Awake! Put On Strength. Shake yourself from the dust and arise!

This is a short story that I wrote about the depravity of man and the Holiness of God. Every event is true, though not strictly autobiographical. This is a mixture of things that have happened in our city, to my old roommate and to me.

Blessed Be the Name of the Lord

Experience at University culminated to this one point: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

I grew up in comfort that the Deity and I were on the same page. I did no wrong, and he was my homeboy. Just like my t-shirt. That was our relationship, I do my best, he forgives me, and one day I’ll float around on a cloud with my grandparents.

I am from a wealthy family; my father is a banker. I went to a wealthy high school on the wealthy side of town that promoted fake smiles and shallow concern. The churches there all said, “Follow Jesus and you’ll be blessed. You’ll have that BMW.” And nobody argued because everybody wanted that BMW.

We adopted my sister when she was born. She isn’t Anglo, but we love her anyway. Her mother had her at 16 and chose to kill her by giving her away instead of killing her while in the womb. My sister is two years younger than I am.

I went to University to study business. I was going to make it big like my dad; I wasn’t going to worry bout anything. I was going to drive my BMW in my wealthy neighborhood on my wealthy side of town when I graduated. I went to University because that is what every responsible member of society does.

University was three hours from home, two and a half if my foot enjoyed its fellowship with the accelerator. It was in a city not as nice as my own. My friends and I were too busy enjoying our “last party of the summer” parties so we didn’t secure housing in student neighborhoods. All that was left was the inner city.

I moved into a house with three other guys from my old school and church into a neighborhood where dumpsters marked every corner. Old sneakers hung from the power lines. Fast-food trash lined the street curb. Graffiti tagged the freight train in a rush of color as it passed by 20 yards away every hour.

I went to church the first two Sundays of the school year because I was used to it. On the third Sunday I was too tired from playing video games all night so I slept in and enjoyed glorious freedom. I was good enough, not just on Sundays, I didn’t have to go. I knew it all anyway, I had heard the same thing for the past 19 years.

The first month living in our house, my car was broken into. They stole my radio, scattered the contents of my glove box across the lawn, and stole my wheels. The police told me not to hold my breath on catching the guy.

Two weeks later our front door was tagged in the polygonnic style of spray-paint letters. I couldn’t read what it said, but who can?

A week after that I noticed the neighbor’s 9-year-old daughter getting forced into different cars with different older men by her mother a couple times a week. The first couple of times the little girl was screaming and crying, declaring her objections with tears and grabbing her mother, trying to hold on to anything to keep from going away. Each time her mother would slap her face and shove her in the car. From where I sat in my room, peering out through the blinds, I think I saw something trade hands. After a while, the car would come back and the old man of the day would dump the girl off at her house. After a few more trips, the girl would numbly accept her visitor without tears and screaming, just a blank stare and slow movements.

I told my roommates, and we were all horrified, but not disturbed enough to break the concrete bonds between our comfort and us. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

Eventually I noticed a flash of green passing between the older men and the mother at the transfer of the little girl. I didn’t like to watch the process, though it was hard to avoid. Later the mother would walk down to the street corner where the soiled sneakers hung from the power lines. She would flash the green for a flash of white in an exchange with the imposing gentlemen stationed there.

I was tired and wearied that first semester in school, disturbed with the environment I suddenly found myself. I listened to surrounding conversations to see if anybody experienced similar living conditions. Every conversation amongst the little clones of cliques spotted through out campus was of the same topic. Sex, alcohol, the beach, money, celebrities, that’s all I heard. Were they blind? Just down the street where I lived, reality was playing on a dirty blacktop with no shoes or food. I had the same conversations with the same people in high school.

One night, early in the morning, I was awakened by gunfire. I grabbed the baseball bat I kept by my bed and cowered in the closet. Later when the police knocked on my door, I found that the two men at the corner got in an argument and shot each other dead. The little girl’s mother was caught in the crossfire. I watched as medics loaded her bleeding body into the back of the ambulance as social workers carried a tearless 9-year-old to a waiting sedan. Although I hadn’t prayed in a while, I prayed that the girl’s new family wouldn’t sell her into prostitution for cocaine.

Two of my roommates moved out.

* * *

A month later, my mom called me. Small talk was shallow and I could tell she had something important to tell me.

“Your sister is pregnant.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“She’s pregnant,” my mother choked.

“She’s 17.”

My mother sobbed on the phone. Through snotty sniffles she told me my sister consensually slept with a 41-year-old coworker, who was married with four kids.

When did she do this? At what time? How did she give herself to a 41-year-old man?! It was absurd. I threw up.

My mother began to call my name, “Jo-.” Somehow, my phone was violently propelled across the room, flinging vomit over the dirty carpet. It left an impact crater in the dry-wall.

Inside, I snapped. My chest was heavy with the despair of it all. Falling to my knees, I grasped for each breath and clenched my hair in my hands. What the hell was wrong with the world? How does a young girl, loved by her family, give herself away like that? And what was so important to argue over that the only settlement was with 9mm bullets?

“Where are you GOD!?” I cried. “Why have you left? How can you let all this happen? I thought you loved us!” Tears, saliva and snot soaked the carpet as I dug my face into it’s fibers and pounded it with my fists. “Why have you LEFT!” I repeated.

And then a voice answered. Though not audible, I felt the words imprint upon my chest.

I have not left. I will never leave you nor forsake you.

You left.

Angry, I cried out, “I left?! I followed every commandment! I never drank nor slept around! I am not like those people outside, I went to church.”

You belittled my name with your sacrifices. As if I needed anything, as if the Creator and King could be served by human hands! I desire your heart, not your vain sacrifices.

Still proud, I stood and haughtily lifted my eyes. “What about that little girl and my sister? How could you have let this happen?”

Will the fault finder contend with the Almighty? Let him who reproves God answer it. Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, since you know. You left me and ran this life in vain. I have a plan for the little girl and for your sister. I cause all things to work together for good, as if any man’s actions or choice can thwart me. I foreknow, I predestine, I call, I justify, and I glorify. I give and I take away. There is no other God but Me.

Driven back to my knees in fear, I spoke words that were not mine. They welled up in my throat and poured out in worship without my control. “Behold, I am insignificant; what can I reply to you? I lay my hand on my mouth. Once I have spoken, and I will not answer; even twice, and I will add nothing more.”

Pick up your cross and follow. Go to the little girl and tell her about Me.

* * *

The social worker offered me a chair, which I timidly accepted by the old bunk bed. I was at the orphanage where they took the little girl, Shawna. She was curled into a ball, starring blankly at the wall. Her pillowcase was wet and her cartoon princess sheets were drawn tightly around her, held in clenched, scared hands.

“Hello, Shawna,” I said. She didn’t move, though she blinked. I couldn’t tell if she was listening, but I continued, hoping she would hear anyway. “My name is Job. I have a friend I want you to meet. Many men have hurt you, but He isn’t like any man. He is a King. His name is Jesus…”

Experience at University culminated to this point: “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

©Matthew Watson, 2007