I am finding it very hard to write posts these days.  Things tend to go in phases, and right now I’m more needing the catharsis of creating fiction than I am wanting to write intellectual posts.

Since I am fond of attacking softball issues and avoiding hard questions, I’m writing a novel about a young Christian girl who gets pregnant and eventually ends up keeping the baby- thus ensuring that she is kicked out of seminary and her father (a prominent pastor) has his reputation tarnished and she is more or less rejected by everyone she once considered friends- her story an opposite reflection of the “good girl” in church who takes her place on the worship team, replaces her as an associate youth pastor, and ends up going to the seminary. Right after having had an abortion.

I’m looking forward to all of the people who I made uncomfortable with my previous novel finding themselves shifting in their seats again for this one.  And maybe some young girls will learn that it’s not about being pro-life or pro-choice or pleasing one’s elders- it’s about letting your life be a love song to God.

Worship isn’t just for Sundays.

And, as promised:  bitter drink (the first thousand words)

She was surrounded by death. Not only had her best friend died suddenly two months ago, but everywhere she went she seemed to be haunted by things passing away. From the missing pet signs on the telephone poles to the fallen fruit littering the ditches on the side of the road to the zucchini plants in her garden that kept yielding wrinkly yellow gargoyle-like offerings… death was her constant companion. Everywhere, that was, but where she expected to find it.

Her uterus, it appeared, was full of life. Mara stared at the pregnancy test again, in disbelief. Two blue lines that looked like a blank expression. Two blue lines that dumbly said, “oh.” Two blue lines that some women prayed for in desperation and hoped for month after month. But they did not come when called, they could not be summoned or discarded at will. Mara knew that now with unsettling certainty. If she threw the test in the trash, they would still be there. If she stomped on it and crumbled it to bits, those two blue lines would persist in stating what was inviolately true. There was life in there, life that Mara wanted desperately to be elsewhere. Life that other women would rather have. Life that was being drained out of the world at every turn and channeled into this unwilling vessel.

Life that was probably the reason the smell of garlic haunted her everywhere.

Life that made her mouth taste like bile.

Shaking hands wondered what to do with this mocking strip of plastic. If she put it in the trash, someone else might find it. If she kept it in her room it would never let her rest. If she carried it out to the dumpster, even that didn’t seem like a safe way to discard it. Where could it possibly go? She stashed it in her back pocket, planning to go to the mall and throw it away there. But it burned her like an overheated toaster sandwich and felt as unwieldy to carry. Certainly someone would see the lump on her butt and wonder what she could be carrying there. Mara let out a whimper of frustration and put the box, instructions, and test back into the bag they came in. She wrapped them up like a gift. She’d have to hide them in her room for the time being.

She’d have to live with it.

Once back in her bedroom she stumbled around in agitation. She sat at the desk, staring at everything and hating it all. She stood at the window and wondered when her father would be home. She held her phone and paced back and forth, alternately willing it to ring and commanding it not to. Left, right, ring, don’t, left, right, ring, don’t. Despair was quickly turning into rage. This wasn’t the quaint rage of someone whose candy bar got stuck in the dispenser- this rage boiled and seethed and shook her like the ocean tide. This rage made the very marrow of her bones rattle with heat, it made her footsteps faster and her hands clench so hard the back casing popped off her phone, this rage so eclipsed her reason that rather than pick up the casing she threw the phone onto her desk so hard it knocked off her glass of pencils, shattering it.

And like the shards of glass now scattered on the floor, glistening dimly, her rage dissipated. She was left feeling fragmented and unable to collect herself. Logic told her to go downstairs and get a broom to clean up the mess. Emotion told her to scoop them up with her hands. Her ears told her that there was a car pulling into the drive and her brain screamed that the bag with the pregnancy test was still out in the open, on her bed. Mara grabbed the bag and stashed it in her dresser. She picked up her phone and carefully placed it on her desk, looking at the broken screen as it started to ring. One quivering finger hit the volume button, turning the ringer off.

The entryway door open and closed. There was the sound of grunting and boots knocking around as her dad went through the long process of disrobing from being outdoors in a Michigan winter. Mara sat down on the edge of her bed, paralyzed.

“Mara?” Her dad called out. “Where are you? I ran into Jude at the office and… Mara? I’d like to talk.”

Mara stared at her hands. Jude, office, and… and what? He came clean about everything? He ordered a steak and cheese sandwich? He said maybe it would be okay to move the wedding forward a year? And… what?

Footsteps on the stairs, sounding slower and more tired than usual. Mara squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to act as normal as possible, to stand up and walk into the hall, to smile and chat as if life weren’t about to get bent completely out of proportion.

The door squeaked open. “Mara?” This time he spoke softly. His dad-radar must have sensed a disturbance, must have told him to handle this situation with care.

Mara wanted to open her eyes but found herself helpless to do so. Even without sight she could sense her dad walking into the room, sense him seeing the broken glass and the cracked screen of the phone. She could hear him deliberately slow his breath, hear the rustle of his clothes as he sat down beside her. Everything suddenly seemed less chaotic. He was a solid wall of warmth at her side, his arm around her shoulders.

Quietly, oh so quietly, he spoke. “I’m not going to ask you for an explanation. If you want to tell me, you know I want to hear. I want to help you. If you don’t want me to help you, I couldn’t if I tried.”

Mara could only think that even if he did try, he couldn’t help her now. Tears flowed from her eyes. She buckled over, holding her chest against her knees. Her dad rubbed her back slowly, his breathing now more erratic. Mara sensed him holding back his own tears and it just made her cry that much harder. She couldn’t undo the last twenty four hours, the last month, the last two months, the last year of her life. She couldn’t go back now and order herself to hold true to her standards, to not compromise, to not fall. She couldn’t keep her friend from dying or her boyfriend from being too desperate for her or her dad from being this solid rock that was getting shaken from within.

She couldn’t get rid of those two nagging lines.

Mara cried for a long time, then she laid down. At some point her shoes were removed and her blankets pulled around her shoulders- but by that point she was asleep.