The church was a brick building with white trim and a sloped roof. It had a single spire with small windows toward the rear and an enormous metal cross planted in the front lawn. Janet and Everett, who knew a lot of people in the church, shook hands and hugged other worshippers just outside the heavy, wooden doors. Intrigued, I found myself moving toward the entrance ahead of Shawna and Gabriel.

We slid onto a long bench three rows from the front. The church had a smell much milder than cologne but distinct—like flowers pressed into the pages of an old book. A hundred lit candles in short glasses were arranged at the front. These drops of fire unnerved me, and I found myself looking away.

A painted glass window drew my attention. It looked like a rainbow had crystallized and shattered and someone had arranged the pieces in the shape of a cross. I couldn’t understand a word the gowned priest was saying. I didn’t understand the Arabic of our prayers either. We stayed there for hours. The priest raised a hand, and like the tipping of candle flames by a draft, the heads of all the worshippers bowed forward.

I kept my gaze on the window for the entire service, tracing the borders of each of the colors and counting the number of shades of blue and then losing myself in the task of counting how many fragments had come together to form this marvel.

When the priest called Everett’s name, Janet’s expression was one of composed surprise. She squeezed Everett’s hand gently. Everett looked almost embarrassed, and I wondered what the priest had said about him. He stood, reluctantly, suppressing a smile. He kept his head bowed. The church clapped politely. Amen, I heard people say, and it reminded me of our Ameen. Janet whispered sugared words of gratitude to the people seated closest to us.

Outside, under the late morning sun, Shawna, Gabriel, and I waited while Janet and Everett lingered to shake hands and ask after people’s children. They pointed toward us and beamed with pride, as if they’d just carved the three of us from a single block of wood.

“This is what every Sunday looks like,” Shawna whispered to me, answering a question I hadn’t yet asked.

“I have to pee,” Gabriel said, as he shifted his weight.

“I told you not to drink water this morning,” Shawna chastised.

“I was thirsty,” he pouted. “And you drank water. I saw you.”

“But I can hold it. You can’t.”

Gabriel took a step forward, inching toward Janet. Shawna muttered something under her breath.

“What is problem?” I asked Shawna.

Shawna shook her head, just as Gabriel tugged on the sleeve of Janet’s jacket. Janet’s mouth pulled tight at the corners and her eyes narrowed as she looked down at Gabriel.

“They do not like to be interrupted,” Shawna sighed.