mortal, or just another made-up story? What if there is no eternal life? What if it's all a lie? What if my prayers are just talking to myself? What if there is no God?194I folded my arms tight against my jacket, thinking back over my life since the days in that classroom: the loss of my ma; how much I'd missed her; my frustration at my dad's drinking; having to be strong for him when I was the one who needed him; my shame over the attraction I felt toward other boys; my loneliness, year after year, unable to voice my secret; my guilt with Angie; and now all my confusion about Manuel...As I stood in the cold dark night, peering into that building, something broke inside me. Maybe it was the hope I had tried so hard to sustain all those years: that I could be different from what I was. Or perhaps it was my heart, which I had given so trustingly to Jesus.What would become of me? Should I be honest about who I was--and end up like Manuel, in a hospital bed and possibly destined to hell for giving in to sin? Or should I continue living a lie, feigning unquestioning faith and happiness outside while fighting and hating who I was inside?Neither choice seemed fair. Was there another possibility, one that I had never dared consider?I had always been taught that the mere thought of suicide was a sin. God gave us life, and it was only for him to take it away. But now I no longer cared if I went to hell for it.
How much worse could it be than the torment and despair I'd felt all these years? Wasn't I already in hell?I recalled a schoolmate during freshman year who had done it. Late one night he sat in his car in the garage with the engine running, till he asphyxiated. I could do that. Nobody had ever found out what made him do it. Should I leave a note? Would I have the guts to admit my reason?
What about Angie, and Pa, and Abuelita? Could I do that to them?I turned my collar up against the wind, but it didn't stop the dark chill that pierced through me. Slowly I returned to my car and195climbed inside. Bending my head over the steering wheel, I told Jesus, "I'm begging you.
If you truly exist, you've got to help me. Because I can't do this anymore."Then I turned the ignition and drove home.196
Chapter 40
EVEN THOUGH IT WAS NEW YEAR'S EVE,I COLLAPSED INTO BED, TOO WIPED OUT
AND DEPRESSED TO DO ANYTHING BESIDES SLEEP. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE
NIGHT, MY CELL RANG."Happy New Year," Angie said."Um, you too," I mumbled, barely awake. "Thanks."At some time the following morning, I was still half asleep when Pa came into the room. He stood at the foot of my bed, but he never said anything; he just looked at me. I guess he figured I needed the rest, because he went back out, and I returned to sleep.The sound of more rain finally woke me up at nearly noon. But for all my sleeping, I felt more empty than rested.
The only thing that drew me out of bed was Manuel. Even in a coma he was still pulling at me.When I got to the kitchen, Abuelita wrapped her arms around me. "Happy New Year! I was about to wake you.""Happy New Year," I said, noticing her suitcase by the door. I'd forgotten she had to leave today. Now I wished I'd spent more time with her.197Abuelita asked about Manuel while making me a breakfast of chorizo, piping hot eggs, and beans. Pa had already said good-bye to her and gone to run errands. After I finished eating, I carried her suitcase to the car, stepping over dark pools of water on the pavement. They seemed like mirrors of the mood I felt inside.Halfway down the highway to Abilene I turned to Abuelita. "Can I ask you something?
Have you ever wondered if God exists?""Of course." She shrugged, as though it was the most natural question on earth. "But what difference does it make? What matters is the courage and strength that I get from believing in him. Whether he exists or not, he's real to me today."I didn't think her answer made much sense. "How can you believe in him if you doubt he exists?""Mi amor, we have to believe in something--in some power--otherwise we'd have no hope. Believing gives us hope. God is hope."I pondered that, feeling my own lack of hope."I've had days,"
Abuelita continued, "when I didn't think I could go on." She gave me a long, searching look, as if she'd guessed the thoughts I'd had last night at the church. But how could she? I hadn't told her about it."Days when that power, that hope for something better, was the only thing that got me out of bed in the morning."Was hope the pull I had felt from Manuel since first seeing him? Hope in answer to all my confusion?Abuelita let out a weary sigh. "And besides, if there was no God, who would I get mad at? Better to turn that ire at God than at myself."I laughed a little nervously, recalling the times I'd come home and found Abuelita shouting at God. I had never allowed myself to198get angry at him. Maybe I had felt too guilty."God is great, Pablito. Don't be afraid to be angry with him. Let him know what's in your heart--all of it. He can take it. He can take more than you could ever give him. Just don't give up."I stared out at the roadway, not exactly comprehending everything she said, but what mattered was that she seemed to understand--even the things I hadn't told her.At the airport I carried her bag to check-in and said good-bye, hugging her tightly, and watched till she passed through security. Then I drove to the hospital.As the hours went by that day, I sat outside Manuel's room, and my mind rambled all over. I thought a lot about how much it would hurt Abuelita, Pa, and Angie if I did give up, if I ended my life. But what if I just couldn't go on?It felt like the only thing keeping me going was the hope that Manuel would recover. Yet, what if he didn't? I remembered the afternoon we'd been in his room, listening to his big band music, and he'd reached for my hand, inviting me to dance. "If I were you," he'd said, "I'd take me up on this invitation. You never know in life if you'll get a second chance."If only I'd known then how true his words were and I had taken him in my arms, like I'd wanted to.I thought about the stuff he'd said to me in the mall parking lot, about putting myself in a box. Was he right? Had I? Was I even capable of love?"Please don't die," I now whispered to him from behind the glass of the ICU window. "I need you so much. I want to love, but what if I can't? What if I don't know how? You've got to teach me. I need you to teach me."I let my forehead drop onto the window as tears trickled down my cheeks.199
Chapter 41
ON JANUARY 2, CLASSES STARTED AGAIN. I DIDN'T WANT TO GO. I WANTED TO
&nb
sp; BE WITH MANUEL. BUT PA TOLD ME, "YOU CAN WAIT TILL AFTER SCHOOL." I DIDN'T HAVE THE STRENGTH TO ARGUE.On campus everyone knew about Manuel.
Although the newspapers hadn't published the attackers' names, Jude and Terry hadn't returned to school and word spread that they were the ones who had been arrested. The attack seemed like the only thing people were talking about:"Did you hear about the gay guy? Supposedly brain mush now.""Can you imagine beating somebody with a tire iron? How sick is that?""Like, big surprise? Jude always gave me the creeps."On my way to lunch Elizabeth came up close to me, sporting new clothes. "Hi. I'm sorry to hear about Manuel."Her tone sounded sincere, but given her past attitude I asked, "Are you really?""Yes, really" She clenched her teeth into a frown.I felt bad for misjudging her. But then she added, "Even though he did bring it upon himself. You can't walk around boasting your sin and think nothing will happen to you. 'Pride goeth before a fall.'"200I immediately stepped back from her, seething with fury."I'll pray for you." She turned away, smiling scornfully."And I'll pray for you," I muttered. When I got to my lunch table, I slammed my tray down."What's wrong?" Angie stared at me, alarmed.Dakota's gray eyes widened. "It's not about Manuel, is it?""No, he's the same." I jabbed my fork into my turkey and told them about Elizabeth's comment."So much for Jesus softening her heart," Dakota remarked.Angie nodded. "I remember Manuel once said, 'Some people's minds will never change, no matter what.'"I tossed my fork aside, too upset to eat. "It's like everyone wants to blame Manuel for what happened.""Who else said something?" Angie asked."Eric," I replied, and immediately realized my error.Dakota gave me a confused look. "Who is Eric?""Um..." I picked up my fork again. "Just someone I know."Angie stared expectantly. "Are you going to tell us who?""Just somebody I met through church. Do either of you want my dessert?"I tried to change the subject, while at the same time I wanted to climb atop the cafeteria table and just yell the truth to everyone--get it over with. I was getting sick of hiding and covering up. Who cared what other people might think? But I stayed seated, remembering what had happened to Manuel.After school, I once again drove the seventy-nine miles to Abilene. The wind off the plains shoved my car all over the road, and waves of emotion pitched through me. I had been thinking a lot about what Abuelita had said about getting angry at God. Although I had spent years mad at myself for not being able to get rid of my secret feelings, the thought of expressing my anger201at God had never really crossed my mind. If I couldn't stop my shameful feelings, that was my fault, not God's. Who was I to challenge him?And yet hadn't I wondered how a good and loving God could allow such a cruel joke to be played on me? And now that I thought about it, hadn't almost every Bible hero, from Moses to Jonah, to Job, to St. Paul, to Jesus on the cross, questioned and challenged God? Not to compare myself to them, but hadn't I wanted to be like them when I was a boy listening to their stories in Sunday school?Besides, now that I no longer even believed for certain that God existed, and since I was probably bound for hell anyway, why not unleash my anger at him? I gripped my hands on the steering wheel, and in the solitude of my car I prayed in a way I never had before: "Jesus, I'm really angry..." I hesitated, a little nervous. "At you and at God."Unwittingly, I ducked down in my seat, glancing up at the sky and into the rearview mirror.
Even though I knew it was silly, I sort of half expected a thunderclap, a lightning bolt, or something.When nothing happened, I felt emboldened. "I'm angry," I repeated, "really, really, really mad." With each word my voice grew stronger, and I started to realize how deeply furious I was."Mad that you let all this happen to me--that you let my ma die, that you let me have these gay feelings, that you let Manuel get hurt so bad." I began shouting. "You promised that anything asked in your name would be done--and it wasn't. Why should I believe anything you say?"Every time a car passed on the road, they must have thought I was crazy, ranting like some mad man.
But I didn't care. It's a wonder I didn't run off the road; I could barely see clearly.By the time I reached the hospital, my voice was hoarse from shouting.202
Chapter 42
I'M NOT SURE THAT MY SHOUTING ACCOMPLISHED MUCH, OTHER THAN TO HELP
ME REALIZE HOW ANGRY I'D BEEN WITH GOD FOR A VERY LONG TIME--AT LEAST
SINCE MA HAD DIED. AS A BOY I HAD FELT TOO SCARED BY HER DEATH TO RISK
BEING ANGRY. NOT ANYMORE. AND YET WHAT GOOD DID IT DO? IT WAS LIKE
OPENING UP THE PROVERBIAL WOUND.Now, as I stared through the glass of the ICU
window, Manuel's weak and broken body seemed to reflect how broken I felt inside myself.As I waited for hours, I made empty small-talk with his mom and dad, and the nurses, or on the phone with Angie, Dakota, my pa... Otherwise, I simply waited--and prayed.Please, God, I repeated over and over, if you truly exist, heal Manuel. In your name, Jesus, please heal him.I knew that praying made no sense. Why turn to a being I was furious at, especially when I no longer trusted he even existed? And yet, just as some unseen force kept drawing me to Manuel, some power continued to pull me toward God.And each night, when visiting hours ended and Manuel's condition remained the same, I drove home shouting at the Lord, louder and stronger.203At school I mostly went through the motions, barely paying attention, counting the minutes till I could drive back to Abilene. Yet once I got there, I could do little except wait.One evening, after spending hours watching Manuel and praying for him, I picked up a Bible somebody had left on the windowsill and halfheartedly flipped through it, first to the Psalms, and then to Romans--but not to the vague and confusing passage in Chapter i. Instead, I turned to one of my favorites, Romans 8:38-39, where St. Paul said:For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.I had often read that promise when I worried why God wasn't taking away my secret feelings. Now it reminded me of what Abuelita had said about the Bible being the greatest love story ever told. Could I truly trust the Word of God that his love was so boundless and unconditional that nothing could separate me from that love? Not even doubts of his existence?
Or all my unbridled fury at him? Or my gay feelings?What if my secret feelings didn't go away and I failed to change, as I believed he wanted? Would he still love me? Could Jesus, who prayed for those who drove nails into him and forgave those who denied and forsook him, still forgive me--and save me from hell?I lay the Bible down on my lap and thought about that for a long while, gazing at Manuel and recalling the things he'd said that night in the parking lot, about love.
Was he right? Had I put myself in a box, unable to love and be loved? If St. Paul's promise was true, and God's love was so unshakeable, then wasn't I the only thing separating me from God's love--me and my own unwillingness to accept his love?204My mind struggled to absorb that.
Had I actually been resisting God's love all these years by not accepting who I was? I picked up the Bible again, leafing through it a little further, to St. Paul's second letter to the Corinthians, chapter 12:. ..to keep me from being too elated by the abundance of revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan, to harass me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I besought the Lord about this, that it should leave me...I had read that passage a million times, asking God to remove my own thorn of unwanted feelings. But St. Paul's words had never spoken to me quite so clearly as they did now. I guess I hadn't been ready to accept the response that came next:... but [the Lord] said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."That reminded me of the Serenity Prayer, and what it said about God granting me "the serenity to accept the things I cannot change."I had tried so hard to change and be straight, certain that it was God's will for me. And yet I hadn't changed one single bit. So, was my thorn really my secret feelings? Or was it my own stubborn refusal to accept them? I returned to the epistle, trying to make sense of it all.I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses that the power of Christ ma
y rest upon me.Reading that, something struck me for the first time: even though St. Paul said he'd boast of his weaknesses, he never did reveal to us what his thorn was.
What exactly was his secret thorn, so shameful that he never specified it? Could it have been any worse than mine?For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities; for when I am weak, then I am strong.205Could I also be content to accept that the Lord might not want to change me, or he would have done so by now? Could I admit that it might possibly be the Lord's will for me to love and accept myself as ... gay?Romans 8 had made it clear that nothing could stop God's love for me. But could I love and accept myself as I was, with all my confused and thorny feelings, along with all the "insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities" that it might bring? Or would I spend the rest of my life fighting who I was, feeling sorry for myself, and being angry at God about it?When I left the hospital that night, Manuel's condition continued the same, but inside me a seismic shift was occurring.206
Chapter 43
WHEN I DROVE FROM THE HOSPITAL TOWARD HOME THAT NIGHT, I DIDN'T FEEL
LIKE SHOUTING AT GOD ANYMORE. I LOOKED ACROSS THE MOONLIT PLAINS
AND THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT ABUELITA HAD SAID ABOUT GIVING MY ANGER UP
TO THE LORD. IT ALMOST FELT AS IF HIS HAND HAD REACHED DOWN AND