justprompts: What do you pray for?
Prayer was something Aaron had grown up with. It was part of who he was raised to be - the teachings, the attitude. Believing.
A part of him was more and more aware that some, if not all - it couldn't be all, his father and grandfather were good, steady, decent people - was not right. Didn't fit with how things were, with how his life was. Or was trying to be. But it couldn't be this, never this. The tears shed when your knees were on the floor and your head bowed - they were never wrong, not when your heart opened and you meant every word you were saying. Not when for a moment, all the hurt was lifted and all the wrongdoing absolved.
Whatever he'd been taught wrong, this wasn't it. No matter how few of his peers believed, faith was something that had endured through ages. Through millennia. It was good and lasting, this thing. He couldn't doubt.
So he knelt, and prayed. Thanks for the gifts he was given, his family and the steadiness and the righteousness. For the daily bread and the chance for education and perpetuation. Thanks from the heart. For what had been given to him.
He knelt and he prayed for preservation. Health and life for his loved ones. Safety in the transactions, be they walking down the street, or sleeping, or business deals. What it was that each of them was doing. Safety and success. A favorable grade on the test that, no, he had not slacked in studying for, but even so, it was still chance. Continuation.
He knelt and prayed for guidance and for strength. To do what his duties demanded of him, meet the expectations that his family, here and in the hereafter, had of him. To be good enough. To be strong. To be strong enough to resist, like those of real faith had before him. Resist the sinful temptation that grabbed his guts and ripped through his body with desire where none should be.
He prayed. And he tried.
Until he reached the end of that road and leapt off its edge.
It wasn't to a new world. (And even if it was, just for that act, he'd be condemned.) It wasn't a different person who woke, either. All he had known was as it had been; he was as he had been. The urge to end it was as strong, or stronger. He had failed.
Not strong enough. Not good enough. It was a darkness, and he was alone, he'd turned his back to everything, well, to the few things that were good, and leapt. And now he had nothing.
Until somebody he did not expect came to him. In his time of absolute vulnerability, when Aaron did not want him to, when nobody knew what he had done, and he was good with that, because it meant he could try again, better this time. It was then that Pogue came, and despite Aaron's efforts, his voice somehow, slow and steady, reached through the darkness and gave him... showed him another path. The one that he'd prayed he was strong enough not to walk. Pogue showed him what it could be like. He told him it would not be weakness to tread it, only truth. He knew what nobody else cared to learn; and he cared about what nobody else wanted. Aaron's life.
Aaron's well-being.
The path of weakness and sin. The path of the condemned.
Had he not condemned himself already with that step off the balcony? Was that not enough?
Aaron didn't know why he listened, in the end. Maybe he was just too exhausted; fighting even for what's right took strength. And he had brushed close to death and his recovering body only sustained so much. He gave in.
Not all at once, of course. But he listened, and believed, in the words of a blond biker with chiseled cheekbones and his heart in the hazel eyes.
That what he craved, what he wanted, what brought him pleasure, was also right. That he had the right to feel good. He had the right to be as he needed to be.
He listened.
Eventually, he acted on it, and he found out, slowly and in stilted, beautiful steps, what it was to be happy. What love meant and how it turned his world upside down only to steady it in a way that was different. Steadier. Kinder. Brighter. Warmed by the low voice of a boy with blond hair and blue eyes and half a foot of height on Aaron.
Who loved him. Just as he was, broken and torn and weak and imperfect.
But that path was not something his faith allowed for. Nor suicides.
He still believed. That wasn't open to discussion. A part of him knew beyond doubt, beyond even his persistent questions that it was true. There was God above all, and they would all return to Him, their creator.
And when He judged, Aaron would be found lacking.
Even in the peace he'd found, Aaron missed the peace he'd known. The clarity, the absolution. The forgiveness. The support. As somebody he knew could say, he had all the downs of the job - of faith - with none of the perks. But while he missed it all, he knew he could ot turn back.
And he was happy. The fear of what was to come was but a faint, faint mid-day shadow before the certainty that his life was complete and amazing. It wasn't perfectly smooth sailing, but he'd never dreamt of how things were now. And there was peace. There probably shouldn't have been (if he listened to what he'd been taught growing up), but there was (like Pogue said. Like Dale said. Like he knew). It was a little confusing.
There was no turning back.
It was one evening late in his first semester of grad school that he and Milo got to talk about it. He wasn't sure how, it was generally a topic he avoided to debate on, or had, after graduating Cornell. The brief talks with Dale... well, religion or faith hadn't ever been a big part of his life, and that was okay. He was a stray sheep, anyway, he had nothing to expect.
Until that night.
Milo, it turned out, believed, too. The kind of belief that soaked down to his roots, the kind that nothing seemed likely to shake. A flood like the trickle that Aaron still nursed, beneath the knowledge that it was no good.
Milo believed that he could be forgiven. Whatever he had done, if he had done out of love, and if he believed, and if he wanted to do good, rather than harm - he would be forgiven, if he asked. It went way more complicated than that, of course - it was Aaron - but in the end, the world boiled down to that.
God was love, not hatred.
God was everywhere, in everyone's heart who would let Him in. Not in any single church, not in the words of this minister or that.
God would still listen.
Over the next week or so, they talked and argued for hours on end, between classes and exams and over too much of the time meant for studying. Or sleeping. Aaron spoke about loving a man, even, and not intending to give that up, give him up. Because that would hurt, hurt both of them, and he was already someone who'd done worse.
No matter, Milo said. You believe, and you love. And you can be loved.
Until he just gave an exasperated sigh. "What harm would it do to try? God would listen, just... pray."
It was absurd, and Aaron glared, but his... friend, he supposed, didn't flinch away. Didn't glare back, either.
After a year and a half of conversations with Pogue, he suddenly realized, he'd reached a point where there were arguments that he wanted to lose. Ones that pushed him out of high places if he stayed adamant.
What if this was one of them?
He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
And then he knelt. And prayed.
Just like that, it was all still there. The words, yes, he was getting very good at words. But there was something else - through all of that, the peace that came with prayer hadn't gone away.
So maybe it was true. Maybe there could be still grace for him...
His lips moved almost noiseless over the familiar words. And then his own words.
He prayed for forgiveness. For his trespasses.
He prayed that God protect and blessed the one... the ones he loved.
He prayed for love and strength to do good.
And he prayed his thanks for the happiness he had found. Or rather, the happiness that had found him and allowed him to stay enfolded in it.
He knelt and prayed. And his heart was even more full than before.
A part of him was more and more aware that some, if not all - it couldn't be all, his father and grandfather were good, steady, decent people - was not right. Didn't fit with how things were, with how his life was. Or was trying to be. But it couldn't be this, never this. The tears shed when your knees were on the floor and your head bowed - they were never wrong, not when your heart opened and you meant every word you were saying. Not when for a moment, all the hurt was lifted and all the wrongdoing absolved.
Whatever he'd been taught wrong, this wasn't it. No matter how few of his peers believed, faith was something that had endured through ages. Through millennia. It was good and lasting, this thing. He couldn't doubt.
So he knelt, and prayed. Thanks for the gifts he was given, his family and the steadiness and the righteousness. For the daily bread and the chance for education and perpetuation. Thanks from the heart. For what had been given to him.
He knelt and he prayed for preservation. Health and life for his loved ones. Safety in the transactions, be they walking down the street, or sleeping, or business deals. What it was that each of them was doing. Safety and success. A favorable grade on the test that, no, he had not slacked in studying for, but even so, it was still chance. Continuation.
He knelt and prayed for guidance and for strength. To do what his duties demanded of him, meet the expectations that his family, here and in the hereafter, had of him. To be good enough. To be strong. To be strong enough to resist, like those of real faith had before him. Resist the sinful temptation that grabbed his guts and ripped through his body with desire where none should be.
He prayed. And he tried.
Until he reached the end of that road and leapt off its edge.
It wasn't to a new world. (And even if it was, just for that act, he'd be condemned.) It wasn't a different person who woke, either. All he had known was as it had been; he was as he had been. The urge to end it was as strong, or stronger. He had failed.
Not strong enough. Not good enough. It was a darkness, and he was alone, he'd turned his back to everything, well, to the few things that were good, and leapt. And now he had nothing.
Until somebody he did not expect came to him. In his time of absolute vulnerability, when Aaron did not want him to, when nobody knew what he had done, and he was good with that, because it meant he could try again, better this time. It was then that Pogue came, and despite Aaron's efforts, his voice somehow, slow and steady, reached through the darkness and gave him... showed him another path. The one that he'd prayed he was strong enough not to walk. Pogue showed him what it could be like. He told him it would not be weakness to tread it, only truth. He knew what nobody else cared to learn; and he cared about what nobody else wanted. Aaron's life.
Aaron's well-being.
The path of weakness and sin. The path of the condemned.
Had he not condemned himself already with that step off the balcony? Was that not enough?
Aaron didn't know why he listened, in the end. Maybe he was just too exhausted; fighting even for what's right took strength. And he had brushed close to death and his recovering body only sustained so much. He gave in.
Not all at once, of course. But he listened, and believed, in the words of a blond biker with chiseled cheekbones and his heart in the hazel eyes.
That what he craved, what he wanted, what brought him pleasure, was also right. That he had the right to feel good. He had the right to be as he needed to be.
He listened.
Eventually, he acted on it, and he found out, slowly and in stilted, beautiful steps, what it was to be happy. What love meant and how it turned his world upside down only to steady it in a way that was different. Steadier. Kinder. Brighter. Warmed by the low voice of a boy with blond hair and blue eyes and half a foot of height on Aaron.
Who loved him. Just as he was, broken and torn and weak and imperfect.
But that path was not something his faith allowed for. Nor suicides.
He still believed. That wasn't open to discussion. A part of him knew beyond doubt, beyond even his persistent questions that it was true. There was God above all, and they would all return to Him, their creator.
And when He judged, Aaron would be found lacking.
Even in the peace he'd found, Aaron missed the peace he'd known. The clarity, the absolution. The forgiveness. The support. As somebody he knew could say, he had all the downs of the job - of faith - with none of the perks. But while he missed it all, he knew he could ot turn back.
And he was happy. The fear of what was to come was but a faint, faint mid-day shadow before the certainty that his life was complete and amazing. It wasn't perfectly smooth sailing, but he'd never dreamt of how things were now. And there was peace. There probably shouldn't have been (if he listened to what he'd been taught growing up), but there was (like Pogue said. Like Dale said. Like he knew). It was a little confusing.
There was no turning back.
It was one evening late in his first semester of grad school that he and Milo got to talk about it. He wasn't sure how, it was generally a topic he avoided to debate on, or had, after graduating Cornell. The brief talks with Dale... well, religion or faith hadn't ever been a big part of his life, and that was okay. He was a stray sheep, anyway, he had nothing to expect.
Until that night.
Milo, it turned out, believed, too. The kind of belief that soaked down to his roots, the kind that nothing seemed likely to shake. A flood like the trickle that Aaron still nursed, beneath the knowledge that it was no good.
Milo believed that he could be forgiven. Whatever he had done, if he had done out of love, and if he believed, and if he wanted to do good, rather than harm - he would be forgiven, if he asked. It went way more complicated than that, of course - it was Aaron - but in the end, the world boiled down to that.
God was love, not hatred.
God was everywhere, in everyone's heart who would let Him in. Not in any single church, not in the words of this minister or that.
God would still listen.
Over the next week or so, they talked and argued for hours on end, between classes and exams and over too much of the time meant for studying. Or sleeping. Aaron spoke about loving a man, even, and not intending to give that up, give him up. Because that would hurt, hurt both of them, and he was already someone who'd done worse.
No matter, Milo said. You believe, and you love. And you can be loved.
Until he just gave an exasperated sigh. "What harm would it do to try? God would listen, just... pray."
It was absurd, and Aaron glared, but his... friend, he supposed, didn't flinch away. Didn't glare back, either.
After a year and a half of conversations with Pogue, he suddenly realized, he'd reached a point where there were arguments that he wanted to lose. Ones that pushed him out of high places if he stayed adamant.
What if this was one of them?
He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
And then he knelt. And prayed.
Just like that, it was all still there. The words, yes, he was getting very good at words. But there was something else - through all of that, the peace that came with prayer hadn't gone away.
So maybe it was true. Maybe there could be still grace for him...
His lips moved almost noiseless over the familiar words. And then his own words.
He prayed for forgiveness. For his trespasses.
He prayed that God protect and blessed the one... the ones he loved.
He prayed for love and strength to do good.
And he prayed his thanks for the happiness he had found. Or rather, the happiness that had found him and allowed him to stay enfolded in it.
He knelt and prayed. And his heart was even more full than before.