Alone

A woman sits alone. She is crying, silently. She has an air about her but there seems to have been beaten out of her. The curls in her hair are loose and frizzy. She is done. Her family is gone, her husband walked away, or perhaps she from him. One cannot tell anymore how it all started. After a certain time no one knows what caused what. Hope the woman knows is that she's alone. 

Why did it have to happen like this? I dramatic exit stage left. Jimi Hendrix departure. Dramatic, astounding. But now, the drama has passed and she is alone.

There is so much to mourn the woman feels dwarfed by it. The self-destruct button backfired and here she sits, alone. Her silent weeping it's like the silent condensation on a coffee cup – one full of hot black liquid, the steam appearing and vanishing in an instant. We are like grass, like steam – here one second and gone the next, taken away by the softest breeze. She thinks, her brow furrowed and quizzical. 

How did I get here? What cost what? She thinks. A domino effect – black and white ivory temperate tumbling down, but with no sign of the original offender, the original cause. Only sadness, morning, loss. It goes against all she's tried to build her entire life forced to grow up too soon, before the necessary maturity was ready. Handling adulthood while having not finished her childhood.

It wasn't her fault, she knows, but at some point it has to be her responsibility. Mourning must be the first step. Acknowledging that something was lost. She knew it briefly years ago but stuffed it down into a deep place – get it like a squirrel hides food for the winter. "Oh maybe need this someday "a place to put her soul whispers. Today is the day. Alone. Quiet. Peace on the surface, but sadness that must be felt. The only thing at her side is a breeze. Something one can see only the affects of and feel. Her mind wanders and she hears at whisper, "Come to me, ye lonely and weak hearted, and I will give you rest." The voice is audible and comforting, like a memory of her mother long ago. Yet it isn't her mother. It is a new voice. It is a man's voice, one with authority and strength, a comforting straight. She closes her eyes in the voice comes again"Come to me daughter and place your burden upon my shoulders. "She has heard this voice before it is the voice of her father, not her earthly father – he has never spoken this kind me to her house this voice. It is her heavenly father, her true and forever father.

And yet the loneliness presses in on her and she fights for centerstage. She embraces the aloneness her heavenly father by her side. The comforting preschools her from the possibility of overheating.

And she is free. Free from the pain, the shame. The breeze brushes away the hair covering her face and dried her tears. The breeze pushes her toward something she has only seen from a distance - she is surrounded. Alone but not lonely. There's no shame in the solitary existence as there was before.

The breeze

The peace

The fresh breath encompasses her like a blanket swaddling an infant.

Wrapped and protected from whatever may come. Even if it is herself.

Enemy

In my peripheral vision I see the beady eyes in the shadows. They glow as if lighted by some independent source. I know he is there, but I don’t want to look directly at him, or let him know in any way that I know he is watching me. I feel a shiver; reach for the hood on my jacket with which to cover my head. It feels safer that way. I turn to join the conversation near me and awkwardly stand next to my acquaintances. I don’t quite fit in and the conversation isn’t directed at me so I stand half-turned away and look around the room. Take a sip of coffee and look back toward the girls for an opportunity to join in the talking. They are engaged with each other so I just stand there. Over the shoulder of the girl across from me I see the eyes again. He is whispering now; so quietly no one but me can hear, “You don’t belong here.” I look to the face of the lady standing across from me and she flashes a welcoming smile.

“Does she like me? Did I do something to upset her once? Maybe it was that one time at that party when…” I think to myself, running the list of our interactions through my brain.

I know what is happening. It’s not her, but him. I know his tricks. I’ve fought them before. He is relentless. He knows my triggers.

I stand sipping my coffee, trying to pretend my enemy isn’t there too. But I know he is. I focus on how to interact in this group, what I can say, what I can ask.

“What are you doing for the holidays,” a friendly voice to my left queries of me.

“Oh just staying home this year, making a family dinner,” I reply. He slinks back into the shadows. He is being weakened. He cannot stand against me anymore right now. I relax, keep sipping my coffee.

Soon we must move on, so I pack the kids into the car and listen to an audiobook. The beautiful writing of Miss Louisa May Alcott reminds me of a simpler time. I wonder what it would have been like to live then and only concern myself with household things. My circle would be much smaller than it is now.

Upon arriving home I am flurried with the list of to-dos. Feed the kids, feed myself (I am bordering on feeling so hungry I could pass out), sweep the floor, and get the kids into quiet time. I mindlessly check my phone.

I see those beady eyes once again. He is crawling closer now, like the snake he is, squirming along the floor and trying to sneak up on me. He knows this is a place in which he can trap and devour me. Pretending he is not there, I scroll. Santa and Mrs Claus beam from my phone, it’s a picture of my mom and dad dressed in festive wear. She is wearing a pretty red and green silk dress with holly leaves along the bottom. It complements Santa well.

It was my dress when I was a child. A fat child. A child who had to have that dress specially made.

I hear him whisper. The hissing of his lies tempts me to fear and shame. He is harsh and ruthless in his accusations. He is nothing but a vault of lies and hate. There is no end to the depth of his depravity. He won’t waste any more time. He attacks with full force, “You’re nothing but a fat girl who nobody wants as a friend.”

I look up from my phone and see a reminder I have written on my wall for times like these: “My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand.”

That’s right, Enemy. You will not snatch me from my Father’s hand. He has a grip on me that will never weaken.

The house is quiet; my kids are in their rooms for an hour of peace. I sit to write. 

A day for a boy

January 18, 2016

I wake to the rustle of the person next to me. Upon opening my eyes she is standing there staring, smiling. “Hello,” she says excitedly. I wipe my eyes, climb out of bed, and fumble downstairs, still not quite steady on my feet. My tummy rumbles with hunger, I wonder what’s for breakfast today. It’s taking forever. Why can’t she hurry up? The Lady seems to have her own timetable for things which I cannot understand. She finally come downstairs and works on my breakfast. But first, her coffee. Always coffee. I love tasting it; the sweetness, the bite, the warmth on my tongue and in my tummy. She never lets me have as much as I want.

            We sit and food appears. Today it’s something in a bowl with a spoon. The word “oatmeal” is tossed around by the others. I’m not quite sure about the steaming pile in front of me, but then milk and sugar is added and my tummy is growling at me so I take a spoonful. Mmmm, it’s good. I eat and eat until I feel about to burst. Warm oatmeal followed by cold juice mixes in my stomach. I finish and walk back into the kitchen to wash my hands. The water is cold, that lady never lets the water warm up for washing, says it takes too long.

            I am ushered into a room and told to play. There are toys for me and the others. It starts to get really loud because everyone is playing, but The Big One and The Other Big One are working. They sit at a high table on top of which I cannot see. It’s like a magical table that I’m not allowed to see or understand. It’s frustrating. They do stuff without me all the time. I sit and play and stack and bounce balls and color. The Lady shouts, “Hey stinky!” I laugh. I know what she’s going to try to make me do next. She chases behind me as I run away, laughing heartily. I can’t outrun her so she scoops me up, carrying me into the next room. She changes my diaper, laughing and tickling me. She’s sweet when she wants to be. Why was I mad at her earlier?

            We sit again at the table and food appears. Looks like bread with some goo on it. The words “peanut butter sandwich” are tossed around by the others. I take a bite. Mmmm, it’s good. I think the Big One made this today. The lady doesn’t always do everything. She has her own food sometimes. I wonder why she doesn’t eat the sandwich like me. I’m not really that hungry, but I eat some sandwich, and then go back into the kitchen to clean my hands. The water is warm this time! It’s a miracle.

            The Lady swoops me up again and I know what’s coming next. Oh how I want to stay up and play. Why does this always happen every day? She’s so mean; she never asks me what I think! She must hate me. I know it. It’s so loud now, and that noise is coming from me. Maybe it’ll convince her to change her mind and let me stay downstairs. Nope. Binky. Bed. “Nighty night,” she says. “I love you buddy.” Hmm, this is actually kinda nice, I think. And  fade to black.

            I wake to the warmth near my bottom. Now it’s cold. I’m not really sure what to do next, because usually someone wakes me up. Then the door opens and I see the Other Big One with her smiley face coming to get me. We go downstairs and I find the Lady. She’s standing in the kitchen just like before. It’s like she lives there. “Hello, can I get some food,” I think. I make some noise but she’s not getting the message. She comes down to my eye level, “I think you need some new pants,” she says. I dutifully obey and head to the bathroom and lay down. “Good boy,” she says.

            After the Change, I get a cup from the drawer and bring it to her. If she doesn’t understand what I want now then she’s an idiot. “Gimme food, Woman,” I think. Thank God, she’s going for the cracker box. She pours some in my cup and I sit down. The crunch of the cracker is so satisfying. The Lady is listening to something, and it makes my bum wiggle. Boom, boom, boom; the beat is perfect for spinning. I am ushered out of the kitchen and told again to “Go play.” I want to be in there with her! She’s so mean.

            Oh wait, I think, there’s something sparkly. I walk over to it, and I can’t remember what I was just upset about. It doesn’t matter anymore. The Middle One is sitting with a book, I want it. I take it. Out of nowhere she hauls off and hits me. Why? She’s so mean. The Lady intervenes and I get the book back, The Middle One has to leave. Yes! She’s amazing, that Lady.

            A sound from the door to the outside, it’s the Man! Yaaay! He’s home! He gives me a squeeze and cuddles me. My snack cup spills. He pulls me onto his back and makes noises and runs around. The room spins frantically, like that one time at a park.

            I am set at the kitchen table and food appears in front of me. Tonight it’s rice with some brown stuff. I take a bite. Mmmm, it’s good. The words “chicken curry” are tossed around by the others. Everyone else has some red sauce on it, I want some. The Lady gives me a little and I lick it. Oh my! That’s horrible! Who would ever eat that garbage! Eww! It’s so loud! I hate it! She hands me some water which I gulp. Mmm, that’s better.

            I move to the kitchen and my hands are washed. It’s warm this time. “Go play,” she says. I sit on the couch and shortly she comes over. We lay on the couch together. This is my favorite. It’s so warm and I like hearing her chest beating. I like her. She’s so warm and squishy.

            Uh oh. I can feel something happening. It’s like a compacting, my tummy feels strange. Then, a squishing, a squirming. And then, release. Relief.

I’m whisked upstairs again. The Lady means business this time. No laughing here. She’s working magic that I can’t see, but it feels cleaner in my diaper. Oh, that’s better. She’s nice to do that. I wouldn’t want to. She puts on my warm clothes and we snuggle with a book. I pick out the soft one that makes noises. I like that one. The Man comes in with the Middle One, The Boy, The Older One and the Other Older One. We are all together. I look around at their faces, they all look alike. I like them.

The story is over so The Lady lays me on her shoulder and sings a nice song, then lays me on my pillow. I like this time. Night night Mommy. 

Open Letter

Dear Mark,

About a month ago, I saw you in an airport. You were standing in a café waiting for your coffee and breakfast sandwich, as it was about seven in the morning. I heard the barista bellow, “Mark” when your coffee was ready, and I saw you reach forward to get it. I recognized the heavy steel ring on your finger as it grasped the paper cup. You looked unremarkable. I wonder if anyone else recognized you as the “cussing pastor” as I did. The pastor I followed and defended and felt like I “knew” when really you probably didn’t even know my name.

I don’t know if you saw me, or knew who I am, or that I attended your church for twelve years. I don’t know if you recognized me as the person who taught the preschool class your son was in that one time. I don’t know if you knew it was me who wrote that email to you about Genesis 50, the one you personally replied to. That was before the church was so big you had people check your emails for you, I believe.

I just wanted to say, thank you. Thank you for abandoning your church. Thank you for putting money over people, a sin you committed in private that eventually made it’s way public. Thank you for leading your church into the ground. That’s on you.

Thank you for all this, because now I know who are my real friends, my real family. I know what true community is, and it has NOTHING to do with all of us believing or doing the same things. It has NOTHING to do with all of us going to the same church or being in a community group together. It has NOTHING to do with how often or how much I serve someone or be served by someone.

Thank you for these things, because now I know what a healthy church looks like. Now I know what a healthy pastor looks like. Not you. A healthy pastor doesn’t look like how you pastored. I also know that there is no perfect church, but there can be unhealthy, bone-draining churches.

If I had been less “starstruck” (for lack of a better word) that morning in the airport, I would have approached you. I would have expressed how the time spent at your church was the best and worst of my life. That I’m glad all that shit went down a few years ago because it woke me up from the sleepwalking faith that I had.

I don’t want to see you again ever, but if I do, I will tell you these things. I will expect you to respond like a sheep, like you never did anything wrong, like you were framed for those things that ripped apart thousands of lives. You will continue to play the humble “I’m like Jesus” card when you are anything but.

You will be held accountable as a pastor. You preached on that yourself, to impart a holy fear to men who aspired to the clergy. Listen to your past sermons, Mark. God miraculously used your words to turn thousands of hearts to Him. But you tried to get the glory, not Him. And HE will not have any of it.