Rain fall. Gentle drum on the path to my house. Fall on the street beyond that stretch of green, and the stream through the furrow, past all these houses, running over the island-clay soil. Steady patter. Metallic drip, drip, drip off the eaves and down the drain pipe. Curtain of silver, perfect and fine.
Dreary day, gray day, lack of sunlight, depression.
Rainy day, cozy day, grass of green, forests safety.
Lady of the Wood, she called herself. That story was so long ago. My first series I wrote. Days spent discussing my writing in his church. I was the beautiful dancer on the stage, dressed in gauzy lavender. To catch an eye. To introduce. To talk with constantly. To fall for. Everything in common. And then, to find out. Arrogance. Use. Manipulation. Used to make him feel good in all his emotions. A toy. No value. Hurting over and over and over.
Far away, and still clinging too near. Long enough ago, but not forgotten.
And now. Years later.
Change of church atmosphere. Casting my hands and shifting my world, to a place of safety and peace, I hope.
Sunday comes. Beautiful, clear fall day. A portal, a glimpse, of what my life could be like if I reached out and connected with a church again. This place… like my old home church, a place I always felt safe. Children running around, laughing. A dad bouncing two kids on his knee. Knots of true adults talking.
I want that life. That life of grown ups and adulthood.
No tension, painful, tense, staring, of young adults–my peers, but in so many ways, no longer. I am an adult, wishing to move on with her life. My God says to hate evil. I hate drama, purposeful barbs, social queens and kings grasping for power. See me for who I am: loving, beautiful, talented, accomplished young lady, integrity lived out.
See me and love me for who I am. Support me and uplift me with your words. Or just stop being friends with me. I don’t care. But don’t change your face. Don’t throw barbs at me. I did nothing to deserve it. I am not a social queen. I am a woman in need of true friendship.