Good Intentions

Later that evening I heard the screen door slam and familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. I peered my eyes around the corner and saw the familiar smile of my dad. I looked forward to seeing him come home each night these past months. His familiar smell somehow brought my tired heart comfort and also reinforced that I had made it through another day. Covered in sawdust from a day’s work, he held a yellow card in his hand. The moment I saw it, I knew it was for me. I couldn’t help but feel special. I hadn’t even opened it. It was just nice to feel loved.

I turned my head his way as he walked toward the couch and he handed me the card smiling.

I opened the yellow envelope, noting a pink and white card that read:

Things people say to cheer you up:

 “Look on the bright side.”

“Things could be worse.”

“Hey, it’s not so bad.”

I turned to read the inside:

Things you can say back to them:

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!!”

I immediately grinned, feeling relieved for the reminder that he understood. Knowing he got how I was feeling. And that those words were really all anyone wants to say to someone trying to ‘fix’ things. We had had our share of ‘things people say’ over the past months. Things that well meaning people say. I recalled the past week getting an unexpected visit from an older woman from the church. She had taught a few classes of mine growing up and we had known her for years, mostly in large group settings. I knew she loved my parents and with that followed my sister and I. I also remembered her terrible temper during Sunday school classes as a child. I peered out the window and saw her large maroon car driving in. I quickly called out to my mom, asking her what she was doing here. My mom scurried down the hall, flashing me a glare, telling me to ‘behave’ with her eyes in a way that only mothers can do. Seconds later I listened, hearing my mom answer the door in what we often called her ‘phone voice’, the high pitched soft voice that mothers often turn on when in public, despite the craze that may have occurred only seconds prior. I listened, hearing steps approaching down the hall, and I embraced the awkwardness I felt as I watched her short stocky frame draped in a denim jumper sit down in the white wicker chair in my room next to my bed. I looked into her full rosacea covered cheeks and watched quietly as she began to roll up her sleeves. She asked me how I was doing and I gave her the short version of recent findings. Oddly, she then began to point out large scaly lesions to her legs, measuring a few inches in diameter. I felt them glaring at me in an odd private ‘show and tell’. My stomach turned. She pointed out more on her arms. I wondered what they were and she began to tell me it was her psoriasis. She began to tell me how hard it had been for her to cope with the lesions over the past few years. I knew I should feel compassion. I knew I should try and empathize. I did my best to smile and nod. I did my best to say the right things. But inside I felt myself growing annoyed. Why was she showing me this? I didn’t have psoriasis. I didn’t even have a rash! I knew she was just trying to help. I knew I shouldn’t think those thoughts, but I felt my body harden. I had only turned 21. How were we similar? I half figured illness came with the turf for people in her age bracket. She had already lived a healthy life. She had already had a family. She already had grandchildren for goodness sakes! No, we were not the same. I wondered if I was now going to be a magnet for others, with any illness or infirmity, to come and show me their ‘battle wounds’. I didn’t want to hear it. I could barely acknowledge my own. And I certainly didn’t want to see it!

She left that day and I watched from my window as her maroon car slowly hobbled over the stony driveway. My mom tried to tell me she was only trying to help. She tried to tell me it was her way of caring. I knew that.

But I wasn’t ready to hear it.

Two days passed and for the first time in months I felt well enough to go to church. The church where I had grown up. The church where I had known so much love. I recalled my years of attending school in the two room field house. I recalled the seven of us in total learning about math, science, history, English and Spanish. I recalled us learning about each other, learning about life. And facing the very awkward junior high years together. I remembered driving in with my dad each morning down the long windy driveway to the church, my sister and I packed in his blue pickup truck, which was usually speckled in sawdust and old coffee cups. I used to love those drives. I recalled the past months and all the flowers from various friends from church that had filled my solemn room. Multiple bouquets poured in. We had no where to put them all. They came, and they came for months. They spilled out of my room into the living room and dining room. All the cards with well wishes that had come. Never had I felt so loved. And so, I decided it was time to return.

I anxiously entered the foyer of the church that day, all too aware of my face that had so rounded. I remembered the bald spots on my now apparent scalp, and I fought back waves of shame. I hoped others wouldn’t notice. I hoped it wouldn’t be a big deal. I needed for it all not to be a big deal. I needed some kind of normal. I needed to pretend I was normal, even just for a little. I swallowed hard and entered the sanctuary, as I had so many times before. I was greeted by many familiar and smiling faces which helped calm my nerves. I just wanted to get to my seat. If I could get to my seat I felt I would be safe, perhaps hidden in the crowd. I sat next to my mom that day and tried not to look around too much. I felt myself on edge and tried to tell myself to calm down. We sang a few songs and I saw others look my way. Several women approached me as the church sang, giving me long extended hugs. I felt awkward, knowing I wasn’t hidden. During the announcements the pastor welcomed me publicly to the service, as he had offered many public prayers for my health over the past months. I knew many were concerned, but I couldn’t relax. I sat tensely in my seat throughout the service, hoping it would soon end. At the end of the service I was approached by a woman who told me that “God was going to heal me”. She was convinced of this, as I saw the intensity behind her eyes. She told me she was going to continue praying for healing. My underarms started to sweat and I felt my stomach churn. I had had no sense of this. More, I was just finally attempting to come to terms with accepting what was before me, and that had been hard enough. It frustrated me that she could so easily approach me and tell me it would ‘all go away’. How did she know? In my heart, I knew it wouldn’t. In my heart I knew my road had just begun. I breathed in deep and a few moments later I was approached by another woman who told me I would “have a great testimony from this” and that “God was going to use this”. I felt myself growing more annoyed. Why was she using Christian clichés on me? Why was she trying to interpret my life for me? I hadn’t asked any questions. More, this was not even coming from a close friend. I think that annoyed me the most. I left the church that day feeling defeated, feeling like the broken girl that others wanted to ‘help’. But I didn’t want help. I just wanted some part of my life to be normal.

Later that afternoon I sat on the screened in back porch with my parents, eating our Sunday brunch. I listened, hearing the wind gently blow through the trees and felt a warm breeze brush past my face. I looked down at my plate of freshly made scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and melon. The smell of sausage and eggs wafted up to my nose, but I wasn’t hungry. My heart was still heavy from that morning. I pushed my glass of orange juice away, feeling my stomach in knots. I began telling my parents what had happened and what was said. My dad had been playing the guitar at church that day and noted all of it from the podium. I watched as my mom’s ears listened intently, and she began to tell me that “people were just trying to help”. I saw her frustration with me grow, as I told her that “It didn’t!”. I told her I only felt worse. I told her I didn’t want to go back. She couldn’t understand. I could tell by the look in her face. I knew I disappointed her. I knew she thought I was being unreasonable. I knew she thought that anything said with ‘good intention’ should be regarded as ‘nice’. I strongly disagreed. Sometimes, things said with ‘good intention’ were just not nice at all. Sometimes they were hurtful.  I looked over to my dad who didn’t say a whole lot. He told me he saw different people approach me. His brown eyes looked at me and said he couldn’t blame me for the way I felt. I felt myself finally exhale. So I wasn’t crazy? It wasn’t me? Nonetheless, I knew these were the people and the church we had poured our lives into. I knew I couldn’t give up. Not just yet.

We hoped with time things would settle down and I would learn a ‘new normal’ in the place that I had known so much love. So I decided to give it another chance. The following Wednesday I entered the week night service, knowing there would be far less attendees, secretly hoping that would make all the difference. I entered the foyer a second time that week, nervous and uncomfortable, but wanting to push through. There weren’t as many looks during the songs which brought some relief, but moments after the service ended a shorter middle -aged man with brown hair approached me. He began to tell me about pain he had been having in his right shoulder. I watched as he grabbed his short arm and began to twist his shoulder in circles, telling me of the pain that “kept him up at night”.  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I smiled politely and tried to end the conversation as soon as possible. I felt embarrassed. Why was he telling me this? I wasn’t having shoulder problems. I knew my fear of becoming a magnet for others to ‘show and tell’ their infirmities was coming true.

A few others approached me, asking me how I was feeling. I knew they were just trying to care. I also knew I was just tired of talking about it. I left that night feeling uneasy. Feeling the church home I had once known and loved was somehow different. Maybe I was different. I wasn’t proud of how I felt. But I also couldn’t help it. I told myself I was done with being a spectacle. I was done with being someone for people to ‘help’. Maybe once I got back to looking ‘normal’ things would be better. I didn’t know if I would ever look normal again. And with that, I decidedly informed my parents that I wasn’t going back.

And I didn’t.

Not for a very very long time.