I know what a church pew feels like; to sit on, to touch, to be watched by. I know that even the most com­fort­able of pews can feel cold. Just because it’s been a while, just because the church has done ren­o­va­tions and now these seats are cush­ioned, doesn’t mean I don’t know; it doesn’t mean I don’t remem­ber.
          I was once a regular at this church. Always pulled by my mother’s influ­ence, dressed up in my very best in a near-empty build­ing. But this time around, everything’s dif­fer­ent. I now carry secrets I’ve yet to dis­close to those around me. Events that mean nothing to me mean every­thing to the church— like my very dated cer­tifi­cate of baptism. And there are people who fulfill every facet of my being, but whom the church despises—like the woman I can’t bring home.
          When the worship music begins, my mother raises her arms, fueled by the Holy Spirit. I have never seen her do such a thing before. It’s been years, I know I’ve been away, but she’s changed. I’m ashamed to say it embar­rass­es me; it is none of my busi­ness what con­nec­tion she feels with God, and with the church. But I’d be a liar if I said her actions didn’t make me uncom­fort­able. And yet no part of me should be judging her for her actions. I know I have done things far easier to judge.
          We sing “Gloria” and “O Come Let Us Adore Him” before we finally get to “Silent Night,” which I know word for word.
          “Please rise,” my pastor tells us. Then I think of her.

          Silent night, holy night!

          Her knees are pulled up to her chest. For a taller girl, she looks so small sitting in the pas­sen­ger seat of my parked car. It’s not so much in her phys­i­cal appear­ance, but in the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty of her posi­tion. The hood she’s wearing covers most of her face, but I can see her lips move as she sings along to the songs I play, bits of short hair that fall onto her fore­head, and the very tip of her lips and nose. It’s just enough to tell she’s smiling. I’m sitting cross-legged, and like her, I’m happy.
          When a more upbeat song comes on, her head shoots back and her hood falls off. She’s singing loudly now, as is our friend in the back­seat. I am too, but she’s the most alive of any of us. The climax of the song comes and goes. She squeezes my knee, and it makes me feel just as alive.

All is calm, all is bright.

          My hand squeezes the back of the pew in front of us as I try to feel alive again. Mom’s hands con­tin­ue to rise while I sink. My father does not sing, he rarely ever does. But my sister belts the lyrics so loudly that I feel my cheeks grow red. What if she raises her hands, too, or they ques­tion why I’m barely singing? What if they can tell by the way I’m holding the pew in front of me that I have touched a woman this tightly?
          One of the chorus members leading the music messes up on the words, but no one cares. She’s in a safe space. She’s in a place of for­give­ness. She gets to laugh it off and keep going. “God under­stands your imper­fec­tions. God for­gives, he loves you just the way you are” is what they are known to say.

Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,

          We’re alone. Lying on the living room floor. Our room­mates have gone to bed. The TV plays but I can’t tell you what’s on. Our backs are on the carpet and we’re staring straight ahead, staring at the stain on the ceiling of our over­priced apartment—just she and I. She repo­si­tions, pulling me closer, and I feel cared for.
          We could laugh about nothing at all, and we do; I feel delu­sion­al. I see her side profile from the car, singing to my favorite songs, touch­ing my knee before pulling away. I can see it all: in every word we have to whisper to each other so that our room­mates don’t hear us, so that they don’t come out and bother us when all we want is to be left alone. I see it in the words we don’t say—the long, drawn-out breaths and the shifts in our bodies.
          We’re trying to figure out how to lay beside each other as room­mates. Without success. I guess some things just aren’t meant to be. Like your college room­mate remain­ing just a room­mate, or your lover singing “Silent Night” beside you in church.

Sleep in heav­en­ly peace,

          “Thank you, you may be seated,” the pastor tells us, so we listen.
          I let go of the pew in front of me, as Mom opens her bible. I slide my phone under my left thigh, then cross my legs because I can’t look for her name right now. If I do this, maybe I’ll be able to sit quietly, with my hands in my lap like a good Chris­t­ian girl on the eve of Christ’s birth­day. The same Christ that for­gives. The same Christ whose fol­low­ers do not. The same Christ whom I pledged my life to in a bath of water when I was ten, and who is the sole reason my mother will never invite my room­mate over as anyone else than just that, my room­mate.
          As I leave the church, the pastor grabs my hand and thanks me for coming. I return the gesture with the same hand that gripped the pew in front of me. The same hand that knows what it feels like to be alive.
          Outside, the night sky has already flooded the church’s parking lot and I notice there aren’t any stars. There is no light shining down on me as I walk into the silent night.