“For the sinner,” my mother clarifies.
Martina didn’t take her own life, but the weight of her death is undeniably tethered to this topic all the same. I can’t help wondering if my mother is doing this on purpose, but the innocent look on her face says otherwise.
A far more heartbreaking realization washes over me, one that doesn’t require any ulterior motives or discreet social manipulation from my mother.
The truth is, even I wouldn’t have found this question sickening until recently. On any other day I would’ve jumped right in with a pitch-perfect prescription, a way for that poor soul to repent even after they’ve left this earth.
Maybe I’d even reply it was impossible; what’s done is done.
Now, however, the simmering dread has reached a boil. Everything feels wrong. It’s not just this particular question that has grown distasteful, it’s the whole exercise. Judgment as sport, whether fictional or not, has taken an undeniable toll on me, a weight that’s likely even more caustic than any encounter with some hallucinated demon.
Or a real demon.
“What do you think?” Mom prods, waiting for my response. “Can he be saved?”
I feel nauseated, the world swaying awkwardly below me as I struggle to maintain my composure. There’s a tear in my soul, a rip that started with Martina’s death and continues unraveling with every passing day.
The Four Tenets were built for moments like this, reminders of my higher purpose in the face of doubt and despair, but the stitches this mantra provides can’t hold back what’s coming.
Respect—I will honor when I do not understand,
Integrity—I will believe when I do not witness,
Service—I will strive when my sin is heavy,
Excellence—I will persevere when my body does not.
I’ve followed this path since I was a little girl, and with a community of cheerful faces at my back and a loving family by my side, it always felt righteous and good.
It doesn’t feel righteous anymore, and with that feeling gone, something even more potent has continued to blossom within me: curiosity.
I suddenly realize how long I’ve been silent, scrambling for an answer that doesn’t exist. “Hey, you wanna grab ice cream after dinner?” I finally blurt.
My mother raises her eyebrow ever so slightly, hesitating. She’s considering whether or not to let me move on.
Eventually, Lisa erupts in a sharp cackle of laughter. “Sure, honey,” she replies, clearly thrilled by our breakthrough.
Her horrible question drifts away into the ether, unanswered.
* * *
I’ve been a patient of Dr. Smith’s for years now, the therapist carrying me diligently through good times and bad, and while the circumstances of my life have changed plenty, the feeling of his office has not. This has always been a place of safety and warmth, a port in the storm of young adult angst that swirls around any girl my age.
In the past, I’ve actually felt guilty over the security I find here. The only one I should feel this welcome around is Jesus, I’d worry.
Back then, I’d been so solid in my convictions, my faith the steady foundation from which everything else was constructed. Sure, I was much keener to explore science and nature than my parents would’ve liked, but that was only because I appreciated these subjects as an extension of God’s love.
And I still do. At least, I think I still do.
But the fact remains, something in this bedrock is cracked and wobbling, a key bracer that was mentioned in the blueprints but was never really there. The more I look around, the more these bracers come up missing.
It’s a little frightening, but after that night at Isaiah’s birthday party, what isn’t a little frightening?
“Where are those plaques from?” I blurt.
Dr. Smith follows my gaze, turning in his striped chair and gazing up at the sweeping assortment of metallic rectangles marking the wall behind him. “All over the place,” he says. “Would you like to take a look?”
I stand up and cross the office, passing Dr. Smith and arriving next to his desk where these awards and accolades hang proudly. I begin to look them over, moving slowly from piece to piece as I silently take them in.
2018 Montana Christian Fellowship Mark of Excellence
2009 Church of the Crossroads Honorable Service Award
2021 Ignite Ministries Youth Outreach Medal of Appreciation
As I move from one side of this display to the other, I discover a whole section of the wall is dedicated to certificates from Camp Damascus, ranging from 2014 to now.
“Almost a decade at Damascus,” I observe.
Dr. Smith watches me closely. He nods as I say this, but doesn’t speak in return.
Eventually, I reach the end of the plaques and turn around. “Why are these all from Christian organizations?” I ask flatly.
My therapist laughs. “What else would they be? Buddhist?”
“But you’re a doctor,” I continue. “Why don’t you have your doctorate hanging up?”
“I learned much more from the Bible than I did in any schoolbook,” Dr. Smith retorts. “I choose to display the things that matter to me.”
I stand in awkward silence, two distinct halves of my brain tugging in opposite directions. While I usually have a simple enough time finding a middle ground between my faith and my curiosity, it’s a dichotomy growing more and more difficult to synthesize. Dr. Smith’s reasoning is both perfectly understandable and overwhelmingly frustrating.
He motions back toward my chair and I follow his lead, returning to this familiar seat.
“You don’t seem like yourself,” he observes.
“Well, yeah,” I reply. “I saw my friend die two weeks ago.”
“You seem angry,” Dr. Smith clarifies.
“I am fricking angry!” I snap, then gasp at my own rage. “Forgive me.”
The two of us sit awkwardly for a moment, my unexpected outburst hanging in the air as I struggle to understand what just happened. I’m ashamed, but the shame feels confusing and unjustified and ultimately just makes me even more frustrated.
“Who are you angry with?” Dr. Smith asks.
I let out a long sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Me?” he asks, taking a direct approach. “Your parents?”
I ignore the second part of this question, a bridge I’m not quite ready to cross, but the first half is intriguing.
“You lied to me,” I declare.
Dr. Smith raises his white eyebrows, nodding along from behind circular glasses. “Care to elaborate?”
“You told me demons weren’t real,” I continue, barreling onward in a way that admittedly feels cathartic.
Dr. Smith and I have been meeting every other evening since Martina’s death, but most of that time has been spent in quiet introspection.
These feelings—these questions—have been bubbling up inside me for a very long time, and finally purging them from my body feels incredible. It doesn’t matter how Dr. Smith responds, only that I’m allowing myself to speak freely.
“I never said that,” my therapist immediately clarifies. “In fact, I told you point blank that demons are real, just not in the way you think.”
“You said they were abstractions,” I push. “What I saw wasn’t an abstraction.”