The Darkness Within Me

DRAFT



         It’s cold outside; it’s biting into my skin. I came early this year even knowing how cold it would be. I think maybe this is my way of self-flagellation, because I’m too scared to do anything else. But the sun is beginning to crest the mountain peaks behind me and I feel it trying to warm me. I kneel on the frost covered grass, looking outward at the expanse of the cemetery. Lately, I always look outward – I’m afraid of what I’ll find inward. I can feel the sun’s rays touching me, warming my shoulders. They reach out to everything. I imagine the sun being the head of a giant octopus, the rays it’s many tentacles.

Turning to the granite gravestone, I trace the name with my fingers. I imagine that I’m tracing the contours of his jaw line – much like I did when I was a younger – feeling the stubble of his unshaven face. Reaching into my back pack, I pull out the old sweater and I look at the bleach stain on the sleeve. Tears sting my eyes; the air threatens to turn them into ice crystals as I bury my face in the sweater.  Breathing in deeply (I miss that smell! I miss him!) I lay down, not caring about the cold frosted grass.

The sky is a soft blue, I can see the clouds in their wispy forms, being stretched and torn apart; being shaped into something different. I smile at the irony – I too have been stretched and torn apart into something different.

I notice that the grass is long and several weeds have begun to overgrow the base of the gravestone. I tear away at the un-kept grass near the gravestone, clearing the weeds away too, but I leave the dandelions, I always leave the dandelions.

Pulling out my notebook, I turn to the third page and begin to write:

Buerger,

         It’s been two years today, since you killed my father. I wonder – what does it feel like to know that you’ve killed someone?...

         I have to pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. Why do I write these? Am I just prolonging the inevitable? I think to myself. My mother thinks that I’m doing more harm than good. Maybe she’s right, but all I have to hang on to now is the hate. 

I continue with my letter:

Yesterday was the second birthday I’ve had without a father. I hate it. The way I see it, is my mom will have to do my dad’s job on my wedding day…Does that strike you as being odd?...a mother walking her daughter down the wedding aisle?...

A voice behind me startles me and I slam my notebook closed.

“That seems awfully mean,” the voice states again.

“Excuse me?” I say without looking up. I’m too embarrassed for some reason.

“I said that seems awfully mean…your letter there,” he replies.

I turn to look at the man standing behind me, the sun glaring my vision some, but I’m able to at least see that the man is old, almost feeble looking. He is wearing blue coveralls with the name “Foyers Mortuary” embroidered on them and he is carrying a rake and a brown paper bag.

“Who’s it for?” he indicated towards my binder.

“My business,” I replied. It might have been a little brash.  I was surprised that the old man was able to walk up to me and read my letter without me even hearing him.

“What are you doing out here,” I asked still feeling a little embarrassment.

“My business,” he mimicked, smiling.  “Just joking,” the old man said smiling again. “I’m just looking for a spot to eat my lunch,” and he held up the bag he was carrying. “Mind if I sit here?” The old man asked, sitting down before I had a chance to respond.

I just looked at him and shrugged my shoulders.

We sat there for what seemed like hours of uncomfortable silence. We stole glances at each other from time to time, but neither of us willing to talk. “Well I guess, I’d better leave you to your work,” I said, hoping he would get the idea and finish his lunch somewhere else. When the old man didn’t get up, I offered, “There’s a bench over there that may be more comfortable than that rock.”

“I like it here just fine,” the old man responded. He walked next to me and said, “Besides I came here to visit a grave.” The old man looked down with longing in his eyes at the gravestone next to my dad’s.

I looked out at the expanse of the cemetery and for the first time I really noticed how big it was. It was one of the older cemeteries in the state, maybe even the country by the looks of it. The land was mostly flat with small rolling hills here and there. The gravestones seemed to go on for miles and combined with the rolling hills, they looked like an angry sea of gray. Mostly the landscape was dotted with modest gravestones, but there were some that stood nearly six feet tall. I wondered if the people there were famous, maybe they were politicians. Why else would anyone want something that big to eulogize them?

I took out my notebook and tried to ignore the old man the best I could:

My mother didn’t come out of her room yesterday; she has days like that. Mostly she tries to put on this façade that she needs to be strong for both of us, but I know. Me? I feel like crawling into the darkest pit. Someplace that would be impossible to see and impossible for anyone to see me. I feel darkness around me all the time, it used to scare me because I never used to be like that, but after awhile I realized the darkness is me, so why should I fight that?...

“I’m glad that isn’t addressed to me,” the old man interrupted me as he crumpled up his brown paper lunch sack.

I didn’t respond, I didn’t even look at him. I just slowly closed my notebook, feeling myself get a little hot under the collar.

“You know,” the old man continued. “God expects us to forgive one another,” he stated flatly. It wasn’t as much of a statement as it was a question. The old man was trying to decide what my beliefs were.

An infuriated snorting sound came from my mouth and the old man glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t believe in God?” The old man asked.

“Again…it’s not your business,” I capped my pen. “But if you must know, this man ruined my life.” I looked up at him. “Any more questions?”

He didn’t say anything after that and he bent down to pull some dandelions near the rock he had been sitting on and then placed them on top of the gravestone he had looked at earlier. He kissed his four fingers and placed them on top of the gravestone while he closed his eyes. I watched the old man’s lips move silently as if he were saying a prayer.

“It’s funny,” the old man said as he turned to me, his eyes seemed to bore a hole through me. “How some people find God in a tragedy and others lose Him entirely.”

I may have been only fifteen, but I could tell where this was heading. And I definitely didn’t want to take the trip.

“Have you always been the grounds keeper?” I asked, changing the subject.

He sat with his lips pulled tight, obviously in deep contemplation. “Well let’s see,” he started out. “When I was a boy, I played here all the time. You see my family owns this cemetery, so I guess it was only natural that I play here and learn the business.” The old man bent forward and picked a long blade of grass and placed it between his teeth and chewed softly. His face contorted some, “tastes bitter, but I guess I could have worse habits.”

I just shrugged my shoulders. “If your family owns this place, wouldn’t that make you an owner?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he replied.

“So if you’re an owner, why do you do the yard work?”

The old man sat down on the rock and put both his hands on his knees and leaned back, almost like stretching. “Many years ago, my father turned the cemetery over to me, just before he died,” he said. “And I ran the place for…oh…a good twenty years, but then Martha died and it changed everything.”

“How did everything change,” I asked.

“I used to be a man that liked to have everything right in front of him. If you told me a ball was round, I said ‘prove it’. That’s the way it was with me, so the idea that there was a god somewhere in this universe rubbed me the wrong way because no one could prove it. It drove Martha crazy, but she loved me nonetheless.

“Anyway, I like what I do now better,” he said. “Besides it’s the work my Father asked me to do.”

I was confused and shook my head a bit. “What do you mean,” I responded. “You said your father wanted you to run the family business.”

The old man said, “No” and his eye brows moved upwards on his forehead. His eyes rolled up and he nodded toward the sky.

I leaned closer to him mouthing the word, “what?”

The old man just sat there looking at me, nodding his head a little.

“You’ve got to be joking,” I said.

“I never joke about Father,” he said.

“You think God told you to become a gardener!” I laughed until I saw him staring at me with an amused look on his face.  This guy has already taken the crazy train.

“Tell me what you know of God?” the old man asked.

The question was the one I’d been avoiding for several years now. I thought I believed in God once, but now I didn’t know. “I know that God doesn’t exist!” I said louder than I intended. “And if He does…He’s cruel…He doesn’t care about me…” tears began to flow down my cheeks. All this talk of God was unearthing emotions I’d buried along with my father.

“What if I told you God does exist?” he asked.

In between a laugh, I responded, “like I said, believe what you want.”

“What if I told you, I’ve seen God?”

“You’ve seen God?” I was surprised. “No one has seen God?”

“Not true,” he responded. “Lots of people see God. I see God every day,” the old man stated flatly.

         I didn’t answer him and I watched a Blue Jay perched on a branch not far away with its lavender – blue feathers contrasting against the dark brown of the foiliage.

The old man came to stand next to me. “Take that Blue Jay over there, do you think it’s any mystery the way the colors in its feathers roll together? Do you think it’s any mystery that it can fly at all or that it has its own way communicating? When this Earth…this world…our universe was created, God created that Blue Jay there. He created the grass, the clouds, the water…He created you and me. We are His greatest creation and He did it because He loves us, not because He hates us.”

I had begun to feel tightening in my stomach as the old man talked of God. My stomach was the clothes inside of a washer and dryer machine. Both cleaning and warming me at the same time. I felt the tears press against my closed eye lids and I buried my face in my hands. The tears making their way through the cracks between my fingers. I sobbed for what seemed several minutes until I felt the old man put his arm around my shoulder, he pulled me closer to him and I resisted at first, but I finally let him hold me tight.

I cried harder while in his embrace.

         I can’t explain the feeling I had when in his embrace. It was a gradual warmth starting at my toes and slowly working upwards towards my head. It was peace…true peace. It was the peace that I’d been searching for ever since my dad was killed, but it was the peace that had also eluded me.

I pulled away and I didn’t see the same old man I had seen. I was confused. The man now looking down at me was much younger. He had piercing blue eyes, much like the blue in the deepest ocean. Although he still wore the blue coveralls, a brightness seemed to be coming from him.  The light moved outward and circled me. I became lost in the light. The light pushed away the darkness suffocating me.

I was at a loss for words.

“I don’t understand,” was all that I managed to say.

“Daria,” He said. “I am Jesus Christ.” The way He said my name was moving beyond all description. It was like poetry, literature, and art rolled into one…it was beautiful!

He continued, “Daria. You don’t remember, but before coming to this Earth you were in Heaven with Father. You were there with countless other righteous souls. All of whom were excited to come to this Earth that I have prepared in my Father’s name.” Jesus paused allowing what He said to penetrate my heart. “You knew what trials you would face,” He continued, “and you accepted them. These trials are for your benefit. You will find yourself a better person while walking in the refiner’s fire, so to speak.”

“But why did my dad have to die?” I pleaded. “Why did God let that man drive home from the bar that day?”

“For the same reason the war in Heaven was fought,” He replied. “The same reason that fight continues now…Freedom… Agency. The ability to choose for ourselves and not have the choice forced upon us.”

Jesus stepped towards me and placed both His arms on my shoulders, squaring me to His face. “I love you Daria and God loves you. We have been aware of your pain. We have sent many angels to minister unto you, but your hatred and sadness has blinded your heart so much. We felt it would be better that I speak to you personally. Now listen to what I have to say,” He paused looking deeply into my eyes. “I love Nathaniel Buerger too. I wish he hadn’t killed your father, but that was his choice. Don’t worry about Nathaniel Buerger and have comfort in knowing all things are in my hands. I alone am the only one able to truly judge a person’s actions.”

His words seemed so easy, don’t worry about Nathaniel Buerger, how can I not? It was my hatred that has gotten me through the last two years. It was my hatred for Buerger and it was my hatred for God. Now here Jesus was, telling me to let it all go. Telling me that I had known this would happen, even when I really didn’t know this would happen. But, still I couldn’t ignore the peace I felt inside while hearing Jesus speak.

“Will you help me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve always wanted to help, but I couldn’t force my love on you. That would be contrary to what God has designed.”

Jesus took me by the hand and gently pulled me to the ground. He asked that I lay down and close my eyes. “When you wake from this dream, Daria, you will remember everything I have said. If you desire, I will help you through this trial, all you have to do is ask in prayer.”

I lay with my eyes closed, trying to imagine the blue of His eyes as He spoke to me.

“Never forget, that it was I that was crucified. Not just for the sins of the world, but I have also felt every pain imaginable. I have felt the pain of a broken heart, I have felt the pain of losing a parent. Daria, I have felt your pain.”

         Tears flowed from my closed eyelids. I reached up to wipe them away and I became aware of the cold breeze running over my face. I opened my eyes and found myself staring into the blue of the sky. The wispy clouds were still there, but instead of them being torn apart in some violent manner, I saw them for what they truly were. God’s creations and it was just beautiful.