boushk

They are three, one each with her hand on my knee, one with her hand pressed underneath my right shoulderblade. They are praying for me, strong prayers, standing up because I cannot, and like the first time, I am crying, tears trailing down my cheeks and onto my jeans.

Then she is speaking to me, her hand tightening on my knee, and she is telling me renounce it, tell it yourself. And I open my mouth and try to speak and I am shaking, shaking harder than I have ever shaken in my life and I am afraid. I am afraid of what I know I need to say, I am afraid I will sound foolish, I am afraid I am wrong, I am afraid to never be good enough, I am afraid I cannot breathe.

The hand on my shoulderblade presses harder, and the voice beside my ear is whispering words I don't understand straight to God, and I am still shaking, but I am breathing and I am speaking, and I tell it leave now, you have no place, I am bought with His blood.

And I stop shaking, but I am still crying, and they step in where I fall off and they pray until I stop weeping. Then she says, to me again, talk to Him now, tell Him you know it was wrong.

So I do and it is nearly harder than the first thing. I am not shaking, not with the same violence of sobs and breathlessness, but I have nothing to say, no words that are enough to speak to His glorious face. I manage to open my mouth, to let my heart speak its remorse and its worship, and I don't know what exactly I say but I do know that suddenly . . .

I am not afraid.