The Voice
Sometimes the "worst people" are those we know intimately. They hurt us. Do we forgive or do we find faith?
I hate the mother attending the service. I gifted her a leaflet before as I cried in my head. She claims to walk with Jesus Christ. She hugged me before as I absorbed her shame and heartache. Mum refuses to tell me what this lady said, the monster I used to call my other mother. The service commences.
The church hall lives. Seven days of seven years of seven minutes. Go Tell It On The Mountain, I hear another voice folded in the eaves. Shoulders breathe as chords in my neck release. I face the warmth of the room, the people I gifted at the door. I wear a memory, my navy blue purple flowers of uncertain shade. I address the service with Psalm 23 for the first time. I sense the vocals in the eaves notices me.
Everyone scheduled to speak mourns, but I promise instead, “Nan, I inherit your love of history and faith as I search for answers we’ve extensively discussed. You claimed we couldn’t change the world, but you changed mine.” The voice claps.
Others thank me, “You spoke well,” as the voice hovers above us.
I forgive my other mother whilst I meet the voiceless.