Church Boys † Brendon Urie

26✝ Cleanliness is Close to Godliness

The truth was, I hadn't ever stopped and taken a moment to try and mentally picture what kind of home Brendon most likely lived in. This realization hadn't even occurred to me in the slightest until I found myself staring stunned in the doorway of the World's Largest Antique Housing catalog, my jaw nearing the floor. I'm not stupid, so obviously I was fully aware that his family's taste was bound to differ drastically from his own, yet somehow I was still immediately surprised by what I saw as soon as I stepped foot inside. From the faded, and most likely homemade, quilts draped over every piece of furniture surrounding me, to the countless religious paintings covering the walls like a second skin of sorts, it reminded me more of the interior of a pristine thrift store rather than a place where people lived.

The aforementioned paintings were definitely the most unnerving part of the entire living room; an audience of chubby-cheeked cherubs gazed down from each of the walls, so many that their overly-detailed and follow-your-every-movement type of soulless eyes sent prickles down my spine. There was an adamantly paranoid part of me that felt they were looking directly through me, directly into my soul, and it made me question if this was why Brendon's family had hung them there in the first place: To scare people out of the house. Either that or it was just my own guilty conscience finally catching up with me after all this time.

Trying to avoid their judgmental stares, I walked around a varnished book cabinet that did a moderately adequate job at concealing me from the ever-watchful pieces of artwork. A slight peek at what the immense shelves held confirmed my suspicions; atop the wooden surface sat dozens of copies of the Bible, all of them bound in black leather and embellished with gold. When I was younger, I probably would have appreciated this collection much more, however, now, it left me with a sense of something different, and unpleasant: irritation. What household needed over a dozen issues of the Bible? It seemed as though they were just trying to show off, as if the more Bibles you owned, the closer you were to God.

I tucked the box of chocolates and the plush turtle under my arm before picking up one of the books. I knew I probably shouldn't have done so, but the curiosity that bubbled inside me was almost too much to handle. As I opened it, the first thing that struck me was the overall poor condition of the pages. They looked worn beyond belief, many of them had been dog-eared, I assumed so the owner could look back on specific pages. Flipping the heavy book around in my hands, I spotted an unfamiliar name on the front. Stamped proudly across the cover of the book in bright gold lettering was the name: "Samuel Urie". Picking up another copy a few books down, I flicked through hundreds of pages whose small print verses were highlighted in a variation of rainbow colors. The name on the front of this one read: "Delilah Urie." Still feeling compelled to look over the rest of the Bibles for some strange reason, I found these Urie family Bibles dating back generations and generations. The two that sat next to the ones I'd picked up before, unsurprisingly belonged to David and Tricia Urie, worn beyond comparison to their children's. The pages of Pastor Dave's Bible were littered with highlighted quotes, and handwritten notes in the margins, all pertaining to sermons that I'd remembered hearing him give. I recognized this exact book to be the one he used to preach from on Sundays.

Suddenly I felt bad for having judged the family for their array of fancy books. It wasn't some kind of holier-than-thou pretense as I'd first thought it to be; it seemed now more like a family tradition, almost a rite of passage in a way, and it now made sense as to why they had so many of them.

Yet the obvious question still remained: Where was Brendon's copy? Did he even have one on the shelf here, or had he refused to even bother with scripture? I ran my finger along the line of dusty covers before landing on the farthest one down the line, pulling it out of its spot. Sure enough, it belonged to him according to the printed name, and it looked as if it had never even been opened before; the pages kept unsettlingly smooth and untarnished. It wasn't much of a shock, knowing Brendon Urie. I could hardly imagine Brendon sitting at a desk for hours, pouring his undivided attention all over the pages of a Bible. I bet the last time he'd even seen it was the day he had first received it. That wasn't a surprise at all.