First Baptist was the obvious front-runner in our town. On Sundays people had to park on the street because the parking lot was full, and we watched them glide confidently through the wide, welcoming front doors and into the presence of God Almighty. The men wore mostly navy-blue or gray suits with paisley ties while the women swished along in ankle-length dresses and heels. Sometimes we could hear them singing all the way from the diner.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!

Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee.

Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty,

God in three persons, blessed Trinity!

Holy, holy, holy! All the saints adore thee,

Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;

Cherubim and seraphim falling down before thee,

Which wert, and art, and evermore shalt be.

“What do you think they mean by that?” I asked Tom one Sunday morning while the four of us grabbed brunch at the Nysa Diner.

“What does who mean by what?” Tom asked, shoveling a forkful of omelet into his mouth.

“‘God in three persons, blessed Trinity,’” I said.

Tom shrugged. “Who knows what church people think.”

“The Trinity is made up of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit,” Shirley recited unexpectedly.

We all gaped at her before bursting out laughing.

“What?” she said, blushing.

“How’d you know that?” Tom asked, admiration and confusion mixing in his voice.

Shirley shrugged. “My parents used to take me to church when I was little, that’s all.”

“Mine too,” I admitted. “But I don’t remember any of it.”

“What were they saying about a glassy sea?” I asked, hoping Shirley could enlighten me.

But she took another sip of her orange juice and shrugged. I stared out through the window and imagined the cold lake waters on that December morning. We sat there eating and not saying a word, and at first Mary’s voice was so quiet I didn’t know she was talking.

“It’s where you go after you die,” she whispered. “Over the sea, and it’s where everything wrong is made right.”

How quiet we were after Mary said that, none of us even eating or drinking. The only sound was the rest of the people in the diner chatting, their metal silverware clinking against the plates, the old men slurping their piping hot coffee, and the cook in the back calling out orders as they were ready.

Tom tried to say something funny to lighten the mood, but Mary’s words clung to us.

It’s where everything wrong is made right.

A few weeks later, Tom pulled his car up along the sidewalk, and the four of us walked into Saint John’s Episcopal Church. We chose the Episcopal church because the Catholic church was too intimidating and the Baptist church seemed to require a level of dressing up we could not attain to. It was a cold Sunday night, only a few days before Christmas. I guess that’s why we were there. We wanted to celebrate our last Christmas as high school students, mark the season outside of our own disinterested homes strung with limp strands of weak lights.