"Do you want to go home now?" At the end of every revolution I had to ask this, and I held my breath every time with the sad knowledge that she would have to say "yes" eventually. But most of the time, she would smile at me and say "Let's go around again" and I would press harder on the gas pedal in case she changed her mind.

We had started doing this after one of our tutoring sessions at the nearest bookstore coffee shop. Driving back to her house, I had remarked that I didn't understand the concept of grace. It was difficult for me to wrap my mind around the idea that admittance into heaven only required a declaration of faith. We seemed to talk about religion a lot; perhaps it was because we were both at the age when spiritual curiousity peaks (now I understand there is another peak in mid-life). As it turned out, Sally absorbed her religion from fanatically religious grandparents, both born-again Christians who had substituted a relationship with Christ for their mutual dissatisfaction with marriage. They helped raise Sally and Samantha when the parents were learning the ropes of franchising gas stations, and their religiosity had a lasting effect on Sally as she was a regular attendee of sunday services. As a result, she always rose to the defense of Christian doctrine. It was clear, however, that she usually did not understand the concepts she defended. Whenever finer theological points came up, she resorted to some vague statement that included the words "Lord" and "love".

That particular night, she was unhappy with that usual line of argument, and so, as my car approached her house, she asked me to take another round trip to the bookstore so we could keep talking. It was, of course, exciting to spend more time with Sally, especially at night and in a car. For some unknown reason that science will perhaps never discover, a moving car after sunset makes the drab buildings and strip malls of our everyday existence appear more mystical, and any music being played becomes suddenly immersive and hypnotic. It was the right environment to start feeling the pangs of love.

But I was glad that we kept talking for another reason. Sally revealed this little gem: "Your focusing too much on grace. Grace is a wonderful thing and you should just accept that God will embrace you if you're faithful. And that's where the answer is: Faith. The thing is that saying you believe in God and Jesus Christ isn't enough. In fact, a lot of people sincerely think they believe in God, but you know, they don't really think about God when they're faced with a tough decision. Faith means believing in it deeply enough, all the way to your bones, so that it affects your every thought and action. It means being so sure there is a hell that you put aside pride, greed, convenience, and even happiness to do the right thing those few times you're tested. If you have that kind of faith, then of course the Lord , in his infinite love, will let you into the kingdom of Heaven despite some sins along the way."

So there it was. All my standard teenage cynicism about organized religion notwithstanding, I had no answer for this simple and logical assessment of the nature of faith and grace. She had even thrown in "Lord" and "love" and yet this time her words were reasonable, powerful, and even uplifting. It stirred me a bit at the time but I didn't become religious then. And now I wonder if I ever will. When things between Sally and I fell apart, I thought about whether her actions when she left me fit with her concept of faith. Did she act out of pride, greed, revenge, self-happiness, or did she act out of faith? Did she listen to the soft voice of the angel on her left shoulder, or did she give in to the devil's forked tongue on the right? I admit my prejudice but I tell you that I thought about this with a separate part of my mind than the part that was yellow, black and brown and oozing blood from her attacks. I concluded that faith did not enter her mind when she did the things she did. And if Sally couldn't be faithful when her test came, what hope is there for the rest of us? What hope is there for me?

And still, I smile when I think about those endless round-trips between her house and the bookstore. On occasion, Sarah did make me a little bit wiser with these small sermons, but our conversations were usually lighter, covering things like the movies or the latest grunge band to hit it big, and I reveled in observing little things about her, like her ability to raise just one eyebrow when I told a bad joke or the way she fiddled with the door lock when we flirted.

It makes me sad to think that I will likely never convince a career-ont to regularly go nowhere in a car with me, despite the opportunities for sharing wisdom and the heightened effects of sight, sound, and speech. And yet, most of the conts are perfectly content to run on treadmills or some variation several times a week for miles at a time, silenty sweating to their ipods. Apparently, unless calories are burning and muscles are tightening, going nowhere is considered wasting time.

My phone is ringing; I already know that it's my mother worrying about me. She was already pregnant when she was 25.