THE GOD WHO SEES - Epilogue

In the coming weeks and months, I thought a lot about what Melody (I?  Me?  Mee-lody?) had said.  I did have some decisions to make, and I wasn’t sure if knowing that I’d already made them successfully helped or not.  People always say they wish they knew the future.  I discovered that actually knowing wasn’t quite the advantage most imagine it to be.  It seemed to raise more questions than it answered.

I found myself eventually trying very hard to put the whole experience out of my mind.  I had other things that needed my attention, anyway, like finding a way out of the dark, dank cave I’d been living in for what seemed like most of my life.  Fanciful and perhaps imaginary trips to weird rooms didn’t seem like much help in that endeavor.

It must have been about a year later when I finally had something of a breakthrough.  I’d been thinking about everything and nothing in particular when a thought came into my head that turned into another and another and another until I grabbed my journal and started writing.

There is a subtle but very strong pressure exerted on all of us from the moment of birth.  We are quieted and shushed as soon as we make our entrance into this world.  No one tells us it’s okay to be sad.  For whatever reason, everyone tells us that sadness is unacceptable.  But I think in Christian circles, it’s taken a soul-crushing step further because it’s STRONGLY implied that if you are sad, there is something seriously wrong with you and how can you even call yourself a Christian, anyway???  I grew up believing that sadness equaled faithlessness, disbelief, and bad Christianity.  Instead of feeling sad and taking it to God, I felt sad and then felt varying degrees of a troubled spirit because I was feeling sad.  All I could do was focus on how troubled I was that I was sad in the first place.

I knew somewhere in my heart and spirit that what I’d been taught for so many years wasn’t right, but I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it.

I just knew that people telling me to “let it go and lay it at the feet of Jesus” or “leave the past in the past and move forward because that’s what God wants you to do” helped me not one single iota.  And eventually, I think all that sad turned into something else.  Hearing that I shouldn’t be sad or that my sad didn’t matter nearly as much as someone else’s sad...I think it started to be a whole lot easier to be enraged with people instead of allowing my heart to be continually smashed about by them.

So Rachel was right.  I’ve never been just sad.  My sadness has always come with a heaping side dish of steaming hot rage.  Rage at all those people who told me that I shouldn’t be sad; rage at all those people who tried to fix me instead of listening to me; rage at God Himself.

WHY, GOD, WHY?

WHY DO YOU STAND SO FAR AWAY,

SILENT AND ALOOF,

HEEDLESS OF MY ANGUISH?

YOU HAVE CONCEALED YOURSELF

and I am undone.

You did not protect,

but will You avenge?

You did not safeguard,

but will You vindicate?

After I finished writing, I put my pen down and looked at the words I’d just written.  There it was in green and white.  My challenge.  My accusation.  My plea.  Would I receive an answer?

I’d long forgotten anything having to do with strange rooms, old photos, and curious devices when my answer came in the most unexpected of ways.  I was sitting at the tea house with Rachel when an elderly woman came in with two younger women and sat at a table near us.  There was nothing remarkable about her and after a brief glance when they sat down, I returned my attention to the conversation I was having with Rachel.  Then the elderly woman spoke and I almost dropped my teacup.  I drew a sharp breath and, regrettably, inhaled my mouthful of tea.

“Hey, are you okay?” Rachel asked, her voice full of concern.

Coughing and gasping, I could only nod my head.  Rachel kept a careful eye on me while I continued to splutter.

When I could finally speak, I whispered, “That woman,” as I nodded in the direction of the elderly woman.  “I know her.”

Rachel casually looked at the table I indicated.  She shook her head slightly and shrugged her shoulders.

“We’ve never met her,” I whispered again.

“What?” Rachel whispered back.

My head was reeling as the memories came flooding back.  Images danced in front of my eyes and I recalled the man in the military uniform, the young woman with the curly hair, the couple with the baby.  I could hear the voices again coming from the device that seemed to be floating in the air.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”  Rachel’s voice brought me back to the present.

“Yeah.  I’m fine,” was all I could muster.

Rachel looked at me.  “That is not the face of fine,” she muttered.

I hadn’t told her anything about what had happened to me.  It was so unbelievable that I couldn’t see trying to explain it to anyone, even Rachel.  But now I began to wonder.  Maybe this wasn’t something I should have kept to myself.

“Are you — ” I began hesitantly, “ — are you in the mood for a story?”

“You know I am,” Rachel replied with a slight smile and a curious look in my direction.  “Does it have to do with that woman?”

Before I could talk myself out of it, I jumped in and spent the next hour trying my best to relay the events that I had worked so hard to forget.  Apart from the odd clarifying question, Rachel did what she did best and listened intently.  I wound my tale down and looked fearfully at my friend.

“That was...whoah.  And you think she — ” Rachel indicated the woman still sitting near us, “ — you think she’s one of them?”

“As sure as I can be without actually talking to her,” I said, inwardly breathing a huge sigh of relief that her first question wasn’t, “Don’t you think you should check yourself into a psych ward?”

“Huh.”  Rachel’s expression was thoughtful and intense.  “You know what this reminds me of?  That time when Elijah thought he was the only prophet left in Israel.”

I don’t know how she did it, but Rachel was able to bring up the Bible in any conversation without making it seem unnatural or forced.  It was a skill I greatly admired and wished I possessed.

“Um, okay,” I responded uncertainly.

“Remember?  He was all sad and depressed and angry because he thought he was the only one left.  He’d just done this amazing thing that ended with the prophets of Baal being shown for the utter fakes they were, and the only thanks he got was a death threat from Jezebel.”  The more she talked, the more animated she became.  “I mean, who wouldn’t be bummed after that?  And then God fed him and he went to the cave in Mount Horeb.”

“Yeah, I always thought that story should end with God being all understanding and stuff because, you know, He’s God,” I interjected.  “But instead, He just gave him a bunch of errands.”

“I know, huh!  I wrestled with that for a long time.  You know what I realized, though?  I realized that God did exactly what Elijah needed.  He didn’t need God to get all weepy and sentimental.  He needed to know that his life still had meaning.  That everything he’d done wasn’t pointless.”  Rachel looked at me intently.  “He needed to know that God saw everything he’d been through and it mattered to Him.”

I returned my friend’s steady gaze.  I knew my circumstances were radically different than those of Elijah, but my need was exactly the same.  I needed to know that I mattered.  To God.  To other people.  As I pondered that thought, I glanced at the elderly woman who was now leaving with the young women who I thought might be her granddaughters.  I knew that our paths would cross again someday, and I would find a way to help her realize that, just like me, she really did matter.