Creative Writing Devotion

I ran my sleeve across my face and squeezed my eyes shut to purge the tears from blurring my vision. My body was beginning to feel tired and I was feeling light headed from taking short breaths- it was an ugly cry. I sat on a cold, hard metal chair, while all the other kids stood. Slumped over, I sat and I watched the faces around me.
I was eight years old and I was weeping. At the time, I was unsure why, but now that I am older I think I finally understand…
Growing up, my family made it to church on Christmas and Easter. Those were the two days of the year that my mother would tightly wind pink sponge curlers in our hair, put cheesy dresses on my sisters and I, and threaten to kill us if we embarrassed her in church.
I was the worst among the three. My mother had started a swearing jar for me due to the fact that I cussed like a sailor and lied like a criminal all before the age of nine.
Our neighbors down the road were different. They had a family of nine – a few of them the same age as my sisters and I. We would play at school and go down to their house over the summer to swim. They were always appealing to me- their van smelled good, they listened to church music, they had a gigantic mail box, they never ate hostess products and they were always nice.
One Wednesday night they invited my older sister and I to join them for a children’s church program called Awanas. I was cynical about the whole thing from the very beginning. I didn’t mind spending time with the neighbors but why did we have to go to church?
I walked through the doors and saw so many happy kids- running, jumping, talking, playing. Their parents seeming to be just as equally happy- conversing with other happy parents about their happy kids and how happy they were to see each other and how happy Sunday will be. Their happiness just pissed me off.
I stayed close to my sister who seemed to be handling the happy situation a little better. We were forced to play dumb relay games and recite dumb words, drink dumb kool-aid, eat dumb cookies, and say dumb cheers. I hated it all.
I eventually got separated from my sister who was in a different age group then me. I joined other kids who were my age and we proceeded into a classroom that was painted yellow and its walls were covered with smiles, rainbows and bible verses- that pissed me off to.
Everyone joined their friends in the rows of metal chairs and I was left alone. I took my seat near a corner and hoped that the leader wouldn’t notice that I was new; she did.
“Cubbies- we have a new member today! What’s your name?” My face grew red and warm and I responded, “Mackenzie.”
The Leaders face lit up with joy, “Great Mackenzie! We are so happy you are here! Alright, lets all stand and do some singing.”
Is she joking? If it isn’t Mariah Carey or Janet Jackson I don’t know it and I don’t want to participate. I stayed seated while all the other kids stood in excitement. The teacher pulled out a boom box and put in a cassette tape. All the kids began to sing- they knew the songs, grew up with the songs, loved the songs.
I sat there- looking at their faces, taking in their smiles and thinking about how mad it made me. This wasn’t real. They didn’t know how life really was, they hadn’t experienced the brokenness of their parents divorce and their families probably never had to worry about money…or maybe they did. Regardless of what was going on in their homes, it was easy to see why they were happy- all of their friends were around them and they were in a familiar place. I was a stranger.
They moved their hands and feet in sequence to match the words in the song, “I got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!”
I felt so angry. The seats next to me were empty; I didn’t know anyone and I couldn’t follow along. I was embarrassed. My heart was beginning to beat faster and my eyes got swollen with tears. I was eight years old and my heart was aching and I didn’t know why. I just watched them laugh and sing.
I wept. I heaved, and sighed, and bawled my eyes out in front of a room full of people who simply continued to sing and dance…
As I look back, I realize that I felt hate towards them because I wasn’t one of them. Because, I wasn’t happy and I wanted to be. It’s hard to believe that an eight year old could feel so distressed; but, I believe that as I sat there crying, looking at the faces around the room, God showed me what he had to offer. He was revealing to me that no matter what circumstances I had to live through, that I would always have a choice; the choice to stand and sing or the choice to be angry.
I didn’t understand then, but I know now that I wasn’t crying because I was with those strange people; I cried because, in my anger, I was separating myself from them, and ultimately, I was separating myself from God.
Everyone we meet has or will endure pain in their lifetime. It would be crazy to think that all of the happy people I saw that day came from perfect homes and constantly smiled. But, on that night, I learned that what we do with our suffering will determine how we live our lives.
Will bitterness, resentment and anger from those experiences keep you from standing? Keep you from singing? Keep you from loving, and ultimately keep you from God? Or will you take those experiences and throw away the unhelpful anger and sadness and stand- stronger than before, and praise God?
Fourteen years later, I go to church and I watch the people around me sing and worship and, at times, I cry. Not because I want to be apart of that experience, but because I am. I’m not sitting- I’m standing. Standing against painful memories of the past and singing because God has given me strength to.