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by Julie Webb Kelley
We . . . you, me too.
From a handful of dust,
Shaken, molded,
Brought to pass,
As flesh and bone and breath.
But the dust alone, it lacked
A semblance of the Devine.
Leaning in close,
Releasing His Word,
Spilling His life,
He coated the dust with dignity.
Now, we . . . you, me too are
His only weakness.
by Julie Webb Kelley
(Click here if you missed Part 1.)
“I don’t know.” I mumble, wishing she’d let go of me.
“Sure you do. You can’t find the place of real love either can you? As big and vast as it’s supposed to be, this mighty love of God that sent Jesus and raised Him from the dead . . . you haven’t really experienced it either. We’ve both lived a lifetime and missed it. Admit it.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then tell me something about it I don’t know.” The challenge sounds like a threat; I can feel my heart prickle with Goosebumps.
The parcels jumble around in my arm ready to topple, my feet are still struggling to find balance, and her clamping fingers are cutting my skin. The darkness is suddenly thicker, the dampness below closer. I try to explain, “I know it’s not . . . God’s love, I mean, it’s more than what you said. More than quantity and quality. I’m not exactly sure, but it’s more than might and power filled with positive character traits.”
Her hand twists in mine, suddenly releasing me, leaving me swaying and unsure.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She spits the question onto the ledge. I will it toward myself, coddling it for courage.
“God’s love is not just some massive depth of emotion, it’s more like the most absolute element of any proportion and . . . it’s something that is impossible for Him to withhold from us. He is love, so He can never set it aside in His dealings with mankind. He can never consider us in any other manner than through the veil of His love.” A ripple of thunder ruptures nearby, startling my thoughts. I can feel rain stepping in between us.
She looks at me, her gaze fraying my words. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. He maintains His love . . . He is persistent in advancing it toward us, compassionate about asserting it in our direction and diligent about converging it on us like . . . like an amiable thrust or a gentle bulldozer leaving us comfortably crushed. I know, because . . .”
“I wish I could believe you.” She is still . . . staring at me, just the wind blowing brand new baby rain drops onto her face.
She takes in a long breath, lifts her head to the dark and closes her eyes to the moon. I watch her spread her arms and surrender to the gloom below her.
“NO!” I shout too late, reach too late, recover my balance too late . . . the gifts flop around as my own arms fly open and my body stretches into a free fall. In a moment I choose to believe in the love of God. Succumbing to a love that cannot help but hold me, I allow the falling, the folding of myself, the quitting of all things carnal. I welcome the ultimate act of self-death entrusting my destination to His desire.
As the moist, ebony air rushes past me, I hear chains breaking; I tumble through the shattering and the shock, feeling the full weight of my lack. Yet, in the mist of this dreadful descent I feel the thick robe of fear sliding off my mind, the heavy cloak of fright slipping from my heart. The strange taste of freedom fills my mouth; the smell of joy engulfs my senses.
With a jolt I land onto the heap of God’s love. Still at last, I open my eyes. I see my gifts within arm’s reach and I marvel at their resilience. Then I see her . . . just beyond the heap, her frame face-up in the water, every part of her that couldn’t believe now floating and hollow. My mind blurs as tears choke my throat. At first I think it’s sadness overtaking me but then realize it cuts deeper, more like the final embrace of a friend.
The moon crawls from behind a thunder cloud spotlighting a distant portrait of my life. I see in the picture myself and my gifts caught in the intimate act of living and dying. A desperate wooziness bends my insides as I study myself on the canvas . . . the presence of life moving, the ghost of death hovering, the glory of God lifting and rising through both. The portrayal reaches out pure and transparent, causing my soul to wilt, my spirit to soar, and my heart to bow.
It compels me to commit one final act of abandon. But as I lean toward submission, I realize that I am coupled to this marvelous heap, wrapped in a reality of attachment that I had never considered before. I look down and notice two things of a completely different nature permanently joined . . . my entire being adhered to God’s love. As I turn it sticks to me. As I rise it lifts with me. As I move it covers me. I can never be separated from it. I realize I am in the perfect place to stop protesting, to give up my life, to relinquish my death. It seems right to release my final breath here, on this heap, secure in God’s love. As I lower myself back onto the heap, settling in to the warmth of it, retreating, accepting the cessation of life and allowing the inevitability of death . . . the heap shifts and, in my relentless surrender, peace displaces the final fragments of terror and I am lost in love, sweetly shattered . . . and for the first time ever I am fully alive.
The Beginning
by Julie Webb Kelley
"So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. 22 For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; 23 but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. 24 What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? 25 Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!"
-- Words of Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus
FULLY ALIVE
The building sits close to the water, immense and imposing over the slobbery river – a longtime magnet for a number of suicides. As I make my way toward the structure, I can’t help but wonder, is it possible that God had some other use for my life other than being weak with cancer and selfish with fear? I consider the possibility for the millionth time, and at the end of the prospect, for the millionth time, lurks the same silence.
Years ago I had accepted that my body was something I could no longer trust, with its aches and pains, its limitations and constrictions. But my mind turning on me, deserting me . . . now that had come as a complete surprise. My head still awash with nervous nightmares and depressing doubts, I climb the stairs to the overlook on the seventeenth floor. I push the hefty door aside and drag my feet across the pebbled rooftop. The tiny moon squatting in a corner of the black sky is something to savor. I breathe in the inviting darkness; it smells of reverence and qualm.
Leaning on the ledge straining to see the reeking serum below, I catch the reflection of the moon on the surface of the water. Maybe it looks like a button I can press to summon a celestial bellboy to help me; maybe it resembles a target longing to be reached. I’m not sure because that’s when I see her up on the ledge, stiff and angled as if the hurts of her days had filled her limbs leaving her shriveled and empty. I step closer, thankful now for the glint of moonlight allowing me to see the parcels weighing on her arms: the gifts God had given her that she was now ready to give back. A sharp wind cuts the curtain of pain between us. I see a slight tremble press her closer to the edge.
“Some days I too feel as if God has thrown me up in the air and caught me with a pair of scissors,” I tell her.
She doesn’t move, she doesn’t respond and I realize that she had already noticed me some time ago . . . perhaps coming across the path toward the building, perhaps mounting the stairs or drooling over the height of the evening. I feel compelled to offer something more than the pitiful display of words I had offered. But she speaks first.
“I think God knew.” She says.
I inch closer, waiting. The gifts she’s holding shift, yet her arms don’t move.
“Knew what?” I finally ask.
“He knew how much we would need love. How desperate we would be to get it, to win it, to handle it. And He knew how disappointing, how unfulfilled the love of another human would be. He knew it all along . . . that’s why . . .”
“What? That’s why what?” I urge her, craving the answer and forgetting her precarious position.
“That’s why He made His own love available . . . so that we would never have to feel as if we’ve settled for anything less than real love.”
“Yes.” I say. “You’re right. So why are you on the ledge?”
“Because it is our despair as well as our faith that makes us human.”
For the first time, she turns toward me, her anemic face studying me. There is something familiar in her eyes that reaches out to me, a beefy and frantic calm that can’t be concealed. It is then that I recognize the parcels in her arms – the reliability and creativity, the sensitivity, persistence and willingness – and I become vastly afraid of myself.
“Ordinary dangers are nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to being unable to wash the murkiness from your mind, nothing compared to fear dominating your body.” She turns back toward the night, stretching herself further into the shadows.
“You should come down,” my words trickle out as if from the spout of a lazy water fountain; I doubt if she heard them.
"Life is a possession.” She says.
“If life is a possession it belongs to God, not us.” I reach a hand toward her.
“Why should I come down?
The question stings, like a slap on the wrist. I let my arm flop to my side. Then like a draft moving horizontally under a door, a gust of understanding chills me from my feet to my head.
“Perhaps,” I pause, struggling to put the words in the right order. “Perhaps the same impetuosity that makes you want to end your life is what could enable you to love it all the more.”
Her feet shuffle and her head tilts toward me. “It seems unspeakable that I could go on.”
“I could go on with you.”
“Where?”
“The place you told me about. Where there’s real love . . . God’s love.”
She shakes her head, “It may be a real, but it’s not accessible. I’ve tried.”
I start to answer but am distracted by her graceful pivoting on the ledge.
“Take these. They belong to you.” She drops the gifts.
The parcels fall toward me. Instinct forces my reach to catch what I can, but I miss them all. They hit the ground one by one. I watch the rooftop interrupt gravity, watch the packages roll to a halt, topsy-turvy, dented and scraped. I stoop; gathering up the mess, then notice her hand is reaching toward me. I can taste relief on my tongue, and even with my arms full, I am eager to help her down. Shoving the packages into the crook of one arm, I touch her hand.
She grips mine. In a moment I am pulled up onto the ledge. I mutter a protest, but it’s too late. She leans in close, steadying me, inspecting me. I can see in the waxen outline of her eyes half my thoughts, half my talents, half my toxins.
“You want to be up here too, don’t you?” She asks, a sliver of a smile winking at me, her hand still embracing mine.
“No.”
“Then why did you come here tonight?”
---
To be continued . . .
by Julie Webb Kelley
Truth be told, the windows and doors aren’t really barred here, rather they’re heavy metal with tiny panes of Plexiglas which are impossible to break or to see through clearly. It doesn’t matter; I like the fuzzy windows and thick doors because they are always locked. No one can get in without permission – I feel safe from the complicated, demanding world. All of the fear that had forced and flushed me toward this place, finally kept at bay.
One of the keepers of the madwomen brought the first letter as the last of the night’s emotional chaos slipped from my mind. The torment of guilt, the torrent of conviction, and the terror of punishment had dilated the darkness of the last eleven hours, and I was relieved to see the first marks of daylight sneaking into the room. Sitting up on the worn cot, I felt sore all over, like a rash had spread throughout every muscle in my body
“Here.” I heard three knuckle raps on the heavy metal door then the envelope appeared beneath it.
Dear Client,
Yesterday, within the confines of this institution, your guilt was determined. There is a penalty to be paid for your transgressions; therefore, you have been sentenced to death. In order to preserve the power and dignity of the law here, it is my responsibility to ensure that the demand for justice is met for every client. Your execution will be completed by sunset.
Dr. Clemens
My head still chock full of hysteria, I fold the letter, turning my face to the wall where my guilt and sickness are posted for all to see. Seven notes displayed as evidence of my illness; there in my own handwriting on each paper is the proof of my guilt:
I’m not worth wanting.
I’m not worth noticing.
I’m not worth liking.
I’m not worth pursuing.
I’m not worth fighting for.
I’m not worth keeping.
I’m not worth loving.
My head sunk in shame, my tears wilt the letter, my guilt fully realized, my destiny now certain. Dr. Clemens is a good man, he will do what is right. I hear the shuffling footfalls of the keepers again. Another three knocks and another envelope under the door.
Dear Client,
It has come to my immediate attention that an option of mercy is possible. Since the indulgence of pure compassion would put the law of this institution in peril, something must be done to meet the demand for justice in order for the integrity of this institution to remain intact. This difficult dilemma is removed by the Atonement of Christ. Although you are undeserving, pardon for your crimes of illness can be granted the moment you trust in mercy.
This mercy can only be exercised where there is true guilt and only as far as you deserve punishment. No apologies or excuses can be accepted and you will forfeit your right to justice. You must be submissive to all the measures of conviction. These measures are repentance, restitution and reform, and are the only conditions upon which mercy can be shown.
If you are willing to submit to the mercy of this institution, please reply.
Dr. Clemens
Although my voice and heart art strangled with grief, I am able to write back.
Dear Dr. Clemens,
I am willing to honor the measures of conviction. I am wrong. I accept the atonement. I am willing to embrace repentance, restitution, and reform. I am guilty. I choose mercy.
Client
Within minutes, the heavy metal door of my room flies open. “Let’s go,” one of the keepers steps into the room, shoving a small cardboard box at me. “Collect your things.”
I take the box, pulling down the notes and placing each one inside. My guilt and shame are all I had brought with me.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “Was mercy granted? Did it happen? Is it over yet?”
“It’s just begun. Follow me.”
I stumble behind the heels of the keeper down a stretching, gray hallway that never ends, my distress growing greater, not less. It seems days go by before we reach another heavy door. The keeper swings it wide with only a small punch of his hand, as if the whole thing were made of paper. I step outside the door, letting the blistering sun strike me across the face. This movement from my little world into this larger one is met with much dread and despair. My insides are bitter and bewildered. If mercy means leaving my place of safety, I’m not sure I want it.
“Is it too late to change my mind?” I ask the keeper. But he doesn’t hear; his lack of attention lands like another laceration on my skin.
“Here’s the address,” the keeper shoves a paper at me and I hear the metal door clang shut , and the lock ripple into place. I feel like the future is moving through the present and into the past faster than I can keep up. I have made my choice for mercy, so I stager ahead into life, tripping over my own terror, heading toward the address on the paper.
What will become of me? The question grows roots into the ground of my mental existence as I move forward, following the path toward the address on the paper. Eventually, fear sets in, as I worry that this place I am going will not be as beautiful as my private room was, not as secure. I inch forward, inwardly saying goodbye to my previous shelter. I am empty. I am hungry and tired. Maybe justice would have been the better choice. Suddenly the death sentence I passed up sounds inviting, something to anticipate, like awaiting the kiss of a prince to awaken me. I allow the vision to carry me forward.
By the time I reach the address, I am sure I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere. I check and recheck the number and the street name. The dwelling before me is expansive and exhausts me to look at. The reality of it is inconceivable at first. As I climb the steps to the front door, the extensive details overwhelm me, the complex elegance withers my senses. A fragrance of tenderness fills the air. There’s an envelope sticking out of the mailbox. I pull it out; it’s addressed to “Client”.
Dear Client,
Welcome to the Clemency Mansion. This will be your new home. Unpack your belongings and rest here. Your confession was adequate and full, deep and complete, thus, mercy has been granted once and for all. If you are marveling at the constitution of this residence, please remember that, just as your confession of guilt was all or nothing, mercy is all or nothing -- it cannot be offered in portions or pieces. There is no such thing as a little mercy.
Dr. Clemens
The door of the mansion widens and welcomes me. I swivel and twirl in awe from room to room for hours, the generosity, the favor, the relief marking my heart with peace. I choose a room to call my own and am eager to decorate it. I consider the notes I brought inside the cardboard box . . . it’s all I have. I finger the papers one at a time, finally pulling one out, distracted by the altered message, still in my own handwriting. In haste I yank each one from the box, reading:
I am worth wanting.
I am worth noticing.
I am worth liking.
I am worth pursuing.
I am worth fighting for.
I am worth keeping.
I am worth loving.
My body can no longer contain the sadness it had been carrying and misery melts in waves down my face, releasing the madness, the disorder, the moods. I lie down on the bed, exhausted and worn, permeated with joy, unsure how I missed the moment – the exact time -- when divine action and human response merged, the point where I became an object of mercy.
