All
It Took Was A Door
My hands grasped
the door handle. Looking back now I would have screamed at myself to not enter in an attempt to escape the
reality awaiting me. I would have pleaded, “Turn around! Enjoy these few
moments before you realize someone you held dearly, someone who loved you
beyond comprehension, is gone.” The significant event was not in the opening of
the door. Instead, the key moment was the death of my father, who suffered a heart
attack at 38. The words “key” and “moment” strung together in a sentence
immediately bring to memory a scene painfully familiar to my soul. The vision
of adults sobbing and hugging, the smell of flowers and fruit trays, and the
touch of my bare feet on the patio, desperately hoping fresh air will shock me
out of the nightmare, creates a single scene in my life. No other memory is
more vividly seared in my mind.
After I pushed the
door open, it took a few seconds to register why people were in my home who
didn’t belong there on a Tuesday afternoon. Friends and family stood, weak and
sorrowful, around the kitchen and family room. But their sorrow could not
compare to the woman on the couch, surrounded by her dearest friends. I had
never seen my mother weep. I still hope I will never have to witness the
heart-wrenching sobs I heard. I sat with her for a second, but felt this
crushing desire to escape. I rushed to the bathroom, locked the door, and
screamed. I'm embarrassed now that the sound of my pain is in the memories of
those family and friends, but in the moment all I wanted was release. The
screaming may have expelled air but the heartbreak remained. I headed outside
after grabbing a Coke, a beverage only my parents were allowed to drink. The
urge to escape was soon met with a yearning for rebellion. “Why would God do
this?” I asked myself. I was angry with God for allowing my father to die and
felt this urge to rebel against Him. If screaming out of sorrow came first,
screaming out of anger quickly followed. I was furious because there was
nothing I could do to change this scene. No mystery to solve, no penance to be
paid, my father was gone and that was the life that lay ahead of me.
I returned to
school two days after I grasped the door handle. No one knew how to act around
me and it was uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand how people could smile,
laugh, and find joy when I was so brokenhearted. There were moments when I
tried to act as if I was all put back together. I wanted to prove to them I was
stronger than my circumstances, but it always ended in failure. I ended up
crying over a missed assignment or a simple misunderstanding and was ashamed I
could not be strong enough for my mom and sister, let alone for myself. Still I
pushed on; I strived to be stronger. My mother required my sister and I to
attend church and I left feeling empowered to be “better”. However, when Monday
afternoon arrived, I had failed to be a better person and felt utterly
helpless. I was pushing the same door handle hoping there would be something
else besides hurt on the other side. It wasn’t until I was a junior in high
school when a new pastor arrived at church. He told us, “Christianity is for
those who have tried their best and failed.” I knew I was failing to measure
up, but our pastor presented a glorious solution: Jesus Christ. He had stepped
in and was perfect in my place. I was no longer burdened with needing to be
strong enough because I was freely accepted in Christ.
The door remains,
etched in my memory, but it no longer leads to a place of frustration or anger,
but instead leads to a vivid, yet peaceful, place.
