#creativewriting LGBT journal Life God Religion WritingPrompt

[williams411-blog]

1. Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?

It was a Sunday night in spring. Streetlights were waking up, and the neighborhood was shutting down. Mrs. Jones was in high spirits as she prepared for bed. Today, was a good day. She had gotten her whole family up early, had a very promising meeting with several members of the church, followed by an early Sunday potluck with what may have been her best Pinterest inspired potato salad. As she laid down she went through her nightly prayers. As she moved down her list of various but specific prayers, which had become almost ritualistic, she added in a couple extras. She thanked God for her family and her church, and she even thanked God for Pinterest, without which she would have had nothing to brag about while she discussed the ungodly things she had witnessed this week. However, tonight’s biggest praise was for the rain. She thanked God for sending a storm. It was a twofold thank you. Not only had it helped water her garden for her, a task she had been neglecting, but it also drowned out Mr. Jones wretched snoring. She had always enjoyed thunderstorms. Watching the lightning streak the sky while rain danced across her window had been one of the most soothing things about living in a rainy town. She settled into bed and added a quick thank you for allowing her to find such a safe town with such a strong sense of God. She turned off her lamp and drifted off to the sound of rain. Unaware of what was happening in her cozy town. Outside of comfy bedding with fancy thread counts, and on the other side of windows lit with the glow of bath and body works scented candles, it was no ordinary storm. No this was something far more sinister. The clouds seemed to amplify the light from the full moon overhead. It was a mysterious blue color that cast a sickly pallor on his exposed skin. With each drop of rain, he felt as though he was being weighed down. They did not bounce away, but instead soaked into his clothes, into his skin, cut through him. It did not comfort him or make him want to dance the way it used to. It was no longer ethereal or magical. The rain had become chains, tethering him to the earth, to the present, to reality. The thunder clapped as he watched through the window of what use to be his safe space. No longer a home but just another house, on just another street, in just another city. He picked up his clothes and bags that were carelessly thrown on the front steps. How had this happened? How could he have been so wrong? He grew up just two streets from the Jones’s. In the same God loving rainy town that had sheltered him for the last 15 years. But something had changed that night. With a pit in his stomach, and his heart in his throat he had called his parents down to the living room. He sat on the newly purchased crème colored couch, fingers interlaced, as he often did when he was nervous. His parents anxiously awaited what he had to say. Finally, his face broke. The words poured out of his mouth, and escaped him faster than he could pull them back in. “I’m gay.” Immediate silence. Nothing was heard but the rain outside and the tears breaking down his face. He looked at his mother and father and in the blink of an eye he remembered his whole life. Flashing before him were visions of his 8th birthday party where he had a specially crafted firetruck cake, at the local fire department. Flash. Another vision, nine years old. Crying because he didn’t understand why grandma wouldn’t be coming back from the hospital this time. Curled up in his mother’s arms while she sang her special version of amazing grace. Flash. 10 years old going to peewee football practice with dad. Catching a football and scoring his first touchdown. His father picked him up and beamed a smile that exuded nothing but love, and adoration. This was his boy. Flash. Thirteen. Rachel Meadows had dumped him because Jack had asked her to the dance. He felt the sting all over again and remembered how his dad had taken him for a special drive and out for pizza and ice cream while mom was at book club. He could still see the smirk as he winked, “don’t tell your mother or we’ll both be grounded.” Flash. Fifteen. This was last week. His parents had done a special dedication in which they gave their only son to God, the way God had given his. It was such an amazing and uplifting experience. They were one with the lord. One family, one heartbeat, one eternal life with their savior and now he was a part of that too. His attention snapped back to the living room as though he had been gone for days. Still silence. This went on for another what seemed like eternity. He wondered if he should say it again, but he didn’t have the strength if he wanted to.  His face broke again as his father’s mouth opened. Wait this was different, there was no smirk, no wink, no love. And then the word hit his ear like nails on a chalkboard. “Out.” Something else broke, not his face, but his heart. The emotional pain was palpable and he thought he might pass out. He sank further into the sofa. Surely his parents were playing a joke on him. They loved him. It was a Christ-like love, constant and unchanging. He roamed deep into their eyes, first father, then mother’s. There was nothing, they were empty. Almost instantaneously he found himself on the front steps, bags and the few clothes he had been allowed to keep strewn about. Standing in the rain. He was fifteen. He was a good kid. A little mouthy at times, but a heart of gold and a terrible sense of accountability. He was wise beyond his years. Suddenly the guilt sank its serpent fangs into his chest.  He was guilty of holding that secret from them. He had known for some time now, and never said anything. He was dirty, filthy. There wasn’t anything that could make him clean. Not the tears pouring down his face, or the rain piercing the rest of his body, and especially not the love of god whom he had felt so close too. He was alone. For the first time. And now, like his parent’s eyes, he too was empty. Pangs of guilt and misery pulsated through his body while he slowly collected his things. He slumped down the street with a clear destination in sight. He had taken the journey many times. Almost every Sunday since he was born in fact. Yes, he could find his way to the church in the dark, or the rain, or both as it appeared. He knew he would be there soon, just two streets over and across the bridge. He was devoid of thought. He couldn’t make his body function as the rain eroded his soul. Misery. He passed by the familiar scenes. When he reached the second street he saw it. Pastor Jones house, where a beacon of love and acceptance had always shone. But he was beyond that now. He looked at the large brick house and the fancy entryway and thought about all the times he had been so happy at church. It was his second home. But not anymore. He had no home. No family. No church, but still, he made his way. He was at the bridge now. He could no longer differentiate between rain or tears. His muscles ached with the exhaustion of a total system shut down. But he trudged on. He looked over the edge of the bridge at the water, it pushed against the banks and had risen quite a bit. He had always found peace with the water. He felt the concrete edge in his hand as he leaned on the bridge and allowed himself a moment of weakness. He stood there, the church in the background. He could see the flood lights inside shining dimly through the stained-glass windows. And with ever crack of lightning he could see the high tower which hosted the virgin Mary and her baby boy. That was true love. But obviously, it was easier to love your son unconditionally when he was the son of god. He found himself staring into her face. Looking at her smile with disdain. It was haunting. It was mocking him. It hated him. He eased himself on to the ledge treading carefully so he didn’t fall by accident. He sat there for another minute or so. The rain no longer bothered him. He deserved it. He deserved to be chained down for his sin, and punished for his devilish ways. Yes, the rain was good. Therapeutically painful. It spoke to him and he found his eyes again on the church. This time on the mural which only now did he realize was highlighted by the lone standing streetlight. It was his favorite story. Noah’s ark. Beautifully painted by a group of Sunday school teachers, he had always loved that painting. But now it was God himself, a burning bush calling out to him. Just as God had cleansed the world by flooding the earth, he too would cleanse himself. He stood up tall taking back his power of free will. This is what the world wanted, what God wanted, but most importantly, what he wanted. With his final act of good faith, he jumped from the ledge. He was leaving everything behind, his clothes, his baggage, his sins, his family, and his church. There was nothing left for him. They say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. It did not. He had died hours ago when he was turned to the cold uncaring world by his parents. When he felt the hypocrisy, and unfathomable weight of the church upon him. It crushed him. But not here. In his weightless state of free fall, he was untouchable. He could no longer feel the rain on his skin. He was elegant and free, subject only to the wind and gravity. As he neared the water he cried still. He cried for a world where parents throw their kids out for being different. He cried for a society in which you can be bullied and tormented and beaten for who you love. But mostly, he cried for his loss of innocence. He apologized to God for existing and like Mrs. Jones he said his prayers, one last time. No, he could no longer feel the rain on his skin. For those last few fleeting seconds, he was at peace. He had become the rain.