The Plan.

My steps are hard and loud. As I hurry up the gravel path towards the church, my breathing and my heartbeat are pulling and pushing against each other, making the heat inside my chest even more chaotic. My thoughts are skipping and lurching, unable to keep a single coherent line. The anger is seeping out of my bones, burning as it rushes towards the furious pull of my heart. My stomach is doing its best to control the convulsions, but the fire is strong, and I expect to be on my hands and knees vomiting lava onto the grass with every step. My hands shake as they reach for the handle, unable to contain the venom much longer. My body does not have the capacity to hold this type of wrath, and I fear I might be split apart from the effort.

            The door swings towards me, feeling like a lead weight, dragging on its hinges, keeping me from what lay behind it. As I make my way to the sanctuary, a sob breaks through, making me double over with the effort to hold it back. I can't break yet. There is nothing he can do to help me now, but I need to make him see. I need him to be a witness to my fury, to confirm that it's real and hot and alive. I bite down on my tongue in the effort to hold back the wave that is threatening to overtake me. The metallic taste of blood and the sharp sting of pain is enough to appease the anger for now. I wretch myself up and make my way to the sanctuary, going around the inviting desks lined with pamphlets about inviting Jesus into your heart and dealing with loss and grief. I pull the double doors open with one sweeping motion, revealing an empty and dimly lit space. I keep my eyes trained ahead and I make my way toward the altar, grabbing a hymnal from one of the pews as I pass it. The book is heavy in my hand, filled with songs of praise and rejoicing, songs of sadness and mercy. The songs of my childhood fill this book, songs that offered me comfort in times before this. There will be no singing tonight.

As I near the front of this holy space, a part of me notices that there is someone standing in the shadows.  He’s stood up, surprised at my sudden entry, but I ignore his alarmed but saddened eyes and continue my march forward.  Without stopping, I pull my arm back and hurl the hymnal forward.  With an echoing thud, it bounces off the cross that’s hanging over the altar, watching over us each week as we come and go.  The cross vibrates softly, but otherwise continues its silent guard.  I reach over into the front pew and grab another book, not caring to look if I’ve grabbed another hymnal or an unlucky pew Bible.  I send this one the way of the first, a sound escaping me, either a grunt or a sob, I’m not sure which.  I go to the opposite pew, take hold of two books, turn and send them towards the cross as well.  Book after book hit my mark, the cross humming softly with each blow, taking my anger and turning it into a soft, strange music. 
            As I hurl another book, I feel the wall inside of me crumble away.  It’s as if the whole thing comes down at once, releasing the torrent, letting it overtake me.  I fall to my knees and give in to the sob that’s been climbing its way up my throat.  As my body is rocked by wave after wave of despair, I curl up at the foot of the altar.  My mind does not know how to process the sudden deluge of emotion, so it retreats and waits silently, giving my pain the space it needs to burn itself out.  Time becomes a non-entity, passing by without making eye-contact, doing it’s best to not intrude. 
            After a time, I am aware of a hand on my back, a soft murmuring above me.  As my sobs grow quieter, I recognize the voice of my pastor.  I realize he must have been the one standing, watching my assault on the cross.  I don’t have the energy to feel ashamed, though I don’t think I would anyway.  He continues his soft prayer, knowing full-well what drove me here.  His hand continues to lie on my back, holding me down, keeping me from dislodging from this world all-together. 
            “I’m sorry about the books,” I murmur.
            “No, you’re not.”
            “You’re right.”
            A moment of silence passes between us.  It gives me a chance to take an unsteady breath.  I don’t have the energy to sit up, so I remain curled on the floor, under the ever-watchful eyes of the cross, which looks no worse for wear despite my onslaught.  The thought comforts me…  barely. 
            “I’m so mad at him.”
            My pastor considers this for a moment, wondering which I am referring to, God or the one that tore my world from me.  Thinking I would go on, he waits silently.
            “I just needed him to see.” My breath catches and I stop before I can sink into my pain again.

           “Did you not think he saw before?”
           I sit up so I can look him in the eyes.  “I needed to see him seeing.” I look up to the cross.  “I needed him to see my anger. I needed him to take some of the wrath.”  I turn and look back at my pastor.  “It will burn me alive if I can’t give it away.  I just…” I close my eyes in hopes of stopping the tears that are forming anew.  They fall anyway.  “I just needed to feel like I could mourn with him, you know?” 

He nods, not breaking eye contact with me.  “God does see it; you know he has a plan…”

My eyes flare and he stops talking immediately.  “This is not part of his plan!” I yell.  “Everyone needs to stop telling me that THIS is HIS PLAN.”  I see the shock register on his face, and it’s enough to calm me.  “I’m sorry.  I just… I just cannot hear that again.  This… this,” I say, touching my heart, “is not part of his plan.  His plan was one with a happy ending.  His plan did not include cruelty, and pain, and…” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep my soul steady.  My heart pounds with a mix of fury and anguish.  I have to forcibly choke the last word out. “Death.”  The finality of the word loosens my hold, and my soul slips through my grasp and breaks open, spilling its pain once again. 

           I call out, whether with my voice or with my soul I can’t be sure.  I call to the God who formed her in my womb, I call to the God who knit her together, I call to the God who now holds her again in his arms.  My arms cover my head and pull at my hair.  I cannot contain my grief.  I know her pain is over, and that mine is just beginning.  I call again to the God who is and was. I call to the God that must feel every bit of their anguish when one of his children is in pain.  I call to the God who I believe weeps just as much as his child when sin and death sweep through their life. I call to the God who gave us a way out, and is waiting to make his plan come to fruition.  I call to the God of mercy, of love, of hope, of life.  I call to my God, and I know that my pain is not eased, and will not be for a long while, but I know he will be there, watching silently, turning my anger and grief into sad, quiet music, until the day when It. Is. Done.