Pray?

Here is a story that relates to where we are today, October 4, 2020

When I was five-through-nine, we lived with a very abusive stepfather. I witnessed violence against my mom, including the breaking of her toes, and back injuries that lead to her addiction to prescription pills that ultimately killed her. At his hands I likewise took beatings; he let his savage, uncontrolled rage loose against my childbody. There were other kinds of abuse going on as well: Sexual, verbal, emotional. He controlled the finances, which is a layer that is very hard to escape for so many in these situations.

One day he fell into a coma. I think there had been a fight with someone in a position to fight back, or there had been a car accident due to his own drunk driving. I don’t remember.

I do remember sitting at the hospital with my mother — she was stunned, not crying, seemingly not knowing what do do in this moment. I was seven.

We just sat, and neither of us knew what to hope for. He’d forced us to church (so he could show the world what a Good Christian Man he was), and though I loved the zither I got to play, Jesus was not there for me. “Should? We…. Pray?” I asked.

“I guess?”

And so we did.

And I felt sick.