On Dumping the Truck

Cade and I arrive at church for choir practice: late, because dinner was late, because Jim had been late, coming home from work. I wear my favorite Mister Rogers t-shirt, penguin pajama pants, and flip-flops. I try to sing but sometimes I have to stop because my heart can't push up words like: "And our spirits shall sorrow no more, / Not a sigh for the blessing of rest."

Afterward, Cade and I walk back to prayer meeting, and I say: "We can't stay. But--before we go--can I share?"

I proceed to dump the truck. I tell them everything I can't write, here, because--after six months, in one case--I've finally received permission to do so.

My pastor asks: "Before you go, can we pray with you?"

And I respond: "I know it's a lot to ask, but can we pray in the altar?"

Without hesitating, everyone rises, and we trickle one-by-one out the door. We walk quietly up the hall and pile into the altar. They take turns praying aloud for me, and I pray aloud for myself. I extend my arm; lay my face down on a carpeted step; and beg God, sobbing, to help me.

After, I hug each one, and Cade and I step out into the balmy dark. And I'm not fixed, but I will be. My problems aren't solved, but they will be. In Jesus' name, Amen.