of carpets and broken hearts {a Good Friday story}

Today I heard a story that broke my heart.  

We were outside washing carpets, my new helper and I.  With overturned tea bowls, we scrubbed circles in soapy lather, shoving the warp and woof this way and that, collecting clots of hair and fuzz.  Brown water and soapsuds ran in rivulets down the driveway.  

This was her first week of work; the neighbor who’s been helping me for two years recently found out she’s pregnant with their fourth baby.  This new girl, Mikayla, the wife of one of James’ workers, is kind, cheerful, energetic - a perfect and timely answer to prayer.  She arrived just in time for spring cleaning, and we had been waiting all week for a warm day to tackle the carpets.  

  

We squatted on our haunches in the driveway, scrubbing away, our backs warmed by the spring sunshine, and she told me her story.  

I knew she had a two-year-old son at home, so I asked, innocently, if they wanted to have any more.  

“Not yet,” she said, sprinkling more soap on the carpet.  

“The doctor told us we should wait two years, and then we can try again.”  There was something I wasn’t understanding.  

“When my son was a year old, I got pregnant again,” she explained.  They underwent the usual three ultrasounds throughout the pregnancy, but it wasn’t until the last one that the doctor noticed anything unusual.  

“The doctor told us the baby’s head was too big,” she said. She pushed the broom in long strokes across the carpet, squeezing off excess water.  “He told us it would be born deformed.  That it would be very hard on us, and on the baby.  He said we should consider aborting.” 

When I finally understood this last sentence, I stopped scrubbing and jerked my head up to look at her, my eyes widening.  

“Really?  He said that?”

She nodded, still scrubbing.  

“What did you do?”

“I cried, and said, ‘No, no, I won’t do it, I’ll have the baby, I want to keep it.”  Her arm moved in rhythmic circles.  “But then I went home, and my mom talked with me, and she said it would be really hard on me later and that I should do it, and my husband wanted to do it too… what choice did I have?”  

“You were eight months pregnant already.”  She nodded.  I’m in disbelief.  I’ve never heard of a doctor recommending an abortion that late.  I want to ask whether they had tests done, whether they got a second opinion… 

“So what happened?”  I already know I don’t want to hear the answer.

“They gave me some medicine.  And then - the baby stopped - moving.”  There are queer little stops in her voice.  She manages to get the sentence out, but only just.  There’s a long, heavy pause.  A huge hand is squeezing my heart.  “I was in the hospital for ten days, and I cried every day.”

I’m crying now, too, my face crumpled up, the tears running down.  Around and around go the tea bowls, upside down, all these rivulets of dirty water running off.  I’m silently screaming at God. This is upside down!  This is backwards!  This should never happen!  Why, God?  Why?

People here don’t like to display emotion, and my tears are embarrassing her, but she doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if they are validating her too. 

Out loud, I say, vehemently, “That doctor put himself in the place of God.  He decided your baby shouldn’t have the chance to live.  That is God’s decision, not a person’s.”  

“Yes. I know.”  She agrees.  She scrubs another minute in silence.  “But what could I do?  Everyone was telling me it was the only thing to do, and I believed them.”  

There’s a long pause.  She stands up and reaches for the hose to flood the dirty water off the carpet.  I want a hose that will flood her bleeding heart with grace.

“So… did you have the baby?”  I almost can’t bring myself to ask.

“Yes.  They wanted to give me a caesarean but my mom went to bat for me and convinced them to let me deliver naturally.  It only took me 4 hours.”  

And then?  And then what?  I simply cannot imagine the pain of knowingly delivering a dead child.  “And then… you… said goodbye?”  Now I’m the one who can hardly get the words out.  It’s hard enough just to breathe.

She nods, silently.  Water pours from the hose, washing away all the grime.

“I’m sorry,” I say, vigorously wiping my eyes on my sleeve.  “You probably don’t want to think about this or talk about it… I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, you don’t want to think about it, but of course, you do…”

A minute later, I find a way to encourage her, even just a little.  “At least you know he’s in heaven, with God, and he’s perfect.  He’s playing, and laughing, and happy…”

She nods again, meeting my eyes.  “I had a dream that my grandmother, who’s dead, came and patted me on the shoulder one night while I was crying, and said, ‘It’s ok, he’s with me, we’re looking after him.’”

Internally I’m having all sorts of theological difficulties (I have no idea whether her grandmother was a believer or not), but I don’t mention any of them… I just nod, and sniff.  

“We’re going to give his one-year nazir (memorial service) this year…. 

“A way to remember him,” I say.

“Yes.”

We’re almost done with the last two carpets.  I take Ruby inside to change her wet clothes.  I pay Mikayla her first week’s wages, wishing I could give her the Gift without price that will soothe and save her wounded soul.  Please, Lord, I beg.  Please, one day soon.

I see our Easter mountain in the kitchen window, the cross tilting lopsidedly on the top.  Good Friday floods over me afresh.  It had slipped my mind while we were outside scrubbing. 

Into my mind floods a vivid memory of walking through the Good Friday story this morning with the kids, and how Ben had to get the hammer so I could tap the nails through Jesus’ pierced wrist into the little apple-twig cross.  The boys went perfectly quiet while I did it, except for Ben saying mournfully, “I don’t like this part, Mommy.”  Will’s eyes were wet.

My stomach twists, remembering. What you had to go through for us, Jesus!  The brokenness you endured, so you could heal ours.

The empty cross is dark against the window.  The women are weeping as they leave the tomb. 

It’s Good Friday.  And my heart is breaking.

But.  Sunday is coming.  There is hope.  Hope for all the brokenness.  

And suddenly, I’m flooded with a rush of gratefulness: that we ourselves were broken, but are being healed.  And that we get to live here, in this broken place, next to broken people, with Sunday’s healing hope inside our broken hearts.  

The Princess and the Crown

{Today I'm joining in with the community of sojourning ladies over at Velvet Ashes, writing on this week's prompt: Story…}

Once upon a time… (aren’t those lovely, magical, anything-can-happen words?)

Once upon a time, there was a princess.  

But she wasn’t always a princess.  She was born the daughter of humble peasants, and they lived in a small cottage and kept chickens.

Now, the king of that land had a heart as wide as the sky.  One of the things his big heart loved to do was adopt children.  He didn’t care if they already had parents of their own; he adopted them anyway, so that he could care for them and honor them and bless them just like he did for his own son, the prince.  He knew there was a difference between ruling over people and fathering them, and he loved being a father.  

When the king wanted to adopt another child, he sent his firstborn son, the prince, to tell them the good news: that they had become a prince or princess too.  The king’s son took immense delight in ranging far and wide over his father’s kingdom, delivering his father’s messages.  

One day, our princess (who didn’t yet know she was a princess) was outside feeding the chickens.  She tossed grain to them and hummed a little song to herself, because the sky was blue and the air smelled sweet.  She was about six years old, and she wore a ragged peasant dress and had bare feet.  Her long brown hair fell loose down her back.

Suddenly, at the edge of yard, leaning on the fence, she noticed a most remarkable person.  He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in peasant garb like herself.  He wore a jaunty cap on his head, and when he saw her looking at him, a broad smile spread over his face.  She liked him at once.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m the prince,” he answered.  She believed him without question; she was only six years old, and miracles happened every day.  

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said politely, dropping a quaint little curtsy in her peasant rags.  His grin broadened.  She could tell he liked her too.

“I have something to tell you,” he said.  He beckoned her over to the fence.  She quickly threw the rest of the grain to her chickens, and came over to where he was.

“It’s a secret,” he said, “so I shall have to whisper in your ear.”  Obligingly, she stood on tiptoe, and the prince leaned down over the fence rail and whispered something into her small ear.  

Her face brightened immediately, and she pulled back and gazed up into his face to see whether he was telling the truth.  He gazed solemnly down at her, his brown eyes twinkling.  “It’s true,” he said.  “From this day on.”

She flashed him the brightest of smiles.  Hopping onto the bottom rail of the fence, she stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek.  Then she skipped off across the yard, glancing back and waving her hand before she disappeared into the house.  

The prince watched her go, a smile still on his face.  Then, whistling, he sauntered off up the lane, hands in his pockets.  He had more houses to visit that day.

The little girl with the wonderful secret in her heart grew up.  She married a good man and gave birth to three beautiful children of her own.  Sometimes she remembered the truth of what the prince told her that day, and sometimes she forgot.  On days when she remembered, she walked with a beautiful grace and was polite and kind and gracious, no matter how tired she felt.  On days when she forgot, she grumbled at every inconvenience and was rude and unkind and impatient.  

One day, the prince returned.  The little-girl-grown-up was inside her house, washing the dishes.  She and her husband still lived in the same cottage; they built a little hut next door for her aging parents, and that afternoon her three children were playing at their grandparents’ house.  

She was feeling especially tired; the baby had been up in the night teething, and her two sons had struggled to play kindly all morning.  She was tired of breaking up fights, tired of holding a fussy baby, tired of dishes - just tired.  

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she called, sighing a little inside.  She had been hoping for a quiet cup of tea all by herself with her book.  She dried her hands on the tea towel, and went to open the door.

There stood the prince.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully, the same old twinkle in his eye.

“Hello,” she replied, a little flustered.  

“May I come in?” said the prince. 

The woman opened the door wider and gestured into their humble living room.  “Of course,” she said, “but I haven’t much to offer you.”

“I don’t mind,” said the prince.  “It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you, too,” said the woman, thinking how handsome he still was.  He didn’t look like he had aged a single day.  Staring at him, she forgot her manners, until he said, gently, “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, if you have some…”

“Oh!  Oh, yes, of course,” the woman went quickly to the stove, where the kettle had just begun to boil.  She reached another mug down from the shelf, placed it next to her own, and poured out two cups of tea.

Handing him a steaming mug, she sat down across the table from him, and they looked at one another in silence for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the woman finally blurted out.  “I just can’t seem to keep remembering what you told me all those years ago - I have trouble believing what you said is, well, is really true.”

“You believed me back then,” the prince said, mildly.  “What happened?”

“Well, I grew up, I suppose,” the woman replied.  “And… life happened, I guess.  It’s just that I don’t feel any different, and my life is just the same as it was before I knew - before you told me, that is.”  

“I brought something for you,” said the prince.  “I’ve been waiting for just the right moment.”  He reached into his satchel and pulled out something that sparkled in the sunlight.  The woman’s eyes widened.  The prince set the beautiful thing on the table between them.    

“I - I don’t know what to say,” she stammered feebly, staring at the delicate golden circlet set with precious gems.  She loved beauty.  All her life she had dreamed of owning such a lovely thing, but they never had money for anything extra.  

“This is a very special crown,” the prince said gently.  The woman raised her eyes from the circlet to his face.   He picked it up, and said, “May I?”  

The woman flushed a rosy pink, but she lowered her head and leaned forward slightly.  The prince set the circlet on her shining brown hair.  Then he took one hand, and raised her chin so their eyes met.  The woman’s eyes filled with tears.  She could feel the beautiful crown resting lightly on her head.  

“Only you will be able to see this crown,” the prince said to her earnestly.  “You will feel it resting on your head, and when you look in the mirror you will see it glimmering there, but it is only visible to you.”   

The woman reached up her hand, and carefully touched the smooth gold with her fingers.  Her face bore a look of wonder.  She rose from the table, and walked into the bedroom, where there was the only mirror in the house.  Looking into it, she saw a still-youngish woman with tired eyes gazing back at her.  A sparkling golden crown rested on her head.   At the sight, her tears began to overflow, and trickled slowly down her cheeks.  She reached up again, as if to make sure it was really there.  

After a long moment, she returned to the table and sat down again opposite the prince.  He was looking at her quietly, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.  He reached across the table and covered both her hands with his.  

“Never forget,” he said, looking into her eyes.  “You are a princess.  You are a daughter of the king.  You are loved, and you are cherished.  Live each day like that is true.  Never forget who you are.”

She nodded, gazing at the prince, not trusting herself to speak.  He held her eyes, and her hands, for one more moment, and then he rose.  

At the doorway, he turned and smiled at her.  “That means you’re my sister, you know,” he said, his smile broadening to a grin.  “See ya round, sis.”  

And he was gone.