I leave the Lenten service early again.
The child departs kicking and screaming, thrashing his body against mine. My soul is limp, my spirit faint, my flesh extremely weak. I carry him into the dark, across the yard, past the cars, up the stairs, into the house.
Escaping my grip he turns and runs back out the door.
The words of saints haunt me.
“How do you do it?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“You mean you’re not perfect?”
I retrieve the child. The other ones remain in the house of God without me. I return to the parsonage, shut the door, and collapse into the chair.
I say to God, my rock:
“Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
because of the oppression of the enemy?”
As with a deadly wound in my bones,
my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
“Where is your God?”
Despair seizes the moment and poisons my mind. I fantasize of letting them all know, really know, how I do it, what they’ve done to me, what this life has done to me. I’ll stumble into the church, stand at the back in the midst of the assembly, and scream insanity at them all. Then they’d know.
But my husband–I don’t want to embarrass him.
So instead I cry alone.
“I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping.”