Better Than A Hallelujah

Many young Christians, including myself, seem to be weighed down by our doubts. Many times lately, I’ve caught myself in awkward situations where theology is being debated—such as the dual nature of Christ, or the sanctity of the Sabbath—and I feel totally disconnected from it all because my doubts run much deeper than “fluffy” theological musings. But I’m too timid to say, “Forget about the duality of Christ. What about the divinity of Christ?”

Then I came upon a story in Mark 9, in which Jesus comes upon a father and his demon-possessed son.

Jesus said, “Bring the boy to me.” So they brought the boy. But when the evil spirit saw Jesus, it threw the child into a violent convulsion, and he fell to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth.

“How long has this been happening?” Jesus asked the boy’s father. He replied, “Since he was a little boy. The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us, if you can.”

“What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father instantly cried out, “I do believe! But help me overcome my unbelief!”

“Good enough for me!” Jesus said with excitement; and he healed the boy immediately.

God isn’t asking us to be perfect saints. He doesn’t even want us to try because he knows our limitations. He knows we’d fail epically. All he asks for is a little faith. We may have doubts. And as bad as it may sound, we may even have unbelief. If we open up ourselves to a faith as minuscule as a mustard seed, I believe that—like the father, whose son was healed—God will change our lives.

Fictional Obituary

Dear San Francisco Chronicle,

Obituary ad for Miss Diane Kite:

I will not bore the general public with any treacly attempt at memorializing my daughter’s pathetic life. She was born on April 18, 1979 in Alameda, CA; but she was dead to me by the time she moved down to San Jose with that boy with crimson eyes and devil horns. He had a way of sucking the life right out of her; like a deflated beach ball consumed by the high tide at dusk.

As I sit here writing this, punched in the gut by some complex emotions which I can’t describe, I imagine her furtively planning her grand exit; as if there was any dignity in acetaminophen poisoning and stomach pumps. The happy times she and I shared now fade away with time, like sandcastles washed away with each destructive wave. She is survived by her mother, estranged father, a deplorable boyfriend, four bastard children, and a less than flattering reputation.

Friendship

Friendships never die.

But in my minds eye

it’s nothing but a lie

as I sit here and cry

drops of pain and misery

to an ocean eventually

drowning me lonely.

If I could only

learn to live and love

to laugh instead of

placing them above

myself thereof.

And not make the mistake

of squalling for what’s fake

for heaven’s sake.

Damn the heartbreak

if friendships never die.

Attention Walmart Shoppers

I had spent many hours procrastinating for Sra. Barcelo’s Spanish class browsing pictures of people with slightly unflattering wedgies and nauseatingly fluorescent hair extensions on peopleofwalmart.com. It took me ten minutes of sitting in Walmart’s parking lot to assent to the fact that I was about to become one of them.

I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could review the damage that had been done to my hair. The tips were a murky brown—remnants of a grungy hair-doo I had rocked for the past month or so—and the roots were a bright orange—evidence of three consecutive failures at bleaching the black out of my hair. “Fuck.” I looked out my window. At that moment, I wished with all of my being that the seats in my two-seater Miata could recline so no one would see me here—like this. But such alleviation would only have been temporary. I knew I had to physically walk in there, potentially exposing myself to endless mockery.

“Welcome to Walmart, sir,” a crusty old greeter said with a chuckle. The sound of his words made me wince, as if they solidified my pathetic situation. I bee-lined it for the hair products.

In my semi-lost stupor, several disinterested employees rushed past me, not a helpful glint in their eye. When I finally found the isle with all the hair crap, I began my search for ash-blonde dye to mute the ridiculous orange.

As I scanned up and down the rows of dye, I began to appreciate the humor of my situation. I allowed myself a moment to look around. There were a few shoppers in my line of vision. It was just like I had seen online—a plus size middle-aged woman in booty shorts; a scrawny redneck in camouflage overalls with no shirt, wearing the thickest man-coat I had ever seen; even a young black woman with a hot pink weave. I laughed to myself at the sight of it all.

“Eureka!” I had found what I had come for to this God-forsaken place. For a moment, I clutched the box close to my chest as if I had found the Holy Grail. I turned to proceed to the express checkout line. Click. I heard the sound of a shutter closing behind me. I turned to see who was snapping photos. What I saw was a hipster with an “awesome possum” t-shirt on, conspicuously minding his own business with an iPhone conveniently poised in his hand at his waist. I quickly walked away. “Damn it!”

The Smile In Her Eyes

The Bible says, “From dust we came and to dust we shall return.” I don’t remember it saying anything about completely losing your mind first. Why can’t we all just die? In the sunset of our lives--when days seem like minutes and minutes like seconds--why must we spend our last waking moments scraping every crevice of our mind for a thought or projection to remind us of a more meaningful existence?

I watch my mama’s brow furrow in confusion. She searches for meaning in the same blue eyes she fell in love with the day she brought me home. I can’t help but study her gaze for any traces of recollection, perhaps not necessarily looking for the memory itself, but rather for that familiar loving expression.

Everything about Dogwood seems ready to expunge what vestigial memories of me she has left. The pastel laminate visitor badges they give you on the way in. The hand-sanitizer stations every twenty-five feet. The slimy Jello for desert. The care-givers dressed in all white, roaming the halls with empty faces; more like prison guards than nurses.

But then I sit here, spoon-feeding her some undercooked peas, trying to spur conversation. “How are the peas, mama?” Nothing. I persist. “That’s a pretty shirt, mama. Did Betsy give that to you?” Still nothing.

I can’t help but hope that, at some point, my face will mean something to her. But it doesn’t; and I lose hope. She sits and nervously strokes the wrinkles of her brown corduroy pants. It seems as if she anticipates my departure. It’s the first time I have seen her in several years, and it very well could be the last.

I wheel her back to her room, arduously pull her up and onto her bed. The confused and pained expression on her face doesn’t change. I look up at my husband and my son, preparing mentally to say goodbye, when I hear a word spoken that my ears cannot believe. I heard my name in my mother’s familiar tone. I look over at her, and she’s looking at me with a rare smile in her eyes. I recognize it from when I was a little girl. And try as I might, I cannot find the strength to hold back the tears.

For one brief moment, I had that connection with her that I’d traveled so far to have. For one brief moment, I think I saw my mama again. I could almost smell her homemade whole wheat waffles! The moment soon passed, though, and my sobs became sniffles. But I wiped away the tears and snot, and smiled. Because I knew at that moment, that I loved her for who she was to me. And no disease could ever take that away.

To Go Out Ugly

I will write in my journal ‘til the ink runs dry

and I'm left scratching an empty quill against paper

an abhorrent ellipsis mocking my thinning hair.

I wear my skin like a sweater

One sopping wet

after being shoved into the pool in my front yard.

All I wanna do is peel it off

jump back in the pool

and go deeper.

Deeper.

Deeper ‘til the woes of reality are muffled

cloaked by submerged tranquility

and the sting of chlorine in my eyes

fixated on the faces above

who would trap me.

Truthfully, there is no pool.

Only a hole

a ten-foot hole.

Leaden by my sweater

I sit at its bottom

burrowing my painted toes into the dirt.

I look up at the stars wishing.

Wishing for a cure

while the pages in my journal, ellipsis and all

are cooked under the smolder of a slow death.