Helping Hands, Part 9

“Aidan.” Quentin’s voice was distant, his mind engaged in recalling the face for that name. “I haven’t… how is he?”

Ven drew in his breath. “He’s fine, really. And he really did want to help today. But then, I said you’d be here.”

A torrent of rain assaulted the bay window, the percussive impact drowning all sound in the apartment. Feeling Quentin approach, Ven stood up, and turned, to see Quentin’s palms raised towards him.

“We weren’t trying to hurt — ”

“Maybe not, but that’s what you did anyway.”

Quentin blinked, biting his lower lip. “Ven, when you love someone — truly love them — that means you sometimes have to say things, they don’t want to hear.”

“Did you call him a Sodomite?”

Quentin’s face reddened. “I… would not — ”

“But others did, yes? Aidan told me he was kneeling, begging you and the other Elders to just listen to him a moment. But you wouldn’t let him talk — ”

“We were praying, Ven! That’s what the Lord commands us to do, Ven, to seek his wisdom — ”

“What kind of wisdom were you lacking?” His arms raised over his head, Ven closed in on Quentin. “Aidan was confused and scared, it should have been obvious to anyone that he needed to know he wasn’t alone.” He stopped, bringing his arms down. “But that’s exactly what you did, you forced him to remain kneeling and then put your hands on him — ”

“Like we do every time we ask for God’s healing.” Quentin shook his head dismissively.

Ven glanced to his right, then back up. “He couldn’t move, Quentin. He was surrounded, with all these hands pressing down on him. He said it felt like you were pushing him away.”


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