It started with the funeral procession. I suppose I am too sensitive, but I cannot help it. Every day someone dies. Not all of them are remembered.
I say a prayer as the hearse passes by. The angry skies are reflected on the windows, the pure white is a symbol of innocence to me.
My face is must look rather strange as I stare at each passing car. They don't know I'm memorizing every face.
I see their sorrow. I share their pain. They never know. I shall need more than prayer before noon.
Tell me again, why I have this gift? It works in mysterious ways.
An insignificant nudge to encourage a stranger in need with love. A pinch in my toes to pay attention. The ache in my heart to listen.
The headache from tears unshed.
My head is hurting again. It has been several hours since I arrived at work. The papers on my desk multiply as I stare out the window.
I don't know what I'm seeing. I know I need to cry.
In the safety of a bathroom stall, I let the tears come. I release the fears, the sorrows, and the silence that clings to me.
I cry for those who cannot.
My mind replays the procession. I see every face, vivid in their private pain. The elderly couple in black, the frazzled young mother with the minivan, the college student on a motorcycle.
A friend has left them. This is a last goodbye.
My nose is stuffed up. And this stall is out of toilet paper. I guess I can get going now.
Someone is coming in. I tip-toe to the sink as their stall door closes. I don't want to explain why I was bawling my heart out.
The ache in my heart begins. There is the sound of ripping fabric and heavy sobs.
I can't start crying again. I am silent until I hear the flush and then the door opens.
She stumbles to the sink, arms bleeding as the rest of her stomach empties into the sink.
I want to say something. Why can't I speak?
Angry red lines crisscross skinny arms. Her hair is limp as she rinses her mouth. I know her face. I know her name. Belinda.
For some reason, she has not seen me. I am standing right next to her.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. Fear turns to defiance as she glares at me.
The tears begin again. I feel sick to my stomach. I can feel her pain in every scar she carries.
Her defiance turns to confusion as she asks me why I am crying.
Somehow my lips move. "For you." I say.
Her tears mix with mine as a prayer is offered upwards.
Dear Heavenly Father, I need you now. I can't forget her face now. I don't want to cry anymore, but I can't help it. It hurts too much. I hear her story, of the hurt she carries daily. The boyfriend who says she's fat. The girls in the office who laugh at her handmade sweaters. Long-sleeves cover the scars, but it doesn't hide her eyes. There are so many people. So much pain. Father, Daddy, please, please be with her, with me, with them. And promiseyou'll never let go.
Sara Harricharan is a young Christian woman with a passion for writing for the Lord through faith-filled Science Fiction/Fantasy stories and pure words. www.fictionfusion.blogspot.com
Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com
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