I lived in an empty house where God’s name was not mentioned. Wood floors, the color of my skin. Mahogany. Resembling dirt. I felt trampled upon by children in an indoor playground. I worked as a nanny in rooms with beige carpet, the same color as the walls that fenced me in. Tile bathroom floors made it easy to clean my vomit when I had morning sickness. Stainless steel faucets. Water dripping. Granite island in the kitchen. Everything fully functioned in an air of despair. I was alone on the brown, suede couch. I don’t know how I got pregnant. It wasn’t a result of birds and bees, flowers and trees. It was a divine thought experiment. God wondered if I would teach my child to worship Him or if I would worship my child.
I existed in utter emptiness - a tree with naked branches. There was no music. No hands raised to the sky. No worship. No wings to fly.
My father told me, “One day, you’ll wake up and realize you’re God.”
This was the day he got arrested. These were the last words I heard from him. The authorities handcuffed him for his beliefs. There was no freedom of thought or speech or assembly. No documents to protect us.
I wondered if divinity existed within my flesh and blood. If in my heart dwelt God…
Every man of God had been arrested. A rabbi, my neighbor, left me with parting words about my father, the custodian at the local synagogue. The former rabbi told me a story in his office as if we were old friends.
A poor woman prayed for food to eat - her daily bread. She visited the sanctuary and voiced her prayers in private. The next day, she continued the routine. To her surprise, bread and juice were waiting for her in her prayer space. This happened for days. She reported the miracle to the rabbi. He told her the details she was missing. The custodian, my father, had heard her prayer and with compassion, he provided her with something to eat and drink.
“Your father had the hands of God.”
“We are His hands and feet,” I said, “...in Christ.”
This was the final conversation I had with the rabbi before he was arrested for expressing his faith. It’s sad that he suffered not only because of his faith, but because of his doubt. He was actually an atheist - inwardly, he wrestled with his religious inclination, teetering on a seesaw, experiencing highs and lows. He inspired faith in mixed congregations. Men, women, and children were drawn to his light in an abject, utterly dark world. Yet, he lacked proof, evidence of a divine footprint.
People were being rounded up en masse and sent to detention centers. A local imam faced the same dilemma, as my father, as the rabbi. In a khutbah, he told his congregation that Allah was the hearing he heard with and the seeing he saw with. The authorities then locked him up in an unlit, windowless jail cell and spit on his face.
I lived alone, afraid to express any type of faith. My teeth chattered. My soul, cold. I lived without breathing the mention of God. It was dangerous. I was fired from my part-time job teaching English as a second language, because I brought worship music into the classroom. Was I next to be arrested? How could I give birth in a jail cell? I worried about what to teach the next generation. Math? Science? Revelation?
Fear ran through my veins, but I was soon to be a mother. What greater joy than to give life? What greater sin than to take a life? In a black-and-white world, I was uncertain of the truth. I held my breath, but not for long. As an act of rebellion, I held my stomach and sang to my developing embryo. God was in control. I trusted Him. May He be pleased with us!
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