POW

This summer, I worked in the kitchen at a Christian summer camp. I wore a long gingham apron and a smile, my hair tied back under a pink bandana. The other kitchen ladies said my company was delightful, and my help appreciated. My hands stayed in the warm, sudsy dishwater most of the time, though they were occasionally set to the task of mixing up a cobbler or boiling water for sweet tea. The ladies were eager to inquire about my upcoming wedding, and I was happy to chat flowers, bridesmaids, and guest lists. But oh, what if they had known?

Those smiles, that seemingly tireless youthful energy; they were not simply my good nature. They were learned, they were earned at a price, a terrible price. I survived trial by fire, and came out on the other side with a hardened countenance (read: cheesy dimpled grin). Maybe I made it through with all my bodily appendages still attached, and without the disfigurement one associates with tragic burn victims. That doesn’t mean I’m normal, or even healthy. Don’t misunderstand: I have the joy of the Lord. Partakers of that great salvation will learn, if they haven’t already, that such a joy is not always, but often, a happy cohabitant of the same space as a most doleful affliction.

Those sweet ladies, twice my age, couldn’t have known the demons I’d faced and the suffering I’d caused. Seeing the remains of my teenage acne, the freckles on my collarbone, and the pigtails down my back, they would consider me a fine babysitter for their little Susie or Amos. They wouldn’t give a second thought to trusting me to cut a watermelon with a chef’s knife. Ha! As luck would have it, that summer camp fell on a good week. They caught me on my very best behavior. Had I “slipped up,” like I so often did during my highschool years, warranting an overnight stay on the 2nd floor? “Pity about that poor, sick girl. One just knows the fragile thing’s going to slip away without a trace someday and leave behind a hungry baby and a shell of a husband. Pity her mother and father didn’t keep her shut up somewhere. Pity, pity, poor wretched girl.”

But what they saw of me wasn’t a sorry, random chance, I must remind myself. What the world sees of me is not a monster hidden under makeup, nor a cured patient: what they see is managed symptoms (read: 10,000 hours of practice, and a certain number of milligrams). I’m not a clown, nor a feelingless hull; I am a master, a veteran, a scrawny yet hardy yet broken (yet alive) prisoner of war.

My captor was declared dead a long time ago, but sometimes, I tighten around my own neck the chain whose end now hangs limply in his cold hands. “Torture me,” I scream through gritted teeth, rattling the chain, “Because I am worth nothing, save for getting the treatment I deserve.” A meek Lamb calls gently, but firmly from the doorway of that prison chamber: “Your worth was decided a long, long time ago, when I died on a tree, in that place called A Skull.” This I know, I know better than I know my own name, so I let the chain slip away to the floor. Then, the Lamb leads me out through narrow passages, so dark I sometimes lose sight of him, and of all things. I then hold tightly to his soft little tail.

“You are both a little young to be married,“ is all the kitchen ladies would tell me. But I could see in the twinkle of their eyes that they were as excited as I was.

“You’ll both figure it out,” they say. “You love each other, you love the Lord, and that’s what matters.” I silently plead them to realize their classic fairytale error. Even the prettiest bride can turn into a witch. Even the best intentions fail. Can’t a wizened eye tell that much?

But what has gotten me through 20 traumatic years? Was it anything but faith like a child’s? Let me tell you one thing: childlike faith is a strong faith.