Souls - XXXIII

So I prayed. I knelt down in that musty bus and prayed with them like I wasn’t there as an agent of Satan. When Darcy felt the spirit and started speaking in tongues I raised my hands in the traditional “praise Jesus” pose instead of crossing my arms and snickering. The point is I play the part they expect of me. I play this part because I need to find Jesus and they are my guides.

I cheat glances to Emily, that little girl who knows no other world, and marvel at how normal she thinks it all is. Her parents are praising Jesus, not just some ethereal figure in the sky, but a real life guy just across town that killed everyone else she knew. And her eyes take it all in with the humdrum reaction of a child watching cartoons. She doesn’t question why they’re praising a deity who murders people or why they blame the people she knew for being murdered instead of blaming the guy who inflicted the wrath. This is canon, this is her contextual story.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

After hours of prayer, we eat dinner. I almost forgot about grace, stopping myself from tearing into food just before they raise their hands to pray over the food.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for this bounty for the good and nourishment of our bodies. May it be blessed with the love of your spirit.

In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.

I wonder if Jesus heard them and took the time to allow the blessing.

They serve fish and bread. I’m not sure if this symbolic or just an ironic symptom of a desperate use of limited supplies. Regardless, I eat and thank them. It’s the first time I’ve really eaten since the diner. 

I wonder if Mary is eating okay, wherever she is.

After dinner, Alan reads scriptures to Emily. The scene makes my heart ache. Firstly because I miss my daughter, the daughter I didn’t know still existed, but secondly I wanted to pull Emily aside and just hug her. I wanted her to tell her the truth, that the world out there isn’t following these rules, or any other rules for that matter. I wanted to let her know she should spend her time being a child, going to play, creating mythical adventures in her mind. There is too much punishment and grief in that book for a little girl, especially considering the world has already fallen apart.

I do none of this. I smile and listen along. After things calm down, I move to Darcy. She seems to be the friendlier of the two, which is odd because it was exactly the opposite before I left the church. I remember Alan as a smiling and affable person, almost to a fault. A smile that made you considered if he was a dolt, but looking back I think he was just happy. Now he’s not.

Darcy was a brooding woman back then, so scared to say or do something wrong she barely said or did anything. This resulted in a cloud of resentment hidden flimsily behind piety. Now she seems softer, not so scared, not so pious.

“You think you could show me where Jesus is tomorrow?” 

Darcy laughs at me in the way a mother laughs at a child who asks why dogs sniff butts. 

“You don’t want to do that.”

“I feel like I’m ready. I’ve been on a journey, I’ve changed.”

Darcy isn’t laughing anymore, “If you don’t make it, and I’m guessing you won’t, I’ll feel like the blood is on my hands.”

“I’m a grown-up, I know my choices. This is my choice, the only person with blood on her hands will be me.”

Darcy nods, “Fine, I’ll take ya. But don’t tell Alan. We’ll go out for supplies in the morning and I’ll take ya.”

I smile and thank her, taking her agreement as my sign to roll over and go to bed. 

As I lie in my makeshift bed, I look at the bus, the walls, the windows, the ceiling. This was all so new and exciting when I purchased it. This bus was a gift from God, to do his work. Now it is a resting place before my meeting with Jesus. Now, all that’s left is to sleep. 

And to see if Jesus kills me.