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Authors: Roland Merullo
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the tiniest smile at the corners of his mouth. “Why angry?” he asked.
“Why? Because my sister is forever trying to convince me to do this or that—meditate, stop eating meat, start washing my hands with organic soap, and so on. It annoys me, frankly. I have a very nice life, thank you, and a faith of my own.”
“Why angry?” he repeated.
“Because you frustrate me, you people. The evangelical so-called Christians telling everyone else how to live, when they can’t even stay away from prostitutes. The New Agers telling everyone else what to do and not do when they can barely manage their own mortgage payment. What right have you to tell me about my important step, my dreams? You hardly know me.”
But he was smiling at me as if he did know me. The smile was an odd combination of innocent goodwill and sureness, as if he were at once happy to see me standing up for myself, but also laughing at me, kindly, the way a father laughs at his two-year-old when she mispronounces a word. No, that’s not right; that implies a condescension that wasn’t there. It was more like a seasoned affection. Strong, even, yellowish teeth, lips stretched wide, longshoreman’s face still and solid—the Rinpoche was looking at me as if he knew me through and through and liked me in spite of it.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m blaming you for things other people do. I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it. It’s just a sore subject with me, that’s all. A sore subject with a long history. Family stuff.”
“Okay,” he said, and the smile broadened. He reached across and poked me in the arm, hard, with one thick finger, and chuckled. “Okay. Sorry, too.”
I started the car and continued down 501. At just this point—this is the absolute truth—we passed a stone churchin front of which stood a small sign carrying this message: IT’S NOT ABOUT RELIGION. IT’S ABOUT RELATIONSHIP .
“Sorry again,” I said.
He said, “Open American conversation.” And I felt a twist of something—anger, shame—in my guts. Or a combination of the two. Or maybe just hunger.
Another sign by the side of the road: GO IN PEACE. SERVE THE LORD .
Then a diner called Kumm Esse, and a sign there saying, TRY OUR STRAWBERRY PIE . I very nearly pulled in.
And just beyond Kumm Esse, another church, with another message, DISCOVER YOUR PURPOSE. SUNDAY 10:15 .
It was the message center for the proselytizers of the world, all of them confident in their knowing, eager to make others like them, sure of what would spread happiness. I decided I’d go home and make a sign for my front yard that said LEAVE THE REST OF US ALONE, DAMN IT ! but then, beneath all this, something was nagging at me. Why so angry?
Soon we drove up a gentle slope and into the village of Lititz. We found the inn just where the fellow with the cane had said it would be, right on 501. All I could think about then was the consolation of food. A good dinner, the best dinner Lititz could offer. Glass of wine, cut of meat, vegetables. Slice of strawberry pie, if strawberry pie happened to be the specialty hereabouts. That would calm me down. Two more days with Rinpoche and I’d be done. We’d leave early in the morning to make up for our little detour. We’d play music on the CD player, listen to the hot winds from the right and left, Rush Limbaugh or Rachel Maddow, a sports show, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Joyce Meyers, the Reverend Armando Fillipo Buck. We’d get through this and goback to our normal lives. I felt suddenly strong and sure of myself . . . and ready to eat.
Except that, as I found a parking spot on the street near the inn, and did a neat parallel parking job, I happened to remember—in the way you remember such things—a flash of recurring dream I’d been having over the past few months. Half a dozen times. Always there was some flood coming, or some animal, or, once, a churning yellow bulldozer. And always yours truly was sprinting for his
“Why? Because my sister is forever trying to convince me to do this or that—meditate, stop eating meat, start washing my hands with organic soap, and so on. It annoys me, frankly. I have a very nice life, thank you, and a faith of my own.”
“Why angry?” he repeated.
“Because you frustrate me, you people. The evangelical so-called Christians telling everyone else how to live, when they can’t even stay away from prostitutes. The New Agers telling everyone else what to do and not do when they can barely manage their own mortgage payment. What right have you to tell me about my important step, my dreams? You hardly know me.”
But he was smiling at me as if he did know me. The smile was an odd combination of innocent goodwill and sureness, as if he were at once happy to see me standing up for myself, but also laughing at me, kindly, the way a father laughs at his two-year-old when she mispronounces a word. No, that’s not right; that implies a condescension that wasn’t there. It was more like a seasoned affection. Strong, even, yellowish teeth, lips stretched wide, longshoreman’s face still and solid—the Rinpoche was looking at me as if he knew me through and through and liked me in spite of it.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m blaming you for things other people do. I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it. It’s just a sore subject with me, that’s all. A sore subject with a long history. Family stuff.”
“Okay,” he said, and the smile broadened. He reached across and poked me in the arm, hard, with one thick finger, and chuckled. “Okay. Sorry, too.”
I started the car and continued down 501. At just this point—this is the absolute truth—we passed a stone churchin front of which stood a small sign carrying this message: IT’S NOT ABOUT RELIGION. IT’S ABOUT RELATIONSHIP .
“Sorry again,” I said.
He said, “Open American conversation.” And I felt a twist of something—anger, shame—in my guts. Or a combination of the two. Or maybe just hunger.
Another sign by the side of the road: GO IN PEACE. SERVE THE LORD .
Then a diner called Kumm Esse, and a sign there saying, TRY OUR STRAWBERRY PIE . I very nearly pulled in.
And just beyond Kumm Esse, another church, with another message, DISCOVER YOUR PURPOSE. SUNDAY 10:15 .
It was the message center for the proselytizers of the world, all of them confident in their knowing, eager to make others like them, sure of what would spread happiness. I decided I’d go home and make a sign for my front yard that said LEAVE THE REST OF US ALONE, DAMN IT ! but then, beneath all this, something was nagging at me. Why so angry?
Soon we drove up a gentle slope and into the village of Lititz. We found the inn just where the fellow with the cane had said it would be, right on 501. All I could think about then was the consolation of food. A good dinner, the best dinner Lititz could offer. Glass of wine, cut of meat, vegetables. Slice of strawberry pie, if strawberry pie happened to be the specialty hereabouts. That would calm me down. Two more days with Rinpoche and I’d be done. We’d leave early in the morning to make up for our little detour. We’d play music on the CD player, listen to the hot winds from the right and left, Rush Limbaugh or Rachel Maddow, a sports show, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Joyce Meyers, the Reverend Armando Fillipo Buck. We’d get through this and goback to our normal lives. I felt suddenly strong and sure of myself . . . and ready to eat.
Except that, as I found a parking spot on the street near the inn, and did a neat parallel parking job, I happened to remember—in the way you remember such things—a flash of recurring dream I’d been having over the past few months. Half a dozen times. Always there was some flood coming, or some animal, or, once, a churning yellow bulldozer. And always yours truly was sprinting for his
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