Chapter Three: A Healing Circle (Part Two)

Tales of Corwin

Afterwards, in the kitchen, everyone seemed to be talking at once. “Wasn’t that amazing?” said Star. “Absolutely,” agreed Otter—the first word Mark had heard him speak all evening. “I’ve never felt anything like that,” said one woman. “Did you feel that pop, toward the end there? What was that, anyway?” said another. People were hugging, or clapping each other on the back, and Mark found that he was being hugged and clapped along with the rest. Sandra’s cell rang, and she went out of the kitchen to take the call. When she came back, her eyes were shining. “That was Tabitha. Listen up! That was Tabitha, and she says Joni’s fever is gone. Completely gone!” “No way!” “I knew it! I felt it when it broke!” “Way to go, Mark!” Mark thought he was getting more than his share of the credit. Surely the medicine had more to do with it? He wanted to talk with Sandra about everything. But she was grabbing the pasta off the stove and pouring it into a big colander in the sink, and Terri was taking the garlic bread out from under the oven broiler, and everyone was grabbing plates. I guess the debriefing will have to wait, thought Mark, and he grabbed a plate too. There was, as it turned out, no place for everyone to sit and eat together in Sandra’s little bungalow. The working circle would have been large enough, but it took up the only large room, and nobody ate there. Some people sat in the front parlor; some sat on the stairs; Mark found himself perched on a kitchen counter, with a plate in his lap and a glass of red wine on the counter beside him. He was sitting across from Chris, the dreadlocked person, the one who'd made the bread. “So, Chris,” he began, “was that the kind of thing that usually happens at these circles?” “No, that was unusual—thanks to you.” “I really don’t think I had that much to do with it. It was great to find this unexpected use for my song, but after all—I’ve never had any kind of a healing gift by myself. I think, if we were any help, it was a group effort. You have a really strong community here. I wish my church were this … this close of a team.” “Really wanted to ask you about your church, Pastor,” said Chris. “Is there anybody there like me?” Mark thought for a moment. “Well, of course, there is no one else quite like you in the whole world. But what do you mean? Black? Wiccan?” He was hedging, though; he guessed what Chris meant. “I mean, do you have genderqueer people in your church?” “Ah. No, not to my knowledge.” Mark tried to think: what was Chris really asking? “Actually, I’m afraid my congregation would have even more trouble with your gender identity than with your religious identity. They were very welcoming to Sandra, even after she told our oldest attending member that she isn’t a Christian. But their customary way of welcoming people is to invite them to join something—and they might be at a loss to know whether to invite you to the women’s fellowship or the men’s breakfast. They’d try to get over it, though. They’re good people—it’s just that they’re mostly quite elderly, and they’ve always thought of gender as a binary thing.” “But not you?” asked Chris. “No. Not me, and not most of the pastors in my denomination. You’d find a more hip welcome in most of our urban churches, too. But in the small-town Midwest, there’s still a lot of—” “I understand, believe me," said Chris. "And I’m not looking for a church. Just trying to figure you out, really.” “Well, I don’t judge people based on their sexual orientation or gender identity, and I don’t think God does either. Does that help?” “Yes. Thanks. Sandra told me you’d feel that way, but … well, didn’t believe her.” “That’s okay.” Mark said. “Chris, will you tell me what pronouns you prefer?” “They/them, thanks.” “Got it.” Time to change the subject, Mark thought. “Did you bake this bread, Chris?” “Yes,” said Chris.