My heart had been bleeding continually after Kenya’s murder. I was twenty-one at the time of his death. I was seeking out the Jesus of my childhood, but He seemed more like a distant stranger. A dream. A wonderful idea, but somehow an unattainable friendly ghost. It seems like the times in life when we are most ready to find the truth, we’re first met with a familiar lie. I was seeking truth to fill up the empty space in my life. Then at almost perfect timing, he appeared. He was in front of me. He was real, something I could touch and feel. His smile was not carefree like Kenya’s, nor strong like Hasan’s. His smile was that of one who was damaged. Hurt. Suffered from unfair beginnings, and yet pushed through. He was determined. He was looking for the bright side of life, while doing what he had to do to maneuver through the darkness. His smile was real. Not hopeful, but grounded in today. I could relate to the rawness of that season. I found it refreshing to admit I was lost. He extended his hand, and I willingly grabbed it. I allowed the familiar stranger to lead me into his world, as well as his bedroom, full of sin and lust. The deceptive freedom of those moments were sweet.
The bliss that wrapped its arms around me promising to never let go muffled the whispers and signs that warned I should not make my bed in that place. I ignored the visions, spiritually and literally, that showed me my familiar stranger already had a family, young mother and child. Wisdom was drowned out for my need to feel. To be selfish, to be satisfied by my own hand. He satisfied a need and, for a brief moment, the pain seemed to stop. For three lust-filled months his smile filled my heart, home, and at the fourth month, my womb. Then just like any sin, once its roots are established, the sweetness quickly faded into a bitter aftertaste of shame. His smile faded. Worry lines appeared across his head. Concern and fear showed up on his face.
As life began its process in the darkness of me, my familiar stranger slowly faded out of our love story. I’d call … no answer. Distant stranger. I was alone again. This time was different. My heart could not bleed. The life growing inside of me wouldn’t allow it, for this seed required all of me, all of my blood to become. So instead of bleeding, tears constantly flowed. My smile was gone for the remainder of that season. I sowed lust and deception, and in turn reaped shame and abandonment. Few words were spoken. More evaluation of my choices was done. They say the third time’s the charm. I was twenty-three when I conceived my son with my distant stranger. Like leaves falling from trees he came in a season, and exited just as quickly when the season changed, leaving me alone to ask myself, who am I...?