Tag Archives: sister

The Worlds of Creation

One of the saddest moments in my life. It was last week.

My little sister was showing me her minecraft world.  I showed up on the doorstep and she ran to get the cracked ipad.

My sister’s world is beautiful.  She has an extensive railway system.  The passengers are mostly cows.  Scattered across the map she has a museum and a mountain castle and a deep cave dwelling (under renovation).  She has a staircase that towers all the way up into the clouds. A king and queen live there.

She showed me the throne room. The king’s chair was golden. It dominated the center of the room.

The queen’s chair was wooden. It didn’t even have a back. It sat unobtrusively in a corner.

She walked her minecraft self into the bedrooms (which were separate). The king’s was impressive. Gold. Crystal. The queen’s was wood. Plain wood at that. She adds an explanation.

“I used to think queens and princesses were better. But now I know they’re not.”

*

I will probably never have a child. I hate being a girl too much.

*

When little sister was a baby, our mom didn’t have time for her. Didn’t have time to make her toys talk in silly voices. Didn’t have time to read to her or show her new things. Was too devoted to her ailing father (who thought he had cured his cancer through prayer) to spend time with her tiny child.  Too obsessed with the horrific end of the world to spend any time on life in the here and now.

I had time.

*

My mother spent my childhood and youth beating into my head that women were created by the all knowing all righteous infinite source of the universe for the sole purpose of handing men sandwiches and getting pregnant as often as humanly possible.

*

None of them talk to me. Oh they talk to me. They smile. Sometimes they even ask me how my day was.  But they never talk about anything below the surface. Never about anything of the organizing beliefs of our lives, never, never answer any of the questions I’ve asked them. Once in a while the mask slips a little. Little brother will mention something that I told mom in strict confidence. Mom keeps little sister away from me at church. The little kids stopped hanging out with me, despite being excited to see me when I show up.

I’ve seen her do this too many times- to too many other people- to not know what she’s doing.

*

I have honored my agreement to not talk about my questions with the little kids. I would have been, and probably still would be, cut off from them entirely- for doing that.

*

The screen shifts, and the view moves through block built trees- cascades of mountains.  A cow is stuck in a train car, being carted off to the farthest horizon for no apparent reason. The world that little sister created pours through our eyes.

The world my mother created  pours through them too.

My little sister believes that she is worth less.

There is nothing I can do or say.

*

Sia

*

Party girls don’t get hurt

Can’t feel anything anything-

When will I learn?-

I push it down, push it down…

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier

From the chandelier

I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist

Like it doesn’t exist

I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night

Feel my tears as they dry…

Help me, I’m holding on for dear life

Won’t look down won’t open my eyes

Keep my glass full until morning light

‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight

On for tonight

The Great Whale

We haven’t been talking much. Something keeps us.

The religion of perfect peace in this house, perhaps. It creates an atmosphere too heavy to disturb.

I admit I’m gone a lot. Mostly I’m at work. When I’m home I’m on the internet often, swimming in the blessed invention of the laptop private pool of otherness. Or playing with the little kids. In games you don’t have to say the what is and isn’t.

She’s gone, she’s at home canning bushels of pears, she’s at church in the woods with the four or five families that still come. The only people who are her people. All others are untrustworthy- the sea in which The Remnant must stay afloat- preferably without wetting the hems of their robe. She chooses the Remnant. She has no one else.

My sister.

What would happen if we talked? What would we say?

The headlines. A boy, twelve years old, was out playing in a park. Imaginary monsters swimming through his eyes, he brandished his defense against them- an imaginary weapon. Whatever fear crawled closer to him- in the air of a world where death drives the streets slowly and buys coffee while it sizes up the passersby- he would defeat. And the air would pull back and happy and proud he could breath. He had won. He can beat the monsters. His teeth flash like black Peter Pan; the Child Whom Pirates Cannot Kill.

In the air of a world where fear takes the shapes of those it consumes and uses them to its own ends, a shape not quite gone picked up a phone. In the twilight of security, what was left of a voice cautioned, “It’s probably a fake.”

Fear wants to know what’s real but fear can’t ask a child. Can’t be led by a child. Can’t lead even a child to safety. Fear is too unsafe.

Fear asks the Authorities. Can you check? Can you tell me?

Death set down its coffee.

When Death arrived on the scene, two seconds went by. Then Death’s shape was revealed.

Without justice, said the long dead father, what is a nation but a great robber band?

The Child lay dying and Death stood over him, watching him die.

The Pirate whom Time Forgot.

Or was it us?

If one of these little ones causes you to sin, tie a millstone around their neck and drop them into the heart of the sea. Then stand and watch them drown. Jesus didn’t actually say that last part, but we can infer from our knowledge of biblical principles.

One of the last times we talked about anything more other than pears or changing clouds her voice was lacing itself with anger.

“I think pointing out race IS racism! You are making the problem by talking about it!”

When she had still just learned to walk and talk they poured cold water over her head. She had been sitting under the table crying at the top of her lungs. Her wail had cut off as she gasped, unable to breath.

In God there are no shifting shadows. If you see such things, your eyes are wrong. If your eye is wrong, put it out. The only tears allowed are blood.

As I float in my pool of hurt and strange, escaping from the perfect light and peace in which, for other reasons, I do not exist, my brother plays on the floor.

A Child of the Remnant. A child in what we are sure, this time, finally, are the Last Days. They must be. Everyone is against us. Already, he is afraid. His body has begun to grow, stretching him past the legs of his jeans. He weeps and clings to his too small clothing when they throw his holey safety away. He pulls back from new things as if burned, running to people who once hit him daily and call him an idiot, begging to know what’s allowed. His Authorities.

Tell him, tell him, what’s Good and what’s Evil. The Innocent can’t know these things for themselves. Only the Guilty.

He daydreams on the rug as he goes through his arsenal of toys. Orange capped, black, glossy and realistic as possible to protect him from the air he breathes. Imaginary weapons.

They never let him out to play with other children. Though funny and clever and lonely he has no friends.

You know what? Death will probably never stand over him in the streets. He may never feel safe enough to play there. And one day he will stand. Where will it be?

He’s twelve years old.

How could she possibly talk with me?

Who did this?

When I grow up I’m not going to be a pirate. I have no human enemy. Nor will I pursue such creatures. I’m going to be a whaler.

I imagine a harpoon, feel its weight and the grain of its haft made of nothing in my hand.

God, the imaginary monster, no real weapon can kill.

We are the only ones here.

 

http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2014/nov/26/tamir-rice-video-shows-boy-shot-police-cleveland

http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-nation/wp/2014/12/02/cleveland-cop-said-he-had-no-choice-but-to-shoot-12-year-old-tamir-rice-father-says/

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2854617/Cops-shot-12-year-old-Tamir-Rice-dead-holding-BB-gun-did-not-aid-watched-lie-agony-died-just-hours-later.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/11/24/tamir-rice-boy-shot-cleveland-police_n_6211064.html

http://www.cleveland.com/metro/index.ssf/2014/12/police_procedure_experts_quest.html

http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2014/dec/03/officer-who-fatally-shot-tamir-rice-had-been-judged-unfit

 

 

listen don’t talk just pray

“listen- don’t talk – don’t get mad- just pray”

That what the index card said.  It was taped to the cabinet door with all the other quotes and jokes that get my mom through her day.  This particular card was new, though.

“So who’s making you mad?” I asked as we stood in the kitchen. My mom hesitated for a fraction of a moment.  All of the things we haven’t been saying jumped into my mind.

“Oh, you know…” she turned away, putting a sauce pan in one of the cupboards.  “I’m having to learn how to deal with your sisters.”

I knew what she was talking about, then.  Both my sisters are still at home.  For the past few years they and my mom have been grating on each other.

One sister doesn’t do her own laundry and cries when Mom and Dad try to push her to do more,. Or threaten to throw her out.  She’s in her mid twenties, smart, funny, talented and apparently with no plans but to continue living in their garage forever.

The other sister is a year younger than her. She does a lion’s share of the work around the house, cooking, cleaning, gardening, teaching the little kids school.  She seems to have taken it on as her personal identity.   And anytime Mom has different ideas about how the house should be run, giant explosions result.  She’s a loving person, running over with generosity and passion.  She apparently has no plans but to continue living in their kitchen/garden/schoolroom forever.

My parents are getting old.  Dad’s hair and beard are mostly white now.  I can’t remember when that happened.  Mom’s hair is full of sparkling silver threads.  They are both tired in the evenings. Dad reads a book and falls to sleep.  Mom puts the little kids to bed.

When we girls were young, and the other kids hadn’t come along yet, we used to talk with Mom a Iot. I remember the end of a long conversation with my mom, just her and me.  I don’t remember what it was about, but Mom handed me a book (Where have all the children gone?  Maybe?).  With a quaver of emotion in her voice and a little flash in her eyes, she told me- when I read this book, I would be willing to die for this way of life.

I felt a wave of revulsion that I neither understood nor had the words to explain.   I obediently went off and read the book.

I was the golden child, you see.  The one who obeyed.  The one who was diligent and never complained.  The one my parents thought of to encourage themselves, when they were depressed.  I had their approval.

I had carefully arranged myself  to make sure that I would.   I had other problems.

My sisters- I don’t know how it seemed from inside their heads.  But from what I saw, the story was different for them.   My smart, talented sister had chaffed under the endlessly repetitive drills of our home school curriculum and earned the stigma of being lazy.  This stigma snowballed Into other things. She had been given a mountain bike. Biking together on the roads, the thick tires wouldn’t let her keep up with the rest of us on roadsters. Why was she slowing everyone else down?  She was lazy.

But when mom gave us a book that was supposed to teach us composition by having us write a novel, she was the only one who finished.  Mom, our teacher, who was supposed to be reading and grading our work, was too busy to bother reading it.

My sister had been so excited about her novel. She cried about it for what seemed like weeks afterwards.

I don’t remember much about the other sister. She was the youngest girl- but not the baby, because after her the boys were born. I think that by the time she was bumping her way through the system I had developed my strategy of tuning everything out and reading in a corner.  I do remember her sitting under the table crying at the top of her lungs, with a voice that filled the whole house, and mom pouring a glass of  cold water over her head. I remember her startled eyes and her gasp.

I had my parents approval.  My sisters seemed like they were trying to get it.

Mom used to read Mary Pride  and James Dobson and so many other books. She quoted verses about Women Being Saved Through Childbearing and gave us Beautiful Girlhood to read.  America would be saved by girls becoming wives and mothers and cooking and cleaning and stuff.  Children took orders from (‘honored’) their parents and the wife submitted to her husband, and the husband was the spiritual leader of the house (except our dad liked to watch television which was a horrible evil that endangered our souls)

And that was the future before us.

Except it was a future that never happened.

“I try not to let them get under my skin” Mom said. “I did they best I could, the best I knew, raising them.  I had no idea the culture would shift so quickly.”

A note of bitterness came into her voice. “Now, boys are immature selfish jerks and don’t want to- to settle- and girls don’t want to marry immature jerks-”

I’m not sure which culture she means.  Her homeschool mom-friends commiserate with her about how the up and coming home school boys in our area aren’t getting married.  Does she mean them? But their culture is only as old as their parents.  Does it really count as culture change when one generation tries an experiment and the generation who grew up in the experiment declines to repeat it?

I don’t really know.

“So here they are, at home still.” she finished.

She hesitated again for a moment.

“I feel guilty”

 

 

“Even the comatose, they don’t dance and tell…”

The fields were going past the windows.  Half melted, half frozen, dark plowed soil, clotted with snow and spiked with stubble.  The sun was shining on it all.

“Can you answer a question- honestly?”

My week long visit home had been a blur of social visits and playing with the little kids, and my mom going back and forth in the background, keeping everyone up and running. The day before I left I had volunteered to go on a grocery run with her. So that she and I would get to visit. We had talked about stress and the holidays and the friction between her and my sisters, who are still living at home.

She had told me I shouldn’t have low self-esteem and shouldn’t avoid people out of fear of offending them.

This sounded serious.

Not that those other things aren’t serious.

I hesitated then said something that sounded polite, but neither confirmed or denied anything.  I hope.  I don’t quite remember.

“How is your faith?  I mean… how far are you along…” She hesitated, trying to make it not sound bad.  ‘How close are you to apostasy?’  was what she was trying to say, and she eventually said some thing like that.

“I want to know so that I can pray” she finished.

The fields went by for a long time.  Our house is a long ways off from any place that sells in bulk.

“I have a lot of questions”  I finally said.  “I think that if this is all true- answers must exist.”

“But are you looking for answers? Or are you waiting for God to reveal himself?”

This is a trick question.  There’s a verse somewhere.  “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and he will direct your path.”  It was a memory verse she had taught us when I was young.  The idea (as we? I? then understood it) was that if you try to figure things out by yourself it is the result of evil self will; pride, that first and most fundamental sin.

Adam and Eve tried to figure things out by themselves. They were cursed and damned by a righteous God.  They and all their descendants were condemned to death and eternal torture.  The innocent animals and all their descendants were condemned to death as well, so terrible was that crime. Like a werewolf falling under the light of the moon, friendly flowers were wracked by the hideous transformation into thorns.  Entropy began.  The stars started to cool and burn out.

But if you wait for God, then eventually he will give/show you what you need.  Like when our Aunt decided to sell her car but not advertise in the paper or tell anyone she knew, but then a week later a guy walked up out of the blue and offered to buy it.  Or when our Aunt decided to become a missionary in England (that horrible hell of darkness and suffering, ungraced  and innocent of the slightest knowledge of Christianity) and then after living there fifteen years someone proposed to her and she got to have a baby and be a mother and that is what she had really wanted all along.   Or how every time our dad made a little more money than we actually needed to survive, something would break or go wrong and we would need the money to fix it, because God only gives you things when you need them.

I thought about this for a while.

“I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive.”  I said finally.

After all. How can God reveal Himself to you if you aren’t looking already yourself?  If you weren’t already looking for Him yourself, you might think that all this evidence of Him was actually evidence of something else.  Like human intuition.  Or pure chance.

(And whatever happened to, ‘pray to God, and keep your powder dry’, anyway?)

“How do you pray? What do you pray about?”

The phone rang.  One of my sisters needed to know something, and only Mom could answer.  When the call finished, she reoriented herself, and the conversation went on.

“I pray… dear God- please don’t let me crash this car!”

I do pray like this sometimes. Praying is a deeply ingrained response for me, and when I’m frightened, I pray without consciously reflecting or deciding to do so.   I didn’t mention the fact that my instinctive prayers are now followed by lectures to God on why he really ought to be less imaginary and less evil.  Or by cussing myself out for having asked an abusive genocidal maniac for help.   Maybe that part doesn’t matter so much.  She asked me what I was praying about, not what I think about the fact that I’m praying.

“Hm… foxhole prayers. That’s good. Not crashing is good.” she said meditatively, her eyes on the road.  “But do you pray about your questions?

This time, even more fields went by.

My throat felt creaky.

“I used to pray so much… so intensely…” I looked out the window “I feel like…”

A verse, something about praying on street corners and pagans using many words flew through my mind, and was immediately canceled out by a verse about an unjust judge and a widow.  But I have to say something.  Why not the truth?

“I feel like he either heard me then, or he was never really listening in the first place.”

“What did you pray about so intensely, back then?”

“Well.”

Pages swim before my eyes. Swathes of lined notebook paper, swarming with words.  All of them,  I had written. “Dear God- please, change my heart.  Please, make me want to want you. Please, make me want to love you.  Please make me into the kind of person who will follow you.  Please- let me find you in the end.”

Over and over.

“Well. To know God.  To find him”

“Do you think you have?”

How does one say yes?  That, yes, you found your long lost God.  And you found out he’s a myth.  A dream.  A Nightmare.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you read your Bible?”

Yes.  For the purposes of research.  To see if God is really as creepy as my memories of him now make him out to be.   To try and piece together where the delusions end and reality begins.

“Yes”

“But do you read it academically?  Or do you get anything else from it?  Does God speak to you through the text?”

Do tears of rage and shame and long silences of  despair count?  I try to read as academically as possible now.

I don’t really know how to spin that.

“Well… do you believe that Aunt and Grandma Speak in Tongues? Or do you believe they’re just making up sounds?”

“No… I don’t really.  But there was this one time with your Aunt.   She and I were praying together, and she saw visions while we were praying.  Things I hadn’t told her I was worrying about because they didn’t seem important, but they were important… she went on to tell the story.  It was a part of our family’s history that I had heard about in other contexts, a time when she had been very uncertain of herself.   “…and the pictures she saw that she described to me were exactly what I was worrying about. ”

So… Aunt is a Psion?  I suppose that explains the car thing.

“While we were praying, God must have plucked those thoughts up out of my heart and just plunked them down in hers!”   She paused and got a little quieter.  “That, for me, gives credence to some of the… crazier parts… of Aunt’s spirituality. Things I am too proud for.”

Well that was like a bottle rocket going off in a trash can.  So my Aunt could possibly have gotten in to Hogwarts (that or else she’s just massively intuitive).   And my mom- who had eight children on the salary of her mechanic husband because she believed there was nothing a person is justified in refusing God… has things’s she’s too proud to do?  And my mom believes its pride to refuse to fake spiritual manifestations that she doesn’t actually experience… not integrity?  Or is she really only refusing in order to avoid social embarrassment and not because its a lie?  And if so- what were her actual reasons for having all these kids?  She suffered a lot of social embarrassment over that.  Or did she simply word it that way as a tribute to her sister’s dedication to a certain way of life, without actually believing that its right to fake stuff?

Not as grandiose as God Being Dead. But still.

“Reading the Bible is hard for me to describe.   I don’t know what part is God and what is my own reaction… what is spiritual and what is simply psychology…”

She seemed to accept that. I don’t remember how the conversation ended.  It seemed to end on good note- a much better note than I thought it would when she asked me if I could be honest.

I don’t know what to think about the fact that I didn’t tell the full truth. Was it wrong? Should I have told, and just let the chips fall where they may?   If I had forced my parents to deal with my difference of belief and opinion, would it be easier for them to consider other view points in general?

Or would they have kindly… lovingly… prayerfully have cut me off?

Would I be allowed to see my little sister again?

Or would I be abandoning her to a Nightmare God?

I suppose I will tell everything, eventually.  When there is less at stake.  But not today.  

We pulled up in the driveway and hop out. We’re Home.

We live in cities you’ll never see on screen
Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run things
Living in ruins of the palace within my dreams
And you know, we’re on each other’s team.

I’m kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air, so there
So all the cups got broke shards beneath our feet but it wasn’t my fault
And everyone’s competing for a love they won’t receive…

Dancin’ around the lies we tell
Dancin’ around big eyes as well
Even the comatose they don’t dance and tell

-Lorde