Chapter 20 - AND HOW WOULD WE KNOW?Elena sat beside Clara.
Rachel sat beside Noah.
The same arrangement as months earlier.
The same church.
The same wooden pew.
The same stained glass.
But not the same people.
Clara touched her necklace.
“You still think Catholicism is true?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No apology.
No dilution.
Elena loved her faith.
Its sacraments.
History.
Prayer.
Community.
The way it connected her to generations before her.
Rachel spoke next.
“And I still believe what our Southern Baptist church teaches.”
Noah nodded.
He had expected that.
Clara looked between them.
“Then which mom was right?”
Elena smiled.
“About what?”
Clara frowned.
“You know.”
“Say it.”
“About God helping us.”
Elena looked toward Rachel.
Rachel nodded.
Elena turned back to Clara.
“I believe God was with you when you were struggling.”
“And with Noah?”
“I believe God cares about Noah too.”
“Even though he's Baptist?”
“Yes.”
Rachel added:
“And I believe God was with Noah through his vision problems.”
Clara waited.
“And with me?”
“Yes.”
Noah leaned forward.
“So both moms are right?”
Rachel smiled.
“That's where we need to be careful.”
Noah groaned.
“Complicated.”
“Sorry.”
Elena laughed.
“What happened to you and Noah involved real medical care too.”
Clara nodded.
“Doctors.”
“Therapy.”
“Exercises.”
“Time.”
“Mom crying in parking lots.”
Elena stared.
“How do you know that?”
“Dad told me.”
Daniel, standing behind them, suddenly became interested in the ceiling.
Elena shook her head.
Rachel continued:
“We can believe prayer mattered to our families without claiming your recoveries are laboratory proof that one denomination is correct.”
Noah considered this.
“So healing isn't a church contest.”
“No.”
Clara smiled.
“That's good.”
“Why?”
“Because that would be weird.”
Everyone laughed.
Then Noah returned to the harder part.
“But if you both believe your churches teach true things…”
“Yes,” Rachel said.
“…and those things are different…”
“Yes.”
“…how do we know?”
Rachel looked at Elena.
There it was.
The original question.
Not solved.
Deepened.
Elena answered first.
“We learn as honestly as we can.”
Rachel added:
“We read.”
Daniel:
“We listen.”
Mark:
“We ask.”
Thomas Avery, from the aisle:
“We admit when we don't understand.”
June:
“And we don't confuse confidence with proof.”
Noah looked around.
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
Thomas smiled.
“It is.”
Clara stared toward the colored glass.
“What if we spend our whole lives and still don't agree?”
Elena put an arm around her.
“Then you still have to decide how you'll treat people.”
“Even if I think they're wrong?”
“Especially then.”
Noah looked at Clara.
She looked back.
He asked:
“Do you still think I'm wrong about some things?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Clara smiled.
“That wasn't hard.”
The adults exchanged looks.
Children could make maturity sound embarrassingly simple.
Noah opened his Bible.
Inside the cover, his grandmother's handwriting remained.
Clara noticed.
“What does that say?”
He showed her.
Keep asking questions. God is not afraid of them.
Clara read it twice.
“I like your grandma.”
“She likes you.”
“Even though I'm Catholic?”
June called from the aisle:
“I can hear you.”
Everyone laughed.
Clara turned back toward Elena.
“When my legs were bad, did you think God would definitely make them better?”
Elena's smile faded.
“No.”
“Were you scared?”
“Very.”
“Did you pray anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Elena took time before answering.
“Because sometimes prayer wasn't about knowing what would happen.”
Clara waited.
“It was about not being alone while I didn't know.”
Rachel's eyes filled.
That sentence described her year with Noah too.
Noah looked at his mother.
“You too?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
The old church held the silence easily.
There had once been a time when silence felt like failure.
Now it felt honest.
Clara eventually stood.
“So nobody won.”
Noah stood too.
“Were we competing?”
“At first.”
“You were.”
“Fine.”
They began walking toward the aisle.
Clara's steps were normal.
Steady.
Noah looked across the sanctuary without squinting.
Neither fact proved the theological argument.
They were simply two children who had gone through frightening medical experiences, received care, recovered, and understood those experiences through the beliefs of their families.
At the door, Clara stopped.
“Noah.”
“What?”
“If somebody asks which church is right, what are you going to say?”
He thought.
“I'll tell them what I believe.”
“And then?”
“I'll ask what they believe.”
“And if they're different?”
He shrugged.
“We talk.”
Clara smiled.
“That's it?”
“What else?”
She looked back at the adults.
“They made it seem harder.”
“Adults do that.”
They stepped outside.
The afternoon was bright.
Parents followed several yards behind.
Rachel walked beside Elena.
“No conversion,” Rachel said.
Elena smiled.
“Disappointed?”
“Devastated.”
“You?”
“I'm writing to Rome immediately.”
They laughed.
Then Rachel became serious.
“You know what surprised me?”
“What?”
“I thought admitting uncertainty would make Noah less confident.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
Elena nodded.
“Same with Clara.”
“What did it do?”
Elena watched their children walk ahead.
“It made her less afraid of people who disagree.”
Rachel smiled.
“That seems useful.”
At the end of the sidewalk, Clara suddenly stopped.
Noah almost bumped into her.
She turned.
“One more thing.”
He groaned.
“What now?”
She smiled.
“If a Catholic prays…”
Noah immediately understood.
“…and a Southern Baptist prays…”
“…and both believe God listened…”
Noah finished:
“Then which mom is right?”
Clara laughed.
“You forgot the last part.”
Noah looked at her.
He knew it.
He had known it for months.
Yet the question sounded different now.
Not threatening.
Not hostile.
Not a demand for victory.
An invitation to humility.
He looked toward the church behind them.
Then toward his mother.
Then Clara.
“And how would we know?”
Neither child answered.
They didn't need to.
Clara started walking again.
Noah followed.
Behind them, the adults remained silent for another few seconds.
Not because anyone had lost.
Because there was nothing shameful about reaching the edge of what you could honestly claim to know.
The two children disappeared around the corner of the church, still arguing about who had the worse school lunch.
Clara remained Catholic.
Noah remained Southern Baptist.
Both continued praying.
Both continued asking questions.
And both had learned something the adults around them had taken much longer to understand:
A person could hold a conviction without turning it into a weapon.
A person could disagree without becoming an enemy.
And sometimes the most faithful answer to a difficult question was not a louder declaration.
Sometimes it was the courage to say:
“This is what I believe.”
Then listen.
May you like
Then ask.
“And how would we know?”
