Entry 3

I have just walked in the door after a very long day at the church. It was a good day, but long. Summer is gearing up. The church was buzzing today with preparations for Vacation Bible School. It’s going to have a spy theme.

I am tired tonight. Sitting at my computer now, I express my last thoughts of this day. As I reflect, I feel the stillness in this home. I have lived alone for many years now and in the recent days I have become sadly aware of that fact. Silence screams its presence. I am not meant to be alone. Yet, for whatever reason, too many of us are…oftentimes even those who live with someone else are still alone.

Before I locked up the church tonight I walked through the sanctuary tidying it up and paying my respects. I walked down the center aisle inspecting each row, straightening Bibles and hymnals in the pew racks. In the last aisle to the far corner sat a hymnal on the pew cushion; next to it lay a tissue. It was if I could see the silhouette of a person sitting there, but I couldn’t make it out. I turned sideways and made my way down the aisle to replace the hymnal to its proper place. When I picked it up, two pieces of paper floated to the ground, catching air in opposite directions as they made their way closer to the earth.

I picked them up and read them. I felt as though I had invaded the most personal thoughts of whomever wrote the words. But, I couldn’t help myself because the words painted the story of the silhouette that remained, although the person was no longer there. And the tissue was evidence of how real the story truly was. It was obvious the words and been written with shaking hands and vision blurred with tears…

Have you ever seen me cry?
Have you ever seen my tear which encapsulates, so painfully, the saline of my heart?
Have you ever really looked at me?
Have your ever looked into my soul and seen the empty cavity that

echoes with every word you speak?
Who am I? --to you?
The tears I bleed –are they of your blood too, or is it only mine?

I remember glancing at the tissue sitting on the pew cushion and expecting it to be covered with blood from drying tears. I wondered if these words were written for God. The second piece of paper had been crumpled and flattened back out again, but its words helped me to complete my understanding…

There is a shadow in the darkness
That lies with me in bed.
I recognize its outline
And hear its whispers in my head.

The shadow there beside me
It never moves the way I do,
But I know it feels me breathing
And hears me crying too.

The shadow in the darkness
It’s still moving all the same,
Yet when I reach to wipe my tear
My shadow's hand is no where near.

Years ago my shadow
Used to be a part of me.
But now my shadow’s vision
Sees nothing that I see.

My shadow’s arms no longer
Extends the length of mine.
My shadow never touches me
And hasn’t for sometime.

When I, alone, have dried my tears
And my eyes are clear at last
I jump from bed and start to dance
To give my shadow one last chance.

But as I move with flowing motion
Beckoning my shadow unto me,
I realize with resignation
That my dance has set me free.

As I trace my shadows outline
It doesn’t even move.
But, still I feel it breathing
And I hear it crying too.

The shadow in the darkness
Has grown dim with passing time.
And, as I watch I realize
This shadow’s no longer mine.

I looked around the sanctuary wondering who might have written these…the silhouette no longer visible. Was it a husband or a wife? One thing was clear, whomever is was has a broken heart. No, we are not intended to be alone, especially in marriage.

I wonder how Sylvia’s day was. I think I’ll call her…

Peace, Ben