Wrecked

Yesterday, I met two people, Mike and Melody.

They were hanging out in the Annex, a building where my church hosts its children’s ministry.

Melody has the most wrecked body I’ve ever seen. Ever. Her torso is balanced in a wheel chair, and I say balanced because she has no legs. Her body ends at her groin.

Melody has been badly burned. Where ears should be, there are only tiny holes in the side of her head. Her scalp is mostly bald, like a doll’s head that’s been plucked bare by inept toddler fingers. Melody’s skin has a strange waxy quality, like other burn victims I’ve met, as though her skin melted and then re-congealed. Perhaps this is exactly what happened. To her face, her neck, her arms, her hands.

When we began to speak, I realized that Melody doesn’t blink, so her eyes continually water. She’s missing most of her teeth, too.

And then Mike, her fiancé, told me that Melody is five months pregnant.

I’m certain I visibly flinched.

God DAMN it all, WHERE ARE YOU?

Really? Melody?

What part of this woman’s life is a song? Can anyone tell me that?

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This morning, I sat in my soft pajamas, sipping coffee I bought at a local bakery. My mug is part of a set Matt and I brought home from Scotland. There were books and pencils and newspapers scattered around me, on the both the table and the floor. The flowers Matt gave me for Valentine’s Day were keeping up a brave front. My dog was softly snoring.

And Melody was somewhere with Mike. They were, perhaps, smoking a cigarette and having a cup of coffee. I suspected they wore the same clothes they had on yesterday, the same clothes they slept in, the same clothes they will wear tomorrow.

I looked at the detritus of my life and was suddenly furious. LIVID. I slammed down my coffee cup, grabbed my running shoes, and ran until I thought my chest would burst.

After a couple of miles, I realized God is furious, too. I calmed down.

Some.

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I read this a bit ago: “ … we are never the first on the scene of anything … Our God is always first on the scene, but he chooses to draw us in …”

And this, too: “We are invited to join this great hope that trumps all despair.”

And finally this: “As you commit to the spiritual discipline of drawing near to the suffering of others, it will mean committing yourself to looking intently at the reality of violent injustice in our world today, and to do so while asking God, continually, to show you how moving toward injustice can also bring you closer to the heart of God.” *

Later yesterday morning, I saw one of our ministers, Bill, who pastors inmates at the Thirty-Third Street Jail, kneeling in front of Melody. I knew he knelt so he’d be at eye level with her. His face was serious, and he was listening intently. He gave me a brief nod.

I took a deep breath.

I’m not the first on the scene, nor am I the last. Bill isn’t either. What God would have me do for Melody or Mike or the guy holding up the sign at the Princeton exit-ramp or the orphaned kids in Malawi, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve got ideas, a few things I’m doing, others I’m thinking about. I have to confess my god-complex often, my need to rescue, to be the hero. God forbid I ever try to help in a way that causes pain.

So, for now, I’m holding Melody’s face in my mind, my invisible hands caressing her waxen cheeks.

I’m praying -- actually praying, not just wishing -- that I never forget her face. And that when God asks me to touch that face for real, she feels nothing but the whitest light of love.

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* Deepening the Soul for Justice, Bethany Hoang