Jacob pulled up the app to make sure the audio was working while I futzed around with my chair and fantasized about pretending I didn’t fit in the video frame. Unfortunately, it was a small office. And I could tell by the little picture-in-picture image up at the corner of the screen that no matter which way I leaned, the pastor would be able to see me just fine.
“I’m a little nervous,” I admitted.
“We’re not undercover. Just answer her questions as yourself.”
I considered this advice. “Yeah. Not any easier.”
Jacob had been gearing up for go-time—I could tell by the set of his shoulders and the laser focus of his dark eyes. But something in my small admission worked its way through his armor, and he turned to me and touched my cheek just as the computer started bleeping the pastor’s imminent arrival. “You’ll be great,” he said softly. And then his game-face was back.
I’m not sure exactly what I expected the pastor of Jacob’s church to look like. Chicago is predominately Catholic, and what little experience I do have of church is steeped in ceremony, prayer candles, and elaborate stained glass. But the churches where Jacob grew up were mostly Lutheran. And to an outsider like me, the Lutherans seemed somewhat more approachable.
A generic person-silhouette popped up. Something circled a few times in the middle of the screen and then resolved into Pastor Jill, a sturdy woman in her mid-fifties with short, no-nonsense salt-and-pepper hair. Caucasian—though that was practically a given, since nine out of ten people in Jacob’s hometown are white. The type of middle-aged Midwestern woman you’d encounter at a hardware store, or maybe a tractor pull.
“Good to see you again, Jacob.” Her voice was really assertive. She would’ve made a good cop. “And to meet your future husband.”
“Hi.” I gave a stilted wave. Ugh.
“I was so glad to hear the two of you chose to have your marriage blessed in the church. Church weddings are falling out of favor these days. Young couples think the venue is old-fashioned and predictable. They want to get married in the park, or at the beach, or hurtling down the hill of a giant roller coaster. But as a same-sex couple, you guys having your ceremony at church sends a positive message to the whole community: that you’re willing to stand up and declare your commitment. And that you have the same right to do so as any other couple.”
Jacob agreed with her. “Absolutely. It’s important to us to set a good example.”
Talk about laying it on thick.
But Jacob is great at faking sincerity, and Pastor Jill didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sending you a PDF of our pre-wedding guide that’s got a series of exercises for you to complete, and we’ll touch base to discuss any topics that come up. We can start with one of the exercises together to help you get a feel for them.”
“No one said there was gonna be a quiz,” I said. Jokingly. More or less.
“There are no right or wrong answers, guys. These exercises give you a chance to communicate about your important issues up front, with support and guidance.”
Holy hell.
I checked our picture to see what the heck my face was doing. It looked encouragingly neutral.
“We’ll start with the pecuniary questions.” Pecuni-what? The pastor looked at us expectantly while I wondered if I should’ve spent my afternoon boning up on Christianity instead of doing yoga. The pause stretched awkwardly, and then she cracked a smile. “That’s another word for financial. It was on my word-of-the-day calendar. I was excited to get a chance to use it.”
I quelled a sigh, settled into my chair, and resigned myself to another forty-five minutes of sheer awkwardness.
Pastor Jill said, “Money can be a huge source of conflict in a relationship. It’s important to understand where your spouse is coming from in pecuniary matters.”
I went for a grin. It looked more like a wince.
The pastor said, “I’m sure it’s no surprise that money can be such a loaded topic. Money isn’t just about money. For instance, an issue that seems pecuniary on the surface might actually be about status. How much do you agree with the following statement: I compare myself to others financially.”
“I don’t find income to be particularly relevant,” Jacob said.
“Right,” I said.
Pastor Jill waited for me to add something, and when I shrugged, she said, “Can you elaborate on that?”
I racked my brain for an answer. “Income is something I only notice in a general sense. A person who’s strapped for cash will react differently than a person who’s flush, and my main point of comparison is myself. And a homicide with no financial motive could be a crime of passion, or a cover-up for something else—”
“Remind me what your job is?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Federal agent. Before that, thirteen years on the force.”
“Homicide,” Jacob added.
The pastor looked flustered, but only momentarily. “As it relates to your personal life,” she clarified. “How much comparing do you do?”
Could I answer, A normal amount? Probably not without raising a bunch of red flags. “Once in a while I might notice income, I guess. But I don’t really dwell on it.”
That seemed to satisfy her enough to move on to the next question. “Money issues can also be about security. How much do you agree with the statement: I feel more secure knowing we have enough money to pay our bills.”
Hard to say who she was looking at through the video camera, Jacob or me, but Jacob answered first. “It’s a legitimate concern, obviously. We’re fortunate enough to have decent incomes.”
Pastor Jill said, “What’s your take on it, Vic?”
I couldn’t very well say it was a non-issue for me. It would sound like I was covering up some deep-seated pecuniary anxiety I wasn’t willing to admit, even to myself. But I wasn’t. “We really have been pretty lucky. When big-ticket problems have come up, one of us has had the wherewithal to handle it.”
“Does that mean you had reserves at one point, and now you don’t?”
“Not like I did when we first met. But, you know. Houses cost money.”
Jacob added, “We’re pretty comfortable.”
Pastor Jill said, “And what does that mean to you in terms of a safety net? A month’s worth of expenses? Three months? A year?”
“We’ve had some car issues lately,” Jacob hedged. “Ideally, at least a year.”
“And you, Vic? How much savings would it take for you to feel financially secure?”
It seemed like a trick question. Because I’m insecure about everything from the fit of my pants to the sound of my own chewing. But money is just…money. “A month or two, I guess. If I had to take on a pay cut for some reason—or if our house fell in, or some other major expense smacked me upside the head—I’d deal with it. I’d cope. I’d adjust.”
Pastor Jill jotted a few notes, then said, “Another thing money can represent in a relationship is control. You both work, you each have your own source of income. In the questionnaire you filled out, it says you have your own bank accounts, and a joint account for the household. How do you both feel about this?”