Archive of Our Own

Hank Olson closed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed by the buzzing voices around him, accosting him from all sides.

“Father Ewing…” “Seizure…” “Relocation…”

Despite engaging in gossip not being something good, Godly folk did, the rumors spread like wildfire across the congregation.

Those that attended the morning mass last Sunday were quick to tell the story to the others that missed it. The story of how in the middle of mass, Father Ewing collapsed and started seizing.

It was a lucky thing that Clementine Cresswell was a practicing nurse. Even luckier that she had been one of the scripture readers that morning. She was at the front row and quick to get to the man’s side while an ambulance was called.

Hank sighed to himself, itching to pop a piece of gum in his mouth to take the edge off. He instead fiddled with the collar of his jacket until his mother hissed at him to stop, gently smacking his hands away to smooth things back in place as if he was a fucking kid again.

Such a serious medical emergency had never happened during mass in recent memory, much less from someone like a pastor.

It was a damn shame Father Ewing had such horrible health issues. Even bigger shame they sprung up in front of a crowd of people as they did. The young pastor’s body on display as foam bubbled out his mouth and his body shook, like some fucked-up live TV show to the congregation.

It made Hank sick to witness. Sick with pity. He prayed for the man’s swift recovery, but he knew things weren’t as simple as that. When it came to medical conditions these days, getting a good doctor who prescribed good medicine was most of the battle.

The parishioners would happily give Father Ewing plenty of prayers and well-wishes. They had already readied multiple cards to send to his hospital room at one of the Catholic-run hospitals in the area. He’d be in intensive care until he was recovered enough to go back home and be with family.

Father Ewing was a handsome young man, eager to run his first ever parish at twenty-six. He was soft-spoken until he reached the pulpit and spoke the word of the Lord. He spoke evenly and with passion, rarely needing to raise his voice to get his point across.

Incredibly humble as well, he had nothing but good things to say to everyone. He always made sure to organize fun events at their church, dinners and bake sales and prayer groups. The Virgen de Guadalupe festivals under his leadership grew to be massive things that brought in the entire community, not just those attending church. Music and fun, with tons of food stalls and children’s games and a raffle.

Father Ewing was fluent in both English and Spanish, too. His parents were Mexican and he hailed from Arizona. Having a bilingual pastor and someone so familiar with the festivities of the Mexican part of their congregation made things easy. Made it so they wouldn’t need to cut or move around any Spanish-speaking services.

Before Father Ewing was Father Garraty.

Father Garraty was cool. In his mid-thirties, the man was both down-to-earth and funny. He was friendly and certainly passionate—often ranting up at the pulpit with a zeal that few pastors had. The guy stood out, too, with his big body and bright red hair and chip-toothed smile.

Hank felt at ease with the man even during Confession, when he was gonna spill his guts all over the fucking floor. Father Garraty told Hank it was fine if he wasn’t looking to settle down yet like his older brothers, despite Hank’s mother haranguing him and trying to set him up with various women. Hank’s path would come to him in time.

Father Garraty often tried to connect with everyone he could, always willing to offer a helpful word, even with the language barrier. Alas, the man was White as could be and didn’t know a lick of Spanish. Father Garraty ended up lasting even less than Father Ewing, only at their parish until a bilingual pastor could be found for them.

Father Ewing lasted a little over two years. Father Garraty barely half that before him. They weren’t anything compared to the old coot that had been around for as long as Hank’s family had been attending when they were freshly moved to America.

Father Harkness nearly died on that pulpit from how long he spent as a pastor. Originally from Cuba, the old man had long ago moved to the United States with his family to start a new life, converting to Catholicism. His grandson Richie didn’t want to become a pastor despite being so involved in the church, a reliable youth pastor and even studying scripture in university.

Not like Hank really blamed Richie Harkness for leaving. The guy was full of ambition to be a famous journalist someday. And he was also as gay as a rainbow on top of that.

Considering only recently the Pope decided to openly accept gay and transgender members of the faith, it made sense that Richie struck out on his own. Gave up on his faith. Tried to find himself and a community that would accept him properly without strained politeness at best and condemnation to Hell at worst.

A part of Hank wished he was as brave as Richie Harkness, just leaving the church and not looking back.

Sure, Hank went to mass. He prayed when necessary. He tried to do good by himself and others. He liked being part of the community with his family.

But a part of Hank resented it. That as soon as his family arrived in America, his parents tried to scrub away everything that made them Chinese. Ōuyáng became Olson. They converted to Catholicism. They stopped making most of their usual dishes for dinner and started making and eating ‘American staples’.

The assimilation was to help them all, Hank knew in hindsight. Hank didn’t know a lick of English when he arrived at three years old, but he quickly picked up on it. Plus attending a church gave them community and a safety net. Church donations were used to help their newly immigrated family survive in Brooklyn. They grabbed stuff from the church food bank and clothing drives until they were stable. Hank had three other brothers, including a baby sister on the way. His parents were desperate.

Even still, Hank felt cheated by… everything, really. Being an Olson. Going to church. Pretending that being converted into a Christian wasn’t a colonial tool used against families like his for decades in this country and abroad.

Once Hank noticed how many food banks and homeless shelters were run by churches, it was hard to ignore. That’s why he volunteered for things on his own time. He’d pick up trash, read books to kids at the library, and helped at different soup kitchens. All outside of the things organized by his church. To make it seem like it was his own hands being used to help others, making a difference not because he was shamed into it by a pastor.

Hank still donated money when asked at church. Still left behind a few cans of soup for food drives. Still donated old clothes to the clothing drives. But it was mostly to help give back to the church his family attended all his life, to pay off the debt that he never realized he’d incurred when he was a child.

Suffice it to say, Hank already had a low fucking opinion of his church (and organized religion in general) by the time Father Ewing collapsed in a seizure.

Anyone with eyes would’ve seen the poor guy had overworked himself until he was pushed to the brink, trying to make things even better than what Father Harkness had them. Father Ewing, bless his heart, kept pouring from his cup until it was empty. Until he had nothing else to give.

Father Ewing worked himself sick. Their parish was the first one he was ever assigned to run. He wanted to make it great. That led to his downfall.

And now their parish was stuck. Another pastor from the nearest Catholic church had to sub in temporarily. Only available to do Sunday and Wednesday mass until a new guy would be sent to them.

Two new pastors in less than five years was a bad sign. Would the third one even stick…? Hank wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Arthur Baker was the name of the new pastor assigned to their church by the diocese.

The name spread across the church like wildfire as soon as their substitute pastor, the flat-voiced Father Stebbins, had revealed it during their Easter mass. It was just one mass, held in the time between the usual morning and noon mass, to accommodate the man’s schedule at his actual parish. Father Stebbins spoke in English but had scripture readings done in Spanish to make it bilingual.

Everyone in the congregation was curious about who the new pastor could be as soon as it was announced at the end of mass. The news was a blessing, a minor miracle. A promise that while Father Ewing had fallen, another Father would rise to the occasion and help them in their time of need.

A gaggle of little old ladies hovered close to the towering Father Stebbins, who had just allowed a child to place a pair of rabbit ears upon his head.

Father Stebbins was stone-faced but there was warmth in his gaze as he interacted with the children giggling around him, crouched down to their levels. “How do I look?”

“Very bunnyful!” exclaimed one of Hank’s nieces.

“You look ready for Easter,” little Curley White added.

“Good.” The man rose to his feet again, giving a gentle pat to Curley’s head with a faint smile. “Thanks, son. Papa Stebbins says you better hop to that egg hunt with the rest of your friends, now.”

“Yessir!”

Little Curley and the other children bounced away as quick as hares. Hank’s sister Ann looked exasperated as she hustled after them to keep an eye peeled for the Olson kids.

Hank tried to steer clear of all the chaos, but his mother grabbed his arm. “Hank, let’s see what he says about the new pastor,” she said in Cantonese. This was code for his mother being nosey and wanting Hank to translate the news to her in the car later.

Hank sighed but nodded, indulging his mother. He let her drag him towards the group around Father Stebbins.

“The new pastor? I don’t know much about him,” the towering blond man stated blandly.

“Oh please, Father Stebbins! What little information do you know?” asked Mrs. Cresswell.

“He’s from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Studied there before he was assigned here.”

A hushed ‘ooh’ rippled across the group.

Father Stebbins looked visibly more uncomfortable talking with them versus the ease of which he spoke with the kids earlier. “Again, he’ll be here at the start of next month. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

“Thank you, Father Stebbins. Your patience is a blessing,” Mrs. Cresswell reassured quickly.

Clementine was lingering nearby, glancing between her mother and Hank. When Hank locked eyes with Clem, the woman grimaced knowingly. He grimaced back. Their congregation had a bad habit of being overly chatty and nosy. Father Stebbins was clearly used to his own parish having more well-behaved folks that didn’t pounce him when he was clearly tired after mass.

Unfortunately, Hank’s mother noticed this look exchanged between friends. She hissed into Hank’s ear, “You should talk to Clementine! Go, go, invite her to sit with us at Easter lunch!”

Hank sighed but obliged, extracting himself from his mother to go to Clem. Once he was next to Clementine, he cleared his throat. “Hey there, Clem.”

Clementine perked up. “Oh! Hey, Hank.”

“You, uh, wanna grab your family and sit by mine for lunch? Y’know, if you don’t gotta spot yet…”

“No, we don’t got a spot picked out yet,” Clem said kindly with an incline of her head. “Thank you. We’d love to join you.”

Her smile was beautiful. Unfortunately, Hank didn’t feel an ounce of attraction despite her bright smile pairing well with her white sundress.

Their new pastor had a radiant smile. It was bright and warm like the dawn’s light, shiny white teeth standing out against his complexion.

Hank couldn’t stop staring, utterly entranced, at the statuesque Arthur Baker up on the pulpit.

It’s both a blessing and curse that the Olsons always sat clustered in the fourth and fifth rows from the front. Hank had a clear view of the gorgeous pastor, illuminated softly by the morning light that fell upon his form from the skylight window above.

The man’s skin was a rich and deep color that contrasted beautifully to his robes, stark white with a soft buttery over-robe that shone golden under the lights. His eyes were like melted chocolate, warm and sweet as he observed his new flock with a happy twinkle in his eye. Like he was shocked at his own good fortune. Like he couldn’t have asked for a better people to serve.

“‘Lo there, my brothers and sisters of God.” His voice held a thick Southern accent, lilting and musical. His tone was even and kind, maybe a touch shy.

Hank grabbed the backing of the pew in front of him in a white-knuckled grip, the old wood faintly creaking. Father Baker was so fucking breathtaking, Hank felt weak in the knees.

“I’m your new pastor, as you no doubt heart ‘bout from Father Stebbins,” the man went on, still with those warm eyes and beaming smile. He was ridiculously tall, and yet it didn’t feel like he was looking down on them with any condescension. “I’m Arthur Baker. I know it ain’t exactly the norm, but please call me Art. None of that ‘Father Baker’ business, y’hear? Feels a little too stuffy for my own likin’, and I think Father Art’s got a better ring to it.”

Father Art gave a little chuckle. Hank felt his heart skip a beat.

Father Art clasped his hands together, palm-to-palm. “Thank y’all for your patience in waitin’ for me. I feel blessed to be here, I really do.”

“Please give a warm welcome to our new Father,” Clementine said into the microphone from her place normally used for announcements and readings.

The congregation burst into enthusiastic applause, the noise loud and thundering across the high-arched ceilings.

Hank’s heart thundered in his chest as he sat and waited for Father Art to re-appear after mass.

The morning parishioners had coffee and donuts ready to share as a welcome meal for the new pastor. The noon mass would have lunch for their own group.

It was all anyone could talk about for the past few weeks at church, organizing a proper welcome to their new Father with food and drink. To show the breadth of their hospitality as a parish.

Hank tried not to show his nerves as he sat and waited. Two of his older brothers and their families were gathered with him, his mother, father, and little sister Ann. Usually they came to church, just less frequently than Hank’s parents would like, busy raising their children and juggling work obligations. Today though was a special enough day for them to gather together to meet the new pastor.

Hank was in the middle of blowing a bubble with his gum to amuse his youngest nephews and nieces when Father Art swept into the room.

The effect was instantaneous. The chattering stopped as heads snapped over to the man striding across the front of the room with confidence.

If Hank didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Father Art was a professional fucking model. He commanded attention just by his mere presence, walked with a stride that made him seem effortlessly graceful, and was tall and thin. Even dressed down in just the standard priest clothing of a black button-down shirt and slacks, he looked anything but humble.

No, Art Baker was as brilliant as a star. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Like a holy angel descended from Heaven, blessing them with his presence.

Father Art stood at the front table laden with food and drinks and beamed at them.

“Look at that! It’s lovely to see y’all stayin’ to break bread in the name of the Lord,” he called, voice carrying easily through the room without the need of a microphone. “Let me bless these donuts here real quick before we start!”

After the blessing of their meal, the room broke into applause. Father Art raised a hand and waved, his smile turning sheepish. It was endearing, seeing him so taken aback by the warm welcome given to him the second time that morning.

“Thank you, Father Art, for blessing our meal and joining us today!” added Mrs. Cresswell.

The applause—which had been dying down—redoubled. Father Art gave a laugh that was drowned out by the noise, but his eyes crinkled with the force of his joy.

Soon after, children rushed to the front of the room to get their donuts first. Hank snickered as his nieces and nephews dodged out of reach of their parents, quick to be at the front of the line.

Father Art crouched down to say hello to each individual child that gathered around him. Despite his height, the willowy man easily folded himself down to the kids’ levels. It was a sweet thing to witness.

Even though this breakfast was supposed to be for the man’s benefit, Father Art easily took the role of a server, bending over and handing children donuts of their choice on little paper plates.

While all their prior pastors were decently good with kids, none were so quick to get down on their level. Even the friendly and outspoken Father Garraty was a little awkward to start with the youngest parishioners, and Father Harkness was so old that he could rarely stoop down without hurting himself.

But, no. It came natural to Father Art.

The man was great with kids. What a shame he was a pastor and couldn’t marry. He’d make a good papa to a lucky little boy or girl otherwise.

Hank blinked, startled at that line of thought. He stared down into the depths of his Styrofoam cup of coffee as if searching for answers there.

“Father Art, we can pass out the rest of the donuts! Please don’t trouble yourself,” Clementine insisted, up at the front with her mother to help with breakfast.

“Oh, it ain’t any trouble! This way, I’ll get to know who I’m speakin’ with.”

Hank looked up. He goggled in shock as Father Art grabbed a stack of plates and a random box of donuts and made a beeline for the first table. Which happened to hold the Olsons.

“’Lo there! To which family do I got the pleasure in speakin’ with?” Father Art asked, those warm brown eyes sweeping across the table.

“The Olsons,” said Hank’s father, carefully pronouncing their Anglo name.

“The Olsons…” Father Art said slowly. His crooning voice sent a shiver down Hank’s spine, heart alight at just hearing his surname from the handsome man’s lips. For some reason, the pastor’s eyes locked on Hank’s, then. His smile somehow got brighter as he asked, “What donuts do ya like?”

It felt like a seed was wedged deep inside Hank’s stomach, cracking open and sprouting. Hank would be happy with whatever Father Art would give him, that he was sure with complete fucking certainty.

Father Art gave Hank renewed hope in the church again.

It was invigorating to hear the man speak, especially when he did his sermons. Father Art took the word of the good book and expanded upon it in ways that felt fresh. He preached about faith and forgiveness in oneself, about how to turn mistakes into lessons to learn, about opening one’s heart to others that are different from them who mean them no ill will.

He spoke of kinship to one another as children in the eyes of God. That they should defend each other in times of hardships. That the color of one’s skin and the language they spoke and the people they loved with should matter less than the good deeds they perform for their fellow Christians.

Unity. That was what would give them strength in hard times as they lived in, these times of uncertainty and fear. Unity and love of one another.

Compassion. Understanding. Inner strength. A sense of justice to protect one another from harm, and the strength to do so.

Together they were stronger than the evils that want to beat them down. They were stronger than the lawmakers that terrorized transgendered youth, striking fear into young people’s hearts for the simple act of living their authentic selves, as God had blessed them to live. They were stronger than those that held hate in their hearts to hurt and kill good Black folk of all ages simply for the act of living their lives hand-in-hand. They were stronger than the heinous government that deployed ICE to tear parents and children from each other, whether they be immigrants or citizens, but who were a hard-working part of their community regardless.

Hank and his family always attended the morning English-speaking mass. But from what he heard, Father Art had moved several people to tears in the Spanish-speaking mass at noon.

In any other parish, Father Art’s sermons would be considered radical. In Hank’s heart, they were the exact words he needed to realize that truly good people still existed on this awful Earth.

When Father Art preached, he did not do so with harsh judgement like old Father Harkness. He did not do so with an overly loud zeal like Father Garraty. He said it steadily like Father Ewing, and yet with much more confidence and wisdom than that starry-eyed young pastor.

Like a teacher hoping a student would rise to their expectations, Father Art spoke as if he knew each and every one of them had the potential to not just be good Christians, but great people. The protectors and future leaders of their community. Those that could open their hearts to his words and become the best versions of themselves.

Hank Olson was frankly in awe of Art Baker.

He wasn’t the only one. While before, sermons were politely listened to at best and ignored by zoning out at worst, Father Art’s words were powerful. Not only that, but he also engaged with the parish. He called out names, giving gentle questions, asking for one’s thoughts. Listening intently to the bleating words of his flock. Responding in kind.

Passion and gentleness. The man balanced both beautifully.

With the way he acted—natural, confident, yet still kind—Father Art likely had experience in other parishes. Maybe working as part of his studies, maybe leading his own church in the past.

Either way, he stepped up to the mantle swiftly and smartly.

All their current masses and activities were going to be held like normal. However, he was going to tweak a few things.

The food pantry was going to run once a month and notices would be printed in multiple languages. They were still going to take in canned food and dried goods. But cash donations would also be taken and used to buy discounted produce from local grocery chains. This way, their pantry would get more healthy options that would benefit not just parishioners in need, but the greater community.

Donations would also be taken during community meals. It wasn’t a requirement, and only if someone had the means to give. But any money made would be put back into the church kitchens to buy supplies like plates, cutlery, cups, and catering equipment to better handle future events that had a focus on food.

That included spreading some of the funds across notable celebrations. The Virgen de Guadalupe festival, Easter, and Christmas week weren’t going to be the only events to get much needed attention and funds. Things like Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Ash Wednesday, Day of the Dead, Cinco de Mayo, Thanksgiving, and Juneteenth deserved just as much coverage as the big holidays that were noted in the Bible.

The rest of donations from the church would be used to help maintain the church itself. Fixing leaks, changing bad tiles, replacing old books. Buying supplies to help maintain God’s Garden, the small grounds that ringed the back portion of the church. If they got the garden back into shape, they could hold more festivities and activities there.

It was so many little things that Father Art wanted to tackle. But they were respectable. And they made sense. Bless their hearts, but their previous pastors weren’t around long enough to make many big or needed changes.

Things had degraded slowly over time. Even with Father Harkness, in his old age, he left a few things go by the wayside. For example, God’s Garden had become overrun by the time he retired. Even though Father Ewing tried to get a volunteer group going to upkeep that, he also tried to juggle multiple other things at once and let it fall to the wayside.

No, Father Art was very organized. And a good delegator. He asked for volunteers, kept lists, sent notices, and dutifully made announcements at the end of mass. Things that used to slip by were addressed in the newsletter or in-person by him. He kept on top of it.

It was all so new and exciting, Hank couldn’t help but be awed at the new pastor. And he could help it even less when he was swept up in the hullabaloo by volunteering himself to help with God’s Garden.

He’d never done that before. Volunteered himself up for something at their church. Either he was forced into it while doing his studies for First Communion and Confirmation, or his parents made it a family activity.

Ann still pitched in during prayer groups—mostly because their mother wanted to keep attending them and needed a ride to church. And totally not at all because Ann was subtly crushing on a miss Clementine Cresswell, using church as an excuse to see the nurse.

Hank and the rest of the Olsons would help at least once a year for the Christmas dinner, since that got really busy and rarely did people want to volunteer to help serve during it. But that was the extent of their volunteering activities as a family ever since Hank and Ann finished their Confirmation, which had mandated volunteer hours.

They were so busy going through schooling and getting jobs—and in the cases of the eldest Olson kids, marrying and starting new families and moving out. Hank worked an office job at Town Hall. Ann was a freelancer hopping between multiple publishing houses. They were doing their best to both have careers and help their retired parents with the bills.

Hank still volunteered in his own time despite his work schedule. But that’s because he was having a crisis of faith and hated organized religion and it’s fucking hypocrisy.

Until now.

“Would anyone else like to volunteer to help with God’s Garden for the upcoming month?” Father Art had asked kindly at the end of mass one Sunday.

Hank, like a stupid fucking tryhard, raised his arm in the air.

Father Art’s gaze snapped to Hank. When he noticed who exactly raised their arm, the pastor beamed. “Hank Olson…? Wonderful! I’ll take down your name and information right after the mass, y’hear?”

Hank dropped his arm with a weak smile. His stomach felt queasy and his heart soared in his chest. The sprout of interest grew under the brilliance of Father Art’s smile.

He was officially fucked.

Hank was probably fucking up his back with all the hunching over.

He couldn’t complain, though. He wasn’t the only person hunched down pulling out weeds.

Father Art was kneeling right across from Hank. The other was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a worn yellow t-shirt. Even in a baseball cap and wearing clunky gardening gloves, sweating through his shirt, he looked dazzling. Like he could be on the front cover of a gardening magazine. The kinds that housewives and old ladies loved.

Maybe their next calendar should just be the guy posed in different places around the church. It’d sell for big bucks for sure.

Hank was glad for the sun shining above them. It’d make it seem like he was just red-faced and sweaty from the heat and not because he couldn’t stop staring and blushing at the hunky pastor like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Art’s skin glistened beautifully under the sun, shiny with sweat. The deep warm tones of his complexion stood out. Kneeled in the dirt like this, the man looked like God had just scooped up a pile of the Earth and molded him right in front of Hank. A gorgeous creation Hank was blessed to see with his very eyes.

Father Art looked up just then, locking eyes with Hank.

Hank internally panicked for three seconds before blurting, “This is dirty work to be doin’ yourself, Father Art.”

The beautiful man paused to wipe his brow with an arm. He smiled at Hank, bright and sweet. “It’s dirty work, but it’s gotta get done. This garden’s so overgrown, it’s like a jungle!”

“Right. Yeah, you’re right.” Hank barely stopped himself from clutching his own chest and swooning like a dame on a cover of a cheesy romance novel. “Just… Wow. God’s Garden sure is full’a weeds.”

He wanted to smack himself. What kind of dumb shit was he even saying?!

Father Art, though, found that funny enough to laugh at. The beautiful sound watered the flower within Hank, pleased as punch he got such a reaction.

“You right about that… But blessed be, at least it ain’t like the parable.” Art smiled to himself at that, going back to checking the soil.

Hank didn’t want the conversation to end. So he asked an innocent, “Oh…? Which parable?” knowing full damn well he already knew it.

Hank had long ago memorized the Bible when he was a kid. He’d been determined to answer all the questions correctly during the kids’ bible classes and pass his First Communion and Confirmation with flying colors, like a total nerd.

As a teenager, he even annotated a bible with sticky notes and highlighters to point out every time the Bible mentioned fucked-up shit like slavery, rape, incest, and selling women off against their will. It helped during debates to point out that sometimes God’s word was full of complete horseshit. Best part was telling homophobes to fuck off and mockingly point out they need to actually read the fucking Bible before they’re gonna use it as an excuse to say gay people can’t exist. There’s a ton worse shit than two dudes kissing and marrying each other in both the good book and in real life. Fucking fuckheads.

Hank tuned back in when Father Art’s winding down on recounting the parable from the Book of Matthew.

“…So, see, Jesus Christ was tryin’ to warn of the evils of the world. That they could overwhelm the good if jumped too hastily to find ‘em. Sometimes we need to allow the good and the bad to grow ‘til the good is strong enough to withstand the harvest. And then we can get rid of evil—in this case, the weeds.”

Hank hummed and nodded as he yanked out more weeds. “I see, I see.” Yup, just as he remembered the parable going.

“But, see, I do think there’s room to interpret even that story…”

Hank paused, hands fisted around another stubborn weed. “Really?” He thought the parable itself was pretty cut-and-dry. Jesus himself told his followers the meaning in the actual text.

Father Art nodded and gestured with his hands. “Well, not all weeds are bad. Some plants we consider weeds can be rather helpful for medicine or pollination. To say that all weeds are bad—that all people are evil simply for not being Christians—is a harsh judgement in itself. Certain faiths believe in God, they just interpret the good book in different ways. Like Judaism or Islam. In the end, ain’t we all the children of God? We just goin’ about it in different ways, is all.”

Hank couldn’t help but stare at the man across from him in awe. That sort of understanding and grace was rare for a pastor. One of the duties of a pastor was to convert non-practitioners to the faith alongside leading the current parishioners. To be so open about other religions also possibly being correct, despite being a staunch Catholic…

Every day Hank heard Father Art speak on the church grounds, it was like finding a new song to obsess over. Hank just wanted to take Father Art’s words and play them on loop in his head over and over again until he had every fucking syllable memorized.

“That’s pretty fuckin’ beautiful, Father Art.”

Art knocked the brim of his hat up a bit, eyeing Hank with a playful smile. “Thanks, buddy. But how ‘bout you keep the cursin’ to a minimum in God’s Garden?”

Hank gave a nervous laugh. “Fair enough, Father Art. Sorry. I’ll keep my big, fat mouth shut.” He pulled the weed in his fist and dumped it in the bucket between them.

“No, no, I don’t mean it like that. I like hearin’ ya talk, Olson!” Father Art reassured quickly with a wave of his gloved hand. “Just gotta have a lil’ less cussin’ involved, is all,” he added with a friendly wink.

Well if Father Art asked it of him, Hank was ready to chat up a fucking storm. Uh, just without the fucking. Chat up a storm, period. There.

“Careful there, Father. You don’t wanna give me the all-clear to chat your ear off…” Hank yanked another weed, shooting the other a teasing grin. “Once I start, I might not stop.”

“I wouldn’t mind it. You’ve gotta nice voice. And chattin’ will help pass the time, besides,” Father Art insisted with a crinkle-eyed smile.

Hank felt like he could get lost in that smile. He smiled back, too smitten for comfort, eyes locked with Father Art’s and hands stilled.

“Father Art, we finished painting the fence…!”

The pair startled. Father Art whipped his head to look down the way the call came. “Oh? Lovely! Lemme see how it looks, yeah?” He got up from his spot and dusted his knees. He smiled at Hank, apologetic. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll be back in a bit, Olson—"

“Hank.”

Father Art blinked. “Hm?”

Hank smiled shyly. “Call me Hank. There’s, uh, too many Olsons to keep us straight. Just Hank’s fine.”

The other man’s teeth gleamed in the sunlight as he grinned. “Alrighty! I’ll be back, ‘Just Hank’.”

Hank groaned at the lame dad joke. “Booooo! Get outta here!”

The pastor snickered and gave a little wave before turning on his heel and heading over to the group handling the repainting efforts. Once there, the man excitedly gestured with his hands at the painted fence with exclamations of a job well done in both English and Spanish.

Hank heard a giggle behind him. He nearly jolted out his skin as Clementine plucked up the bucket full of weeds by the handle.

“Father Art really is as friendly as can be, right?” she asked Hank warmly.

Heart racing in his chest and mouth suddenly dry, he nodded and croaked out, “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

Like a sunflower turned towards the sun, Hank’s attention was riveted to the brilliant man with his equally brilliant smile. Despite Clem’s eyes drilling into the side of Hank’s skull as she asked something or other about Hank’s sister, he couldn’t stop staring at Father Art.

Hank was too busy staring at Father Art to really be listening to the full thread of conversation.

That was his biggest mistake. Especially when he was speaking with his mother. Usually he was a good and dutiful son that listened to her. And listened to the women in his life in general.

But today was not that day. Hank was too busy ridiculously mooning over the pastor to realize he was humming and nodding along to whatever his mother was saying. Accidentally agreeing to something he shouldn’t have.

“Oh, son! I’m so glad you finally agreed,” Hank’s mother said excitedly in Cantonese, giving his arm a little shake. “Clementine is very lovely. And you get along with her well! I’m sure dinner will go well.”

Hank blinked. He whipped his head to stare at his mother and her proud smile. “Wh-What?”

“You just agreed to take her to dinner,” Ann said flatly next to him, her expression as icy as a tundra.

Oh shit. He did not mean to do that.

Hank’s mother tugged on his arm to get his attention again. “You spend enough time with her during gardening. Have you not gotten her phone number? You should so you can plan out your date!”

“Mom!” Hank hissed, switching to clunky Cantonese with, “I am not going to just ask Clementine for her phone number! And who said I would take her out to dinner—”

“Hank Olson! And Mr. Olson, Mrs. Olson, and Miss Ann Olson.”

Hank was deeply relieved that Father Art was fluent in only Spanish and French. If the man knew Cantonese, Hank would wish for the floor to open up and swallow him.

“Hello, Father Art,” said Hank’s father politely with a hand shake. “The mass? Very wonderful. Very, very wonderful.”

Father Art smiled as if Hank’s father just gave him the most glowing review in history. “Thank ya kindly! How are the Olsons today?”

“Great,” Hank squeaked out, mind going horrifically blank.

“Father Art,” Hank’s mother suddenly said, “Do you have Confession? For my boy.” She patted Hank’s inner arm.

“A Confession?” Father Art asked, eyes bright and curious as he looked between the tiny woman and her very sweaty son. “Well, if Hank needs one, I can oblige! I ain’t in a rush.”

“Go on,” the fussy woman insisted, giving a shooing motion at Hank. “Go, go.”

“Mom…” Hank started, aggrieved. He looked towards his little sister to hope she could bail him out with a miracle excuse.

Ann just blinked slowly and shrugged at him. Obviously she couldn’t do much to help since Hank accidentally got himself into his mess by carelessly agreeing to things with their mother to begin with. Ann held her hand out to take his hat, but that was about it.

He handed his baseball cap to Ann with a guilty wince. Once he was done with talking to Father Art, he would clear up the miscommunication. For Ann’s sake, if nothing else.

“It ain’t no trouble at all. I’d love to listen to your troubles and give you some advice,” Father Art said kindly, placing a bracing hand on Hank’s shoulder.

Hank’s stomach started to squirm, an entire bouquet of flowers sprouting inside him. He felt the other man’s hand even through the material of his jacket, making him all warm and tingly down to his toes.

“Alright,” Hank agreed breathlessly. “I… Yeah. I’d love to get your advice. I could use it.”

Father Art squeezed Hank’s shoulder with a kind smile. “Then let’s get goin’ to the Confession Room, now.” He turned his kind smile to the other Olsons. “I’ll bring Hank back in a few minutes.”

The first minute was calm inside the Confession Room. Hank hovered as Father Art sat in the velvet-lined, ornate wooden chair. Hank went to kneel behind the screen on the small pew, but Father Art clicked his tongue.

“No, no—No need for kneelin’,” said the pastor. He gestured at the other wooden chair shoved into the corner of the room. “Please, take that chair and drag it closer.”

Hank blinked, hesitating. He wobbled a bit awkwardly as he bent out of the almost kneel. “Uh… You sure, Father?”

“I’m sure. That seat’s usually saved for the elderly… But I ain’t too sure if you know why you even in Confession in the first place. Might as well be comfy as ya consider your thoughts.”

Hank gave a wavering smile. “Thanks.” He grabbed the wooden chair and carried it easily over to Father Art, sitting diagonally across from the man. They both ignored the usual screen and pew situation, turned to face each other. “Sorry for my mom, y’know, volunteerin’ me up for Confession.”

“A mother will always worry over her children. I’m sure she did it outta love,” Father Art started, leaning his elbows on the armrests and folding his hands together. “But even if you’re bein’ a dutiful son that tries to respect your parents, you should also know that it’s okay to go your own way. Every bird will eventually leave the nest. Your parents should have faith that they raised their baby into a strong adult that can fly on their own.”

Hank slowly nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, I get that.” He fiddled with the cuff of his jean jacket. “It’s just… hard sometimes. Knowin’ how to be that bird that leaves the nest. Being my own fuckin’ person. Uh, sorry for my potty-mouth.”

Father Art smiled kindly at him. “As I’ve told the group of young-ins tryin’ to go through Confirmation studies right now, it’s fine if you cuss a lil’ durin’ Confession. We’ll just wipe the slate clean of that later.” He winked playfully.

Hank grinned. “Heh. I remember Confirmation. Father Harkness was a real hard ass ‘bout it.” He clasped his hands together. “My family, uh. We’ve been goin’ to this church since we immigrated here from China. I was, like, three? And now I’m thirty-three. It’s… been a long while.”

Father Art hummed and inclined his head for Hank to keep speaking.

“So much of my life has been spent here. I’ve fallin’ in and outta love of this place. Hell, I considered quittin’ cold-turkey and stop comin’, until you came around.”

“Really?”

Hank nodded. “Your sermons breathed fresh life into my faith.”

Father Art smiled softly, his dark eyes looking damp. “Oh. I… I’m glad.” He sounded genuinely touched.

Hank ducked his head. “Yeah, well… Part of me still wondered if I should leave anyways.” His hands tightened around each other. “Not like I’d have a good excuse to leave the church. I still live with my parents and look after ‘em. Their English is shaky, so me and Ann translate most everythin’. They’d wonder why I’d stop goin’ without a family to raise or anythin’, like my older brothers, and…”

Hank stopped his word vomit with a wince. He carefully looked up at the pastor through his lashes.

Father Art was frowning at him sadly. “Your older brothers. I ain’t familiar with them as I am with you.”

“They only show up on big holidays. Well, two of ‘em. My oldest brother, Ling, lives halfway across the fuckin’ country.”

Father Art gave a soft, “Ahhhh”. He gestured at Hank to keep going.

“And, uh. Anyways. My mom’s been fuckin’ hounding me about dating and gettin’ married for years now. I’m in my thirties, right? Time’s passin’ me by.” Hank felt his eyes start burning with shameful tears. “I just… I don’t think I can do it. I can’t be like my older brothers. I can’t just—can’t just settle down with some random girl and get married.”

“Oh, Hank…”

Hank hiccupped on a sob as the pastor gently grabbed him by the shoulders. “I just… I just can’t. I don’t even like women!”

There. He finally admitted it.

Hank had lived his whole life knowing that he didn’t hold a lick of attraction to a single woman. But he’d been hiding it. Shoving it down. Ignoring that fact so he could keep pretending that he was just like his brothers. Just like all his buddies and coworkers.

He’d make stuff up. About kissing girls. Making comments about how beautiful they were. Laughing at dirty jokes. Tried even watching porn, but that never did a fucking thing for him. The women on screen couldn’t hold his attention verses the men that were pounding into them.

He was too scared to confirm to himself what he always knew. That he was gay. With the way he admired other men privately in the comfort of his own mind, there was no other explanation.

Hank felt the pastor’s hands slide over his back as Art kneeled and brought Hank into a hug. Hank’s head was cradled by one big hand, made to lie against Art’s shoulder with a gentle press.

Hank’s tears wet the other man’s button-down shirt. He felt small and scared but safe in Art Baker’s arms.

“Oh Hank… Oh, buddy… There, there, let it out.”

“’m sorry,” Hank whimpered through his sobs. “I—I did it all wrong. I did it all wrong…!”

“Shhhh. No you didn’t, Hank. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” Father Art soothed, gently petting Hank’s hair. “You’re just bein’ yourself. You’re yourself, and God made you that way. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with how you been livin’.”

Hank would disagree. “But—”

“But nothin’,” Father Art interrupted, kind but firm. “Not all men like women. That’s fine. Natural, even. Don’t let no one tell you different.” His arm tightened around Hank’s back. “You’re still a human being. Still a Christian, if you wanna be. Alright?”

Hank sucked in a shaky breath. Let it out. Nodded against Father Art’s shoulder.

He might believe he’d done it all wrong, but this time, he could believe in someone else instead.

They stayed like that for a time, locked in an embrace, until Hank pulled back.

Father Art smiled at him, giving one last gentle pat to the crown of Hank’s head before withdrawing. The man got out of his kneel with a grunt. He returned to his seat to grab a box of tissues from the little side table, handing the box over to Hank.

Hank wiped at his eyes and blew his nose. He felt strung out but… good. At peace.

“I get your distress, Hank, I really do. It’s hard to think of livin’ your authentic self while worryin’ over your family’s expectations,” Father Art started slowly, leaning back in his seat. “Thankfully I got some younger brothers and sisters that can marry and have kids and alla that. That made it a lil’ easier to be a pastor.”

Hank sniffled. “Right. Catholic priests can’t have families, usually.” Unless they were pastors in the past and converted to Catholicism, like Father Harkness. But rare cases were that; rare.

Father Art nodded. “That’s right. A blessin’, for someone like me. I never got any interest in women neither.”

Hank felt his heart thrum harshly in his chest. The flowers in his stomach bloomed into a whole meadow.

“R-Really?” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice, but the other’s soft and knowing smile in answer made it obvious he didn’t do a good job of that.

“Nah. No matter how hard I tried, I was never interested in women… Even tried men, but I’m afraid that didn’t work, either.”

Hank almost choked on his own spit at the bluntness. He thumped himself on the chest with a fist while Father Art smiled back at him patiently. The meadow in his stomach wilted and withered at his lack of oxygen.

Stupid of Hank to get his hopes up. What, did he seriously think he could romance a Catholic priest…? Father Art was too good at his job to leave it behind to play grab-ass, much less fall in love with a random man infatuated with him.

It was better this way. Having his feelings acknowledged but gently turned down.

“So…” Hank croaked, “You’re, like. Asexual?”

“I suppose that’s the term the LGBTQ community has for folks like me,” Art said calmly.

The clock inside the room ticked. Hank settled into the silence. It was comfortable.

Father Art was sort of like him. Not exactly. But close enough. Enough to understand Hank.

“See, I never liked neither ladies or gentleman. And it made me feel a lil’ broken, y’know? That I wasn’t capable of love like everyone else… I turned to the holy scripture after. Desperate to find answers. To find purpose…” Father Art chuckled, soft and sad, his expression suddenly turning haggard. “I reckoned, well. I could still love my family. My friends. My fellow brothers and sister of God. Love the Heavenly father and his teachings. And alla that—that sort of community—that was good enough for me.”

“Ahhhh…”

It made sense in hindsight. The way Father Art was so warm to everyone, and yet seemingly ignored all the moon eyes he was being thrown by all sides. Including from Hank himself.

And yet all Father Art responded with was kindness. A sense of companionship. An intrinsic kind of solidarity with Hank. As if he knew, right when he locked eyes with Hank, that they were both some flavor of queer.

“So whether you end up likin’ men or no one at all, Hank?” Father Art started with a little wag of his finger, “That’s perfectly alright. ‘Cuz you still got that capacity for love inside ya. Just a different kinda love. That’s all it is.”

Hank slowly nodded. “Right… Right, yeah… I think you’re fuckin’ onto somethin’ there, man.”

Hank slumped back into his chair with a relieved sigh. All the weight on his shoulders seemed to melt away. He hadn’t realized how much he was carrying, being all repressed and shit.

He was worrying about all the familial expectations and responsibilities. But his older brothers all had families. It’s not like there was any worry to carry the Olson name with Hank as the key or anything.

He just had to live his life. He had to tell his parents that he didn’t want to marry a woman. Maybe a man, if he’s lucky.

He’d hidden so much of himself away. Just ran his mouth to cover up for his own vulnerabilities. Never let himself be actually honest.

Not until Art Baker came into his life.

Hank laughed faintly, running a hand through his hair. Blinked down the burning of relieved tears. “I, uh… Wow.” He looked to the man sitting across from him, and awkwardly asked, “How do I… y’know?”

“Go about tellin’ your family?” Father Art said kindly. “I reckon you’d tell them however you’d like. If you want it to be a big deal, make it a big deal. If not, just mention that you can’t be off datin’ girls you can’t like and you’d rather give a shot at men instead.”

It’ll likely be something in the middle. See, Hank has a hard time being serious. But he also wants his parents to know, under no circumstances, is he going to be dating Clementine—or any other woman—at any point.

“Yeah… Alright, yeah! That’s a good plan.” Hank sat up, beaming back at the pastor. “Thanks a ton, man. You really helped me out. I’m serious.”

“Of course. I was happy to help you out, buddy.” Father Art rubbed his hands on his slacks and slyly said, “But I hope you’ll at least humor comin’ by for God’s Garden, if you end up quittin’ church cold turkey. There ain’t no one else I’d rather be pullin’ weeds with.”

“Hey, I’m not that fuckin’ cruel! When I volunteer for somethin’, I follow through,” Hank retorted playfully, smiling so hard it made his cheeks hurt. The plants inside him were budding anew, this time warm from friendship instead of infatuation.

Father Art chuckled, raising a hand to gesture above Hank’s head. “Then may God forgive you of your sins until next Confession. Blessed be thy Lord.”

Hank Olson felt blessed to have such a loving family. He really did.

After Confession, Hank went up and told his parents he had something important to say back home. Realizing that Hank was still red eyed from crying, his mother quickly backed off from her earlier attempts at matchmaking. Ann handed over his hat so he could put it on and tug it down over his eyes. Mr. Olson was quick to spirit them back to the car without any more delay.

Back at home, Hank didn’t waste much time. He just sat at the kitchen table, and loudly declared, “I won’t date Clementine. Or any woman, in church or out of it. I like men.”

He waited. If his parents were confused about his wording, he could translate for them.

His mother exchanged a long look with his father.

“Son. You are… gay?” Hank’s father asked slowly.

“Yeah,” Hank said, arms crossed on the table. “I’m gay.”

It felt good to say. Especially after so many years of keeping it inside, hoping that fact about him would disappear. But, no. Hank Olson was gay. And he was okay with that now. He didn’t want to hide it any longer.

“Gay…?” Hank’s mother parroted. She asked in Cantonese, “As in, you don’t want to date women? Just men?”

“Yes, mom. That’s right,” Hank responded in her mother tongue.

Hank’s mother ‘aaaaah’d, a hand up to her cheek.

“Okay.” She looked at Ann, who hovered nearby. “Ann, are you lesbian?”

Ann blinked back at their parents, startled. “Um…?” She exchanged a startled look with Hank, who just shrugged back at her. Were they both going to be shamed or something?

Their mother didn’t give Ann time to elaborate. “If you are, then that’s good. I can give you the ladies I wanted to match with Hank.” The older woman did a little motion, pointing between her kids before crossing her fingers over one another. “And Hank can have the men I wanted for you instead. Easy swap, yes?”

Hank couldn’t help it. He laughed. Laughed long and hard as he clutched his stomach. Ann sputtered, gawping.

“Ann… Ann, you should take Clem instead,” Hank wheezed out. “St-Stop with the mooning during prayer group—"

“Hank! Shut it!” Ann whined. She blushed bright red, going over to sock him on the shoulder.

“You kids… You should have told me earlier!” their mother said in Cantonese, aggrieved, when Hank’s laughter finally died down. “I was finding you the wrong targets. Now this is much easier to find you a good match!”

“So… You’re okay with this?” Ann asked in clumsy Cantonese. She pointed at herself, then at Hank. “That we…”

“Yes, it’s fine. Gay or lesbian. Does not matter. You are my children,” their mother said in careful English.

“You have the freedom for being who you are, here,” their father said in Cantonese. “It’s one of the blessings of moving from China. There, you couldn’t easily find love with your same sex. Not like here.”

Their mother nodded. “And your brothers? All married. We have plenty of grand babies. If you don’t give us more, that’s fine.”

Hank felt like his world tilted on its axis, then.

Of course his parents would be fine with this. With their two youngest children not being straight. His parents fled to America a long time ago to raise their family as they’d like. And it’s true, that with their older brothers all having families and kids, it wouldn’t be a loss if Hank and Ann never had kids of their own.

Affection for his family bloomed in Hank’s chest, then, like a whole garden of flowers.

He beamed so hard his mouth hurt. “Thanks, mom. Thanks, dad.” He got out of his chair and rounded the table to hug both his parents. Ann quickly joined them, making it a group hug.

He didn’t need to say ‘I love you’ aloud. He knew his family understood after years of watching him grow up.

And he would grow further into himself. Now as an out and proud gay man, with his lesbian sister by his side.

Hank returned to God’s Garden two months later, when the next volunteer day rolled around.

“Hank Olson…!” Art Baker exclaimed, beaming at Hank. The handsome man was dressed down once more in grass-stained jeans, a t-shirt, and cap. Like this, it was impossible to tell he was a pastor. He just looked like any of the volunteers working on the church’s garden. “You really did come back!”

“Hey there, Father. I promised, didn’t I?” Hank retorted, easily allowing the tall man to bring him into a hug. “Plus Ann would’ve told you before.”

“She did, she did! But it’s still good to see ya in person.”

Over the man’s shoulder, Hank smiled at seeing Ann with Clementine. The pair of women were working together to prune the rose bushes, bent close and making eyes at one another. Good. He’s glad they’re going strong.

“How’ve you been?” Art asked, once out of their embrace.

“Good,” Hank said with an easy smile. “My office job is okay, and I’ve started to volunteer at a group home for kids. Met a guy there, Pete. He’s one of the social workers. He’s great with the kids.”

“That’s good, buddy. Real good.” Art handed Hank a pair of gardening gloves. They both knelt on the ground, ready to work on the weeds situation. After a minute, the pastor slyly asked, “Is this ‘Pete’ fellow good lookin’ on top of nice?”

Hank gave an exaggerated gasp. “Father Art…! Are you fishin’ for gossip?”

“No, no, ‘course not! Just wanna know what one of my buddies is up to,” the man retorted playfully.

“Uhuh, sure…” Hank stuck his tongue out, dumping a weed into the bucket between them.

“Don’t be like that, Hank. Won’t you gimme a nibble?”

Hank chuckled. “Alright, alright…” Art was staring at him with such eager puppy-dog eyes, he really couldn’t leave the guy hanging. He leaned forwards a little and stage-whispered, “He’s real sweet and handsome. I’m pretty lucky, I think.”

“Oho! Good for you, Hank!” Art crowed. He slapped Hank’s shoulder, accidentally smearing some dirt behind on Hank’s shirt sleeve.

“Hey, hey, keep your mitts to yourself. I’m tryna minimize how much gunk I get on myself today,” Hank said with a playful, narrow-eyed look.

The other man chuckled. “Sorry, got a lil’ ahead of myself there.”

The two worked in peaceful silence. Like old friends. Not just pastor and former churchgoer.

Honestly, Hank sort of missed church. Mostly because he considered Father Art a friend. That’s why he still dropped by for volunteer gardening hours, plus he wouldn’t mind coming back for holiday services and events.

He had his own life to live. Even if he didn’t really consider himself much of a Christian these days, he could pop by to check in on his community, his family, and the friends he made here.

“Would you be willin’ to bring your new partner to the next dinner we got?” Art asked curiously. “No pressure, ‘course. But the more the merrier.”

“I’d like to. We just gotta see when our schedules align. Pete works real hard as a social worker, and there’s not enough of those around these days.”

“Understandable… Still, we’ll save two chairs and sets of plates, just in case.”

Art beamed at Hank. Hank beamed back.

Underneath them, God’s Garden was flourishing once more. The flowers were healthy and the weeds were being tamed, bit by bit.

Hank Olson closed his eyes, feeling calm as the sun beat down on him and the voices of fellow volunteers buzzed around him in the garden. As he kept growing into himself, he’d be happy to return to this place. One day, he’d make sure God’s Garden was as best as it could be.