House of Worship
by Heidie (Raine) Senseman
After I spin out on Route 72, Officer David taps on my window, kicking through the snow-dense ditch to peer in. He drops his head like a mother chimp, sinking into his shoulders to center himself and affirm that the girl he sees through fogged glass is not bleeding, not broken, just breathing. He tells me that he was on his way to another crash when he saw me. I am not hurt like the mailbox I razed, like those at the other crash might be, like the surplus of victims that Officer David has likely bandaged in proximity to caution tape. I am scared. I am reaching for my insurance card, which Officer David does not care about. He offers me a seat in his squad
car while we wait for the tow truck.
Officer David asks where I worship when I tell him I was on my way to church. I share that I’m between a number of places, still looking. I feel distant from the flock and like this crash is probably a sign that I shouldn’t visit the Presbyterians at all.
“Ever been to a Messianic temple?” Officer David wants to know. He has a host of questions, and I wonder if there is a difference between interview and interrogation when both lead to confession. I am too shaken to ask if he questions handcuffed men about their gods. If I were Officer David, I’d ask about their fathers.
I ask God to make the squad car a place of question and answer, of confession and tears—a house of worship in transit, touring highways for the wayward and sending visitors off with the essential: penance, gratitude, and some stories that call us higher.
He tells me that his second wife’s children are more obedient than his own, that he once threatened to spank his 7th-grade son, that his ex-wife makes the custody battle hellacious, that he thinks he’s a C+ dad, that God would have forgiven me if I’d chosen to stay home because of the snow. He says I should check out the Messianic temple because nobody knows their Old Testament like those guys.
“It’s gonna be alright, kid,” Officer David assures, though I’m not sure all is well with him.
Officer David prints me out a $120 ticket—failure to control vehicle—and apologizes. He offers to follow me home in case my rear bumper lurches off or I skid through the slush again.
As I reach for the door handle, wondering if the tow-man might care about my insurance card, Officer David thanks me. I am chilled before opening the door.
On my drive home, I call my mother. I pray for Officer David’s children, but for what, I do not know. I ask God to forgive me for ruining the mailbox, to forgive Officer David for leaving his wife, to forgive the men who more damningly fill the squad car that I spent my morning in. I ask God to make the squad car a place of question and answer, of confession and tears—a house of worship in transit, touring highways for the wayward and sending visitors off with the essential: penance, gratitude, and some stories that call us higher.
Heidie (Raine) Senseman is an Ohio-based writer who works primarily in the realm of creative nonfiction. She dreams of becoming a master pie-baker and being able to do 20 push-ups in a row. Heidie's work has previously appeared in Chapter House Journal, Marathon Literary Review, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and others.
