Short Story + Word Count: 946
Trigger Warnings: heavy religious themes, depictions of bodily mutilation, violent metaphors for depression and trauma
Written by: Del Rey Jean
Requested? Sort of!
Extra notes: This was an experience I had during a spiritual gathering of my church family a long time ago. My pastor’s wife loved this testimony especially, and I chose to recreate it as a story for her.
Please note: I understand that religion has harmed many of us, myself included, and I understand that this may be triggering for some members of the den. I am sharing this as a testimony of a beautiful experience I had, I am not looking to convert or convince anyone of my faith.
The day had been warm, with a gentle wind that brought in grey clouds from all directions over time. Their group gathered around a fire pit between two camping trailers. The ages ranged from small children, to middle age, up to elders. Everyone chatted and laughed together in separate conversations, yet they remained interconnected as one whole if you looked close enough.
The rain had thought to chase them away, but they simply moved under shelter and built their fire up again inside an old wood burning stove. That was when the magic started.
All of them were gathered in a semi circle off to the left of the fire, at least a dozen in all. They were all either standing or seated in chairs. At the end of the arc that was closest to the open flame was the worship team, and at the other end of the arc seated behind those flames, sat the baby of the group. A young girl, just over twenty and only saved for two years at most.
The crowd began singing together, and she joined in when she knew the words. Her heart was high up at the base of her throat, though, and she hung her head down to quietly pray.
All around them, the atmosphere changed.
Outside in the world, the rain poured down in unforgiving torrents as the sky continued to darken. But within that place, that simple shelter with its warm glowing fire, it was a whole other world.
The air grew thick, like mist. It was something tangible, you could cut it with a knife. It almost appeared the prayer and song were pouring this strange atmosphere from the mouths of the crowd.
There at the end of the arc, the baby girl felt tears rising into her eyes though she did not understand why such a thing could be happening. Her chin was wobbling, she feared she would begin to sob.
Something slipped inside her mind, because when she opened her eyes next, she was standing. And she was looking down at herself with her head bowed in the chair.
The seated girl was entirely naked, her skin battered and torn. All the wounds she’d once cut into her own skin had re-opened. The messy layers of crisscrossing scars on her thigh brought so much blood, it flowed like a river down to the cement floor. Some wounds were not of her own hand, but physical manifestations of the heartaches she’d crawled through. Gouges of skin plucked from her chest, her arms, even her face. Blackened bruises painted her pale skin where the blood did not touch it. She was ugly. She was torment itself. She was no longer a person.
Yet she sat there, worshipping still with her fellowship. She was singing along and belting the lyrics like the words were punches.
And then He came to stand before her. Bronzed and glowing and beautiful. Her saviour. Her life.
He smiled down at her and the simple upwards tilt of his lips was so gentle that it almost hurt to look at after everything the girl and her standing ethereal counterpart had been through.
Her savior bent down, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and guiding her to stand with him. He led her to a small space in the widest part of the arc before the group. All their heads were bowed, and they were worshipping, and she felt her heart squeezing inside her chest.
He began to lead her in a slow dance.
Her nerves rose higher and she tensed all her muscles; she didn’t know how to dance. She didn’t want to ruin this moment with her clumsiness.
He didn’t seem to notice when she stepped on his foot or mechanically followed his leading movements. Slowly, ever so gentle, she began to calm down as she realized deep in her heart: this is Jesus himself and he is leading her. She would be alright.
The instant she shifted to let herself trust in the lead of his dance, something began to change in her. No more awkward steps, nor mechanical movements. She moved like fluid alongside him.
And one by one, each red weeping wound sealed. As they did, he began to look happier and even somewhat excited.
And when all the marks of abuse and battle were gone, he was grinning like a young boy who’d just won a prize.
Her skin was glowing from beneath it.
He whispered, “there she is.”
As if he had found her just then at that moment when she was made whole. As if he had to search through the abuse and heal the evidence of it in order to see her.
The ethereal standing self melted down into the one standing inside his arms. And she found herself wondering, why go through such efforts to find me when there are probably much easier people to see… probably prettier as well… why would you do it? She didn’t say them, though. She couldn’t trust her voice would not shake.
He knew these thoughts, and he answered with his own questions: “why would I die for you, and yet not want to find you? Why would I suffer for you, if you would still suffer?”
She couldn’t answer. Silence brought his gentle, heart wrenching smile back.
“I wanted you,” he told her. “To see you, and to take all that pain. It’s not yours. It’s not meant for your skin. You were meant to glow.”
And all too fast, she was sitting once more, opening her eyes to the singing crowd and weeping.
She would not share that experience for many long months