eScapegoat 5

Each week of Lent, I will post a section of my book, eScapegoat. Like the season of Lent, the writing and the story are lean, troubling, ascetical. eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. Look for a new posting each Tuesday during Lent and one daily during Holy Week.

May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season. Return to beginning.

eScapegoat

Shadow Lands, cont.

No one volunteered to teach the Junior High Sunday School class, so I said I would. They weren’t much younger than me, but I was a warm body and I filled a needed blank, so I got the job. They handed me some curriculum, but I got my main inspiration from the Bible Storybook that sat on our home bookshelf. I thought we could plumb the magic of these stories, imagine ourselves as the different Bible characters, and explore how their stories and ours connected. Maybe, we could even create our own paintings of these stories and hang them in the church hallways.

My nerves ached as I stepped into the room my first Sunday teaching, but I found the students to be much more ill at ease than me, that I forgot my nerves trying to soothe theirs. I had only three students: two girls and an extremely shy boy. I began by inviting them to tear out shapes from construction paper that felt like them. They complained a little about paper tearing—it was too hard to get it right, it was a kid activity—but when talked a about the shapes said about themselves, they left that behind. Then I showed them how to find the story in their Bibles. I chose Moses in the basket boat because it was familiar, because it had such strong characters, and because it provided such powerful mind pictures.

I told the story aloud, backtracking when I forgot a key piece of information (like Moses having a big sister), then I asked them to share the part of the story they remembered best. All three recalled Jochebed leaving her son floating in the Nile River. One of the girls, Sara, recalled Miriam watching from the bulrushes. Our boy, Robert, remembered the slaying of the Hebrew baby boys. Why, I asked, did those parts feel important to you?

Robert realized he’d have been killed if he had been born in Egypt; Sara had a little sister, and wondered how she’d felt having Miriam’s job. Our other girl, Susan, imagined the baby inside the basket boat where it was pitch dark, rocking on the waves. She imagined the royal dress of the Egyptian princess.

I pulled out watercolors and paper and invited my students to paint scenes from the story—they could choose which. Susan got right to work, Robert looked at me as if I were kidding, then decided to humor me, And Sara sat staring at her paper until time was nearly up, then dived into the paints with a fury.

I decided to do the closing prayer, because I didn’t think anyone would volunteer. They filed out of the room without speaking, but I knew they were glad they came. I washed brushes and set out their paintings to dry before going to the worship service. I felt clean, somehow. As if I’d been newly baptized.

***

In my sixteenth year, our small congregation swelled by three. The news director for our town’s one TV station retired, making way for a newcomer. The Bower family arrived well pressed and smiling. The man, a dark-haired executive with weightlifter shoulders and a perfect smile, memorized names and occupations as we shuffled our way through the church’s greeting line. His wife, beaming under a Mary Tyler Moore hairdo and wearing a teal suit that accentuated her exquisite figure, clasped my outstretched hand in a surprisingly tight grip. The daughter, Sheila, was more amply proportioned than her mom; her almost white blond had escaped from its hair band, framing her face like a halo. She stuck out her hand for me to shake and gave me a nervous smile; she never met my eyes. At least one member of the Bower family was less than happy with her new situation.

***

“You look so pretty!” I told Sheila. “I love your dark hair ribbons in your blond hair and the way your ribbons match your shoes.”

Mrs. Bower’s face pinched as she looked at her daughter. “Pretty is as pretty does,” she announced.

Sheila’s smile flashed at my remark and vanished at her mother’s, replaced by downcast eyes and an ashen color of skin.

“You’re in the eighth grade, right?”

She nodded, her eyes still on the ground.

“Then you’ll be in my Sunday School class!”

I thought I saw a small smile at that. I hoped so.

***

“I try to find empire-waisted dresses for her,” Mrs. Bower sighed, “to hide that God-awful stomach. It’s hard to find anything in that style elegant enough for after-five wear.”

“Well,” replied our Chair of Deacons’ wife, measuring her words, “it’s clear you take great pains to dress her to her best advantage. You are a good mother.”

“Like hell!” I thought to myself, and then felt shocked at my internal language.

***

I came home disgruntled by Mrs. Bower’s remarks to find Wilda plastered across my bed, her nail polish and polish remover sitting at a slope on my bedspread, my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in hands. With a pen, she was writing on the pages.

What are you doing!” I demanded. “Get your nail stuff off my bed before it spills. Stop writing in my book!” I heard my voice shouting, heard the words pour out, knew I should stop, but didn’t.

Wilda sat up and blinked. Her wide eyes declared: Who do you think you are?

“I needed to annotate To Kill a Mockingbird. I don’t have time to get a copy and you already have one. So I took it.”

I just stared at her.

Wilda picked up her fingernail polish and remover and set them on her desk. Then she slammed my book closed, threw it onto my bed, and flounced to the door; Wilda knew how to make an exit. At the door she stopped.

“I am surprised by your anger, Wanda.” Her tone was parental, patronizing.

Surprised at my anger? I, too, was surprised—because for the first time I recognized what Wilda said and what she meant did not match. Her phrase “I was surprised,” meant something entirely different. It really meant, “Shame on you. You are not allowed feelings or behaviors that inconvenience me. Remember your place.”

Shame was a potent weapon against me; I don’t know if Wilda was insightful enough to perceive that or if she just hit a lucky mark once and, finding success there, struck with it whenever it suited her purpose. And, for as long I could remember back, such remarks had assured my compliance. I watched her make her exit sure of her success, sure she’d hit the mark. Had she?

 

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eScapegoat 2

Each week of Lent, I will post a section of my book, eScapegoat. Like the season of Lent, the writing and the story are lean, troubling, ascetical. eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. Look for a new posting each Tuesday during Lent and one daily during Holy Week.

May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season. Return to beginning.

 

eScapegoat

Shadow Lands, cont.

            Mother canned the peaches that grew, heavy with juice and fragrance, from three trees in our backyard. Each summer, I was handed a bushel basket and commissioned to fill it with plump, ripe fruit. I always had to tell my heart to slow its pace when I first placed a foot on the ladder that started on the ground beside me and ended somewhere up among the branches, leaves, and fruit. Stepping foot on the first rung, the transition between land and air always left me dizzy. But once I got a few rungs up among the gently curling leaves and the fragrant fruit, once I wrapped my fingers around a peach to test its ripeness—still hard and a little green or fuzzy soft and blushing orange and deep red—gave a gentle jerk, and heard the satisfying snap of stem, then laid the peach with its cousins in the basket, I left my fears in another world. These little friends, nestled among the embracing green of their own leaves, looked so wholesome and healthy, I knew everything was all right.

The kitchen would fill with steam and with the aroma of peaches and spice: Mother would ladle it all into Mason jars, her face moist and red from the steamer. I loved to load the cooled jars onto our pantry shelves. It seemed to me we had an infinity of gem-like peaches—some sliced, others whole—and, swimming with them in peach nectar, cinnamon sticks and little buds of clove. It smelled so good I sneaked a clove one time and, when I bit down on it, discovered it didn’t taste nearly as good as it smelled. A lick of cinnamon stick yielded a similar result. Some things, it seems, aren’t to be taken full strength.

But my favorite peach-time past time happened in the evening, when the temperature cooled just a bit and the sky turned a blue so deep it made my chest ache. Mother would hand Wilda and me each a leftover Mason jar. We’d haul out Father’s hammer and a nail and take turns pounding holes in the metal lid. We set the holey lid inside its screw top, grabbed the jars and went out looking for fireflies. Father called them lightning bugs, but that didn’t sound beautiful enough for such mysteries. Fireflies. That’s what they deserved to be called.

Darting and dodging between trees, I’d snag one after another in my jar, always telling them not to worry, I’d set them free in just a little while—I just wanted to look at them for a bit. Then I’d set the jar, filled with orbs of soft yellow light, on the picnic table, rest my chin in my hands, and be lost to wonder. The lights blinked on and off, gently moving around the inside of the glass. Their owners didn’t seem worried—they didn’t race around the bottom, trying desperately to scuttle up and over the sides like the spider I trapped one year. Fireflies just glowed inside the glass as they had done outside it. Like it really didn’t matter to them at all.

I’d stay there, chin in hands at the picnic table, trying to be really quiet so on one would think to make me go to bed, until someone finally did. Then I’d open the jar lid and watch the fireflies hover and then ascend, their lights at first concentrated above the jar, then dispersing into the sky like stars on wings.

***

The lower shelf of our home bookcase housed a Bible storybook: glossy cover, deep colors, simple lettering: Bible Storybook. I don’t know who purchased it. To my childhood mind, it had always existed as part of us: one of the furnishings of our existence. I loved the stories, especially once I was able to read them to myself, but, for me, the pictures held the most magic. Mostly deep blues and purples, they called to me from a distant, magic place and I longed to follow. I studied them with wonder, noting that a blob of color set beside blobs of another color created a brand new color, that lines and squiggles, themselves only odd shapes such as I could make, put together in some mysterious equation equaled a flower or a donkey leg or the tiles on a roof. I remember especially “The Escape to Egypt”: under a deep blue sky garnished in cold stars Mary, on donkey back, clutched her babe, as Joseph, striding with determined purpose, held the reins. I felt such urgency looking at that picture, felt the terror in the mother’s heart, the resolve in the father’s. I lost and found myself, looking at that book.

***

I made what Mother called “mud pies,” except mine were more “mud pictures.” When I grew weary of forming rounds out of our backyard mud, I would smear a layer of it on our back porch and scratch shapes into it with sticks, rocks, and my fingernails. I wished for color, but mud didn’t come with much pigment range, so I contented myself with what I had. I grew accomplished with making do.

***

eScapegoat

escapegoatEach week of Lent, I will post a section of my book, eScapegoat. Like the season of Lent, the writing and the story are lean, troubling, ascetical. eScapegoat is a story for those whose life experiences require a tenacious, and sometimes solitary, faith. It’s a hard read but a hopeful one. May eScapegoat nourish your soul this Lenten season.

After today, Ash Wednesday, look for posts each Tuesday of the Lenten season.

 

eScapegoat

Shadow Lands

From the beginning, I guess, Wilda and I existed separate. We ate the same food, shared the same bedroom furnished with twin beds whose burdened springs squeaked each time one of us turned over, went to the same schools, and, for a season, rode in the same backseat, sticking our tongues out at one another when we thought our parents weren’t looking. Yet I never dwelled in Wilda’s universe; my world was so detached from hers that she could not have imagined it, even had she cared enough to try.

At her birth, my parents named my older sister Wilda. When I came along, I was named Wanda. Two names starting with W and ending with A, three letters between. I always felt my name was a shadow of my sister’s, that I was more a shadow than a person in my own right. And shadows know their place.

***

I even looked like the stuff of shadows. Wilda was golden, literally, with burnished curls the strong color of corn and open eyes flecked blue, green, and brown. Wilda possessed honest eyes: eyes that drew you in. I, on the other hand, wore my straggly hair tied back in a ponytail that, according to my school photos, usually hung lank and off-kilter down my back. My eyes, gray almost to the point of iridescence, discomforted people. I kept my head down, because when I raised my eyes to others, they would meet my gaze, then their eyes would widen and slide away from my face. I chose to be the first to do the ignoring.

***

I saw a lot of my sister’s back. She claimed the seat behind and to the right of the driver’s seat, so Father could easily see her in the rearview mirror as he checked traffic. We pestered each other too much when we sat side by side—Mother’s words—so by the time I was five, I was relegated to the back-facing seat in the station wagon. If I swiveled around and craned my neck, I could see one of Wilda’s pigtails hanging down her back and the wispy strands of hair at the base of her neck. Craning hurt my neck, though, so I usually just stared out the back window, imagining the road that lay behind us as a magic path to a magic place only I knew.

At meals, Father sat at the head of our oaken table, Mother at the foot, and Wilda and I on either side. Wilda would angle her chair toward Father and inch it up by degrees until I was mostly behind her. Mother protested a few times, but Wilda could be obstinate. Mother gave up.

I ate my meals feeling alone at a table for four, wanting all the while to be really alone. During meals, Wilda was always full of stories: entertaining Mother and Father, holding them in her power as best she could. If the conversation came my way, she yanked it back and punished me later with a pull of hair or a shove in the back. As we grew older, she finessed her punishments with remarks designed to demean me in front of her friends or to discredit me in front of adults. But never in front of Mother or Father. Wilda was a survivor; she knew how to play the game.

I loved her: couldn’t help myself. Each time she abused me, I stepped right up and asked her do it again. And for that she despised me. I knew instinctively that she had always despised me. I could imagine no other reality than the one in which I loved my despiser. It never occurred to me that she could change the way she felt about me or that I deserved anything other than to be despised by her and largely ignored by both parents. I never wondered why I should be hated. I was just someone to be hated and the most loving thing I could do was to make myself scarce, to remove as much irritation as possible from before Wilda’s eyes.

I expressed my love by keeping out of Wilda’s way so as not to raise her ire too much, so as not to distress her. And my parents wore such weary expressions any time I approached them, that I kept most things to myself. I remained in the shadows and kept out of the way. I, too, was a survivor, if a barely visible one.

***

I do recall one time, though, when my heart overtook me. Wilda had been particularly abusive that day, so much so that Father noticed and spoke to her in his cool tone. In her flashing eye I saw the truth—his reproof made her hate me all the more. I ran to her, wrapping my arms around her waist.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” I wailed.

Her body tensed. She raised her arms over her head so as to reduce body contact with me. As my father watched with sad eyes, I stood there, alone, holding onto her, knowing myself to be repulsive. Then my heart burst open. Releasing her, I fled in tears to my bed.

“Wilda!” I heard Father reproach, his cool voice even chillier. She would hate me even more now.

Depression Danger

depressionI have depression. Severe at times. I share this because recently we’ve heard news stories in which persons with depression harmed others. A pilot crashed a passenger-filled plane into the Alps. A woman hanged herself in an elementary-school playground, potentially traumatizing students. A suicidal man crashed his car into another, killing himself and the other driver.

We might determine from such stories that all persons with depression pose a threat to others. We’d be wrong. It’s true: depression can skew thinking, but generally in self-torturing ways. Like those green gunky guys in the Mucinex commercials, Guilt, Shame, Dread, Worthlessness, and Despair arrive, toting luggage, intent on setting up a homestead in our souls.

Put another way, it’s like trying to keep our noses above frigid waters*. Makes it challenging to fry an egg, focus at a board meeting, and help with the kid’s homework while trying not to drown. I call depression an invisible disability, because the determination needed to keep on keeping on is not readily evident. But depression can be just as debilitating as any other bodily challenge.

And, far from seeking to harm others, it’s often the love of others that prods us out of bed in the morning when we want to pull the covers over our heads, assume a fetal position, and beg for the bliss of unconsciousness.

What do people with depression need?

  • First, not to be labeled by our depression: we are, each of us, individuals.
  • Second, not to be feared: we tend to accept blame that’s not ours anyway.
  • Third, to know we didn’t choose this. Depression can be caused by life experience, by temperament, by physiognomy, or by a combination of these. We choose to eat right, exercise, take medication as needed, get enough rest, and pray pray pray, but it’s no guarantee. We can still find ourselves near to drowning in depression’s chilled waters.
  • Fourth, have expectations of us. Creating, contributing, being depended on remind us that we’re valued and needed. And that keeps us keeping on.

The reprehensible choices of some persons who share a diagnosis does not define us all. Get to know us— each of us—as a unique person. Because for a person with depression, blame is toxic, but acceptance is balm.

* My book, When God Walks Away: A Dark Night Companion, provides further insight into depression, including its spiritual potential and how it differs from the dark night of the soul.