celebrate

When you get off the Interstate, turn on to the frontage road and pull into the church. It won’t look like a church; it’s just a warehouse, renovated into a small gathering place. The room will be dark; candles light the nondescript stage. The pastor will whisper, will pray with his eyes open. He won’t smile. The band will play; they’re wearing black shirts with their jeans. Not many people will sing along. It doesn’t feel like a day to sing.

Amongst the gathered, you can find her. She won’t stand out. She’s not overly pretty or thin. She dresses down. She’ll sit with her mother, and she’ll sing even though she doesn’t like the songs, even though she would rather cry than sing.

You won’t be able to sit next to her; her mother sits on one side, her former youth minister on the other.  She sits in the middle of people with as many problems and concerns as she. They’ll sing at first, but then they will stop. It seems too dark in the room, but they know the words anyway.

Slide into the seat behind her; you can watch her hold her head high when the pastor leads in prayer. Lean around and you could see her eyes are open. From behind, you can see her shoulders lift as she takes breaths between measures. You can see her shoulders tremble only slightly as she controls her emotion. Today is Friday. Sunday is Easter.

She won’t cry during the service; she’ll be too distracted by her worries to be much moved by the songs or by the solemn taking of bread and cup. Instead, you may notice that her tears are nearly drawn out by the friendly pats on her arm, supportive hugs about her shoulders, and knowing gazes that meet her eyes. She manages to hold them in as she is known to do. She will shake hands with the pastor, bid her fond farewells, and even when she is alone in her car with dusk closing in, she will only allow a few tears and no audible cries for the confusion, the fear, the anger, the worry. She will ride the whole way home in silence; her silent prayers fill the car like smoke, filling every crevice.

You will see right away that her life, like the earth after six days, is good. Not without strife and the occasional tragedy, but good nonetheless. You will wonder what has upset her; you are unsure if she would answer if you asked.

You will wonder what to do for her, this girl. Does she need you to listen to her? Certainly not. She will tell you what she will when she decides to. Does she need your sympathy or worry? No, no; she dreads that and has little need of it anyway. She is resilient; those over whom she broods are less so.

You will be curious. Morbidly fascinated. You will want to ask her first, what it is, and second, what you can do. What you should know before you do that is that this girl is not just a girl with stress in her life, with fear and addiction to the future, with unexpected problems. This girl is not just a girl. She is everyone. She is one teary set of eyes among a million others. She is everyone. She is you.

She wants what everyone wants. She wants what you want.

Her eyes are brown. You noticed. You remember. Good.