Chapter 2 - THE BOY WHO COULD SEEClara looked at Noah as though he had just changed the rules of a game she thought she understood.
“Your eyes were really bad?”
Noah nodded.
“How bad?”
“I could still see.”
He paused.
“Just not good.”
“Well.”
“Yeah.”
He pointed toward the far end of the sanctuary.
“You see that little gold line around the window?”
Clara squinted.
“Yes.”
“I couldn't see things like that clearly before.”
She looked at him again.
“Did you wear glasses?”
“For a while.”
“Do you still?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happened?”
Noah thought about how to explain a year of appointments in language that didn't sound boring.
His mother had explained the medical details to relatives many times.
Noah remembered machines.
Charts.
Lights.
Doctors asking which picture was clearer.
His mother sitting beside him.
His father's hand on his shoulder.
He remembered being scared that his vision might get worse.
He also remembered praying.
“Doctors helped me,” Noah said.
“I had appointments. Tests. Stuff like that.”
Clara nodded.
“Me too.”
“My mom prayed every night.”
“Mine too.”
Clara's forehead wrinkled.
Noah continued.
“She'd come in before I went to sleep and sit on the side of my bed.”
“What did she pray?”
“Different things.”
He shrugged.
“That the doctors would know what to do. That I wouldn't be scared. That my eyes would get better.”
“And they did?”
“Yeah.”
“Completely?”
“They're way better now.”
Clara stared at him for several seconds.
Then she looked toward the front of the church.
“But you're Baptist.”
“Southern Baptist.”
“Right.”
She seemed to be testing the phrase in her mind.
Noah didn't understand why that fact appeared to trouble her.
“My mom said it was a blessing,” he added.
Clara looked sharply back at him.
“She said that?”
“Yeah.”
“She used that exact word?”
“Probably.”
“Because my mom says that about my legs.”
Noah smiled.
“Maybe moms say the same stuff.”
Clara did not smile back.
Her confusion was becoming serious.
She touched the cross necklace again.
“But we prayed in the Catholic church.”
“Okay.”
“And God helped me.”
“Okay.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
“And you think God helped you too?”
Noah frowned.
“I don't just think it because of my eyes.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mom says God helps us in lots of ways.”
Clara sat on the edge of the pew.
Noah sat a few feet away.
There was enough space between them to fit another person, but neither seemed aware of it.
“Did your mom say God made your eyes better?” Clara asked.
“She says God blessed me.”
“Isn't that the same?”
“I don't know.”
Noah considered it.
“She also says we're thankful for the doctors.”
Clara brightened.
“My mom says that too.”
“See?”
For a moment, the problem appeared solved.
Then Clara frowned again.
“But my mom says the Catholic Church is the true church.”
Noah's smile disappeared.
Not because he was angry.
He simply didn't know what to do with that sentence.
“My mom says we're Christians.”
“So are we.”
“I know.”
“But we're Catholic Christians.”
“Okay.”
“And you're Baptist Christians.”
“Okay.”
“So…”
Clara stopped.
Noah waited.
She seemed frustrated, but only because the pieces refused to fit together.
“If my church is right…”
She looked at Noah's eyes.
“Then why did God listen to you too?”
Noah blinked.
The question had never occurred to him.
He looked down at the Bible in his hands.
The leather cover had softened at the corners because he carried it almost every Sunday.
His grandmother had given it to him when he was seven.
Inside the front cover, she'd written:
To Noah. Keep asking questions. God is not afraid of them.
He had read that sentence many times without considering what kind of questions she meant.
Maybe questions like this.
Noah looked back up.
“My mom never said God only listens to Baptists.”
Clara's eyes widened.
“She didn't?”
“No.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I don't have to be Catholic for God to hear me.”
Clara became quiet.
“Did she say Catholics are wrong?”
“No.”
“Did she say Baptists are right?”
Noah thought.
“She said this is what our family believes.”
Clara looked down at her shoes.
The silence between them was not hostile.
It felt more like standing in front of a locked door and realizing neither child had the key.
Noah finally asked:
“What did your mom tell you?”
Clara answered immediately.
“That the Catholic faith is right.”
“Right about what?”
Clara opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
She had never asked for details.
She had heard adults say things.
She had accepted them.
Children were supposed to trust parents.
Parents knew how much medicine to give.
Which school to attend.
When roads were dangerous.
What prayers meant.
Which church was right.
Clara looked at Noah's small Bible.
Then his eyes.
Then her own legs.
“But if you're not Catholic…”
She spoke slowly now.
“…why did God help you?”
Noah didn't answer.
Not because he wanted to win.
Because he genuinely didn't know.
He leaned back against the pew.
For several seconds, only distant adult voices could be heard.
Finally, Noah said:
“Maybe God isn't checking what church sign is outside first.”
Clara looked almost scandalized.
“That's not what my mom says.”
“What does she say?”
“That our church has the truth.”
Noah considered this.
“My mom thinks what she believes is true too.”
Clara froze.
The answer was too simple.
That was precisely what made it difficult.
Noah saw the confusion spreading across her face and immediately worried he'd hurt her feelings.
“I'm not saying your mom is bad.”
“I didn't say you were.”
“My mom isn't bad either.”
“I know.”
They sat in silence.
Then Clara whispered:
“But they can't both be right if they're saying different things.”
Noah looked toward the front of the church.
He had no answer.
Neither did Clara.
May you like
Behind them, a shoe softly touched the wooden floor.
Neither child turned around.
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