Page 16 of Penance

No, Lord. I am still your servant. Still your lamb, and you are my shepherd. Guide me, Lord. Teach me.

But the words feel hollow, the whining screams of a petulant child.

Is that what I am?

A brat throwing a tantrum?

I turn away from the mirror, unable to face the stranger staring back at me. I move into the hallway, and then into mybedroom, and I stop before my altar, the small space bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the pages of my Bible, laid out in front of me, and the cross that hangs on the wall.

I sink to my knees.

My hands clasp together, fingers entwined so tightly they ache.

But it’s a good pain, a grounding pain.

I need this pain.

Ideservethis pain.

“Lord,” I whisper, my voice a ragged plea. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what to do, what to think. I’m lost.”

I take a deep breath, my breath shaking.

“Show me the way, Lord. Guide me through this… this darkness. Help me understand, help me accept this task you’ve given me.”

I stop, reaching up to wipe the tears from my eyes.

Help me love this child. Help me love myself.

I think the words, but I don’t say them. I can’t say them out loud.

“Lord, please,” I whisper. “Please watch over my family. They don’t know. They can’t…”

I take a shuddering breath, the thought of their disappointment, their shame, hits me hard, like a pounding ache in my chest.

The image of my mother’s face, her eyes filled with tears of betrayal, flashes in my mind. It’s like a waking nightmare. I push it away, focusing instead on the dance of the shadows on the worn pages of my bible.

“And Lord, please, please help me find a way to accept… this.”

My hands tremble as I tentatively touch my stomach, a light brush of my fingertips against the fabric. I can’t bring myself to press harder.

I don’t want to feel it.

I want to forget it’s there.

“I don’t know how to be a mother,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to love this child. I don’t know if I can.”

The tears are coming now, and I don’t fight them.

I feel them. I let them take me.

“But I want to, Lord. I want to love this child, for no matter how it came to be, it is in your image. It is of you, and for that alone, I am grateful.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath, but it just hurts. It doesn’t help.

“God, help me.”

Slowly, I reach out, snuffing each candle, one by one, the room growing darker and darker with each dying flame. When the flames are finally gone, I get to my feet, shaking.

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