He had never been a man of faith. Hadn’t been raised in a church, and really hadn’t given the matter much thought. If forced to put a label on his faith, he would call himself “agnostic.” He found nothing so annoying as people who say they knew for sure what happens after death. Shakespeare called it “the undiscovered country” from which no one returns for good reason.
So, when he found himself in a church, looking at the beautiful colors of the sunlight streaming through the ornate window, wondering how to address a god he wasn’t sure he believed in, the feeling of hypocrisy weighed on him.
But, as a new father, he had to do something, even though there was literally nothing for him to do. No way he could contribute to helping his premature son draw the next breath. Last another hour.
His wife told him to get out of the hospital for a while. He objected — if he wasn’t there and the worst happened, God forbid, it’d be hard to live with. She told him to go, if only for a little while. He thought that she probably needed a break from him and his aura of worry, so he agreed.
He wandered around, trying to find something to do with himself. Eventually, he came to stand in front of the window.
Please, he thought, simultaneously pleading and feeling like a fraud. Help.