"Momentary Darkness"

by Ci’Monique Green

 

 It was just me and Shanonne in her little back room, and worship music filled the space.  My friend – whom I called sister – was dying from cancer.

 

Shan’s breast cancer had resurfaced after nine years; this time spreading to her bones, brain and spine.  Bed-ridden and paralyzed from the waist down due to multiple lodged tumors, my dear sister now twisted her fingers, trying to talk.  The Lord allowed me to see how scared she was.  One minute she’d been able to speak, then she woke up 17 hours later not knowing how to make her mouth work.  So I stepped up close and pulled her hands into mine.  I said, "Shanonne, you don't need to say anything. Whatever it is you're trying to tell us, we already know. We love you and we know how much you love us."  She started crying; her fingers slowly relaxed in my palms.  I kept talking as her tears flowed and eyelids fell.  "Sister, the kids are gonna be okay. We're here and we're not leaving you. Don't worry about the kids... God has them in His hands. It's time for you to rest from all this now. Just know how much I love you. We all love you."

 

The more I talked and felt the horizon of our friendship finally setting, Shanonne fell deeper into sleep.  I kissed her and walked out of the room.  A short while later, though, my friend Val and I were given one more unforgettable moment of sisterhood with the three of us. You see, we’d been friends for 20 years at this point.

 

We came to her bedside.  Shanonne looked at Val and me.  She pointed her finger at us; her mouth struggling to push out a word.  Through her jumbled tongue she was finally able to say, "You."  Val and I looked at each other, then I jokingly turned back to Shanonne and said, "What? You just love us so much don't you?"  Then, like a captive voice from a hidden treasure chest, Shanonne thrust out, "Yes!"  The stealth of that one word came from harnessed strength she had to muster with everything she had.  When Shan saw that we’d heard her, she relaxed again, descending back asleep.

 

In the next few hours, a gamut of events swirled the apartment.  The hospice nurse arrived and told us our friend was “actively dying.”   Minute by minute, Shan’s breathing slowed.  Her fingertips turned a cryptic beige, from deep brown.  So, Shanonne’s ex-husband – “Kirby,” we call him – started making phone calls, telling loved ones to come.  By that evening, the apartment swelled from wall-to-wall with church family and blood relatives, all coming to say goodbye to Shanonne's drifting shell.   As believers in Christ's resurrection and the promise of Paradise after death, we knew that Shanonne was being ushered to Heaven soon. It is sobering evidence of Jesus’ victory over the grave.

 

While all of us hummed in and around the apartment, wondering when the final grain of sand would fall from Shanonne’s hourglass, she let go.  Her wracking fight against darkness was done.  Instantly, everyone thronged into the tight bedroom, clamoring in tears, prayers, and wails.  Then, texting, calling, gathering in corners, spreading the news that our beloved Shanonne had passed into Glory.

 

Our pastor (who was very close to Shanonne), drove over from his home, and led us in a final prayer of thanksgiving for Shan’s life.  She’d died a few minutes before midnight, July 19, 2013.  When the mortician arrived a while later, he compassionately invited us to change our dear Shanonne into a personal piece of her clothing before taking the body away.  Valerie and I selected one of Shan's favorite summer dresses, and, along with another dear friend, Lawanna, we changed her one last time.  A peaceful countenance had settled beautifully onto her face.

 

I'll never forget Val's words as we tended to our sister.

 

"Girl, girl, girl..." she spoke to Shanonne's encasing, "I can't believe you're really gone."

 

 After years of physical, emotional and spiritual turmoil, Shanonne entered eternity’s blithe veneer, discovered only by death’s exchange.With Shan donned in her sundress, Val and I were the only ones in the room while the mortician and his assistant delicately placed her in the corpse bag to carry her away.

 

Under the dark twilight sky, we all watched silently as Shanonne's shell was wheeled out of the back room, into the funeral home van, and driven off into the night.  It was an indescribable feeling to walk away from the empty apartment that night.

 

The next week was filled with constant calls and texts between me, Val, Kirby and family, asking, "You alright? You alright?"  The question proved rhetorical as we all tiptoed along our own private paths of grief.

 

On July 27, 2013, Shanonne had the most worshipful Homegoing service I've ever seen.  The church choir Shanonne had sung in (where she, Val, and I first became friends in 1993) gathered en masse to praise God for her life.  Even through our tears, Val sang in the alto section; I, in soprano.  Our reunited choir rejoiced in song that sunny summer afternoon, remembering our girl who had endured so much – and finally reached her Heavenly reward.

 

After the memorial service, in a private moment we didn’t share with anyone, Val and I met the funeral home director at the cremation facility to witness the cremation.  In a big industrial room, we watched Shanonne's casket and rainbow-hued casket spray hoist into the incinerator.  With finality, a big steel door closed down around it.  Then, with our fingers on top of each other’s, Val and I pushed the button together.  The button  that started the process to cremate Shanonne's remains.  I'll never lose from memory how I felt at that breath, what I pondered inwardly.

We had just walked through the most intimate last steps of friendship.  An unspoken, unbroken covenant of agape love -- all the way from life to death.

 

Momentary darkness to eternal light.

 

 

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"The Night My Dad Died"

by Katherine L. Jones

 

I stood in that room feeling as if I was on the set of a movie. It seemed unreal that I could be in the ER’s trauma center, that my dad could be the person lying on the table inclined to increase blood flow to his heart, that the doctors who had asked about the patient’s wishes regarding a Do Not Resuscitate order were talking to me about someone I loved, that I was the one who had to confirm my dad didn’t want to be put on a ventilator or have his heart artificially restarted.  Yet there I was.  There he was.  There it was—the last night my father was alive.  And my overwhelming desire was for it to be over.

 

I knew that was ridiculous, though.  For once it was over he would be gone and I would no longer have a dad.  I would no longer have the man who loved me more than any other; the one who said I was beautiful and smart; the one who hugged me tight every time he saw me; the one who always walked me to my car when I left my parents’ house and stood outside waving until I was out of sight around the corner; the one who still stood when a lady entered or left the room; the one who wore black dress socks with tennis shoes and shorts and didn’t care what anyone thought; the one who could define any word for me or explain any military battle or identify any constellation; the one who, when asked what he wanted to do for dinner, would say with a saucy grin, “I suggest we eat it”; the one who sang in the church choir, served as a deacon and Sunday school teacher, volunteered with CASA, and delivered Meals on Wheels; the one who always sounded excited to hear my voice on the other end of the phone; the one who wore a beard better than Santa Claus; the one who valued faith and integrity, genealogy and chocolate milkshakes, babies and older folks; the one who embodied both strength and protection.

 

This wonderful dad--this man among men, this colossus--was the one who lay dying, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.  I could only sit there for hours, holding his hand and talking to him as his heart rate decreased and his body grew cold, my heart overwhelmed at the magnitude of this imminent loss.

 

And yet, there was Jesus.  Jesus, who has bourn my sin and my sorrow and who loves my daddy far more than I ever could, was there in that room.  I know he sustained me through those hours.  And I know he received my father into his kingdom at ten minutes past twelve that horrible night.

Heaven seems much more real to me now because my sweet daddy is there, all his questions answered, all his sorrows soothed, all his infirmities healed.  Cancer has not won.  Death has not won.

 

The pain of losing him isn’t gone—has only begun to recede, after just one year—but, as in that hospital room, there is still hope; there is still Jesus. There is still an answer to my questions and a balm to my wounded heart. And there is still my dad, waiting for me to come home.

 

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"Title Here"

by Esther Green

 

People feel the need to have a title on all types of artwork. Paintings, books, poetry, etc. all have titles that are created to give people a certain feeling about the piece of art before they even see it. When choosing a book, we look for a title that interests us, and then we find out more about it. Even my essay has a title that suggests the content pretty explicitly. Well, like all other works of art, I have been titled by my peers, my family, my lovers, and my God. I have had so many titles that it gets a little confusing trying to define myself. Am I broken? Better? Morbid? Innocent? Which title most accurately defines me? There was a time in my life when I listened to everything that everyone around me said. I held up a sign that said “Title Here” and let other people fill it in. But I’m here to tell you that art is not defined by everyone who views it.

 

“Awkward”. Once upon a time, there was a girl. Just a girl because nobody else stood in the picture. This story revolves around the idea that I am awkward and alone. I have been soft-spoken for a long time, and likewise, I can be somewhat socially inept. For many years, I suffered under the prospect of being awkward, as I had so often been named. I was “the quiet one” that you couldn’t even here for roll-call, the awkward kid that couldn’t maintain a conversation. There were a lot of cases in which I would go without rather than talking to someone just because I was afraid of being awkward. I sat alone at the lunch tables, buried my head in my own self-consciousness, and walked through the hallways with a downcast face. I knew the stains on my shoelaces better than the faces of my peers. Somewhere amid the awkward and the inaudible, I made some friends, but even around them, I felt unwanted. I felt like I would never really be in the picture and nobody would ever listen to me. In a world of people hoping to be a sensation, I was the aberration that would never make a difference to anything but my own shadow, which was forever doomed to follow me in all of my awkwardness.

 

“Daddy’s Girl”. In this story, I was a little girl who grew up. I looked like my father, and from a young age, I was known as “Daddy’s girl”. At first, I didn’t mind. I liked being who I was, and I didn’t regret a thing. However, as the years wore on, the violence grew, and the lies became more evident; being “Daddy’s girl” somehow came to mean manipulator, cheater. I loved my daddy, but I didn’t want to be my father. At a certain point in my life, this title took on a different meaning all together. My father started molesting me and manipulating me to keep quiet. He would touch me and declare that he was just helping me deal with a natural part of life. Not only did he steal my innocence, he made me come quietly. Fulfilling his lustful desires, all the while brawling with suicide. I was afraid of my own body. I didn’t want to be my father’s girl. I just wanted to be a daughter.

 

“Little one”. Sometimes, the story doesn’t start out bad. The guy slays the dragon and gets the girl, and everything seems like it’s going to be great. Yet, in the absence of fiery opposition, he starts to battle his own demons, and the girl ends up in bed at night with the only real threat to her. Sometimes, the things we fight for the most are the things that keep us up at night. Sometimes, a name is the sweetest thing to the ears until the lips that once spoke it turn into the knife that carves into your heart. Like a lemon, once sweet in lemonade yet hostile in the presence of open wounds. I was once called “little one” by a man who stubbornly held my heart in his grasp for years. The term of endearment identified me as his love, a best friend and then a girlfriend. We loved each other for a long time, and I thought it would last forever. I wanted to be his “little one” for the rest of my life, but times turned and people changed. I may have been his “little one”, but I wasn’t his only one. He had gotten married to another while whispering sweet words into my ear. I was devastated. I felt like I would never love like that again, like I was doomed to forever be Mrs. Little Forgotten One.

 

“Redeemed”. Thousands of years ago, a man hung naked in front of a crowd. His arms were spread wide on a cross, and his blood grew dry and crusty about the scene with every second that he held on to his weakening pulse. As they laughed and jeered at his beaten form, the muscles undulating with every shallow breath of air, he called out to his father and begged for my forgiveness. Even then, he saw the names that I would be identified with. He saw the skin that I would wear, full of scars that mark the brands I let other people place on me. My creator knew how I would follow everyone else’s design for me, and still, he took my scars on his back. He took them on the cross and bore them to his death. Among thousands of voices that cry out to me, screaming who they think I am, my author constantly writes my stories as: “Beautiful”, “Beloved”, “Daughter”. And when he was hanging on the cross that day, looking into the years that would come, he edited my manuscript to read “Redeemed”.

 

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"The Redeeming Light"

by Stephen Brent Roberts

 

This was early 2015 and I was twenty-five years old. I was leaving Dallas to drive back up to Washington state for work. We had just had the funeral for my biological father and I had to drive my mom back to New Mexico before I headed back to work. I had three days to drive back to Joint Base Lewis-McChord and sign back in from leave.

 

We just happened to pass a sign that said Southwestern Assemblies of God University. I just thought “Oh that’s neat.” I had never actually been there before, but my parents went to SAGU in the early 1980s. My mom said out of nowhere,

 

“Brent, I think you may go to that school someday.” I just smiled and gave a simple “nope.” I kept driving and didn’t give it much thought.

 

As you could guess, this drive was going to be a long one. Twenty-two-hundred-mile-long drive. I started this drive like I would any other.  Put in a pinch of Copenhagen (which my mom hated) in my mouth under my lower lip. I then turned on an audiobook. I don’t remember what book it was, but most likely it was military history. I loved long drives like these.

 

I had been already feeling down and depressed about things. My father had died but I really didn’t have much of a relationship with him. I had been in a lot of pain from my back. This was about six months after my first back surgery. I wasn’t sure overall if my surgery had helped, but at that moment it sure didn’t feel like it. I had been having more nightmares lately. These nightmares always put me in a bad mood for a day or so afterward. Everything was building up at this point.

 

I was driving west down I-40 towards New Mexico in the darkness. My mom was asleep in the back seat where she had more room. That’s when I began to think about some things I really shouldn’t have. The thoughts of hopelessness were hitting me hard tonight. These memories and images in my head were wreaking havoc on my mind. I just kept seeing the faces of my friends that I had lost, the carnage of war, the sights and sounds that would forever haunt me. Recalling these things was nothing new. Everything just seemed to be building up more every day.

 

The reality of my twenty-four months of combat in Afghanistan as a combat medic was finally catching up to me. My mental health was in freefall. I was almost at my breaking point. I tried to tell myself that “paratroopers don’t quit because if we quit, we die.” It was during these times that I started to feel as if death didn’t sound too bad. I started to think that death was a viable alternative to this perpetual state of heartbreak. These thoughts took a hold of me in a real way.

I will readily admit that I was no longer living a Christian life or even putting much of an effort into trying. The only times I prayed anymore was when I needed something from God. In Afghanistan, I would pray for protection for my guys and me. I would pray for hours at night in the back of my armored truck as we drove back and forth down the road looking for insurgents who were trying to bury roadside bombs. I would pray,

 

“Please Lord don’t let us get blown up tonight.” I would pray during mortar attacks, “Please don’t let a mortar land on my bunker.” I would pray while in a firefight while I was running to cover, “Please God don’t let me get shot today.”

 

That was the extent of my prayer. I never even gave God the courtesy of thanking him for keeping me safe.

 

I had the audacity to be angry at God when things went wrong. On my first deployment, Lucas was the first to die. I was heartbroken. Why did he have to die? Lucas had a wife and kids. Then Nicholas died. He was only nineteen years old. Then Kevin and Daniel. James was the two-thousandth American serviceman to die in Afghanistan. Adam’s death hit me the hardest. He was nineteen and a great kid. It was week three of my second deployment. This is when I really stopped talking to God for a long period.

 

At home, I was living strictly in the flesh. I wasn’t going to church. I was turning into an alcoholic on top of my prescribed narcotics. Sexual sin was dominating me. Pre-marital sex didn’t really feel wrong anymore. I looked at women as objects instead of children of God. I was looking for anything to take away the pain but was just digging myself a deeper hole.

 

After I dropped off my mom at home in New Mexico I continued my journey to Washington. It was at a gas station in Idaho that I received the phone call. It was my boss. She broke the news to me that because of my injuries and my slow recovery, I would be medically separated from the Army. I didn’t know what to do. I got in the car and just kept driving towards Washington.

 

As I drove I began to cry. What was I going to do? All I wanted to do was heal up and go back to war where my brothers were. I wanted to kill. I wanted revenge. I wanted that adrenaline again. I kept glancing to the passenger seat. There sat my .45 caliber handgun. Would death really be better than this? I had hit rock bottom. I was in total darkness.

 

I finally yelled out at God and said,

 

“God what do you want from me? Talk to me! Tell me what you want, or this is it!” That’s when I heard God’s voice say,

 

“Go to Southwestern and stay on the path I put you on long ago.” I stopped on the side of the highway and began to sob uncontrollably. I had not had an experience like this since middle school. God spoke to me!  I was the biggest sinner of all.

 

It was at that point that I asked God to forgive me. I submitted to his will, saying “God, please forgive me of my sins. Forgive me for being angry at you. I love you and I will do what you ask. I am yours.” At that moment a weight was taken off my shoulders and I received a peace that passes all understanding. I still deal with the darkness at some points, just like you. Just remember that no darkness can withstand the redeeming light of Jesus Christ.

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"The Tales of The Reading Retard"

by Alyssa Sumner

 

Fairytales are not in the thin, scratchy pages of a book. In the pages of a book lies a horror for those who dread the thought of reading. For myself, there are many reasons why reading a book is like my hairstylist plucking every hair from my head. I would rather jump through an electric-wired fence than read any literature. For me, reading is not like traveling to a world that has always been dreamed of; it is signing up for a hell-driven experience that does not include a glass of water.

 

I have not always perceived reading as an excruciating experience. When I was younger, my sweet mother would read me my favorite book, Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. I always laughed at my mom’s goofy voices when saying, “I do not like green eggs and ham / I do not like them, Sam-I-am.” She encouraged me to read so I could be an average nerd and excel in life. She helped me to understand that the thin crispy pages of every book hold an abundance of education. My mother wanted me to avoid the poverty she went through growing up; she knew that being educated would give me a prosperous future. When my mom passed away, buried with her was my desire ever to read again. My sweet mother was the only one who could read Green Eggs and Ham just the way I wanted it. The book collected many dust bunnies over the years as it sat near my bedside table.

 

I tried reading after she left, but I could not tell the difference from a B or D. My father was too busy grieving my mother to explain the difference between the two. He did not value the importance of obtaining an education through reading. He did not appreciate school because he was an uneducated man making five-figures a year. His salary gave me the impression that without knowledge, I could make a good yearly salary.  So I decided that reading was pointless if I could make good money without being educated.

 

 When I began elementary school, my teacher, Mrs. Mccabe chose me from the class to read a section of the textbook. She made her students read out loud once a week so that she could gain an understanding of our reading level. That was the very moment in my life that I decided I hated Mrs. Mccabe. I am sure that the hellfire in my eyes gave her the message. I began to read the history textbook word-by-word. Children in the class started to groan and moan because it took me a millennium to read every word. When I finished reading the section, I felt like someone brought my puppy to school and killed it in front of me. I did not understand why I could not read as fast as the other kids. I internalized my emotions that day. I carried around an abundant amount of stupidity that made me feel worthless.

 

Ever since that day, cracking open a book reminds me of how useless I felt as a child. When I continued in middle school, my teachers recognized that I was not at the reading level that I needed to be. In the seventh grade, I was diagnosed with dyslexia and classified as a special needs student. I did not want to be ranked with the same students who were paralyzed or had a speech impediment. It was like rainbow-colored flags congratulating me on still being a retard. My desire to read did not mature into a delicious wine over the years. It was like an old carton of milk left in the garage refrigerator for over ten years; then served when opening a stupid book. I continued to struggle reading beyond a second-grade level. I got placed into a Reading 180 class that continued to grow my hatred in reading.  The teacher cared so much that she forgot to show up most days for class. If my teacher did not bother to show up to help me then why should I care? I did not tell my father because that was my favorite part of the day- skipping reading. I knew that if my dad knew about the teacher not showing up, he would call the principal. Not because he cared about me reading, but because his taxes paid for her to be there.

 

When I got to high school, the teachers did not expect us to read any books during our first year. Maybe it was because the school was notorious for faulty academics. My dyslexia was still hindering my performance in my classes, and my report card was filled with failing grades. After transferring from that school, my grades improved because my teachers took the time to invest in me. Even though my reading got better over those three years, I still had the painful memories of reading.

 

My senior English teacher asked me one day why I did not enjoy reading. I shared with her the memories I had of reading and how they have molded me into an illiterate student. She encouraged me to read a novel called Between Shades of Gray, by Sepetys. I picked up the book and found a beating heart in the thin, crisp pages of my favorite book. I adored the book because the author had a passion that bled through every page of the book. That day my hatred for reading shortened just a little. I will forever be grateful to the teacher that took the time to encourage me to learn and become more literate. It is because of her that I can pick up a book without a preconceived idea that it will be an absolute waste of my time. She helped me understand that there was value and importance in reading a book. She contributed to making the memories that I had as a child seem small and unimportant. Now that I am in college, I strive to become more literate so that I can succeed in my studies. I will spend the time to at least dig into the word of God and try to pick up a book that sounds interesting. If my parents and educators stressed to me the importance of reading, I would have been more interested in reading. Since I did not grow up in a household or environment that supported literature, I did not gain the education that can be benefited from reading.

 

           Even though reading has not always been my high point or haven, I strive to surpass the memories that keep me outside the crisp thin pages of a book. The reality is that I will never be able to erase the memories of students dreading my reading, the public school system shoving books down my throat, or the teacher who did not take the time even to show up to help me. It made my senior teacher to encourage me to read when I was on the brink of graduation. It was my mom and an English teacher who taught me the value and importance of reading a book. It is because of them that I can pick up a book and flip open the thin crispy pages. Parents and educators need to take time to inform their children or student on why reading is essential. Parents and Teachers who are passionate about reading will bleed that love onto children. Those children will grow up experiencing the passion of reading, and they will inherit the education that comes along with it. The knowledge that they obtain from reading a book will help them surpass many significant obstacles in life; just like it helped me.

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"The Day God Spoke"

by Joel Hartom

 

One-hundred. One-hundred and seventy-six ways. How did I get here? A cold blade separating the skin fiber by fiber, and blood creeping out of the endless rows of cuts and a chill like a cool breeze stretching down my spine. My thoughts scattered like the stars in the sky I gazed upon, yet all of them a legion with one singular task. One task with many routes. These thoughts, spurting like venom out of a viper’s fang. End it, just end it all, we’ve given you the many ways. Choose one of these ways to take your life. One of these thoughts stood out among the rest, like a white rose among millions of thorns. His still small voice, “My son, you’re worth it.” If it wasn’t for God’s still small voice I wouldn’t be here any longer.

 

What could have possibly landed me here? After a life with God, and a strong three years served in the Marine Corps, I thought I should be unstoppable. The problem was there was a fight under the surface, a fight that has taken down many strong men. A fight with darkness, an old friend called depression. Even worse was in a marriage that was more volatile than jet fuel and a match, every exchange of words leading to explosion. Trying to juggle arguments and the proper care of my newborn daughter. It felt as though there was nowhere to turn, because I was isolated and suppressing everything. I had no one to talk to, I had even turned my back on God. It was an argument that was worse than any before that started the night. To protect myself and my wife I left the house. Now fully encapsulated in darkness, I could only think of one escape and that was to end it all. To kill myself. I drove as fast as I could toward someone who could help me, but all I could do was count. I counted the ways my mind wanted to kill me. I found myself sitting in my car at a hospital, giving God an ultimatum. If he wanted me to be alive, he’d somehow keep me alive.

 

It was time to end it. I sat forward in the driver’s seat and the firm noose tightened around my neck, my breaths slowly shortening, and my consciousness fading. A blade splitting my skin like a knife through butter, each slice cutting away at my thoughts. This act was the only way for me to calm the storms that raged through my mind, but this time, it was different. I intended to end it all. Finally, I felt a calm, but it was my life leaving my body that brought it. No more pain, no more fights, no more anything. I was about to step into freedom.

 

Then a voice as clear as a spotlight in the darkness, but as gentle as a mother’s touch whispered “My son, you are worth it.” I battled with this voice; This was a battle I had fought my entire life it. Constantly telling myself, I am not worth it. I felt no better than the dirt I walked over every day.

 

I shouted into the darkness “I’m not worth it! All I accomplish is destruction. Everyone will be better without me here!” I tore off the noose to shout again. Before I could utter up the breath, the words came again but like a hard wind. It ripped every parcel of doubt, darkness, and pain out of me; I was left with nothing but tears and peace. I now knew whose voice it was. It was my heavenly Father's. 

 

It was time to live my life, the life God planned for me. The noose now off my neck, I set down the knife and wept. With blood, flowing from my wrist, and covering my clothes I stepped out of my car and headed into the hospital. I felt like I was barely holding onto my life, but what was left was being carried by God. I checked into the hospital knowing that this time I would have to make a change. This maze I was running trying to get away from my calling and God had to stop. My will only lead to one place, and that was death; however, his will would lead to restoration and life. Soon after I would find myself separated from the Marine Corps, and divorced. My life would change forever, but I knew it was for the better now that it was in his hands. I had now accepted that I was worth it.

 

If it wasn’t for God’s still small voice speaking to me that night, I would not be here still today. I had to make a choice; would I live my life trying to be worth something to others or would I live it for an audience of one? I chose and audience of one, the one I call Father.