Contrary to Popular Belief, or, My Parents Debate Religion Over Coffee

My father doesn’t believe in God the way

he thinks he should. There will always be

barriers between the holy and the tangible,

and today, it’s Big Bang vs Genesis. I think

this world will never have the answers for

bare feet on the water’s surface. But still,

he is suffering, too. My mother believes

the moonlit garden where we were born

is pure. My father sees the other half. God

is not limited to beauty; the world he built

is far from perfection. It is blossoming with

faith thin as the broken breath between

sips of coffee gone cold. Tension tethers to

our living room gilded by dawn. My father

 

my mother believes, but when he sees her,

stained glass and baptismal waters shifting

between what is known and what is felt,

he feels obligated to choose. Worries that

resurrection, water deepening to wine, and

sin cannot be explained. If God is salvation,

he is Monet’s lily pads, each lotus sunset,

and the earth we are buried in. For her, this

answers everything, creates all. But divinity

encompasses heartbreak, hatred, death,

ignorance and childhood leukemia and

trigger fingers. My father rests, takes

my mother’s hands, and silence swaths

doubts. Much like God asks, though, he

 

believes in being good, no matter what follows death. I’m not sure there’s a difference.


Annabelle Smith is a student at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. She has received national recognition for her work in poetry from Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. More of her work can be found in Spotlong Review, Potomac Review, Black Coffee Review, and other journals.