R, also known as Church Boy

I was 16 or maybe 17, freshly moved to a city in the desert 3 months after inviting Jesus into my heart as Lord and Savior.

To this day, I still don’t know how I convinced my mom to follow my boyfriend to that dusty ass town. Especially now that she and I were born again.

He’d been my first kiss and my first sex all on the same puddly night 2 years before. A painful relationship had grown out of that encounter and then decided to stay for far too long.

I hated him but also followed him everywhere.

On our first Sunday in this new town, my mom and I got dressed up and ready to make a good impression at our new church. I carried the dedicated NIV Bible my first youth pastor and his wife had given me, the gold foil on the cover still shiny, the spine still stiff.

R was the first person I noticed when we walked into the store-front-turned-church. He was playing worship on the stage, right of the pulpit, Cristo Vive hand-painted in janky blue letters behind him.

I need to talk to that guitar player.

It turned out his guitar was a bass and his smile was gorgeous and he invited me to youth group. He sat next to me for the post-service potluck and the butterflies were almost instant.

He was charming.

They called him Church Boy at work where no one knew I even had a boyfriend. Church Boy was the crush I always talked about and there was no one else.

Do you think Church Boy likes me? He asked me for my phone number.

He would call to remind me about youth group prayer night and Bible study.

Do you think Church Boy likes me? He gave me jewelry.

It was a rose gold ring with all the good luck charms anyone ever thought of stamped into the thick band.

Do you think Church Boy likes me? He came to help me after the car accident and held my hand on the way home.

He’d shown up within minutes, helping me talk to the police and figure out what to do with my smashed up bumper. He told me things were gonna be ok and took my hand in his until we were parked in front of my apartment.

Church Boy is so into you! Just tell him already!

Church Boy and I would stay long after service talking about God and Jesus and the Bible. He’d play made up little songs on his bass or the pastor’s guitar.

Sometimes, he would drive me home and we’d sit in his parked car for hours.

What would happen if I reached out to touch his knee?

We’d watch the lightning storms that rolled in with the monsoons out the back window.

When he told me he just wanted to find the woman he knew the Lord had made for him, I told him maybe she was already standing right in front of him.

I had no idea that was some sort of romcom pickup line. I didn’t even think it I was talking about me.

He said God spoke through me and maybe I should teach youth group sometime. He could help me prepare my notes.

Mija, he doesn’t like you. It’s ok. Just be his friend.

My mom thought I had no chance.

I ignored her.

R got to preach from the main pulpit one night.

His voice was full of passion. His preaching full of wisdom. He understood the Bible in a way I wished I could too.

I called him on the drive home.

Everyone at church looks up to you. When you’re not around, they all talk about how amazing you are. I think you’re amazing too.

He asked if I had feelings for him and I couldn’t lie.

I’m sorry, but the feeling isn’t mutual.

I cried myself to sleep.

My little brother, trying to help in his own way, told the abusive boyfriend about R.

About how we’d been hanging out twice a week after youth group and talking on the phone almost every night.

I had to promise not to see him again outside of church meetings.

After prayer service, I showed R the notes I’d written for my youth group lesson. He said they looked good, just add some more Bible verses to back up my points.

And just like that, I was on the youth group teacher rotation schedule.

Some of the kids I was teaching were only a couple of years younger than me.

Our actual grown up youth leaders rented a big van and took all 12 or 15 of us up to the mountain lodge for church camp.

R sat in the front passenger seat and I sat in the middle seat of the row behind him so we could talk the whole drive.

We shared chips and he introduced me to Christian music and invited me to rest my feet on his lap.

At camp, the grown ups put him and an older girl in charge.

I was mad it wasn’t me.

We spent the weekend praying together, eating together, singing worship songs together, sitting by campfires together.

In the afternoon, we had free time to sit in contemplative meditation or play group sports.

I chose to watch R play soccer. He was gorgeous.

The older girl in charge was watching him too.

At halftime, R came over to our group and handed me his Real Madrid jersey.

Take care of it for me.

I asked if he wanted anything to drink. He said anything but water. He didn’t like water.

He ran back onto the soccer field and I took the long walk up to the vending machines, sweaty jersey like a treasure in my hand.

I was glad he forgot to ask for it when he came over to drink the Gatorade I’d brought him. I pretended to forget too and quickly stashed the shirt under my pillow as soon as we got back to the girls’ cabin.

We met up in front of the chapel for the last big camp service.

Inside, the lights were dim and the music was soft as 500 kids and their youth pastors found seats.

The worship band started with a soothing modernized hymn, setting the mood that would progressively lead into the soul-opening crescendo we were all expecting that night.

The Holy Spirit is here tonight. Will you let him open up your heart?

The music intensified. People left their seats to dance in the aisles and then crumble onto the floor in a deluge of tears. To pray and beg for forgiveness over their teenage sins.

I found R and knelt down next to the tight little ball he’d turned himself into. I placed my hand on his back and prayed.

We were nearly alone in the dark church before his tears stopped.

I burned my Ramones tshirt and Queen CD in the campfire that night.

Back home, I told him we needed to talk. He said let’s meet up after work. I’ll pick you up.

We ordered banana splits and sat across from each other at a chrome table near the entrance of the diner.

The walls were bright pink.

And over our bowls full of whipped cream and sprinkles, I told him I couldn’t talk to him anymore.

Why?

Don’t make me say it.

If you don’t say it, you’ll never move past it.

Because I like you. A lot. And I can’t do this.

We were supposed to take a break. But we kept talking.

Abusive boyfriend and I were sitting in my room. I told him I didn’t want to have sex anymore. It wasn’t helping my spiritual growth. I didn’t want to grieve the Holy Spirit anymore.

We ended up having sex.

I cried.

He smiled.

God just spoke to me. He told me it’s ok if we have sex. At least we’re not doing what that girl we know is doing. We’re not just having sex with anybody.

When he told me he was moving back home, I finally stopped following him.

R’s friend from high school was in town after having been deployed for months or maybe a couple of years. I don’t remember.

Did I want to go out with him and his friend and the older girl who had been in charge at camp? We could all have dinner.

The four of us walked carefully around the parts of the building we weren’t allowed on. The parts with the flashing loud machines and smoky card tables.

We landed in one of the middle-fancy restaurants, the guys offering to pay for the girls’ meals.

On the way back out to the parking lot, R’s hand kept bumping into mine.

Was I walking too slow? Should I move a couple of steps over?

Whatever I tried, his hand kept bumping into mine.

He walked me to my mom’s front door and said goodnight.

My phone rang an hour or two later.

He’d been talking with his friend since dropping me off.

He had something to tell me.

I have feelings for you.

I floated.

But if I’m gonna date anyone, it’s not just to mess around. If we date, it’s because we’re getting married.

I was terrified. But I said ok.

For years, I loved to say that the next morning was the happiest of my life.