Church...

I lean out of the passenger side of the car, left hand gripping the armrest of the open door. The last thing I see before my stomach empties it’s contents on the pavement is the little pieces of grass pushing through the cracks of the concrete. I pull myself upright when my body is done expelling what‘s left in my belly…
My eyes fly open and I realize that I’m in my bed, not in a car, and I’m not sick. I squint hard, trying to read the numbers on the alarm clock. It’s 4:08am. “Vomit.” I think to myself. “What does that mean?” I’ve never dreamed about that before.
I don’t completely go back to sleep after that, but doze off and on until 6:00am when I finally get up and dressed. My dad is singing at church this morning and I said I’d be there. I want to write a little beforehand though.
At Inman Perk, I try very hard to say what I want to say but I’m finding it impossible. My head won’t calm down. I leave and go home to drop off my laptop.
Back in the car, heading down I-75 I realize I’m going to be way early to church. I haven’t been since Rob died. I’ve received many sympathy cards from various church members and they’re all greatly appreciated, I’m just not in the mood to talk openly about all this to everyone this morning. I want to go, be still and quiet while clinging to my family.
The phone rings and I see it’s mom.
“Hi!”
“Hey! I just wanted to let you know that your grandparents and aunt are coming to hear daddy and we’ll be sitting up front, incase you’re late.”
I’m never late.
“Ok.”
“See you when you get here!”
“Ok! Bye!”
I hang up and quickly change lanes, deciding to go to the cemetery for a few minutes. I get off at the next exit and within minutes, I’m pulling into the vast expanse of land that holds who knows how many people. I park near where Rob is and turn off the engine. Within minutes of climbing out and walking over to him sweat is making it’s way down my spine.
There is no headstone yet, only a bunch of bright sunflowers laying on top of the grass. I’m never really sure what to do here. It’s not like I’m going to actually see him. It kills me though, that to be physically close to the body that used to keep mine warm, the body I used to hug, kiss, wake up next to, and adore, I have to sit on the ground in front of grass and simply remember him. My Sundays aren’t filled with endless laughing, cups of coffee, or stories anymore, but this lingering emptiness I desperately want to fill.
I stare at the grass through blurry, tear-filled vision. I’m not sure how long I’m there before I remember that I should be heading to church. I tell him I love him and walk to my car.
Despite my efforts to arrive at church at eleven sharp, I’m still there a teeny bit early. My grandfather’s face is the first I see when I open the heavy doors. I’m beaming, walking toward him when I’m intercepted by a sweet woman who has known me my whole life but who is someone I don’t know very well.
“It’s so good to see you!” she wraps her arms around me.
“Same here.” I smile but don’t make eye contact when she lets me go.
“I’m just so sorry for your loss.”
I nod, still not looking at her.
“I just want you to know we’ve all been praying for you.”
“Thank you.” I reply.
“It’s just a horrible, horrible thing to have happen to you at such a young age…”
Is there an age where it’s easier getting a phone call stating that the person you loved most on this planet is gone?
I’m still nodding, desperately wanting to grab on to my grandfather’s arm.
“How are you?” she asks.
The dreaded question. If I say I’m “good” I assume that people assume I’m lying or ‘over it’, which is not the case. If I say I’m a mess, then I assume people will pity me and I don’t want that. If I say I don’t know, then they ask more questions and I don’t want that either.
“I’m ok.” I settle with that.
She’s nodding, but staring at me like she’s trying to read what exactly ‘ok’ means and I’m uncomfortable. (I feel horrible even writing this, because don’t get me wrong… I’m glad people care. I’m glad people have been there for me, but sometimes it feels invasive. Folks don’t know that unless I tell them, and I’m choosing not to, simply to avoid any more awkwardness. )
The service is starting and mom comes up to me, telling me to come on. I loop my arm through hers and we walk to where the rest of my family is sitting.
“Mama. I’m going crazy.” I whisper to her.
I think she misunderstood me because she laughs and we sit down. I open the bulletin to see what’s on the agenda for this morning and see that the prelude to the service is “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”. It was the first hymn that we sang at Rob’s funeral. I chew on the inside of my mouth to keep from crying as the music starts. I keep reading the bulletin and see that the closing hymn is “Amazing Grace”. For the love of God!!!
Ah, but the icing on this cake was spread a little while later after we listen to my dad’s warm, rich voice sing a patriotic medley, that concluded with a standing ovation. (so proud!J ) The preacher tells us to turn in our Bibles to Romans 7:15. Never have I ever cracked open a Bible during service. I didn’t plan on starting until she read, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate, I do….For I have the desire to do what is good but I cannot carry it out…”
I swear my eyes are about to explode out of my head. I can’t even believe what I’m hearing. My mind swarms around the things I’ve done to myself and to other people, knowing better but doing it anyway. She begins the sermon and for the first time in my life, I’ve got a pen and paper out, writing as fast as she’s speaking, trying to understand it all.
“Let us throw away what entangles us… with sin we come away with more than we expected. It’s like a woodpecker, pecking a hole in a tree. It’s all small little noises repeated over and over until there’s a huge hole…sin is the lie that we are self-created, self-dependent…”
I almost feel I’m in an OA meeting right now. We’re taught to lean on a ‘Higher Power” instead of ourselves for recovery. This… is what I don’t understand…I believe that God created us. I believe he gave us free will and that if we follow Him, we’ll stay out of trouble. I believe we’re all connected and there is a reason why we each come in contact with the people that we do, but why? What’s the point of God creating us?
She concludes with explaining that walking into the unknown requires a leap of faith and that faith “is the gift of God.”
I can barely sing “Amazing Grace” when it’s all said and done. As the service ends I bound up the choir loft to hug my dad. He’s intercepted by several other people and I catch the eye of Steve, who works at the funeral home that Rob was at. I know he saw Rob’s body and I have to know if the image my head has created matches what he saw.
“Hi.” I walk over to him.
“Hey Melissa! How are you doing?” he hugs me and I don’t mind him asking.
“I’m hanging in there.” I nod. I’m not standing up straight. I don’t feel graceful but lumpy and awkward.
“It’s a tough thing.”
“It is. I have a question.”
“Sure.”
There is something about Steve that makes me want to tell him my life story. He’s so calm, patient, and understanding. I don’t feel like hiding anything with him.
“Um. I don’t know why this is so important to me but I have to know… um… could you tell me what Rob looked like when you saw him?”
He speaks in a tone that a doctor might use when telling you that you’re facing a terminal illness. The part of my brain that processes anything emotional shuts down immediately when his words match the image that I’ve carried with me. I don’t even think image is the correct word, but more of a ’feeling’, since my mind can’t possibly put together and acknowledge what was really there on the pavement… not when he was perfect when he left my house that morning.
I ask a few more questions and Steve reminds me to go my own way, grieve my own way and don’t let anyone tell me otherwise. I assure him I’ve done, and am doing, just that.
“Thank you for talking to me.” I hug him again.
“Anytime. Take care of yourself.”
I walk down to where my family is and talk with them until I’m back in my car, driving through a storm, to Atlanta. Once home, I change into jeans and a t-shirt. I walk into the living room, sit on the couch and stare at the wall. I have an hour before meeting up with my sponsor. I’m trying to decide what to do. I could write, I could read, or go shopping in Little Five Points. I don’t move though. Minutes pass. I pick up the phone and call a friend. I hate the phone. I’m not even sure I want to talk about this but find myself dialing his number, needing to tell another human what I just heard.
“Why did you ask that?” he asks after I tell him I approached Steve but before I could tell him what Steve told me.
“I don’t know! I had to know, but I don’t know why.”
I try very hard to repeat the words, to get it out without bursting into tears. When it’s all out, we’re quiet and my urge to cry uncontrollably has left.
“I wish I knew what to say.”
“I don’t expect you to say anything.” I reply, staring at my knee.
“I know, I just want to fix it.”
“I want you to fix it too!” I laugh.
Minutes later, we’re hanging up and I’m meeting my sponsor for coffee. I’m still a little delusional but manage a conversation. Neither of us are feeling well and don’t stick around long.
At home again, I sit at my kitchen table and start a necklace, then a bracelet, then another necklace and before I know it, the sun has disappeared. I can’t help but to smile and feel better when I examine the things my hands just made. I imagine that if Rob were still here, I’d be all giddy over the sparklies, gushing to him about all the pretty colors in the same manner he would tell me about all the car stuff he’d been working on. Each subject would go over the other one’s head but it wouldn’t matter. I like to think that he already knows how happy I am with my new endeavor.