Longshot by Lance Allred Page A

Sam and I had only one clash. We argued for a good three hours in the car while we drove to Idaho one time, but it was just the two of us, and we were able to hash out our differences. I saw that she was trapped. Though she saw the fallacies and inconsistencies, what was she to do? Say good-bye to Pax? Or make Pax choose between her and Sarah? Between her and Sarah’s children? She loved Pax too much to do that.
    That day we both promised each other that no matter what, we were going to be spiritual, that we were not going to let the label of an organized religion determine whether we were God’s people or good Christians or simply just good people. We were going to always remain Christians, first and foremost, and the rest was just details. God and Jesus could sort that out.
    I feel that the greatest sin is simply being unkind. You can follow the letter of the law of the Gospels to a T and still be an asshole. Being unkind is the gateway to all the sins: murder, theft, lying, adultery, and so forth. There are people I know who are just wonderful and live a different lifestyle from mine, and I’d rather be in heaven with their pleasant company than with a broody, condescending, “perfect” individual who lived life by the book and felt himself superior for having done so.
    Do you really believe God runs in cliques? If so, then you can have that God.
    The God I know loves me and knows my strengths and weaknesses and knows my flaws and knows the hand I was dealt in life. I believe God judges us equally with regard to the hand that each of us was dealt and whether we each individually are doing the best we can. Someone is born with bipolar disorder, someone is born into a violent home, someone is born an orphan, and so forth. We don’t all have the same start and finish lines. We all have our own crosses to bear, and God will know whether we did the best we could with the resources he gave us and whether we tried to help as many people as we could along the way. Were we good Christians? But more important, were we good people?
    Religion divides us. Spirituality unites us.

7
    â€œDon’t go into the kitchen. Raphael is studying.”
    This was the theme in the Allred house my seventh-grade year. Why, as a college student, Raph had to always study in the most trafficked room in the house was beyond me. Well, no; quite frankly I do know: it was empowering for her, and she liked to hold us—especially me, a hungry thirteen-year-old boy—hostage in our own home. Raph never made it a secret—her disdain for me, her thinking I was a spoiled brat. And for some reason, she couldn’t understand why a thirteen-year-old boy wasn’t as mature and sophisticated as she had been at thirteen. She thought I was a little hellion because Mom and Dad would from time to time let me behave like a typical thirteen-year-old in our home, which was still my home.
    When finals rolled around, we had to forgo the basic human ritual of dinner and were escorted into our rooms with Cream of Wheat by our parents, themselves wary of the monster they had created. I sat in my room, my growing body grumbling for some food, until finally, at 10 o’clock at night I’d had enough. With frail limbs that couldn’t help but tremble with every step, I walked out into the kitchen, the rest of the house silent with trepidation, my trembling, shallow voice complementing my emaciated features, and said, “Please, dear sister, may I have a piece of bread?”
    She looked up from her book, hissing at me, “Fine, but make it quick.”
    I walked into the kitchen, doing my best to make the least amount of noise possible, which consequently only magnified each sound I made. Every time I slowly closed a cupboard with a soft thud in the dead silence, it seemed that I was being more obnoxious than if I had slammed it shut. I noticed this truth at the very same time Raph did, at which point she looked up at me