It took every ounce of courage I could muster to drive here, this place where it all began. I searched for reasons to stay the course, for excuses to be anywhere but here. I tried to hide, but I had no shelter, no protection. I had no choice.

For the past year, my life has been little more than a collection of poor decisions, bad attitudes, sorrow, and shame.

I am no one special, but I might have been.

My parents once told me I was beautiful, that I was their most precious gift . . . a blessing. I can’t help but laugh when I think about that simple description. I wonder if they’d feel the same way now.

But that’s something I will never know.

The last time I saw them, we were here, sitting side by side, surrounded by friends that have since become strangers.

At 19 years old, I am alone–almost.

———-

Most days my car complains and sputters. We are very similar, I suppose. People snicker at its rusted fenders, peeling paint, and torn upholstery. Very few look close enough to see what endears this small, old car to me. At its heart is a cassette player, through which I play my favorite songs.

I love music.

My mom had the most beautiful voice. I miss hearing her sing. My dad couldn’t even hum in tune, but he tried. I still grimace when I think of just how bad he was..Yes, dogs would howl.

It’s beginning to rain. Perhaps, I won’t go inside. I could stay here and watch the water splatter on the filthy windshield. I trail the water as it slowly webs around the bits of tree sap, pollen, and dirt stuck to the glass. It’s soothing, but only momentarily.

The last time I was here, it stormed.

———-

Mom had wanted to stay home. She didn’t like going out in bad weather. Even though our commute was short, and my dad volunteered to drive, she was worried. I insisted we go. I was in a program that day, and couldn’t miss it because of rain.

There’s something to be said about a mother’s intuition.

We arrived safely, the program commenced, then in what seemed minutes, it was time to return home..back into the storm.

My father popped in his favorite music CD and turned the music louder than normal to attempt to drown out the sound of the rain and hail pounding the roof of our small SUV. I loosened my seatbelt so I could lean forward and wrap my arms around my mom, sitting in the seat in front of mine. I closed my eyes for just a moment, enjoying the sound of her nervous singing. When I opened them, the world as I knew it changed forever.

The rain had washed away more than dirt and grime. It had taken the bridge that should have carried us across the swollen river. Too late, my father realized it was gone.

Though what happened next, will forever be lost in a whirl of movement and chaos, I distinctly remember the sound of my mom’s final song, and the force of the water as it propelled me through my smashed window.

The days that followed were a blur.

I was told I had been found tangled in a twisted mass of vines on the river’s edge, two miles downstream. My parents, trapped in the car, had not traveled as far.

No words could comfort me as I fumbled through the next few months. I relied on doctors’ prescriptions, and hid behind the haze of numbness. Friends came and went. Eventually, I gave up completely.

Alone in the world. Wandering.

———-

I was semi-conscious on a park bench when he found me. No, I wasn’t homeless. I was avoiding home, where the walls were dotted with images of a time that would never be again.

For a few weeks, I began to revive. He helped me, listened; held me while I cried.

I gave him the remaining pieces of my heart, then he disappeared. I swore I would never utter his name again. And I won’t.

Unfortunately, not a day, a moment, has gone by that I haven’t thought of him. I’m afraid it will be that way forever if I don’t purge myself of this burden of sin I drag along.

I need to find the person I was meant to be. I need to return to life.

———-

There is comfort in the familiar. Gazing out my rain soaked window, I long to step back into the past, to the last time I was here. I almost smile as I anticipate seeing the families I used to know so well.

People are beginning to arrive. Huddled beneath umbrellas, their faces are shielded from my view. I wonder if I know any of them. I pray they won’t recognize me. I hope they will.

I’m tired of running from this nightmare of a life I have created since the wreck. I’m so tired.

My hand drops to my slightly rounded abdomen, but I quickly move it away. Tomorrow, I will truly be alone. After . . .

I have no choice.

I have no hope.

The rain has stopped. It’s almost time for the service to start.

I need to make peace with God.

I need Him to understand.

I need to tell Him I’m sorry . . . before this tiny soul is returned to Him.

———-

The first step into the church was not the hardest; my feet feel heavier, the closer I get to the sanctuary.

I feel my blood pressure rising as I watch the eyes on familiar faces focus solely upon my waistline. The honey-voiced women that had gripped my hands at my parents’ funeral, force-fed me, and swore to pray for me each night, turn away as I approach, one after the other. The silence is deafening.

I want to run away. Every molecule in my body wails with outrage and betrayal.

I came here seeking comfort from these people, the ones that memorize Bible verses and talk to God daily. Their icy stares speak volumes, their whispers scream accusations.

Hot tears cloud my vision as I turn to flee. I have been condemned and branded.

Before I can escape out the door, the choir begins to sing. Not wanting to draw any more attention, I collapse into a corner of the back pew, beside an elderly blind woman. There, finally, I find comfort . . . beside someone that knows nothing of my condition.

———-

I hear little of the sermon. I am lost in my head, sobbing into my hands, and don’t even hear the close of the message, or the congregation’s departure.

I rouse when someone taps my bare shoulder, and lift my head to gaze into the reflective glasses of the blind woman. She smiles and holds out her hand to me.

“Child, why do you cry? Do you not know that the sweet Lord loves you?” she purrs.

“Do I know you?” My voice cracks as I force words from my constricted throat.

“Oh no, Child. This is my first visit to this church. The Lord sends me to a different one every week, it seems.” She chuckles and pats my hand. “Today, I’m here for you.”

I’m glad she can’t see my expression as mull over her possible motives. “For me?”

“Yes, Child. Don’t take the sinful, judgmental actions of the Church as a true reflection of our loving Father. They are sinners, no different than you. Do not seek their approval, for they know not His plans. God hears your cries, He sees your sins, and loves you still. That’s why He gave you a precious gift. .a blessing.” She leans in close and whispers in my ear. “You don’t want to be giving back the gifts God has designed especially for you. So, I’m here to help.”

I slump against the back of the pew, mortified that she knows my plan. How? She answers before I voice the questions.

“Oh, come now, Child. Don’t you be fretting. He said you needed me, so here I am. What’s your name?”

“Amelia,” I replied, then added, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Come, Miss Amelia, let’s chat over lunch,” the lady prattled on, reaching down the pew for her purse.

“Oh, and, by the way, my name is Hope.”

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