Ramblings of a Survivor

Words spilled around me. I could see the pitcher above my head: an invisible hand holding its handle, the sheen of it’s white glaze mesmerizing me…no…TAUNTING me. I could see what was coming, but it was coming so slowly. TOO slowly.

Pour it out!!!

The hand holding it tipped in the wrong direction – stopping the flow.

NO NO NO – There’s something there! It wants to come out!

The liquid in the pitcher sloshed against its sides, almost reaching the spout…a few drops of relief splashed across the crest of its lip, falling to my parched existence. A moment of respite hit, only to give way to intense longing. My body stiffened. I shifted in my bed, adjusting the covers as images pitchers and water and words flowed across me.

Just say them all! SAY IT ALL, SAY IT NOW!

The bed beneath me turned to stone.

STOP IT! JUST LISTEN.

NO. SAY IT.

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The texture of the plastic chair beneath me juddered underneath my nails as I methodically ran my fingers over its textured surface; the silent conversation between its vibrations and my nervous system settling the anxiety that filled my body with the need to move. Tiny white traces of dead plastic – like the skin that rose from my elbows when I was alone in bed and had no fabric hindering my hands from finding solace in repetitive rubbing – the plastic gave me something to pick at, something that wasn’t my skin.

I wondered if one day I’d have picked off so much plastic that the chair would fall beneath me. I wondered if I’d ever be in the same chair so many times that I’d have removed enough of it that its structure would be so weak that the weight of my body would break the plastic that held it to the shiny chrome legs…I wondered if i’d be here all my life..

The woman in front of me squirmed – sitting up enough to adjust her skirt and blouse. Her tightly plaited hair flapping down across the back of her chair, almost hitting my legs.

A strong Welsh accent brought me back.

Turning my eyes to the altar, I refocused.

A middle age man stood, his right hand on his Bible which rested on a rather stout speaker’s podium. My eyes caught his – uncomfortably.

“When the Spirit of the Lord touches you…” he paused.

“When the Spirit of the Lord touches you….” He seemed to have lost his words.

“When the Spirit of the Lord touches you…”

Silence.

I had started sketching a palm tree. My eyes didn’t raise. The depth of discomfort from his stumbling gave me that tingly feeling in my toes…I started wishing words into his mouth….

“When the Spirit of the Lord touches you……….you are free!” I willed him to say.

Say it! “YOU ARE FREE”

SAY IT!!! COME ON!!! I willed it toward him.

Silence.

I forgot the palm tree in the top right corner of my notebook.

My eyes darted to the podium. What is happening?

I slowly turned my gaze to the altar. This charismatic speaker had the attention of all 350 of us. Brother and Sister Abbott, Elders, Group Leaders, spiritual leaders, followers….kids – we all were hanging on his next words.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But the Lord is leading me to say somethign to someone.”

Everyone glanced around. I looked around me, feeling the power of this moment.

Warwick – Brother Shenton – this visiting speaker from the Assemblies of God, UK was a force. He had something so charismatic, so real, so much what my faith wanted to BE.

He tapped his Bible, and glanced at Brother Abbott.

“Excuse me, Brother, but I’m feeling led to say something to someone who needs to hear it.”

He skipped the stairs and jumped down from the altar into the sea of chairs that the brothers had put out in the worship area after the song service had finished.

I looked over to my right at the “brothers” section then turned to the single women and the families who had arrived too late to claim a pew…with my mom and dad. My sister was sitting a few rows ahead of us, and I could see my brother Colin nestled between a really tall blond guy and his buddy Dez the only black member of our troupe.

Warwick made his way down the tiny aisle delineating the two groups. I turned my body to look at the scores of pews behind us. I wondered who he would approach. I scanned the congregation, but all eyes were on Brother Shenton.

Silence.

My body felt the anticipation. My heart beat fast.

This hadn’t happened ever that I could remember in my 12 years. He had just stopped a sermon because he had a message from the Lord!!!

As I started to turn my body back to the front of the Sanctuary, I froze.

He was standing in OUR row. Confident with a slight smile – or was it undertsanding? Standing. Still.

My eyes caught his.

A hush crept across the fellowship – a hush that is only as silent as the murmur of anticipation can be.

Suddenly a sound tore across the building – a roar that I was acutely aware was only heard by….ME.

He moved toward me, directly toward me.

I grabbed my notebook, a spiral bound notebook that I’d been writing in for months…one with hidden pictures on each of its covers…green foliage surrounding the image of a cat – mice hidden in its leaves, taunting its central figure. I’d loved it the minute I saw it; I’d asked for it as a Christmas gift. My fingers clenched.

Please not my dad. Please not my dad. I know we aren’t perfect, but we don’t need this.

PLEASE NOT MY DAD.

I bowed my head, begging God to choose someone else – not my dad.

The woman next to me scooted her legs to the right as she allowed Brother Shenton to pass. I started to move my legs to the left so he could do the same.

A hand touched my shoulder.

HIS HAND.

He had STOPPED MOVING.

My heart stopped. My body heat rose.

“This child. THIS CHILD has the gift of Gab. She has the gift of Gab.”

Chuckles arose around the church.

Echoes of AMEN…LOUD ones…

My neck felt like it was going to burst into flames, and the flames lit my skin on fire up to my scalp.

“You all know it – right?” He focused all the anticipatory energy that he had built among the crowd.

“Yes! You do! You know it! I don’t know this girl, never met her, but God is speaking, folks!”

I couldn’t even lift my eyes, let alone my head.

The cardboard cover of my notebook felt like paper. I was crushing it, bending it.

“And you all laugh. You all laugh because you don’t understand it. You don’t see that this is her gift from GOD.”

Silence fell.

“DO NOT mock her. Her ability to talk, will get others to talk. What you see as a foible is a GIFT. This girl will HEAL others with her words.”

His hand moved to my head. “I know you want to sink into the ground. I remember that feeling. I had that – I have that other than God’s Grace. Do NOT let others tell you to stop talking – and when they do tell you, which they will, and probably do: DO NOT STOP. You have the gift of gab – a gift that heals. Do NOT forget that. When you talk, when you share God’s message, you will help others talk, and THAT will heal people. Talking heals. You have the gift of gab – the gift of healing.”

His hand retreated. My mom put her hand on my leg. My dad shifted uncomfortably – the kind of discomfort that told me we would NEVER talk about this.

I saw Warwick’s feet take a few steps back. I couldn’t bring myself to sit up.

Not DAD?!?!?

NO! NOT ME!

“Ok, so back to my sermon. Sometimes God shakes things up a bit, eh?

The congregation erupted with laughter and agreement…

I didn’t hear a word more of that sermon:

“She has the gift of Gab. She has the gift of Healing. She will talk, and so others will talk. God has blessed her.”

The floor sank beneath me. I wanted to erase tonight, but I wanted to embalm it. I wanted to know it was true.

But I wanted it to not be true.