Joan and Rachel

Falling asleep on the couch, the space heater mocked up to look like a fireplace, all wrapped up in my favorite navy blue comforter, melancholy music on my earbuds.

I feel content, I feel warm. Foolishly, I feel safe. My little place to hide in a windowless basement, as if the eyes could not see in here, or find me now if they wanted me dead.

Melancholy music still soothes when I can get my mind quiet, my heart still and sighing. A world of sorrows is better than a world of fears, of waiting for men of God with guns.

Pride of place on the back wall is the portrait of Joan, who along with Rachel, led me to The Lord. I once truly believed in all the promises, that Christians were light and salt.

But on TV and on Social Media, I hear the calls for death and violence, the holy and haughty cries for blood. A fetus is precious, but not a Democrat, or a black, or a gay.

I don’t trust the people I’ve known my whole life. I don’t want to know their lives. I know they’ll turn on me when the call goes out. What is love when you’re their true enemy?

Joan and Rachel, selfless and kind and brave, humble and true, I still want to believe, still want to see you in those bright golden fields one day, but that hope, that belief, slips away.

Warm and hidden, with the softness of my favorite blanket, the sad songs make me feel a softness and a loss, that has nothing to do with the fear of God’s Children and their cruelty.

Warm and hidden, I fall asleep, the songs still playing, still calling me back to younger years of unrequited love and passionate romantic dreams, when sorrow was so sweet.

 

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