Today is Sunday. The sky is cloudy and the air is heavy with a promise of rain. It is good to stay in bed on a day like this, sleep in and stay warm. It is not good that my husband is wearing his work clothes.
We will all go to church today. That is what he announces with a flourish whilst fastening his necktie. I do not respond. I turn from him to conceal my scowl. He does not, however, ask for my opinion so I do not offer it. I take a bath instead, a quick one that ends before she starts taunting me again. My husband wears a blue tie, navy with thin black stripes on it. I scour my wardrobe for the blue dress that matches the blue tie. I wear the longer one, chiffon that sweeps my ankles with long bishop sleeves. Carefully, I brush my hair and tie it behind my head as I watch my husband frantically search for something. I suspect it is his bible. He has not touched it since the incident, so I put it away. I stand and walk to my nightstand to retrieve my bible as well as his. He smiles and grabs my purse.
"Shall we go?" I nod. So we go.
The first face that welcomes you when you enter the church is the face of a smiling Jesus. The second face one meets is that of Sister Gladys, a middle-aged spinster with a hoarse voice that still sounds as sweet as a mother's love. Her touch is firm yet tender. She has the kind of smile that compels you to smile back, the kind of hug that brings tears to your eyes. Her eyes in this moment, normally filled with laughter and excitement, stare at me with something cold and disgustingly close to pity. She smiles and grabs me into her arms. Mine remain glued to my side. She pities me. I hear her whispering to her friend. That is the woman whose child passed. More and more eyes turn towards us, as we walk down the aisle to sit in our usual pew. More and more whispers follow us. The whispers get louder. Desperate, I turn to my husband. I want him to shield me from the whispers. His face is long, pulled and his head is bowed. I see him soaking up the pity like a sponge and in that moment I hate him. I hate him more now than when he forcefully demands that I host another one of his children in my body. He accepts the pity, the sympathy. This selfishness, the gall to siphon and enjoy any attention at all from the untimely demise of our daughter is unforgivable. I will not be a part of it. I pull my hand out of his and hold my head high until we reach the third row, where the deacons sit. He sits next to me and sighs audibly.
The pastor today speaks of God in His sovereign nature, ordering our lives by his will. My husband eats up the sermon like a starving dog. I refuse to be a part of it. I keep my eyes forward and my face stoic whenever he raises his hand in a burst of spiritual inspiration, when he shouts amen with so much conviction, when he hastily wipes the tears that fall from his face.
God was not looking when my daughter died. How could he watch my poor child suffer? How could he look? Surely not god, who raised other children from the dead. Surely not God, who parted the sea, and brought water out of a rock. Surely not god who made dry bones live again. Surely not god who promised not to allow harm to befall us, who promised good hope, who claims over and over to have unconditional love for us. No. He was not looking. He did not see it coming.
But my poor husband believes this man who claims god sees our suffering. We all rise to pray and his hand finds mine, much to my annoyance. I close my eyes as well and repeat the words of the pastor. I am not ready to speak to god just yet. As soon as the service is concluded, the pastor and his wife march purposefully towards us. They offer words of comfort meant to give me comfort I suppose, or placate my mind. I nod and smile dutifully as I should, at them and the rest of the congregation.
God's timing is the best timing. The Lord will comfort you in your loss. She is in a better place. She is now in the rest of the Lord. We loved her but God loved her more. The lies pile up in my mind. I refuse to assimilate them. There was no real reason for my daughter to die. The timing was terrible. The Lord has not comforted anyone. There was no better place for her than in my arms. She was only a child. She had seen no suffering nor had she known any pain. She did not need rest. God definitely did not love her if her very last moments on earth were spent in agony. I will not have any more of these lies. I will not be a part of it. So I leave the woman who is speaking and sit inside the car.