It’s normal to go shopping for faith in Kentucky. You pass through churches like they’re window displays or one-night stands and if you’re lucky, you find Jesus. I had burned through a couple in college (a megachurch, a cult of poverty, one with a hip, gay minister), but none of them fit. Even in a room full of misfits, it’s hard not to eye the kid with a verse from the Quran tied around his neck.

One Sunday after a pretty hard breakup, I’m making my way through tiny backstreets in a neighborhood in east Louisville. I had gone to some strange places for mass (a maple tucked in the woods, a remodeled strip club), but this place is remarkable in just how boring it is. It’s a one-story shotgun house and there’s no signs or nothing, but the door’s wide open and there’s enough people parked in the grass and on the street in front of it that I figure I’m probably in the right place.

I’m almost late and as soon as I walk in I get shuffled into another room. There are about thirty chairs lined up around the perimeter and I get slotted into one. It’s November and everyone’s bundled up in coats and scarves, but we’re packed shoulder to shoulder and body heat keeps things pretty toasty. 

A woman, in her early forties, stands up and gives a spiel for newcomers. She’s not a pastor, she says, just the lady who runs the meetings. Says the way it works for Quakers is that we’re all going to sit in silence and if you feel so compelled, you can stand up and share something with the group. And that’s it. She sits down.

It’s mostly nothing for the next hour but the creak of chairs and kids fidgeting. A baby starts crying at some point and a dad walks out. The room is half full of local white folk and half full of Somali refugees. About halfway through a guy with big ruddy cheeks gets up and says he’s been thinking a lot about the Good Samaritan. The whole thing is about as boring as the building looks and I spend the whole time thinking about my ex. Nothing too holy, just the usual mess of should we get back togethers and if only we could one more times.

It ends when the lady gets back up and says there’s still some chili left from last week’s cookout and it’s in the fridge if anyone wants it. Then everyone gets up and some shake hands and people start to make their way out.

I’m at the door when someone taps me on the shoulder and I expect it to be the lady, but it’s an older man that I hadn’t noticed before. He’s got deep-set wrinkles by his mouth and one of his eyelids rests low and he’s leaning on a cane with one hand. I assume that he needs help with something (getting a coat, walking to his car), but instead he puts his other hand on my shoulder.

“When I was young, I went to a wealthy Quaker farm in Delaware,” the man says. “I met a young lady there and we talked and talked and talked and talked... and after five days, I asked her to marry me.”

It’s a narrow hall and some people squeeze past us to get out.

“We were together for sixty-two years,” the man continues, and for a moment it feels like I understand what the lady meant when she said compelled.

But then I realize the man isn’t finished speaking, yet. He had just paused or maybe he was taking a breath. Then he breaks eye contact with me and he won’t look up from the ground when he says, “And now she’s gone...and it hurts.”

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You can find Arsh at his website: arshhaque.com