WHY ARE GOD’S GIRLS SO BROKEN?

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It is no moment to be proud of, when one shows you her scars, and you have similar ones to show her, your story mirroring hers. It is no proud moment.

From my work space at home, facing the window, I see into the yard of the church that is not supposed to be where it is. I have got used to the almost daily, unending noise; we all have. But I am yet to get used to seeing them walk in and out, weighed down by so much. These women.

I am yet to fully admit that this window has become a mirror, and I am torturing myself watching… zooming in…reading….asking…

Why are God’s girls so broken?

Today, I see her again. This one, I know well. This one, I know. When I moved into this house, she was already there…my neighbor. I learnt soon, when I went over with my husband, freshly married, to say hi. As young as myself, that day we learnt her husband had left. I learnt later why he did. I learnt too, what she blamed. An unyielding womb.

There were days I could hear her from the lazy chair on her porch, singing in a smooth mezzo;

Swing low, sweet chariot…

Over, and over. Why do I work from home? Does it make up for much? To say that at least I am doing what I love? Writing?

Look at my work space.

When I sit here; my family behind me and my demons in front of me…is everything really okay?

I see them come in and pace. Heads raised. Heads bowed. On their knees. On their butts. Supine. Prostrate. Tears. Shouts. Heavy silence. Displaying all the phases I go through inside me.

Maybe one day I will step out there and join them. Show my scars at the altar and wait to not have to die again and again. Will it ever be safe here?

Sometimes, my husband walks up behind me, grabs my shoulders and works them, as if the stress sits visible on them. Then he bends, and kisses my neck and cheek and ear, till my head falls back and a hint of a smile contorts my lips. My trained tears wait till he is gone before they fall. He is a good man.

Other times, my daughter runs to me and climbs onto my lap, not caring that Mama is working. She only sleeps faster on my lap. So, I hold her, and rock her, and fight my fears.

Maybe my body was trying to tell me, miscarriage after miscarriage, that this is no place to bring a child. What would I do if she grows too big to hold, and I find her curled up in a ball in that common corner, in tears. What will I say to her when she looks up at me and asks?

“Why are we so broken, Mama?”

 

 

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