48

I ran my finger over the calendar. It had been one year ago today, just four days before Christmas, since my abortion.

I gazed out the window at the fresh blanket of snow and felt vaguely annoyed by its brilliance. This was not a day to celebrate, nor a day that represented freshness. Not only was it the anniversary of an event I had tried to forget—drove myself over the edge of sanity in order to forget—but it was Sunday, and I had no desire to go to church.

I’d attended a few services since moving to the city, and Jack had always made it clear that I was under no obligation to attend. Which suited me. Still, Jack had done so much for me, and I felt more than a small duty to support him.

I sipped my coffee and sighed, a stone of discontent lodged in my belly. I didn’t know what I wanted, to be alone or to be with people. To stay or go. Restless, I snatched up the TV remote and clicked on the set. A flat-screen TV, mounted near the top cupboards, swelled to life. I swallowed more coffee, feeling the warmth of it seep into the rock in my gut. I flipped through the channels; a showcase of religious programming, infomercials, and sports programs. Just when I decided to turn it off, a familiar face filled the screen and my breath caught in my throat.

I froze, remote still pointed at the television, as the Reverend J. D. Slater hollered, red-faced, from his pulpit into the camera. “God is not mocked!” he shouted. “The Bible tells us He knows what’s been done in the dark places. He sees what’s done in the secret places.” Rev. Slater pointed an accusing finger at the camera, at me. “You think you can do as you please and go unpunished?” He paused for dramatic effect, I supposed. It affected me dramatically and I held my breath, waiting for my punishment to fall from the heavens. “God is a heavenly spotlight, blasting rays of truth into the dark corners of your life. He’ll expose your sin, and in the light of His high beams of holiness, you’ll have nowhere to run.” His chins wagged in fury. “No more excuses. You’ll be face-to-face with your wretchedness.”

With a trembling finger, I clicked off the TV and stared at the blank screen. I’d already been face-to-face with my wretchedness. I’d walked down that path. Maybe I was still walking it. My memories were intact, but my heart was still a box of shattered glass. And I had serious doubts that God could put it back together. Or would care to. At least not the God I saw reflected in The Reverend. His was an angry God. A black-and-white, right-and-wrong sort of God, much like The Reverend himself. A God who’d condemned me with his “high beams of holiness.”

But then there was the God I saw reflected in Jack. A God of seemingly endless patience. One who befriended people, walked beside them. A God whom Jack believed loved me. I used to assume I knew what love was.

But what kind of love could God have for someone like me? The love demonstrated by The Reverend or the kind demonstrated by Jack? Which one was the real God?

A small thought formed in my mind. Ask Him. I pushed it away. It struck me as the height of irony that hearing from dead people was mental illness, while millions believed it was sane as a Sunday drive to hear the voice of God.

I pushed my hands through my hair. What would I say to God, anyway? And what would He say to me?

Ask Him.

A tremble rippled across my lower back and up my spine. My body shook as if cold.

I spoke into the open space. “Who are you?”

I am the One who made you.

A sensation like a hand, warm as liquid honey, touched me, permeating my skin. Firm and soothing, yet light and calm, it caressed me, cradled me.

I whispered, “Oh, God.”

I am the One who knows you.

I was overcome with immediate intimacy. I felt a sensation like the deep searching of a hand, tender as it moved over the scar tissue slashed across my life. It massaged my mind and stroked the welted wounds of my spirit. I reached back with longing. A reunion of lovers lost to each other over time, now free to explore. The hand slid over my womb and lay like a blanket, and I cried out as our sorrow mingled together there.

Then warm honey flowed over the base of my spine, and my trembling stopped. An image of a hot, spinning marble lodged between my vertebrae filled my mind. It contained all of my anger, compressed into a tiny ball and hidden from my view.

The honey stopped just short of reaching the ball. I understood instinctively what was being asked of me; the One who knew me would not force His way into my anger; He only waited. My anger, my hatred, was justified. I’d been betrayed and had suffered because of it. Still, He waited.

I breathed my permission with one word, “Yes.” In an instant that place was invaded with warmth and I heard the crack of marble breaking open, shattering. I went down to my knees. A groan, deeper than words, poured out from my mouth.

God bathed me with His presence and my mind called out to Him, “I am known by You.”

And He sang back to me, My love, my love.