In the wake of it all, I began having trouble getting myself through the door of the church where I had formerly led a ministry for teens. I had difficulty facing the life-size statue of the resurrected Christ above the altar. I don’t want to say that I was angry at Him for the things I was struggling with since I knew He didn't cause any of it. Maybe I had just grown allergic. The form of Jesus, with his peaceful countenance and outspread arms, was making my eyes tear.
During that summer from hell, I met with the surgeon to discuss my dad’s prognosis, one of several issues that had knocked the wind out of me emotionally. As he spoke I couldn't help but imagine my spirit hovering over the scene, detached from my body like someone flat-lining on an operating table. I treated the meeting like an interview I might do for work; he could have been a school superintendent or local politician. I wrote down the answers of this man who had conducted brain surgery on my father calmly, pressing my out-of-control shaking leg down with my free hand under the table. I felt snapped in half, but inside there were no tears, just a hollow shell.
|This image of the three kings comes from subversify.com|