Chapter 4-Group Therapy
“Can I help you, son?” My mom peeks her head through the door as I pace the living room. Thursday has dawned, and the clock reads 7:00 pm. Thirty minutes until armageddon.
“No, I’m good,” I mumble, itching to rearrange the bowl of corn chips on the coffee table.
“You sure?”
I sigh. “No, I’m not. It’s just…” Ugh, drama king superlative, here I come. “I’m not sure what we’re going to talk about or what’s going to happen or how to make it happen.”
Mom seats herself on our worn, ebony couch. “Well, what do you want to happen?”
“I guess I want to talk about why Christianity is real, then get to know them better.”
“You might want to research topics beforehand. Listening to what others want to do and compromising are also important; don’t run a one-man show.” Mom crunches on a chip. “I actually used to lead youth group.”
“Wait— really?” I gape at her. I’d assumed she was always lukewarm about church.
“Mhm,” she mumbles through a full mouth. “I became a believer as a Sophomore. At first, I’d just chauffeur people to and from youth group, but they invited me to lead the next year.”
“But didn’t Halmuni* and Harabuji** raise you as a Christian?” I plop onto the couch next to her.
“Yeah, but I didn’t really believe until Sophomore year. Then, a combination of personal drama and Christian friends helped anchor me. There’s nothing like finding God with people you love.” A wistful smile flits over my mom’s face, and her eyes glaze with golden hour memories. I try to picture my mom’s teenage self, but the only reference image I have is a bed-stand photo of her driving a convertible. One hand on the wheel, both eyes on the camera, she sports acid-washed jeans and a scintillating smile as the wind tears through her raven hair. I’m scared to peek at the speedometer and see what speed she used to burn through life at. As the vision fades, however, I discover fresh wrinkles lining her face and the cascade of silver woven through her hair. Somewhere, I think she aches again for that fellowship, a profound love rooted in God.
Standing up, she kisses me on the head. “I’m also sorry about Sunday, sweetie. It’s just that I was trying to rush everyone out of the house, but Mark was dragging his feet and bugging me with questions. Gonna kill that boy. Still shouldn’t have yelled, though. Good luck.”
“It’s ok,” I mumble. “And thank—” But she’s slipped away.
At 7:19, I hear a knock at the front door and set aside my research to welcome an ebullient Elijah. He shivers, and I imagine him pouring red bull into his coffee. “Hey, how’s it going? This is so exciting! Should we wait for Qi Eun to start?”
“Uh, sure.” I wish I could siphon off a vial of his energy for myself.
Bounding inside, he eats some chips, skims my dad’s copy of HELP: I Have a Teenage Son!, then collapses onto the couch. Suddenly, our doorbell rings, and Elijah springs up from his seat, leaping to the threshold. “Welcome, welcome! You brought cookies? Yessss, love it. Come on in!”
Qi Eun shuffles in with a bag of Chips Ahoy. “Hey, Peter.”
I wave.
“Let’s jump into it, then, shall we?” Elijah glances between us, his eyes sparkling. “Peter, you said you had some questions? Do you want to discuss those, then talk about our small group’s future?”
“I meant to ask, actually, what’s the main purpose of this small group?” Qi Eun adds. “Are we going to discuss different topics or do a Bible study or something else? Do you think meeting weekly is strictly necessary?”
“Ummmm.” Doubt begins to knead my stomach, matched only by simmering panic. Could it not be one or the other, God? Then I catch Elijah eyeing his watch, and I want to dive behind the couch.
“Maybe we can just go with what Elijah said?” I venture. “Um, both studying different topics and Bible study are great. And I think meeting once per week is often enough to give encouragement, but not too taxing? We can meet less if you guys want.”
They both nod, and I swallow a sigh of relief.
“Soo,” Elijah begins. “What did you want to talk about last Sunday, Peter?”
“Umm, well, I heard that in the Old Testament, God tells Israel to murder entire people groups, which is obviously terrible.” I dig my fingernails into my palm, stifling a groan. There must be better ways to describe genocide than obviously terrible. “How, um– how does a supposedly just God act so cruelly?”
As I speak, Elijah carefully opens the Chips Ahoy sleeve, wrapper crackling. Then he takes a bite of a cookie, still chewing over my question. “This doesn’t taste bad, but I swear all the Chips Ahoy at Walmart have this plastic-y taste to them.”
“All Chips Ahoy are the same,” Qi Eun says flatly. “And those aren’t from Walmart.”
Elijah shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Qi Eun tosses one leg over the other like royalty.
“…Was not expecting to talk smack about cookies,” I say with an awkward shrug.
“Noted, noted.” Elijah holds his hands up in surrender. “But Oreos are better.”
Qi Eun raises her eyebrows, and I fiddle with a tortilla chip. We all glance down at our hands or the persimmon-stained rug or the cracked chip bowl.
“Sorry, what was your question?” Elijah asks me.
I repeat myself, and he answers with something about God’s sovereignty. Why am I not paying attention? Isn’t this what I wanted? I can smell the coffee on his breath. Thank God they can’t hear my inner monologue. I bite my nails and imagine myself as some beaver. We drag the conversation around in a body bag for a while, abusing the corpse black and blue, deciding when and how often to meet. I listen mutely, running my tongue around my mouth like I’m trying to chase away the rusty aftertaste of cheap boba.
Finally, Elijah says, “Well, I guess we’re done.”
Qi Eun shrugs and bids us farewell. A moment later, I walk Elijah to the threshold. As he slips his Nikes back on, the tinfoil crumpling in my chest squeezes the words out my mouth. “Hey, Elijah?”
He pauses. “Wuddup?”
“You know, we don’t have to do this if it doesn’t work or anything,” I say. “I feel bad– I was zoning out. I’m so sorry.”
Adjusting his glasses, Elijah tilts his head at me. “You’re fine– let’s continue! I’m not sure how to say this, but um… I can tell that you worry about stuff, and you don’t need to. We’re here for you, ok?”
“Haha, thanks,” I say, eyes creasing. The acrid taste in my mouth disappears; I think I want to wrap my arms around this garrulous, gracious guy.
He hesitates, then envelops me in a quick hug and bows out. I’m not sure why I want to cry.
*Halmuni is Korean for “grandma”
**Harabuji is Korean for “grandpa”
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/food-mexican-tacos-mexican-food-2580200/