"There's something between us, isn't there?" he asked quietly from the passenger seat. I glanced over quickly, but was unable to read his face in the dark. "I mean, there's a sort of tension." he continued. "A bad tension?" I asked cautiously. "No, no, not a bad tension. I mean, well, have you ever wondered how things
could have been? With us?"
Yes, I had wondered. And yes, there was something between us. I had met him when I was 14 years old and I had loved him immediately. We dated briefly when we were 16, until we broke up for reasons that I can no longer remember. Eight years later he moved to California, and within a couple of years I too found myself on the west coast. We took turns driving the three hours to visit each other. Things change in ten years, even if friendships stay the same. I had dedicated my life to God, and he was pursuing several life-absorbing careers at once. Whenever we got together we'd talk about science, literature, philosophy, psychology, music, politics, pop culture, and, of course, religion. Like a lot of people, he was fascinated by my strong faith and personal relationship with God. Unlike a lot of people, he was actually familiar with the bible, knew an incredible amount about world religions, theology, history, and modern Judaism.
During one of these discussions we happened to be at a diner in Hollywood. I remember looking across the table at him, we were debating some minor detail about the Mosaic Law, when it dawned on me: He's the most brilliant man I know. He's dazzlingly intelligent, and yet totally unaffected by it. He's hilarious, light-hearted, and extremely deep. He's much smarter than me, but never lets me know it. This is a man I could spend my life being inferior to, and be happy about it!
At the time, I felt quite certain these feelings were entirely on my side. It never occurred to me that he might feel the same way. A burst of love over the pancakes and maple syrup was something that I could easily accomplish with little-to-no participation from the second party. So the next three years moved along much as they always had. He had girlfriends, I had boyfriends. He travelled extensively in Europe, then moved to Moscow with his Egyptologist girlfriend. I moved back to New Mexico. We kept in touch a little, the way two people do when a friendship has been so long established that it no longer requires maintenance. But the realization I made at the diner never fully left me.
"Oh," I responded to his question, "you mean that thing where I'm madly in love with you and would marry you in a second if you were a god-fearing man?" Yes. That was the "thing" he was referring to. As it turns out, he had had a similar realization during our time in California. It had been eating at him for three years since, and he had decided to finally bring it up on this, his first trip back to the states in over a year. He explained the frustration of being attracted to someone because they had a rare faith and spiritual depth, and yet knowing that it was that very faith and spiritual depth that would forever be an insurmountable obstacle. Because, in a way, we had the same values. We both believed passionately in truth, in love, in finding one's way, in learning, in creation. In all our long years together we had never had a single fight. Sometimes it felt like we agreed on everything... except we didn't. We didn't agree on the makeup and state of existence of the human soul. We didn't agree on holidays, homosexuality, or interfaith. We agreed that there was one true god, but we didn't agree that there was one true religion... the list went on.
But here we were agreeing again. Because "what could have been" is never "what is" and we both knew--had know for a long time--that the thing between us could never be developed, or even explored. We agreed on the most important thing: it would never work. Not in this life.
We talked late into the night, looking at the night sky and making up new constellations. He hadn't seen the stars in fifteen months. I told him stories about the petty Greek gods and he explained how communism would have worked if any group of people besides the Russians had attempted it.
If you are right, and when we die our soul
bursts into a million pieces, only to join
up with the pieces of others and be reborn
as a new soul; then in the next life your
soul pieces and mine will find each other
again.
If I am right, and there is a greater life
than this awaiting our living souls in
a world where God will wipe out
every tear, and death will be no more,
neither pain, nor sorrow; then we can
live happily together, and we'll never
worry about our souls bursting
again.
THIS IS THE FAITH THAT I HAVE.
