1917

May 12, 1918

Church felt like a suffocating cage, the air thick with reverence, and yet all I could hear was the quiet roar of memories. It was supposed to be a place of solace, a space where people found comfort in their faith, but to me, it felt hollow—just another reminder that he was gone. The weight of his absence settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating.

  As I sat there, trying to focus on the words being spoken, memories of my father hit me like a wave crashing against jagged rocks. It wasn’t just the good times, though those had their place in the storm. It was everything—the mundane moments, the times I had taken for granted, the laughter, the quiet nights, the advice he’d given me that now echoed in the empty spaces of my life. The sound of his voice, the feel of his hand on my shoulder, the way he used to laugh at my jokes no matter how bad they were.

  The tears were close, always there, just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. I could feel them welling up, pressing against my eyes, but I kept them at bay. I couldn’t let it all out here—not in front of everyone. Not in this place that was supposed to offer peace. It felt wrong.

  It was like being caught in a torrent, memories flooding me, so real, so vivid, and yet out of reach. I wanted to hold on to them, to grasp what I could, but it was like trying to catch water in my hands. It was slipping through my fingers, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop it.

  I kept my head down, my hands clenched tightly in my lap, trying to steady myself, to stop the flood of emotions from overwhelming me. But in that silence, in the hushed reverence of the church, all I could think about was how much I missed him—how much I would always miss him.

  I sank into one of the pews, hands trembling as I buried my face in my knees. The cool wood beneath me felt distant, like nothing could provide any comfort, and I couldn’t bring myself to face anyone. I kept my head low, not daring to make eye contact with anyone, especially not the bishop. I could feel his gaze, soft but heavy, resting on me. He knew. Everyone in the church knew what had happened, and while I could sense his sympathy, it did little to ease the ache in my chest. Sympathy didn’t bring him back. Sympathy didn’t fill the empty space beside me where my father used to sit, laughing at the sermon or occasionally nodding off during the long prayers.

  I felt his eyes on me, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. The bishop was kind, I could tell. His face was full of understanding, but there was a distance between us that couldn’t be bridged by simple gestures. The grief was too raw, too fresh, too suffocating to allow for anything more than a brief exchange of glances. I didn’t want his pity; I didn’t want anyone’s pity. I just wanted it all to stop—to stop feeling this overwhelming loss, to stop hearing my father’s voice echo in my mind, to stop seeing his face in every shadow, every corner of the church.

  But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

  The rest of the service blurred into the background as I sat there, hunched over, trying to make sense of it all. The prayers seemed distant, the hymns foreign, as if they came from a place I could never reach. My thoughts circled endlessly around my father, the finality of his absence, the things left unsaid, and the time we’d never get back. I couldn’t focus. I could barely even breathe without feeling like I was drowning in grief.

  The bishop’s gaze never wavered, but I could tell he understood. He didn’t have to say anything. His sympathy was as much a weight as it was a comfort. But the truth was, nothing—not even his kindness—could make it better. Nothing could bring him back. And nothing, nothing, could make this pain go away.

“I know how you feel, Jeremiah,” he said, walking over to my pew.

  His words caught me off guard, and I lifted my head slightly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I hadn’t expected him to share something so personal, something that connected us in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t the type of thing you usually hear in church, especially from someone so composed. The vulnerability in his voice struck me, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of connection between us, like he understood—not just as a figure of authority, but as a person who had known loss.

  He smiled gently, eyes softening.   “I know the pain, Jeremiah. It doesn’t go away, but you find a way to live with it. You carry it, and over time, you learn how to walk with it, even if it doesn’t always feel like you can.”

  I stared at him, not knowing what to say. His words felt different. They weren’t empty platitudes or rehearsed sympathy. They were real, grounded in his own experience. It wasn’t about moving on or pretending everything would be fine. He simply acknowledged the weight of it all, the way loss never truly leaves you.

“I still hum ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ sometimes,” he added with a small chuckle, “in my mind, it’s like he’s still with me, you know?”

  I could almost see it: him, standing there with his father, laughing, humming that tune as they went about their day. It made me wonder what my dad would have been like if things had been different. Would we have shared a silly song too? Would he have laughed with me in the same way, unburdened, just for the sake of laughing?

  I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung like shadows.   “I don’t know if I’ll ever feel okay again,” I said quietly. “I don’t know how to live with this.”

  The bishop nodded.   “You won’t feel okay. Not for a long time. But you will find a way to keep going. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn to carry the good memories with you, even when the pain feels overwhelming.”

  I didn’t know if I believed him, but something in his voice made me want to try. His words, his own story of grief, made me feel like maybe I wasn’t so alone. Maybe, like him, I could carry this loss, live with it rather than let it consume me.

  He patted my shoulder gently, and for the first time in days, I didn’t pull away. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. And maybe, for the first time in a long while, I felt a little less like I was drowning.

“Thank you,” I whispered, barely audible, voice strained.   “Sure thing, kid,” the bishop replied with a warm chuckle. There was something comforting in his tone, genuine, like he truly cared. He reminded me of a more grown-up version of David—the same mischievous charm, tempered with wisdom and patience. Perhaps that’s why I trusted him enough to let my guard down, even a little.

  He sat down beside me, hands clasped loosely. “You know,” he began, “when I lost my dad, I thought the world was ending. I didn’t know how to be myself without him around. But over time, I realized something: he’d given me the tools to keep going, even when he wasn’t there. It took me years to figure that out, but I did.”

  I nodded, unsure of what to say, but appreciative of his openness. It made me feel less lost in the chaos of grief.

“You remind me of him,” I blurted out suddenly.

  The bishop turned, eyebrows raised. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

  I shrugged, embarrassed but determined.   “You’re... kind of goofy, but in a good way. You don’t take everything too seriously, but you know when to. My dad wasn’t like that, not exactly. He was serious, but I think... I think he wanted to be more like you sometimes.”

  A soft smile spread across his face.   “Well, that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. Thank you for that.”

  For a moment, we sat in silence, the heavy weight of my grief lightened just a little by his presence. It wasn’t gone, but it was bearable. And that, I realized, was enough for now.

“How come he was not baptized?” the bishop asked gently.

  It was a question I had dreaded, one I hoped would never be asked. My stomach churned as I struggled to answer.   “It’s complicated,” I said finally, twisting at the hem of my shirt. “He didn’t really believe in it. He said that God wasn’t responsible to save us—it was ours to save ourselves.”

  The bishop nodded thoughtfully.   “I see. That’s not uncommon. I don’t share that belief, but I understand it.”

  I looked up, surprised. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset, Jeremiah? Faith isn’t something you can force. Your father walked his own path. While it might not align with ours, that doesn’t mean God didn’t see the good in him.”

  His words gave me pause. “You really think so?” I asked, voice trembling.

“I do,” he said firmly. “Your father was a good man. Baptism is important, yes, but it doesn’t erase the life someone lived or the love they gave. God sees all of that.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. “I just... I wish I could’ve convinced him,” I admitted, voice breaking. “Maybe if I had tried harder—”

“Jeremiah,” the bishop interrupted gently, “Faith isn’t something you can force, not even on the people you love most. What matters is that you loved him, and that he knew it. That’s what God sees, and that’s what truly matters.”

  I nodded, tears spilling freely for the first time in what felt like eternity. A small glimmer of peace rose amid the storm of grief.

“I... I have to go home,” I said softly, voice steady but subdued. Slowly, I rose, my legs heavy with the weight of memories. As I made my way toward the door, the faint creak of the church floorboards echoed with a sense of finality, each step marking a closing chapter.

  Outside, the cool evening air wrapped around me, and I felt strangely lighter, as though a burden I hadn’t realized I carried had been lifted. I couldn’t explain it fully, but a quiet calm filled my chest. I didn’t want to admit it, but I felt... at peace.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, I had clarity. Purpose.   “My purpose is to lead people to God,” I whispered to the empty street, words falling with a conviction that surprised even me. They weren’t born from revelation, but from a quiet certainty, seeded by the bishop’s words and watered by my father’s imperfect love.

  I didn’t need to be perfect. I didn’t need to be a saint. All I needed was to guide others—to be the bridge, the voice, the example. It wasn’t about grand gestures; it was about living with love, compassion, and faith.

  And in that moment, I believed—truly believed—that I had already begun that journey. Maybe, just maybe, I had already accomplished something worth carrying forward.

If you want, I can also create a slightly tighter, more cinematic version of this, with dialogue and action beats emphasized so the emotional beats hit even harder, like a visual novel or film scene.

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