Get Me Out of Here (30 page)

With fall came a renewal of annual traditions. Once again I sent Jeffrey and Melissa off to the first day of school. Jeffrey was in the first grade, already at an age where he was becoming reluctant to show the world that he had a mother. Little Melissa was no longer so little, the baby talk and baby fat fading as she diligently worked to learn her letters, colors, and numbers.

Fall meant the return of Saturday soccer games. Last year's little mob of five-year-old boys had developed into a coordinated team of six-year-olds. College football season had come once again. We watched the afternoon games and colorful marching bands on TV while devouring beer and pretzels. Now that we were able to afford a road trip to a game, we had too many commitments to get away.

Autumn also marked a new season for the church choir after the summer break. It meant a lot to me to be in this group, a curious assortment of strange bedfellows who were anything but pious yet were a close community. The strains of practices, the demands of weekly Masses, the Christmas and Easter seasons, and the concert performances often led to frayed nerves, short tempers, and frequent bickering by the season's end. Refreshed from a three-month hiatus, however, we were ready and eager to begin anew.

The choir had been like a family to me when my family of origin had turned its back. Its members had not gossiped when I'd endured the embarrassment of three psychiatric hospitalizations. Instead people pitched in to help. They had cooked meals for Tim and the kids when I'd been away and even for a while upon my return. They had visited me, bringing cards and flowers. Above all, they didn't think I was crazy or wretched. They didn't judge or condemn me but prayed for me. They had been there to listen, offering shoulders to cry on.

Like any group that worked together closely and intensely, the choir had its share of rivalries and occasional harsh words. But, in moments of crisis, we somehow managed to pull together in support of whoever needed it.

Often I couldn't help but wonder if my presence there wasn't a grand act of hypocrisy. Here I was, the agnostic soloist, sweetly singing words she could not bring herself to believe. The choir director had always known my feelings, as had the pastor, but neither seemed to have a problem with my obstinate agnosticism. People who are honest with themselves, they had both said, have doubts sometimes.

Faith, Father Rick had said, was like passion. Sometimes intense, sometimes seemingly nonexistent—it could never be forced. I had been torn between accepting their views and believing their acceptance might be rooted in their desperate need for a first soprano.

Despite my unease, I never seriously considered leaving the group. Music had a way of releasing my passion, of calming my soul. And, despite the battles I'd had in my worst moments with both the director and others in the group, I needed these people. They were like the family I'd never had, a lifeline as critical to me as therapy had become. Like my ambivalent, often turbulent relationship with Dr. Padgett, being a part of this group was something I could not give up, no matter how much it confused me at times.

The first Sunday Mass of the season was always a big event. We had practiced for a few weeks to get back to form, assembling a selection of our best hymns and musical pieces. A kickoff for a new year.

For some reason I was seldom nervous when soloing. Perhaps I felt that those who'd dare be critical when they were supposed to be praying were far more hypocritical than even I was. I had come to develop a performer's detachment, the calm confidence of a professional. I had managed to separate myself from my emotions even at the funerals I had sung for occasionally. I no longer worried about the effects of stage fright. But sometimes I wondered if, perhaps, I should be feeling
something
. Music, as in so many other realms of my life, was yet another case of all or nothing—drowning in emotions or total detachment, with little in between.

Entering this first service, I was unexpectedly seized by a feeling of unease, the butterflies of nervousness once banished by years of experience now back in force. I wasn't sure if it was because I was back with the group again after a long absence or because of the unpredictable emotions spurred by therapy. But I could feel the stinging in my eyes, the pit in my stomach, and the quiver in my voice as I stood with the soprano section for the opening song.

I felt a tinge of panic. What would happen when I sang the solo piece after the sermon? Would I fall apart? I found myself wishing that the piece, which I loved, had gone to another soloist.

After the scripture readings the choir and congregation were seated to listen to the homily. Our church was our new associate pastor's first assignment since ordination, and he was fumbling through his notes as he struggled through his sermon on pain and loss. The parishioners had already come to know him as long-winded and not particularly compelling. I noticed a few of them beginning to nod off, and I drifted off into my own world.

Pain and loss. My eyes wandered to the large, sculpted crucifix hanging over the altar. I had seen it countless times. Yet this time it captivated me. It was an exquisite work of art, the realistic sadness in the eyes of the crucified figure, the sagging, slumping body. Pain and loss. Suffering. Betrayal. Crucifixion.

I had known the story since childhood. The lesson had become dull and rote, devoid of any real meaning to me. The words of the Creed, recited every Mass in the congregational monotone:
he suffered, died, and was buried. And on the third day, he rose again
. And on and on and on. I had recited them so often I could virtually do it in my sleep.

He suffered. Oh yeah? Well, I've suffered too. I've suffered plenty. And I haven't risen, have I?

The sad eyes of the crucifix were staring back at me, as if they were truly watching me. I'd never noticed before just how much sadness lurked in these eyes, the unspeakable pain that went beyond the pain of crucifixion. The gut-wrenching pain of betrayal.

Jesus, too, had also felt the bitter pain and anger of betrayal as the same throngs of followers who had cheered him with palms jeered him at his crucifixion, and even his closest friends denied and betrayed him.

Pain? Why didn't God spare you the cup, spare you the pain of betrayal? What kind of sick Father do you have anyway? You were supposed to be his Only Son—and just look at what he let happen to you! I feel for you, Jesus. I really do. Your Father screwed me over too. Left me hanging, an innocent little kid, to destroy me for the rest of my life. Some Father you have! I can relate
.

The eyes were still burning into me, reflecting my pain and agony. I was beginning to squirm in the pew, wishing that the young priest would finish so Mass would continue and I could be distracted from the disturbing presence of the crucifix and my thoughts.

It was a homily prefaced with six major points, and the priest was just moving into the third one. We would be here awhile.

Leave me alone, will you? Get your pathetic eyes off of me! Your Father abandoned you, just like he did me. Why do you still have faith? And where the hell were you for that matter? You're supposed to be God too. Omniscient. Omnipotent. And yet little children get abused every day. Where the hell are you? Where the hell is your Father?

My body was beginning to shake as tears filled my eyes. One of the other sopranos put her hand on my shoulder, asking if I was okay. I nodded. I just wanted to be left alone.

Mine were not tears of sadness, but of all-consuming anger and hatred. Had it been possible, I would have run up to the altar, climbed up on it, grabbed that crucifix, and torn it down. All of it was hypocrisy, a charade suckering in billions of people to believe in a God who, despite his purported power, let pain and suffering go on without so much as lifting a finger to stop it. How could I possibly sing to a God I now knew to be a complete fraud?

I was tempted to run out of the place never to return, but, somehow, the eyes of the crucifix still had me under their spell. Transfixed, I couldn't move.

No wonder I can't trust anyone. If I can't trust God, who in the hell can I trust? The last refuge for the meek, the humble, the poor in spirit, the downtrodden. Does God make life any better? No wonder I don't have faith. It isn't because God doesn't exist or you don't exist; it's because both of you do! And both of you are cruel hypocrites!

Abusive scenes of childhood began to flash through my mind as I winced, my anger having turned to pain, sorrow, and desperation.

Where were you, Jesus? Where was your Father? Where are you now? All along you could see what was happening. But you never stopped it. All along you knew. But you kept letting me go on, believing it was somehow my fault, hating myself passionately, tortured in a living hell. Couldn't you at least let me have some peace? Let me know it wasn't my fault? How could you have let me go on for so many years believing that?

Out of nowhere the Footprints story came to mind, the poetic text of it hanging in my entry foyer, a carved plaque I had received for my First Communion many years ago.

One night a man dreamed he was walking along the beach with the Lord. As scenes of his life flashed before him, he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand. He also noticed that at the saddest, lowest times there was one set of footprints
.

This bothered the man, and he asked the Lord, “Did you not promise that if I gave my heart to you that you'd be with me all the way? Then why is there only one set of footprints during my most troublesome times?”

The Lord replied, “My precious child, I love you and would never forsake you. During those times of trial and suffering when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

The single set of footprints. I knew them well. I had been alone and on my own, wandering in search of peace and comfort throughout my childhood and even now.

But I'm here now, aren't I? Sitting in the middle of a group of people who have shown me more love and acceptance than I ever could have believed possible. How did I end up here? I have two beautiful children, somehow emotionally healthy despite all that has gone on, loving me with no questions asked. Loving me because I am Mommy
.

And Tim. Of all the self-destructive relationships I've been in, of all the risks I took, how did it happen that I became pregnant by a man who really cared about me? Who loves me, who has never left my side, never even
considered
leaving me when other men would have been long gone?

And where had I turned when I reached the bottom that June day, when I was ready to die? The church! The Catholic hotline. Father Rick. It had been Father Rick's day off, but he was there at the rectory, wasn't he? And he got me to go to the hospital
.

It could have been any psychiatrist on call that day, but it wasn't. For some reason the medical director of psychiatry was on call, covering for somebody else. How is it that my crisis led me to a man like Dr. Padgett?

Too many people have come into my life at just the right time, too many things have ended up okay to just be coincidence. And the tiny drops of love, more powerful than hate, have been the ones that have kept me going. They are the reason I sit here, a thirty-one-year-old woman, no longer emaciated, with two healthy children, a loving husband, surrounded by people who care, with my whole life ahead of me
.

The single set of footprints. I looked again to the crucifix.

You carried me. All this time you carried me. Until, on a day like today, I would be ready to see that I've never really been alone. All those years when I thought you loved everybody else but me, you were carrying me, loving me, letting me get to this point
.

I was certain then, for the first time in my life, that I believed in God. I had not needed to trust in him or believe in him. He had carried me nonetheless. So this was what having faith felt like; this was what has kept people attending churches and synagogues across the world for millennia. This was why, in a culture that tries to downplay and even mock the notion of God's existence, faith in God has never died.

My eyes were now streaked with tears. The woman next to me was hugging me as I shuddered in sobs. Now, however, they were tears of joy. At the age of thirty-one I finally knew what it felt like to have faith, to believe, to feel comfort in the notion that at least one being existed in whom I could trust. Someone who would never forsake me. Who, as promised, would always be there, even in the most troublesome times of trial and suffering.

Mercifully the young priest brought his wandering sermon to a conclusion. A few in the congregation watched me, curious and confused by how anyone could have been moved by a homily as long-winded and dull as the one that had just been given. Everyone stood to say the Creed; it would only be a few minutes before I was supposed to sing my solo. The director came over to me, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay, Rachel? Can you do this?”

I wasn't at all sure that, in my emotional state, I could manage to even get through the refrain without breaking down. I looked back at the crucifix, a prayer of sorts for the strength. “Yeah,” I smiled through my tears, “I'll make it. Everything's going to be okay.”

“Is something wrong?” he whispered.

“No. Actually, something is very right.”

As I rose to go to the microphone, I felt a sudden burst of strength and calm.

The Lord is my shepherd;

I shall not want
.

In verdant pastures he gives me repose;

Beside restful waters he leads me;

He refreshes my soul
.

He guides me in right paths for his name's sake
.

Even though I walk in the dark valley

I fear no evil

For you are at my side

With your rod and your staff

That give me courage
.

You spread the table before me