I began Speaking

I went to church last Sunday, and it was ... invigorating.

I haven't been to church in a number of years. I go every once in a while on Palm Sunday, because I like playing with the palm fronds and because I know that it makes my mother happy. After turning eighteen, I was old enough to make my own decision about whether or not I wanted to go to church, and I kept going for about a year. I thought of it as a learning experience, not a religious one, and eventually I got tired of waking up in the morning.

I visited a friend of mine last weekend. She's a particularly religious person, I've always known this about her. It didn't really hit home how much so until I was a bridesmaid in her wedding. There were prayers (actual prayers, not just the usual what's-expected-at-a-wedding-prayers) and they took communion and made a point to say that their marriage was not between the two of them. It was not simply blessed by God, but included him. Their marriage was a happy threesome.

Knowing this about her, I've always been surprised when she skips church when I come into town. I don't mind church. I always went with Mom, I've been to other churches. Again, I look at it as an experience to learn more about other people and the way they see the world. But last weekend her husband was speaking. Giving a sermon, sort of, but that's not really what it is in this church. And that's not really how it feels, either. I like her husband, like him a lot. He's always made an effort to be friends with me, knowing that I'm important in her life, and I wanted to be sure to do the same for him.

So, of course I went to hear him speak. That was my only intention, was to hear him speak. I would do all of the other things that you were expected to do in church (except take communion, I haven't done that since I was fifteen or so), like sing and stand and sit and listen attentively.

I was struck. I don't know how else to say it. The burial had only been two days before, and, even though I had left the burial feeling better, my emotions were raw and close to the surface. I can't tell you how many times I was touched by the peace that radiated in that room. When people sang, they were really singing, really feeling the words and notes and what they meant. They said prayers under their breath and improvised during musical interludes. People were dancing and lifting their hands in the air and laying on the ground in rapture.

The way these people trusted in God, trusted in him to make them whole and provide them with answers is something that I have envied in the past. Especially when times are hard. Especially through this death. I've often found myself thinking how much easier it would be if I could trust that there had been a plan, a purpose to this suffering that we are all left with. I've wanted it so badly, to feel comforted by an inability to understand a divine plan, but I can't seem to find it.

I managed to hide the tears I felt during the ceremony, but it wasn't easy. I didn't want anyone there to know my struggle, my pain. I wanted to store it inside and keep it for myself, keep until I could deal with it on my own time in my own way.

The pastor said (in reference to coming forward for communion), "Come forward when it feels right to you. And leave your grievances behind. If you hold a grudge against your neighbor, talk with God and find peace with that. Don't come up holding offense in your heart."

And all I could think about was how the biggest offense I was holding in my heart was with God and the universe for leaving me and my family in this state of permanent grief.



After church, I found myself with a bunch of people that I didn't know. My friend had gone off to do something church-like, and I was left to fend for myself. Out in the parking lot, I found myself talking to a girl that I had possibly met once or twice before. I didn't remember her, didn't remember her name, but she asked me about my tattoos.

I'll often give a general explanation of the tattoos on my wrist. I usually have to explain that my right wrist says "Write" and the left one says "Give." I got "Write" a year ago, to represent that I'm a writer. A few months ago, I knew that I wanted to get the word "Give" but I couldn't decide on a symbol to put behind the word. When my cousin died, I knew that I needed a flower, a flower that had particular meaning that could represent her. I decided on the larkspur, which means beautiful spirit. Having that simple embodiment of her, subtle though it may be, felt like the least that I could do.

I don't typically go into that kind of detail when people ask my newest tattoo. Unless I'm talking to a person who already knows of the death that I've been dealing with, I try not to bring it up. Sometimes, it just feels easier not to have to think about it.

But when this girl asked me about my tattoo, the words just started coming. I don't know why, I couldn't have explained it or shut myself up. For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to this girl, this girl whose name I didn't even know. I explained to her about the accident, about the type of person my cousin was. I told her that we had just had the burial. I talked to her about how hurt the family has been, how hurt I've been. I ended up telling her things that I haven't talked about to anyone.

It just seemed like the right thing to say. Maybe it was to help her. Maybe it was to help me. I don't really know. But I felt like God was speaking to me. Or the universe. Whatever you want to call it. That's about all the explanation I have for it.